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TALES AND SKETCHES, 
 
 ILLUSTRATING THE 
 
 HARACTBR, USAGES, TllADITIONS, 
 
 SPOETS AND PASTIMES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE IRISH PEASANTRY 
 
 BY WILLIMI CARLETOjST, 
 
 Author of "Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, 
 " Fardorougha, the Miser/' " Jane Sinclair," 
 "Valentine M'Clutchy," &;c. 
 
 DUBLIJSf: 
 PUBLISHED BY JAMES DUFFY^ 
 
 23, ANGLESEA-STREET. 
 1845. 
 
William IlolJen, Printer, 10, Abbey-street, Dublin. 
 

 TO 
 
 CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY, ESQ. 
 
 Editor of the "Nation" Newspaper. 
 
 My dear Duffy, 
 
 I know no man who, within the short period of his 
 public life, has done so much to elevate the national mind, purify 
 its taste, and diffuse a healthy intellectual movement among the 
 Irish people ; a movement which will do more to foster principles 
 of independence and liberty, and give them permanency among us 
 and our posterity, than any other cause with which I am acquainted. 
 In order to mark my sense, then, of the public benefits you have 
 thus conferred, and are conferring, upon our countrymen, and also, 
 as a very inadequate token of long private friendship and sincere 
 regard, I beg to prefix your name to the following volume. 
 
 Believe me to be, my dear Duffy, 
 
 Very sincerely and faithfully yours, 
 
 W. CARLETON. 
 Dublin, June \6th, 1845. 
 
 061 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 The following volume contains a collection of short 
 sketches, that have appeared in various periodicals 
 within the last few years; and as many of them 
 exhibit delineations of several remarkable characters 
 that are strictly national, and consequently not to be 
 found in any other country, at least with the same 
 traits of habit, thought, and feeling, which distinguish 
 them in this, the author was induced to bring them 
 together as a series of those portraits in which the 
 individual always represents not a person but a class. 
 He had, however, still a stronger motive in reference 
 to this, one which, he trusts, will plead his apology, at 
 least with Irishmen. The present state of society is 
 admitted to be, so far as regards the lower classes 
 in Ireland, a transition one. Ignorance, want of 
 education, and other causes, necessarily produced not 
 only characters of a marked and peculiar kind, but 
 also furnished the broad social stages on which they 
 acted. These creations, then, cannot be uninteresting 
 to any mind that takes pleasure in the investigation 
 
Tin PREFACE. 
 
 of those peculiar states of society which throw up their 
 exponents to the surface of life. This, at any time, is 
 a subject of deep interest to the moral physiologist, or 
 to him who would solve the social idiosyncrasies of 
 a past period, by that truthful analysis which takes 
 the effect as the surest guide to the cause. 
 
 Many of the characters contained in the following 
 volume have already ceased to exist, and are, conse- 
 quently, the property of history. Others are still in 
 being ; but ere long they, too, will have disappeared, 
 and may probably be sought for in vain, save in the 
 unassuming pages of the following volume. Nay, in 
 connexion with this particular subject, there is, proba- 
 bly, something unparalleled in the annals of literature ; 
 for the author has reason to think that several of the 
 originals, who sat for their portraits here presented, 
 were the last of their class which the country will 
 ever again produce — a fact calculated of itself to 
 occasion an interest which a mere perusal of them 
 could not give. In every instance the characters have 
 been drawn from actual life ; and, indeed, some of 
 them, yet alive, have borne testimony to the fidelity 
 of their likeness, as represented in the sketches where 
 they first appeared. Nay, the very names, as well of 
 the individuals as of the places, and the scenery 
 described, are, with scarcely an exception, real. 
 
 As to the literary merit of these sketches, the 
 author feels that he must claim a laroe share of 
 indulgence. Most of them were the production of a 
 single day ; but he is perfectly aware that he has no 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 iX 
 
 right whatsoever to urge this as an argument lor dis- 
 arming criticism : still it is a fact which many readers 
 may be anxious to know. Unpretending as they are, 
 in a literary point of view, they will be found, however, 
 to present to the reader a body of Irish Social 
 Antiquities, which, he trusts, will, at all events, in 
 some degree, repay a perusal. 
 
 Such as they are, he now respectfully presents them 
 to the reader, with a hope that he will find in them 
 some amusement, some knowledge that will be new to 
 him, even as an Irishman, and occasional glimpses of 
 that fire-side enjoyment and simplicity of country life, 
 which, perhaps, after all, ampler knowledge may 
 remove without putting any thing so well calculated 
 to charm the untutored heart in their stead. 
 
 Dublin, Jane 16, 1845. 
 
(JO NT K NTS. 
 
 Mickey M'Rorky, the Irish Fiddler, . 
 
 BUCKRAMBACK, THE COUNTRY DaNCING-MasTER, 
 
 «/ Mary Murray, the Irish Match-Maker, 
 
 Bob Pentland ; or, The Gauger Outwitted, 
 
 The Fate of Frank M'Kenna, 
 
 The Rival Kempers, 
 
 Frank Martin and the Fairies, 
 
 A Legend of Knock3Iany, 
 
 Rose Moan, the Irish Midwife, 
 V Talbot and Gaynor, Irish Pipers, 
 
 Frank Finnigan, the Foster-Brother, 
 4 Tom Gressiey, the Irish Senachie, 
 
 The Castle of Aughentain ; or, A Legend of the Brown 
 Goat. Narrated by Tom Gressiey, the Irish Senachie, 
 
 Barney M'Haigney, the Irish Prophecy Man, 
 
 Moll Roe's Marriage ; or, The Pudding Bewitched, 
 
 Barney Brady's Goose ; or, Dark Doings at Slathbeg 
 
 CONDY CULLEN ; OR, ThE EXCISEMAN DEFEATED, 
 
 y A Record of the Heart; or, The Parents' Trial, 
 The Three Wishes ; an Irish Legend, 
 
 The Irish Rake, 
 
 Stories of Second-Sight and Apparition, . 
 
 I 
 l.> 
 30 
 4S 
 
 71 » 
 
 84 
 
 !♦; 
 
 11:] 
 
 1:^4 
 i«;4 
 177 
 
 189 
 
 ioa 
 
 '2-21 
 238 
 27:^ 
 
 28;> 
 
 330 
 368 
 305 
 
TALES ANi) STORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE lEISH PEASANTRY. 
 
 MICKEY M'llOREY, 
 
 THE IRISH FIDDLER. 
 
 What a host of light-hearted associations arc revived by that 
 hving fountain of fun and froUc, an Irish fiddler! Every 
 thing connected with him is agreeable, pleasant, jolly. All 
 his anecdotes, songs, jokes, stories, and secrets, bring us back 
 from the pressure and cares of life, to those happy days and 
 nights when the heart was as hght as the heel, and both beat 
 time to the exhilarating sound of his fiddle. 
 
 The harper is a character looked upon by the Irish rather 
 as a musical curiosity, than a being specially created to con- 
 tribute to their enjoyment. There is something about him 
 which they do not feel to be in perfect sympathy with their 
 habits and amusements. He is above them, not of them ; and 
 although they respect him, and treat him kindly, yet he is 
 never received among them with that spontaneous ebulhtion 
 of warmth and cordiality with which they welcome their own 
 musician, the fiddler. The harper, in fact, belongs, or, rather, 
 did belong, to the gentry, and to the gentry they are willing 
 to leave him. They hsten to his music when he feels chsposcd 
 to play for them, but it only gratifies their curiosity, instead 
 of enhvenino* their hearts — a fact suflficientlv evident from the 
 
 B 
 
2 MICKEY M'ROREY, 
 
 circumstance of tlieir seldom attempting to dance to it. This 
 preference, however, of the fiddle to the harp, is a feeling 
 generated by change of times and circumstances, for it is well 
 known that in days gone by, when Irish habits were purer, | 
 older, and more hereditary than they are now, the harp was 
 the favourite instrument of young and old, of high and low. 
 
 The only instrument that can be said to rival the fiddle is 
 the bagpipe ; but every person knows that Ireland is a loving- 
 country, and that at our fairs, dances, weddings, and other 
 places of amusement, Paddy and his sweetheart are in the 
 habit of indulging in a certain quiet and affectionate kind of 
 whisper, the creamy tones of which are sadly curdled by the 
 sharp jar of the chanter. It is not, in fact, an instrument 
 adapted for love-making. The drone is an enemy to senti- 
 ment, and it is an unpleasant thing for a pretty blushing girl 
 to find herself put to the necessity of bawling out her consent 
 at the top of her lungs, which she must do, or have the ecstatic 
 words lost in its drowsy and monotonous murmur. The bag- 
 pipe might do for war, to which, with a shglit variation, it 
 has been applied ; but in our opinion it is only fit to be danced 
 to by an assembly of people who are hard of hearing. Indeed, 
 we have little doubt but its cultivation might be introduced 
 with good effect as a system of medical treatment, suitable to 
 the pupils of a deaf and dumb institution; for if anything 
 could bring them to the use of their ears, its sharp and stiletto 
 notes surely would effect that object. J 
 
 The fiddle, however, is the instrument of all others most 
 essential to the enjoyment of an Irishman. Dancing and love i 
 are very closely connected, and of course the fiddle is never \ 
 thought of or heard, without awakening the tenderest and most 
 agreeable emotions. Its music, soft, sweet, and cheerful, is just 
 the thing for Paddy, who, under its influence, partakes of its 
 spirit, and becomes soft, sweet, and cheerful himself. The very 
 tones of it act hke a charm upon him, and produce in his head 
 
THE iniSII TIDDLER. 3 
 
 such a bland and delio-litful intoxication, that lie finds hinisoU' 
 making love just as naturally as he would cat his meals. It 
 opens all the sluices of his heart, puts mercury in his veins, 
 gives honey to a tongue that was, heaven knows, sufficiently 
 sweet without it, and gifts him with a pair of feather heels 
 that Mercury might envy ; and to crown all, endows him, while 
 pleading his cause in a quiet corner, with a fertihty of invention, 
 and an easy unembarrassed assurance, which nothing can sur- 
 pass. In fact, with great respect for my friend Mr. Bunting, 
 the fiddle it is that ougld to be our national instrument, as it 
 is that which is most closely and agreeably associated with 
 the best and happiest impulses of the Irish heart. The vci*y 
 language of the people themselves is a proof of this ; for whilst 
 neither harp nor bagpipe is ever introduced as illustrating 
 peculiarities of feehng by any reference to their influence, the 
 fiddle is an agreeable instrument in their hands, in more senses 
 than one. Paddy's highest notion of flattery towards the other 
 sex is boldly expressed by an image drawn from it, for when he 
 boasts that he can, by honied words, impress such an agreeable 
 delusion upon his sweetheart as to make her imagine "that there 
 is a fiddler on every rib of the house," there can be no metaphor 
 conceived more strongly or beautifully expressive of the charm 
 which flows from the tones of that sweet instrument. Paddy, 
 however, is very often hit by his own metaphor, at a time when 
 he least expects it. When pleading his cause, for instance, and 
 promising golden days to his fair one, he is not unfre(|uently 
 met by, "Ay, ay, it's all very well now; you're sugary enough, 
 of coorse ; but wait 'till we'd be a year married, an' maybe, like 
 so many others that promised what you do, you'd never come 
 home to me widout 'hangin' up your fiddle behind the door;'" 
 by which she means to charge liim with the probabihty of being 
 agreeable when abroad, but morose in his own family. 
 
 Having thus shown that the fiddle and its music are mixed 
 up so strongly with our language, feelings, and amusements, it 
 
4 MICKEY M'ROREY, 
 
 is now time to say something of the fiddler. In Ireland it is 
 impossible, on looking through all the classes of society, to find 
 any individual so perfectly free from care, or, in stronger words, 
 so completely happy, as the fiddler, especially if he be bhnd, 
 which he generally is. His want of sight circumscribes his 
 other wants, and, whilst it diminishes his enjoyments, not only 
 renders him unconscious of their loss, but gives a greater zest 
 to those that are left him, simple and innocent as they are. He 
 is in truth a man whose lot in life is happily cast, and whose 
 lines have fallen in pleasant places. The phase of life wliich is 
 presented to him, and in which he moves, is one of innocent 
 mirth and harmless enjoyment. Marriages, weddings, dances, 
 and merry-makings of all descriptions, create the atmosphere 
 of mirth and happiness which he ever breathes. With the dark 
 designs, the crimes, and outrages of mankind, he has nothing 
 to do, and his light spirit is never depressed by their influence. 
 Indeed, ho may be said with truth to pass through none but 
 the festivals of life, to hear nothing but mirth, to feel nothing 
 but kindness, and to communicate nothing but happiness to 
 all around him. He is at once the source and the centre of all 
 good and friendly feelings. By him the aged man forgets his 
 years, and is agreeably cheated back into youth ; the labourer 
 snatches a pleasant moment from his toil, and is happy ; the 
 care-worn ceases to remember the anxieties that press him 
 down ; the boy is enraptured with delight, and the child is 
 charmed with a pleasure that he feels to be wonderful. 
 
 Surely such a man is important, as filling up with enjoyment 
 so many of the pauses in human misery. He is a thousand 
 times better than a politician, and is a true philosopher without 
 knowing it. Every man is his friend, unless it be a rival fiddler, 
 and he is the friend of every man, with the same exception. 
 Every house, too, every heart, and every hand, is open to 
 him; he never knows what it is to want a bed, a dinner, or 
 a shilling. Good heavens ! what more than this can the 
 
 I 
 
THE IRISH FIDDLEH. 5 
 
 cravings of a human heart desire ! For my part, 1 do not know 
 what others might aim at ; but I am of opinion that in such a 
 world as this, the highest proof of a wise man, would be, a wi^ih 
 to live and die an Irish fiddler. 
 
 And yet, alas! there is no condition of life without some 
 remote or contingent sorrow. Many a scene have I witnessed 
 connected with this very subject, that would wring the tears out 
 of any eye, and find a tender pulse in the hardest heart. It is 
 indeed a melancholy alternative that devotes the poor sightless 
 lad to an employment that is ultimately productive of so much 
 happiness to himself and others. This alternative is seldom 
 resorted to, unless when some poor child, — perhaps a favorite 
 — is deprived of sight by the terrible ravages of the small-pox. 
 In life there is scarcely any thing more touching than to witness 
 in the innocent invahd the first effects, both npon himself and 
 his parents, of this woeful privation. The utter helplessness of 
 the pitiable darkhng, and his total dependence upon those around 
 him — his unacquaintance with the relative situation of all the 
 places that were familiar to Mm — his tottering and timid step, and 
 his affecting call of "Mammy, where are you?" joined to the 
 bitter consciousness on her part that the hght of affection and 
 innocence will never sparkle in those beloved eyes again — all 
 this constitutes a scene of deep and bitter sorrow. When, 
 however, the sense of his bereavement passes away, and the 
 cherished cliild grows up to the proper age, a fiddle is procured 
 for liim by his parents, if they are able, and if not, a subscrip- 
 tion is made up among their friends and neighbours to buy him 
 one. All the family, with tears in their eyes, then kiss and 
 take leave of him ; and his mother, taking him by the hand, 
 leads him, as had been previously arranged, to the best fiddler 
 in the neighbourhood, with whom he is left as an apprentice. 
 There is generally no fee required, but he is engaged to hand 
 his master all the money he can make at dances, from tlic 
 time he is proficient enough to play at them. Such i^ the 
 
6 MICKEY M'ROREY, 
 
 simple process of putting a blind boy in the way of becoming 
 acquainted with the science of melody. 
 
 In my native parish there were four or five fiddlers — all 
 good in their way ; but the Paganini of the district was the 
 far-famed Mickey M'Rorey. Where Mickey properly hved, 
 I never could actually discover, and for the best reason in the 
 world — he was not at home once in twelve months. As Colley 
 Gibber says in the play, he was "a kind of a here-and- 
 thereian — a stranger nowhere." This, however, mattered 
 little ; for though perpetually shifting day after day from 
 place to place, yet it somehow happened that nobody ever 
 was at a loss where to find him. The truth is, he never felt 
 disposed to travel ifico^, because he knew that his interest must 
 suffer by doing so; the consequence was, that wherever he 
 went, a little nucleus of local fame always attended him, wliich 
 rendered it an easy matter to find his whereabouts. 
 
 Mickey was blind from his infancy, and, as usual, owed to the 
 small-pox the loss of his eye-sight. He was about the middle 
 size, of rather a slender make, and possessed an inteUigent 
 countenance, on which beamed that singular expression of 
 inward serenity so pecuhar to the bUnd. His temper was sweet 
 and even, but capable of rising through the buoyancy of his 
 own humour to a high pitch of exhilaration and enjoyment. 
 The dress he wore, as far as I can remember, was always the 
 same in colour and fabric — to wit, a brown coat, a sober-tinted 
 cotton waistcoat, grey stockings, and black corduroys. Poor 
 Mickey I I think I see him before me ; his head erect, as the 
 heads of all blind men arc, the fiddle-case under his left arm, 
 and his hazel staff held out like a feeler, exploring with ex- 
 perimental pokes the nature of the ground before him, even 
 although some happy urchin leads him onward with an exulting 
 eye ; an honour of which he will boast to his companions for 
 many a mortal month to come. 
 
 The first time I ever heard Mickey play was also the first I 
 
THE IRISH FIDDLER. 7 
 
 ever heard a fiddle. Well and distinctly do I remember the 
 occasion. The season was summer — but summer luas summer 
 then — and a new house belonging to Frank Thomas had been 
 finished, and w^asjust ready to receive him and his family. 
 The floors of Irish houses in the country generally consist at 
 first of wet clay ; and when this is sufficiently well smoothed and 
 hardened, a dance is known to be an excellent thing to bind 
 and prevent them from cracking. On this occasion the evening 
 had been appointed, and the day was nearly half advanced, 
 but no appearance of the fiddler. The state of excitement m 
 which I found myself could not be described. The name of 
 Mickey M'Rorey had been ringing in my ears for God knows 
 how long, but I had never seen liim, or even heard his fiddle. 
 Every two minutes I was on the top of a httle eminence looking 
 out for him, my eyes straining out of their sockets, and my 
 head dizzy with the prophetic expectation of rapture and 
 dehght. Human patience, however, could bear this painful 
 suspense no longer, and I privately resolved to find Mickey, or 
 perish. I accordingly proceeded across the hills, a distance 
 of about three miles, to a place ciilled Kihiahushogue, where 
 I found him waiting for a guide. At tliis time I could not have 
 been more than seven years of age ; and how I wrought out 
 my way over the lonely hills, or through what mysterious 
 instinct I was led to him, and that by a path, too, over which 
 I had never travelled before, must be left unrevealed, until 
 it shall please that Power which guides the bee to its home, 
 and the bii-d for thousands of miles through the au% to disclose 
 the principle upon which it is accomplished. 
 
 On our return home I could see the young persons of both 
 sexes flying out to the Httle eminence I spoke of, looking 
 eagerly towards the spot we travelled from, and immecUately 
 scampermg in again, clapping their hands and shouting with 
 delight. Instantly the whole village was out, young and old, 
 stautUncc for a moment to satisfy them^lvcs that the in- 
 
8 MICKEY M'rtOREY, 
 
 telligence was correct ; after which, about a dozen of the 
 youngsters sprang forward, with the speed of so many antelopes, 
 to meet us, whilst the elders returned with a soberer, but not 
 less satisfied, manner into the houses. Then commenced the 
 usual battle, as to who should be honoured by permission to 
 carry the fiddle-case. Oh ! that fiddle-case ! For seven long 
 years it was an honour exclusively allowed to myself, whenever 
 Mickey attended a dance anywhere at all near us ; and never 
 was the Lord Chancellor's mace — to which, by the way, with 
 great respect for his Lordship, it bore a considerable re- 
 semblance — carried with a prouder heart or a more exulting 
 eye. But so it is — 
 
 " These little things are great to little men.*' 
 
 " Blood alive, Mickey, you're welcome !" " How is every 
 bone of you, Mickey? Bedad we gev you up." "'No, we 
 didn't give you up, Mickey ; never heed liim ; sure we knew 
 very well you'd not desart the Towny boys — whoo ! — Fol de 
 rol lol !" "Ah, Mickey, won't you sing 'There was a wee devil 
 came over the wall ?' " *' To be sure he will, but wait till he 
 comes home and gets liis dinner first. Is it off an empty 
 stomach you'd have Mm to sing?" "Mickey, give me the 
 fiddle-case, won't you, Mickey ?" " ^N'o, to me, Mickey." 
 " Never heed them, Mickey : you promised it to me at the 
 dance in Carntaul." 
 
 "Aisy, boys, aisy. The truth is, none of yez can get the 
 fiddle-case. Sliibby, my fiddle, hasn't been well for the last 
 day or two, and can't bear to be carried by any one barrin' 
 myself." 
 
 " Blood alive ! sick is it, Mickey? — an' what ails her?" 
 
 " Why, some o' the doctors says there's a frog in her, an' 
 others that she has got the cholic ; but I'm goin' to give her 
 a dose of balgriffauns when I get up to the house above. Ould 
 Harry Connolly says she's with-fiddlc; an' if that's true, boys. 
 
THE IRISH FIDDLER. 9 
 
 maybe some o' ycz won't be in luck. I'll be able to spare a 
 young fiddle or two among yez." 
 
 Many a tiny hand was clapped, and many an eye was lit 
 up with the hope of getting a young fiddle ; for gospel itself 
 was never looked upon to be more true than this assertion of 
 Mickey's. And no wonder. The fiict is, he used to amuse 
 himself by making small fiddles of deal and horse-hair, which 
 he carried about with him, as presents for such youngsters as 
 he took a fancy to. This he made a serious business of, and 
 carried it on with an importance becoming the intimation just 
 given. Indeed, I remember the time when I watched one of them, 
 which I was so happy as to receive from him, day and night, 
 with the hope of being able to report that it was growing 
 larger ; for my firm behef was, that in due time it would reach 
 the usual size. 
 
 As we went along, Mickey, with Ms usual tact, got out of us 
 all the information respecting the several courtships of the 
 neighbourhood that had reached us, and as much, too, of the 
 village gossip and scandal as we knew. 
 
 Notliing can exceed the overflowing kindness and affection 
 with which the Irish fiddler is received on the occasion of a 
 dance or merry-making ; and to do him justice he loses no 
 opportunity of exaggerating liis own importance. From habit, 
 and his position among the people, liis wit and power of 
 repartee are necessarily cultivated and sharpened. JS'ot one 
 of his jokes ever fails — a ch^cumstance which improves his 
 humour mightily ; for nothing on earth sustains it so much as 
 knowing, that, whether good or bad it will be laughed at. 
 Mckey, by the way, was a bachelor, and, though bhnd, was 
 able, as he himself used to say, to see through liis ears better 
 than another could through the eyes. He knew every voice 
 at once, and every boy and girl in the parish by name, the 
 moment he heard them speak. 
 
 On reaching the house he is bound for, he either partakes 
 
10 MICKEY M'ROREY, 
 
 of, or at least is offered, refreshment, after which comes the 
 ecstatic moment to the youngsters : but aU this is done by 
 due and solemn preparation. First he calls for a pair of 
 scissors, with which he pares or seems to pare his nails ; then 
 asks for a piece of rosin, and in an instant half a dozen boys \ 
 are off at a break-neck pace, to the next shoe-maker's, to \ 
 procure it; whilst in the mean time he deliberately pulls a ' 
 piece out of his pocket and rosins his bow. But, heavens ! ' 
 what a ceremony the opening of that fiddle-case is ! The i 
 manipulation of the blind man as he runs his hand down to \ 
 the key-hole — the turning of the key — the taking out of the 
 fiddle — the twang twang — and then the first ecstatic sound, 
 as the bow is drawn across the strings; then comes a screwing; i 
 then a delicious saw or two ; again another screwing — twang \ 
 twang — and away he goes with the favourite tune of the good ; 
 woman, for such is the etiquette upon these occasions. The 
 house is immediately thronged with the neighbours, and a 
 preliminary dance is taken, in which the old folks, with good- M 
 humoured violence, are literally dragged out, and forced to 
 join. Then come the congratulations — "Ah, Jack, you could j 
 do it wanst,," says Mickey, ''an' can still; you have a kick j 
 in you yet." "Why, Mickey, I seen dancin' in my time," the 
 old man will reply, his brow relaxed by a remnant of his former 
 pride, and the hilarity of the moment, "but you see the breath 
 isn't what it used to be wid me, when I could dance the 
 Baltehorum Jig on the bottom of a ten-gallon cask. But I 
 think a glass o' whiskey will do us no harm after that. 
 Heighho! — well, well — I'm sure I thought my dancin' days 
 wor over." 
 
 " Bedad an' you wor matched any how," rejoined the 
 fiddler. " Molshy carried as hght a heel as ever you did ; 
 sorra a woman of her years over I seen could cut the buckle 
 wid her. You would know the tune on her feet etill." 
 
 "Ah, Mickey, the truth is," the good woman would say, "we 
 
THE IRISH riDDLEH. 11 
 
 have no sich dancin' now an there waa in my days. Thry 
 that glass." 
 
 "But as good fiddlers, Molshy, eh? Here's to you both, and 
 long may ye hve to shake the toe ! Whoo ! be dad that's great 
 stuff. Come now sit down, Jack, till I give you your ould 
 favourite, ' Cannie Soogah.'" 
 
 These were happy moments and happy times, wliich might 
 well be looked upon as picturing the simple manners of country 
 life with very httle of moral shadow to obscure the cheerfulness 
 which ht up the Irish heart and hearth into humble happiness. 
 Mickey, with his usual good nature, never forgot the younger 
 portion of his audience. After entertaining the old and full- 
 grown, he would call for a key, one end of which he placed in 
 his mouth, in order to make the fiddle sing for the chikken 
 their favourite song, beginning with 
 
 "Oh ! grand-mamma, will jou squeeze my wig?" 
 
 This he did in such a manner, thi'ough the medium of the 
 key, that the words seemed to be spoken by the instrument, 
 and not by himself. After this was over, he would sing us, to 
 his own accompaniment, another favourite, "There was a wee 
 devil looked over the wall," wliich generally closed that portion 
 of the entertainment, so kindly designed for us. 
 
 Upon those moments I have often witnessed marks of deep 
 and pious feeling, occasioned by some memory of the absent 
 or the dead, that were as beautiful as they were affecting. 
 K, for instance, a favourite son or daughter happened to be 
 removed by death, the father or mother, remembering the 
 au' wliich was loved best by the departed, would pause a 
 moment, and with a voice fuU of sorrow, say, "Mickey, there 
 is one tune that I would like to hear ; I love to think of it, and 
 to hear it ; I do, for the sake of them that's gone — my darlin' 
 son that's lyin' low : it was he that loved it. His ear is closed 
 
12 MICKEY M'ROREY, 
 
 against it now ; but for his sake — ay, for your sake, avourneen 
 machree — we will hear it wanst more." 
 
 Mickey always played such tunes in his best style, and 
 amidst a silence that was only broken by sobs, suppressed 
 meanings, and the other tokens of profound sorrow. These 
 gushes, however, of natural feehng soon passed away. In 
 a few minutes the smiles returned, the mirth broke out again, 
 and the hvely dance went on as if their hearts had been 
 incapable of such affection for the dead — affection at once so 
 deep and tender. But many a time the light of cheerfulness 
 plays along the stream of Irish feeling, when cherished sorrow 
 lies removed from the human eye far down from the surface. 
 
 These preliminary amusements being now over, Mickey 
 is conducted to the dance-house, where he is carefully installed 
 in the best chair, and immediately the dancing commences. 
 It is not my purpose to describe an Irish dance here, having 
 done it more than once elsewhere. It is enough to say that 
 Mickey is now in his glory ; and proud may the young man 
 be who fills the honourable post of his companion, and sits 
 next him. He is a living store-house of intelhgence, a travelling 
 directory for the parish — the lover's text-book — the young 
 woman's best companion ; for where is the courtship going on 
 of which he is not cognizant? where is there a marriage on the 
 tapis, with the particulars of which he is not acquainted? 
 He is an authority whom nobody would think of questioning. 
 It is now, too, that he scatters his jokes about; and so correct 
 and well trained is his ear, that he can frequently name the 
 young man who dances, by the pecuharity of his step. 
 
 "Ah ha! Paddy Brien, you're there? Sure I'd know the 
 sound of your smoothin'-hons any where. Is it thrue, Paddy, 
 that you wor sint for down to Errigle Keeroguc, to kill the 
 clocks for Dan M'Mahon? But, nabuklish ! Paddv, what '11 
 you have ?" 
 
 ''Is that Graco Ileilly on the flurc? Faix, avourneen, you 
 
THE IRISH FIDDLER. J . j 
 
 can do it ; devil o' your likes I see any where. I'll lay Shibby 
 to a penny trump that you could dance your own namesake — 
 the Caleen dhas dhun, the bonny brown girl — upon a spider's 
 cobweb, widout breakin' it. Don't be in a hurry, Grace dear, 
 to tie the knot ; I'll wait for you." 
 
 Several times in the course of the night a plate is brought 
 round, and a collection made for the fiddler : this was the 
 moment when Mickey used to let the jokes fly in every 
 direction. The timid he shamed into hberahty, the vaui he 
 praised, and the niggardly he assailed by open hardy satire ; 
 all managed, however, with such an under-current of good 
 humour, that no one could take offence. Xo joke ever told 
 better than that of the broken string. Whenever this happened 
 at nio-ht, Mickey would call out to some soft fellow, "Blood 
 ahve, Ned Martin, will you bring me a candle? I've broken a 
 string." The unthinking young man, forgetting that he was 
 blind, would take the candle in a hurry, and fetch it to him. 
 
 "Faix, Ned, I knew you wor jist fit for't ; houldin' a candle 
 to a dark man ! Isn't he a beauty, boys ? — look at him, girls — 
 as 'cute as a pancake." 
 
 It is unnecessary to say, that the mu^th on such occasions 
 was convulsive. Another similar joke was also played off by 
 liim against such as he knew to be ungenerous at the collection. 
 
 "Paddy Smith, I want a word wid you. I'm goin' across 
 the counthry as far as Ned Donnelly's, and I want you to 
 help me along the road, as the night is dark." 
 
 "To be sure, Mickey. I'll bring you over as snug as if you 
 wor on a clane plate, man alive !" 
 
 "Thank you, Paddy ; throth you've the dacency in you; an' 
 kind father for you, Paddy. Maybe I'll do as much for you 
 some other time." 
 
 Mickey never spoke of this until the trick was played off, 
 after which, he published it to the whole parish ; and Paddy 
 of course was made a standing jest for being so silly as to 
 
14 MICKEY M'ROREY. 
 
 think that ui^'ht or day had any difference to a man who 
 could not see. 
 
 Thus passed the hfe of Mickey M'Rorey, and thus pass the 
 hves of most of his class, serenely and happily. As the sailor 
 to his ship, the sportsman to his gun, so is the fiddler attached 
 to his fiddle. His hopes and pleasures, though limited, are 
 full. His heart is necessarily light, for he comes in contact 
 with the best and brightest side of life and nature ; and the 
 consequence is, that then' mild and mellow lights are reflected 
 on and from himself. I am ignorant whether poor Mickey is 
 dead or not ; but I dare say he forgets the boy to whose young 
 spirit he communicated so much dehght, and who often danced 
 with a buoyant and careless heart to the pleasant notes of 
 his fiddle. Mickey M'Korey, farewell I Whether living or 
 dead, peace be with you. * 
 
 * Mickey, who is still living, remembers the writer of this well, and 
 
 felt very much flattered on hearing the above notice of himself read 
 
 W. C, 1845. 
 
p 
 
¥ 
 
BUCKRAM-BACK, 
 
 THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 In those racy old times, when the manners and usages of 
 Irishmen were more simple and pastoral than they are at 
 present, dancing was cultivated as one of the chief amusements 
 of life, and the dancing-master looked upon as a person es- 
 sentially necessary to the proper enjoyment of our national 
 recreation. Of all the amusements peculiar to our population, 
 dancing is by far the most important, although certainly much 
 less so now than it has been, even within our own memory. 
 In Ireland it may be considered as a very just indication of 
 the spirit and character of the people ; so much so, that it would 
 be extremly difficult to find any test so significant of the Irish 
 heart, and its varied impulses, as the dance, when contemplated 
 in its most comprehensive spirit. In the first place, no people 
 dance so well as the Irish, and for the best reason in the world, 
 as we shall show. Dancing, every one must admit, although 
 a most dehghtful amusement, is not a simple, nor distinct, nor 
 primary one. On the contrary, it is merely little else than a 
 happy and agreeable method of enjoying music; and its whole 
 spirit and character must necessarily depend upon the power 
 of the heart to feel the melody to which the Umbs and body 
 move. Every nation, therefore, remarkable for a susceptibihty 
 of music, is also remarkable for a love of dancing, unless religion 
 or some other adequate obstacle, arising from an anomalous 
 condition of society, interposes to prevent it. Music and dancing 
 being in fact as dependant the one on the other as cause and 
 effect, it requires little argument to prove that the Irish, who 
 
16 BUCKRAM-BAf'K, 
 
 are so sensitively aliye to the one, should in a very high degree 
 excel at the other ; and accordingly it is so. 
 
 Nobody, unless one who has seen and also felt it, can 
 conceive the incredible, nay, the inexplicable exhilaration of 
 the heart, which a dance communicates to the peasantry of 
 Ireland. Indeed, it resembles not so much enthusiasm as 
 inspiration. Let a stranger take his place among those who 
 are assembled at a dance in the country, and mark the change 
 which takes place in Paddy's whole temperament, physical 
 and moral. He first rises up rather indolently, selects his own 
 sweetheart, and assuming such a station on the floor as renders 
 it necessary that both should "face the fiddler," he commences. 
 On the dance then goes, quietly at the outset ; gradually he 
 begins to move more sprightly ; by and bye the right hand 
 is up, and a crack of the fingers is heard; in a minute 
 afterwards both hands are up, and two cracks are heard, 
 the hilarity and brightness of his eye all the time keeping 
 pace with the growing enthusiasm that is coming over him, 
 and which eye, by the way, is most lovingly fixed upon, or, 
 we should rather say, into, that of his modest partner. From 
 that partner he never receives an open gaze in return, but in 
 lieu of this, an occasional glance, quick as thought, and 
 brilliant as a meteor, seems to pour into him a delicious fury 
 that is made up of love — sometimes a little of whiskey, 
 kindness, pride of his activity, and a reckless force of mo- 
 mentary happiness that defies description. Now commences 
 the dance in earnest. Up he bounds in a fling or a caper — 
 crack go the fingers — cut and treble go the feet, heel and 
 toe, right and left. Then he flings the right heel up to the 
 ham, up again the left, the whole face in a furnace-heat of 
 ecstatic delight. 
 
 " Whoo ! wlioo ! your sowl ! Move your elbow, Mickey, 
 (this to the fiddler). Quicker, quicker, man alive, or you'll 
 lose siglit of me. AVhoo! Judy, that's the girl; handle your 
 
THE COUNTRY DANCING ->L\^TER. 17 
 
 feet, avoiirncen; that's it. acii.shla! stand to me! lliirroo f(^r 
 our side of the house !" 
 
 And thus does he proceed with a vigour, and an agility, 
 and a truth of time, that are increcUble, especially when we 
 consider the whirlwind of enjoyment which he has to direct. 
 The conduct of his partner, whose face is lit up into a modest 
 blush, is evidently tinged with his enthusiasm — for who could 
 resist it? — but it is exhibited with great natural grace, joined to 
 a dehcate vivacity that is equally gentle and animated, and in 
 our opinion precisely what dancing in a female ought to be — 
 a blending of healthful exercise and innocent enjoyment. 
 
 There are a considerable variety of dances in Ireland, from 
 the simple "reel of two" up to the country-dance, all of which 
 are mirthful. There are, however, others which are serious, 
 and may be looked upon as the exponents of the pathetic spirit 
 of our country. Of the latter, I fear, several are altogether 
 lost ; and I question whether there be many persons now alive 
 in Ireland who know much about the Horo Lheig, which, from 
 the word it begins with, must necessarily have been danced 
 only on mournful occasions. It is only at wakes and funereal 
 customs in those remote parts of the country where old usages 
 are most pertinaciously clung to, that any elucidation of the 
 Horo Lheig and others of our forgotten dances could be 
 obtained. At present, I believe, the only serious one we have 
 is the cotillon, or, as they terra it in the country, the cut- 
 a-lono:. I myself have witnessed, when very youno;, a dance 
 which, like the hornpipe, was performed but by one man. 
 This, however, was the only point in which they bore to each 
 other any resemblance. The one I allude to must in my 
 opinion have been of Druidic or Magian descent. It was not 
 necessarily performed to music, and could not be danced 
 without the emblematic aids of a stick and handkerchief 
 It was addressed to an individual passion, and was, unquestion- 
 ably, one of those symbolic dances that were used in pagan 
 c 
 
18 BUCKRAM-BACK, 
 
 rites; and had the late Henry O'Brien seen it, there is no 
 doubt but he would have seized upon it as a fehcitous illus- 
 tration of his system. 
 
 Having now said all we have to say here about Irish dances, 
 it is time we should say something about the Irish dancing- 
 master; and be it observed, that we mean him of the old 
 school, and not the poor degenerate creature of the present 
 day, who, unless in some remote parts of the country, is 
 scarcely worth description, and has httle of the national 
 character about liim. 
 
 Like most persons of the itmerant professions, the old Irish 
 dancing-master was generally a bachelor, having no fixed 
 residence, but Uving from place to place within his own walk, 
 beyond which he seldom or never went. The farmers were 
 Ms patrons, and liis 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 httle underhand 
 collection for him, amounting probably to a couple of shilHngs 
 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 mero 
 fiddler. He, on the other hand, not to be outdone in kindness, 
 would, at the conclusion of the Httle festivity, desire them to 
 lay down a door, on which he usually danced a few favourite 
 hornpipes to the music of his own fiddle. This, indeed, was 
 the great master-feat of his art, and was looked upon as such 
 by himself, as well as by the people. 
 
 Indeed, the old dancing-master had some very marked 
 outlines of character peculiar to himself. His dress, for 
 instance, was always far above the fiddler's, and this was the 
 pride of his heart. Ho also made it a point to wear a castor, 
 
THE COUNTRY DANCIXG-MASTER. 19 
 
 or Caroline hat, be the same "shocking bad" or otherwise; 
 but above all things, his soul within him was set upon a watcli, 
 and no one could gratify him more, than by asking him before 
 company what o'clock it was. He also contrived to carry an 
 ornamental staff, made of ebony, liiccory, mahogany, or some 
 rare description of cane — which, if possible, had a silver head 
 and a sillv tassel. This the dancing-masters in general seemed 
 to consider as a kind of baton or wand of office, without which 
 I never yet knew one of them to go. But of all the parts 
 of dress used to discriminate them from the fiddler, we must 
 place, as standing far before the rest, the dancing-master's 
 pumps and stockings, for shoes he seldom wore. The utmost 
 limit of their ambition appeared to be such a jaunty neatness 
 about that part of them in w^liich the genius of their business 
 lay, as might indicate the extraordinary hghtness and activity 
 which were expected from them by the people, in whose 
 opinion the finest stocking, the lightest shoe, and the most 
 symmetrical leg, uniformly denoted the most accomphshed 
 teacher. 
 
 The Irish dancing-master was also a great hand at match- 
 making, and indeed some of them were known to negotiate 
 as such between families as well as individual lovers, with 
 all the abihty of a first-rate diplomatist. Unlike the fiddler, 
 the dancing-master had fortunately the use of his eyes; 
 and as there is scarcely any scene in which to a keen 
 observer the symptoms of the passion — to wit, blushings, 
 glances, squeezes of the hand, and stealthy whisperings — are 
 more frequent or signficant, so is it no wonder indeed that a 
 sagacious looker-on, such as he generally was, knew how to 
 avail himself of them, and to become in many instances a 
 necessary party to their successful issue. 
 
 In the times of our fathers it pretty frequently happened 
 that the dancing-master professed another accomplishment, 
 which in Ireland, at least, where it is born with us, miglit 
 
20 
 
 BUCKRAM-BACK, 
 
 appear to be a superfluous one ; we mean, that of fencing, or 
 to speak more correctly, cudgel-playing. Fencing-schools of 
 this class were nearly as common in these times as dancing- 
 schools, and it was not at all unusual for one man to teach 
 both. 
 
 After all, the old dancing-master, in spite of his most 
 strenuous efforts to the contrai'y, bore, in simphcity of man- 
 ners, in habits of life, and in the happy spirit wliich he 
 received from, and impressed upon, society, a distant but not 
 indistinct resemblance to the fiddler. Between these two, 
 however, no good feehng subsisted. The one looked up at 
 the other as a man who was unnecessarily and unjustly placed 
 above him; whilst the other looked down upon him as a 
 mere di^udge, through whom those he taught practised their 
 accomphshments. This petty rivalry was very amusing, and 
 the ''boys," to do them justice, left notliing undone to keep 
 it up. The fiddler had certainly the best of the argument, 
 whilst the other had the advantage of a higher professional 
 position. The one was more loved, the other more respected. 
 Perhaps very few things in humble life could be so amusing 
 to a speculative mind, or at the same time capable of affording 
 a better lesson to human pride, than the almost miraculous 
 skill with wliich the dancing-master contrived, when travelhng, 
 to carry his fiddle about him, so as that it might not be seen, 
 and he himself mistaken for notliing but a fiddler. This was 
 the sorest blow his vanity could receive, and a source of 
 endless vexation to all liis tribe. Our manners, however, arc 
 changed, and neither the fiddler nor the dancing-master 
 possesses the fine mellow tints, nor that depth of colouring, 
 which formerly brought them and their rich household as- 
 sociations home at once to the heart. 
 
 One of the most amusing specimens of the dancing-master 
 that I ever mot, was the person alluded to at the close of my 
 paper on the Irish Fiddler, under the nickname of Buckram- 
 
THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER. 21 
 
 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 reUsh whatever for a mihtary life, as his 
 abandonment of it without even the usual forms of a discharge 
 or fm^ough, 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 hght httle fellow, with a rich 
 Tipperary brognie, crossed by a lofty strain of illegitimate 
 EngUsh, which he picked up whilst abroad in the army. His 
 habihments sat as tight upon him as he could readily wear 
 them, and were all of the shabby-genteel class. His crimped 
 black coat was a closely worn second-hand, and his crimped face 
 quite as much of a second-hand as the coat. I tliuik I see his 
 httle pumps, httle white stockings, liis coaxed di^ab breeches, 
 his hat, smart in its cock but brushed to a polish and standing 
 upon thi'ee hau's, together with his tight questionably-coloui'ed 
 gloves, all before me. Certainly he was the jauntiest httle cock 
 Hving — quite a blood, ready to fight any man, and a great 
 defender of the fair sex, whom he never addi'essed except in 
 that high-flown bombastic style so agreeable to most of them, 
 caUed by their flatterers the comphmentary, and by their 
 friends the fulsome. He was in fact a pubhc man, and up to 
 every thing. You met liim at every fair, where he only had 
 time to give you a wink as he passed, being just then engaged 
 in a very particular affair ; but he would tell you again. At 
 cock-fights he was a very busy personage, and an angry better 
 from half-a-crown downwards. At races he was a knowing 
 fellow, always shook hands with the winning jockey, and then 
 looked pompously about, that folks might see that he was hand 
 and glove with people of importance. The house where 
 Buckram-Back kept his school, which was open only after the 
 hours of labour, was an uninhabited cabin, the roof of which, 
 at a particular spot, was supported by a post that stood upright 
 
22 BUCKRAM-BACK, 
 
 from the floor. It was built upon an elevated situation, and 
 commanded a fine view of the whole country for miles about 
 it. A pleasant sight it was to see the modest and pretty 
 girls, di'cssed in their best frocks and ribbons, radiating in 
 little groups from all du^ections, accompanied by their partners 
 or lovers, making way through the fragrant summer fields, of 
 a calm cloudless evening, to this happy scene of innocent 
 amusement. 
 
 And yet what an epitome of general life, with its passions, 
 jealousies, plots, calumnies, and contentions, did tliis Httle seg- 
 ment of society present ! There was the shrew, the slattern, 
 the coquette, and the prude, as sharply marked within this 
 their humble sphere, as if they appeared on the world's wider 
 stao-e, with half its wealth and all its temptations to draw forth 
 their prevaiUng foibles. There, too, was the bully, the rake, 
 the liar, the coxcomb, and the coward, each as perfect and 
 distinct in his kind as if he had run through a lengthened 
 course of fashionable dissipation, or spent a fortune in acquiring 
 his particular character. The elements of the human heart, 
 however, and the passions that make up the general business of 
 life, are the same in high and low, and exist with impulses as 
 strong in the cabin as in the palace. The only difference is, 
 that they have not equal room to play. 
 
 Buckram-Back's system, in originaUty of design, in comic 
 conception of decorum, and in the easy practical assurance 
 with which he wrought it out, was never equalled, much less 
 surpassed. Had the impudent little rascal confined himself 
 to dancing as usually taught, there would have been notliing 
 so ludicrous or uncommon in it ; but no : he was such a stickler 
 for example in every thing, that no other mode of instruc- 
 tion would satisfy him. Dancing ! Why, it was the least part 
 of what he taught or professed to teach. 
 
 In the fii'st place, he undertook to teach every one of us — 
 for I had the honour of being his pupil — how to enter a 
 
THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER. 23 
 
 drawing-room ** in the most fashionable manner ahve," as 
 he said himself. 
 
 Secondly. He was the only man, he said, who could in the 
 most agreeable and pohte style taich a gintleman how to 
 salute, or, as he termed it, how to sliiloote, a leedy. This he 
 taught, he said, wid 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 ! 
 
 Fourtlily. He taught the whole art o' courtship wid all 
 pehteness and success, accordin' as it was practised in Paris 
 dm'in' the last saison. 
 
 Fifthly. He could taich thim how to write love-letthers and 
 valentines accordin' to the Great Macademy of comphments, 
 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 Eoger de Coverly, or the Helter- 
 Skelter Drag, which comprehinded widin itself all the advan- 
 tages and beauties of liis whole system — in which every 
 gintleman was at hberty to pull every leedy where he plaised, 
 and every leedy was at liberty to go wherever he pulled 
 her. 
 
 With such advantages in prospect, and a method of instruc- 
 tion so agreeable, it is not to be wondered at that this estab- 
 hshment was always in a most flourishing condition. The 
 truth is, he had it so contrived that every gentlemen should 
 salute liis lady as often as possible, and for this pui'pose 
 actually invented dances, in which not only should every 
 gentleman salute every lady, but every lady, by way of re- 
 turning the compliment, should render a similar kindness to 
 every gentleman. Xor hvA \m male pupils all tliis prodigahty 
 
24 BUCKRAM-BACK, 
 
 of salutation to themselves, for the amorous Httle rascal always 
 commenced first and ended last, in order, he said, that they 
 might cotch the manner from himself. "I do this, leedies 
 and gintlemen, as your moral (model), and because it's part 
 o' my system — ahem !" 
 
 And then he would perk up his little hard face, that was 
 too barren to produce more than an abortive smile, and twirl 
 like a wagtail over the floor, in a manner that he thought 
 irresistible. 
 
 Whether Buckram-Back was the only man who tried to 
 reduce kissing to a system of education in this country, I do 
 not know. It is certainly true that many others of his stamp 
 made a knowledge of the arts and modes of courtship, like 
 him, a part of the course. The forms of love-letters, valen- 
 tines, &c., were taught their pupils of both sexes, with many 
 other pohte particulars, wliich it is to be hoped have disap- 
 peared for ever. 
 
 One thing, however, to the honour of our country-women 
 we are bound to observe, which is, that we do not remember 
 a single result incompatible with virtue to follow from the 
 little fellow's system, which, by the way, was in this respect 
 peculiar only to himself, and not the general custom of the 
 country. Several weddings, unquestionably, we had, more 
 than might otherwise have taken place, but in not one in- 
 stance have we known any case in which a female was brought 
 to unhappincss or shame. 
 
 We shall now give a brief sketch of Buckram-Back's 
 manner of tuition, begging our readers at the same time to 
 rest assured that any sketch we could give would fall far 
 short of the original. 
 
 "Paddy Corcoran, walk out an' 'inther your drawin'-room ;' 
 an' let Miss Judy Ilanratty go out along wid you, an' come 
 in as Mrs. Corcoran." 
 
 "Faitli, I'm nfcard, masthcr, I'll make a bad hand of it; 
 
THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER. 25 
 
 but, sure, it's something to have Judy here to keep me in 
 countenance." 
 
 " Is that by way of comphment, Paddy ? Mr. Corcoran, 
 you should ever an' always spaik to a leedy in an alyblasther 
 tone ; for that's the cut." [Paddy and Judy retire. 
 
 ''Mickey Scanlan, come up here, now that we're braithin' 
 a Uttle ; an' you Miss Grauna Mulholland, come up along wid 
 liim. Miss Mulholland, you are masther of your five positions 
 and your fifteen attidudes, IbeHeve?" "Yes, su\" "Very 
 well. Miss. Mickey Scanlan — ahem — Misther Scanlan, can you 
 perform the positions also, ^lickey ?" 
 
 ''Yes, sir; but you remimber I stuck at the eleventh alti- 
 tude." 
 
 "Attitude, sir — no matther. "Well, Misther Scanlan, do you 
 know how to shiloote a leedy, Mickey ?" 
 
 "Faix, it's hard to say, sir, till we thry ; but I'm very 
 wiUin' to larn it. I'U do my best, an' the best can do no more." 
 
 "Very well — ahem! Now merk me, Misther Scanlan; you 
 approach your leedy in tliis style, bowin' pohtely, as I do. 
 Miss Mulliolland, wiU you allow me the honour of a heavenly 
 shiloote ? Don't bow, ma'am ; you are to cm'chy, you know ; 
 a little lower eef you plaise. Xow you say, 'Wid the greatest 
 pleasm^e in life, sir, an' many thanks for the feevour.' (Smack.) 
 There, now, you are to make another curchy pohtely, an' say, 
 'Thank you, kind sir, I ow.e you one.' Now, Misther Scanlan, 
 proceed." 
 
 "I'm to imitate you, masther, as well as I can, sir, I beheve?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, you are to imiteet me. But hould, sir; did you 
 see me hck my hps or pull up my breeches ? Be gorra, that's 
 shockin' unswintemintal. First make a curchy, a bow I mane, 
 to Miss Grauna. Stop again, sir ; are you goin' to sthi'angle 
 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. Prac- 
 
26 BUCKRAM-BACK, 
 
 tice, Misther Scanlan, practice will do all, Mickey ; but don't 
 smack so loud, though. Hilloo, gintlemen! where's our 
 drawin'-room folk ? 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." 
 "Faix, sir, it's aisier said than done wid some of us." 
 "I know that, Misther Corcoran; but practice is every 
 tiling. 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 — hem! — your castor undher 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^' — 
 "I'm your most obadient sarwint." 
 
 "Tuts, man ahve! that's not a bow. Look at this: there's 
 a bow for you. Why, instead of meckmg a bow, you appear 
 as if you wor goin' to sit down wid an embargo (lumbago) in 
 your back. Well, practice is every thing ; an' there's luck in 
 leisure." 
 
 "Dick Doorish, will you come up, and thry if you can meek 
 any thing of that thrcblin' step. You're a purty lad, Dick ; 
 you're a purty lad, Misther Douriiih, wid a pair o' left legs an 
 
THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER. 27 
 
 you, to expect to larn to dance ; but don't despeer, man alive. 
 I'm not afeard but I'll meek 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 ouglit 
 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. Haye you the gad 
 and suggaun wid you?" "Yes, sir." "Very well, on wid 
 them ; 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, su\" " Come, thin, 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 tiling begad you 
 ought not to do. But, God help you ! sure you're left-legged ! 
 Ah, Misther 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, God help you ! sure you hav'nt such a tiling — 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, wliich they did with a 
 virulence and scurrility proportioned to the space between 
 them. Buckram-Back had a rival of tliis description, who 
 was a sore thorn in his side. His name was Paddy Fitz- 
 patrick, and from having been a horse-jockey, he gave up the 
 turf, and took to the calHng 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 tliis Paddy replied, by asking 
 if he was the man to dance the Counaught Jockey upon the 
 
28 . BUCKRAM-BACK, 
 
 saddle of a blood-horse, and the animal at a tliree-quarter 
 gallop. 
 
 At length the friends on each side, from a natural love of 
 fun, prevailed upon them to decide theu^ 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, 
 accorduig to some new manoeuvre of his own, was very con- 
 venient as a guide to the dancers when going thi^ough the 
 figure. Now, at the spot where this post stood it was neces- 
 sary to make a curve, in order to form part of the figure of 
 eight, wliich they were to follow ; but as many of them were 
 rather impenetrable to a due conception of the line of beauty, 
 he forced them to turn round the post rather than make an 
 acute angle of it, which several of them did. Having pre- 
 mised thus much, we proceed with our narrative. 
 
 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 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 com- 
 passes. 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. 
 
 " Gintlemcn, turn the post !" he shouted, stamping upon the 
 ground, and clenching his little liands with fury ; " leedies, 
 remimbcr the post! Oh, for the honour of Kilnahushogue 
 don't be bate. The post ! ghitlcmcn ; Iccdies, the post, if you 
 love me. Murdhcr aUve, the post !" 
 
THE COUNTRY DANCING-MASTER. 29 
 
 *' Be gorra, masther, the jockey will distance us," replied 
 Bob Magawly ; " it's lilvcly to be the luinnin'-post to him, any 
 how." 
 
 "Any money," shouted the little fellow, "any money for 
 long Sam^Sallaghan ; he'd do the post to the Hfe. Mind it, 
 boys dear, mind it or we're lost. Divil a bit they heed me ; 
 it's a flock o' bees or sheep they're 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 
 better 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," rephed Buckram-Back, bowing low, however, in re- 
 turn, " I'll take the sliine 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. Kilnahushogue for ever I" 
 
 The scene that ensued baffles all description. The fact is, 
 the httle fellow had them trained, as it were, to kiss in pla- 
 toons, and the spectators were hterally convulsed with laughter 
 at this most novel and ludicrous character which Buckram-Back 
 gave to liis 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 sliiloote a leedy ! Why, the poor spalpeen 
 never kissed any woman but his mother, an' her only when 
 she was dyin'. Hurra for Ivihiahushogue 1 " 
 
 Such, reader, is a shght and very imperfect sketch of an 
 Irish dancing-master, wliich if it possesses any merit at all, is 
 to be ascribed to the circumstance that it is di'awn from life, 
 and combines, however faintly, most of the points essential 
 to our conception of the character. 
 
MARY MURRAY, 
 
 THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER. 
 
 Though this word at a glance may be said to explain itself, yet 
 lest our English or Scotch readers might not clearly understand 
 its meaning, we shall briefly give them such a definition of 
 it as will enable them to comprehend it in its full extent. 
 The Irish match-maker, then, is a person selected to conduct 
 reciprocity treaties of the heart between lovers themselves in 
 the first instance, or, where the principal parties are indiiferent, 
 between their respective famihes, when the latter happen to be - 
 of opinion that it is a safer and more prudent thing to consult 
 the interest of the young folk rather than their inclination. 
 In short, the match-maker is the person engaged in carrying ^ 
 from one party to another all the messages, letters, tokens, 
 presents, and secret communications of the tender passion, 
 in whatever shape or character the said parties may deem it 
 proper to transmit them. The match-maker, therefore, is a 
 general negotiator in all such matters of love or interest as" 
 are designed by the principals or their friends to terminate in 
 the honourable bond of marriage ; for with nothing morally 
 improper or licentious, or approaching to the character of an 
 intrigue will the regular Irish match-maker have anything at 
 all to do. The match-maker, therefore, after all, is only the 
 creature of necessity, and is never engaged by an Irishman 
 unless to remove such preliminary obstacles as may stand in 
 the way of his own direct operations. In point of fact, the 
 match-maker is nothing but a pioneer, who, after the plan of 
 the attack has been laid down, clears away some of the 
 
THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER. 31 
 
 rougher difficulties, until the regular advance is made, the 
 siege opened in due form, and the citadel successfully entered 
 by the principal party. 
 
 We have said thus much to prevent our fair neighbours of 
 England and Scotland from imao;imn<]j that because Buch a 
 
 o DO 
 
 character as the Irish match-maker exists at all, Irishmen are 
 personally deficient in that fluent energy which is so neces- 
 sary to express the emotions of the tender passion. Addison 
 has proved to the satisfaction of any rational mind that mo- 
 desty and assurance are inseparable — that a blushing face 
 may accpmpany a courageous, nay, a desperate heart — and 
 that, on the contrary, an abundance of assurance may be 
 associated with a very handsome degree of modesty. In love 
 matters, I grant, modesty is the forte, of an Irishman, whose 
 character in this respect has been unconsciously hit off by the 
 poet. Indeed he may truly be termed vxiltus ingenui piier, 
 ingenuique pudoris ; which means, when translated, that m 
 looking for a wife an Irishman is " a hoy of an easy face, and 
 remarkable modesty." 
 
 At the head of the match-makers, and far above aU compe- 
 titors, stands the Irish midwife, of whose abilities in this way it 
 is impossible to speak too highly. And let not our readers 
 imagine that the duties wliich devolve upon her, as weU as 
 upon match-makers in general, are shght or easily discharged. 
 To conduct a matter of tliis kind ably, great tact, knowledge 
 of character, and very dehcate handling, are necessary. To 
 be incorruptible, faithful to both parties, not to give offence to 
 either, and to obviate detection in case of secret bias or par- 
 tiahty, demand talents of no common order. "The amount of 
 fortune is often to be regulated — the good quahties of the 
 parties placed in the best, or, what is often still more judicious, 
 in the most suitable light — and when there happens to be a 
 scarcity of the commodity, it must be furnished from her own 
 invention. The miser is to be softened, the contemptuous tone 
 
32 MARY MURRAY, 
 
 of the purse-proud hodagh lowered without offence, the crafty 
 cajoled, and somethnes, the unsuspecting over-reached. Now, 
 all this requires an able hand, as match-making in general 
 among the Irish does. Indeed I question whether the wiliest 
 pohtician that ever attempted to manage a treaty of peace 
 between two hostile powers could have a more difficult card to 
 play than often falls to the lot of the Irish match-maker. 
 
 The midwife, however, from her confidential intercourse with 
 the sex, and the respect with which both young and old of 
 them look upon her, is peculiarly well qualified for the office. 
 She has seen the youth shoot up and ripen into the young 
 man — she has seen the young man merged into the husband, 
 and the husband very frequently lost in the wife. Now, the 
 marks and tokens by wliich she noted all this are as percep- 
 tible in the young of this day as they were in the young of 
 fifty years ago ; she consequently knows from experience how 
 to manage each party, so as to bring about the consummation 
 which she so devoutly wishes. 
 
 Upon second thoughts, however, we are inchned to think 
 after all, that the right of precedence upon this point does not 
 exclusively belong to the midwife ; or at least, that there exists 
 another person who contests it with her so strongly that we 
 are scarcely capable of determining their respective claims: 
 tliis is the Cosherer. The cosherer in Ireland is a woman who 
 goes from one relation's house to another, from friend to friend, 
 from acquaintance to acquaintance — is always welcome, and 
 uniformly well treated. The very extent of her connexions 
 makes her independent; so that if she receives an affront, 
 otherwise a cold reception, from one, she never feels it to 
 affect her comfort, but, on the contrary, carries it about with 
 her in the shape of a complaint to the rest, and details it with 
 such a rich spirit of vituperative enjoyment, that we believe 
 in our soul some of her friends, knowing Avhat healthful occu- 
 pation it gives her, actually affront lier from pure kindness. 
 
I 
 
 THE IRISH MATCH-MAKEll. 33 
 
 The cosherer is the very impersonation of industry. Unless 
 when asleep, no mortal living ever saw her hands idle. Her 
 principal employment is knitting ; and whether she sits, stands, 
 or walks, there she is with the end of the stocking under her 
 arm, knit, knit, knitting. She also sews and quilts ; and when- 
 ever a quilting is going forward she can tell you at once in 
 what neighbour's house the quilting-frame was used last, and 
 where it is now to be had ; and when it has been got, she is all 
 bustle and business, ordering and commanding about her — 
 her large red three-cornered pincushion hanging conspicu- 
 ously at her side, a lump of chalk in one hand, and a coil of 
 twine in the other, ready to mark the pattern, whether it be 
 wave, square, or diamond. 
 
 The cosherer is always dressed with neatness and comfort, 
 but generally wears something about her that reminds one of 
 a day gone by, and may be considered as the lingering rem- 
 nant of some old custom that has fallen into disuse. This, 
 shght as it is, endears her to many, for it stands out as the 
 memorial of some old and perhaps affecting associations, which 
 at its very appearance are called out from the heart in which 
 they were slumbering. 
 
 It is impossible to imagine a happier life than that of the 
 cosherer. She has evidently no trouble, no care, no children, 
 nor any of the various claims of life, to disturb or encumber 
 her. Wherever she goes she is made, and finds herself, per- 
 fectly at home. The whole business of her life is carrying 
 about intelhgence, making and projecting matches, singing old 
 songs and telling old stories, which she frequently does with a 
 feehng and unction not often to be met with. She will sing 
 you the different sets and variations of the old ah^s, repeat 
 the history and traditions of old families, recite ranns, interpret 
 dreams, give the origin of old local customs, and tell a ghost 
 story in a style that would make your hair stand on end. 
 She is a bit of a doctress, too — an extensive herbahst, and is 
 
 D 
 
34 MARY MURRAY, 
 
 very skilful and lucky among children. In short, she is a 
 perfect Gentleman's Magazine in her way — a regular re- 
 pertory of traditionary lore, a collector and distributor of social 
 antiquities, dealing in every thing that is time-worn or old, and 
 handling it with such a quiet and antique air, that one would 
 imagine her life to be a life not of years but of centuries, and 
 that she had passed the greater portion of it, long as it was, in 
 "Avandering by the shores of old romance." 
 
 Such a woman the reader will at once perceive is a formidable 
 competitor for popular confidence with the midwife. Indeed 
 there is but one consideration alone upon which we would be 
 inclined to admit that the latter has any advantage over her — 
 and it is, that she is the midwife ; a word which is a tower of 
 strength to her, not only against all professional opponents, but 
 against such analogous characters as would intrude even upon 
 any of her subordinate or collateral offices. As match-makers, 
 it is extremely difficult to decide between her and the cosherer ; 
 so much so, indeed, that we are disposed to leave the claim for 
 priority undetermined. In this respect, each pulls in the same 
 harness ; and as they are so well matched, we will allow them 
 to jog on side by side, drawing the youngsters of the neighbour- 
 ing villages slowly but surely towards the land of matrimony. 
 
 In humble country life, as in high life, we find in nature 
 the same principles and motives of action. Let not the 
 speculating mother of rank, nor the husband-hunting dowager, 
 imagine for a moment that the plans, stratagems, lures, and 
 trap-falls, with which they endeavour to secure some wealthy 
 fool for their daughter, are not known and practised — ay, 
 and with as much subtlety and circumvention too — by the very 
 humblest of their own sex. In these matters they have not 
 one whit of superiority over the lowest, sharpest, and most 
 fraudulent gossip of a country village, where the arts of women 
 arc almost as sagaciously practised, and the small scandal as 
 ably detailed, as in the highest circles of fashion. 
 
THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER. 35 
 
 The third great master of the art of match-making is the 
 Senachie, who is nothing more or less than the counterpart of 
 the cosherer ; for as the cosherer is never of the male sex, so 
 the senachie is never of the female. With respect to their hahits 
 and modes of life, the only diiference between them is, that as 
 the cosherer is never idle, so the senachie never works ; and 
 the latter is a far superior authority in old popular prophecy 
 and genealogy. As a match-maker, however, the senachie 
 comes infinitely short of the cosherer ; for the truth is, that 
 this branch of diplomacy falls naturally within the manoeuvring 
 and intriguing spirit of a woman. 
 
 Our readers are not to understand that in Ireland there 
 exists, like the fiddler or dancing-master, a distinct character 
 openly known by the appellation of match-maker. No such 
 tiling. On the contrary, the negotiations they undertake are 
 all performed under false colours. The business, in fact, is 
 close and secret, and always carried on with the profoundest 
 mystery, veiled by the sanction of some other ostensible 
 occupation. 
 
 One of the best specimens of the kind we ever met was old 
 Mary Murray. Mary was a tidy creature of middle size, who 
 always went dressed in a short crimson cloak, much faded, a 
 striped red and blue drugget petticoat, and a heather-coloured 
 gown of the same fabric. When walking, which she did with 
 the aid of a hght hazel staff hooked at the top, she generally 
 kept the hood of the cloak over her head, which gave to her 
 whole figure a picturesque effect ; and when she threw it back, 
 one could not help admiring how well her small but sym- 
 metrical features agreed with the dowd cap of white hnen, 
 with a plain muslin border, wliich she wore. A pair of blue 
 stockings and sharp-pointed shoes, high in the heels, completed 
 her dress. Her features were good-natured and Irish; but 
 there lay over the whole countenance an expression of quickness 
 and sagacity, contracted no doubt by an habitual exercise of 
 
36 MARY MURRAY, 
 
 penetration and circumspection. At the time I saw her she 
 was very old, and I beUcve had the reputation of being the 
 last in that part of the country who was known to go about 
 from house to house spinning on the distaff, an instrument 
 which has now passed away, being more conveniently replaced 
 by the spinning-wheel. 
 
 The manner and style of Mary's visits were different from 
 those of any other who could come to a farmer's house, or 
 even to an humble cottage, for to the inmates of both were 
 her services equally rendered. Let us suppose, for instance, 
 the whole female part of a farmer's family assembled of a 
 summer evening about five o'clock, each engaged in some 
 domestic employment : in runs a lad who has been sporting 
 about, breathlessly exclaiming, whilst his eyes are lit up with 
 dehglit, "Mother! mother! here's Mary Murray coming 
 down the boreen!" " Get out, avick; no, she's not." "Bad 
 cess to me but she is ; that I may never stir if she isn't ! 
 Now !" The whole family are instantly at the door to see if 
 it be she, with the exception of the prettiest of them all, Kitty, 
 who sits at her wheel and immediately begins to croon over an 
 old Irish air, which is sadly out of tune ; and well do we know, 
 notwithstanding the mellow tones of that sweet voice, why it 
 is so, and also why that youthful cheek, in which health and 
 beauty meet, is now the colour of crimson. 
 
 " Oh, Vara, acushla, cead millia failte ghiid ! ( Mary, 
 darlin', a hundred thousand welcomes to you!) Och, muslia, 
 what kep' you away so long, Mary ? Sure you won't lave 
 us this month o' Sundays, Mary?" are only a few of the cordial 
 expressions of hospitaUty and kindness with which she is 
 received. But Kitty, whose check but a moment ago was 
 carmine, why is it now pale as the lily ? 
 
 " An' what news, Mary," asks one of her sisters ; " sure 
 you'll tell us every thing ; won't you ?" 
 
 '' Throth, avillish, / have no bad ne^vs, anv how — an' as to 
 
THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER. 37 
 
 tellin' you all — Biddy, Ihig dujuh, let me alone. ]So, 1 have 
 no bad news, God be praised, but good rieius." % 
 
 Kitty's cheek is again crimson, and her lips, ripe and red 
 as cherries, expand with the sweet soft smile of her country, 
 exhibiting a set of teeth for which many a countess would 
 barter thousands, and giving out a breath more delicious than 
 the fragrance of a summer meadow. Oh, no wonder, indeed, 
 that the kind heart of Mary contains in its recesses a message 
 to her as tender as ever was transmitted from man to woman ! 
 
 " An', Kitty, acushla, where's the welcome from you, that's 
 my favourite ? Now don't be jealous, childre ; sure you all 
 know she is, an' ever an' always was." 
 
 *' If it's not upon my hps, it's in my heart, Mary, an' from 
 that heart you're welcome !" 
 
 She rises up and kisses Mary, who gives her one glance 
 of meaning, accompanied by the slightest imaginable smile, and 
 a gentle but significant pressure of the hand, which thrills to 
 her heart and diffuses a sense of ecstacy through her whole 
 spirit. Nothing now remains but the oj^portunity, which is 
 equally sought for by Mary and her, to hear without inter- 
 ruption the purport of her lover's communication; and this 
 we leave to lovers to imagine. 
 
 In Ireland, however odd it may seem, there occur among 
 the very poorest classes some of the hardest and most penu- 
 rious bargains in. match-making that ever were heard of or 
 known. Now, strangers might imagine that all this close 
 higgUng proceeds from a spirit naturally near and sordid, but 
 it is not so. The real secret of it lies in the poverty and 
 necessity of the parties, and chiefly in the bitter experience 
 of their parents, who, having come together in a state of 
 destitution, are anxious, each as much at the expense of the 
 other as possible, to prevent their children from experiencing 
 the same privation and misery which they themselves felt. 
 Many a time have matches been suspended, or altogether 
 
38 MARY MURRAY, 
 
 broken off, because one party refuses to give his son ** a slip 
 ^fapig,'' or another his daughter "a pair of blankets" ; and 
 it was no unusual thing for a match-maker to say, "Never 
 mind ; I have it all settled hut the slip'' One might naturally 
 wonder why those who are so shrewd and provident upon 
 this subject do not strive to prevent early marriages where 
 the poverty is so great. So unquestionably they ought, but 
 it is a settled usage of the country, and one, too, which 
 Irishmen have never been in the habit of considering as an 
 evil. We have no doubt that if they once began to reason 
 upon it as such, they would be very strongly disposed to 
 check a custom which has been the means of involving them- 
 selves and their unhappy offspring in misery, penury, and not 
 unfrequently in guilt itself 
 
 Mary, like many others in this world who are not conscious 
 of the same failing, smelt strongly of the shop ; in other words 
 her conversation had a strong matrimonial tendency. No 
 two beings ever lived so decidedly antithetical to each other 
 in this point of view as the match-maker and the Keener, 
 Mention the name of an individual or a family to the keener, 
 and the medium through which her memory passes back to 
 them is that of her professed employment — a mourner at 
 wakes and funerals. 
 
 ** Don't you know young Kelly of Tamlaght ?" 
 " I do, avick," replies the keener, " and what about him ?" 
 " Why he was married to-day mornin' to ould Jack 
 M'Cluskey's daughter." 
 
 " Well, God grant them luck an' happiness, poor things ! 
 I do indeed rcmimber his father's wake an' funeral well — 
 ould liisthard Kelly of Tamlaght — a dacent corpse he made 
 for liis years, an' well he looked. But indeed I hiewn 
 by tlie colour tliat sted in his cheeks, and the limbs remaining 
 soople for the twenty-four hours afthcr his departure, that 
 some of the family 'ud follow liiiTi afore the year was 
 
THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER. 39 
 
 out; * an' so she did. The youngest daughter, poor thing, by 
 raison of a could she got, over-heatin' herself at a dance, was 
 stretched beside him that very day was eleven months ; and God 
 knows it was from the heart my grief came for her — to see the 
 poor handsome colleen laid low so soon. But when a gallopin' 
 consumption sets in, avourneen, sure we all know what's to 
 happen. In Crockaniska churchyard they sleep — the Lord 
 make both their beds in heaven this day." The very reverse 
 of this, but at the same time as inveterately professional, was 
 Mary Murray. 
 
 *' God save you, Mary." 
 
 " God save you kindly, avick. Eh ! — let me look at you. 
 Aren't you red Billy M'Guirk's son from Ballagh ?" 
 
 *' I am, Mary. An', Mary, how is yourself an' the world 
 gettin' an ?" 
 
 *' Can't complain, dear, in such times. How are yez all 
 at home, alanna?" '' Faix, middUn' well, Mary, thank God 
 an' you. — You heard of my grand uncle's death, big Ned 
 M'Coul?" 
 
 " I did, avick, God rest him. Sure it's well I remimber 
 his weddin', poor man, by the same atoken that I know one 
 that helped him on wid it a thrifle. He was married in a 
 blue coat and buckskins, an' wore a scarlet waistcoat that you'd 
 see three miles oif. Oh, well I remimber it. An' whin he 
 was settin' out that mornin' to the priest's house, 'Ned,' says 
 I, an' I fwhishspered him, ' dhrop a button on the right knee 
 afore you get the words said.' ' Thighwn,^ said he, wid a 
 smile, an' he shpped ten thirteens into my hand as he spoke. 
 * I'll do it,' said he, ' and thin a fig for the fairies !' — because 
 you see if there's a button of the right knee left unbuttoned, 
 the fairies — this day's Friday, God stand betune us and 
 harm ! — can do neither hurt nor harm to sowl or body, an' 
 
 * Such is the superstition. 
 
40 MARY MURRAY, 
 
 sure that's a great blessin', avick. He left two fine slips o' 
 girls behind him." 
 
 " He did so — as good-lookin' girls as there's in the parish." 
 
 " Faix, an' kind mother for them, avick. She'll be marryin' 
 agin, I'm judgin', she bein' sich a fresh good-lookin' woman." 
 
 " Why, it's very likely, Mary." 
 
 " Troth its natural, achora. What can a lone woman do 
 wid such a large farm upon her hands, widout having some 
 one to manage it for her, an' prevint her from bein' imposed 
 on ? But indeed the first thing she ought to do is to marry 
 off her two girls widout loss of time, in regard that it's hard 
 to say how a stepfather an' thim might agree ; and I've often 
 known the mother herself, when she had a fresh family comin' 
 an her, to be as unnatural to her fatherless childre as if she 
 was a stranger to thim, and that the same blood did'nt run in 
 their veins. Not saying that Mary M'Coul will or would act 
 that way by her own ; for indeed she's come of a kind ould 
 stock, an' ought to have a good heart. Tell her, avick, when 
 you see her, that I'll spind a day or two ^vid her — let me see 
 — the day after to-morrow will be Palm Sunday — why, about 
 the Aisther holidays." 
 
 " Indeed I will, Mary, with great pleasure." 
 
 *' An' fwhishsper, dear, jist tell her that I've a thing to say 
 to her — that I had a long dish o' discoorse about her wid 
 a friend o' mine. You won't forget, now ?" 
 
 ** Oh the dickens a foro-ct !" 
 
 " Thank you, dear : God mark you to grace, avourneen ! 
 When you're a little ouldher, maybe I'll be a friend to you 
 
 yet." 
 
 Tliis last intimation was given with a kind of mysterious 
 l)cnevolcncc, very visible in the complacent shrewdness of 
 hei' face, and with a twinkle in the eye, full of grave humour 
 and considerable sclf-iniportancc, leaving tlic mind of the 
 person she spoke to in such an agreeable uncertainty as 
 
 II 
 
THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER. 41 
 
 rendered it a matter of great difficulty to determine whether 
 she was serious or only in jest, but at all events throwing 
 the onus of inquiry upon him. 
 
 The ease and tact with which Mary could involve two young 
 persons of opposite sexes in a mutual attachment, were very 
 remarkable. In truth, she was a kind of matrimonial incen- 
 diary, who went through the country holding her torch now 
 to tliis heart and again to that — first to one and then to 
 another, until she had the parish more or less in a flame. 
 And when we consider the combustible materials of wliicli 
 the Irish heart is composed, it is no wonder indeed that the 
 labour of taking the census in Ireland increases at such a 
 rapid rate, during the time that elapses between the periods 
 of its being made out. If Mary, for instance, met a young 
 woman of her acquaintance accidentally — and it was wonder- 
 ful to think how regularly these accidental meetings took place 
 — she would addi'ess her probably somewhat as foUows : — 
 " Arra, Biddy Sullivan, how are you, a-colleen ?" 
 "Faix, bravely, thank you, Mary. How is yourself?" 
 "Indeed, thin' sorra a bit o' the health we can complain 
 of, Bhried, barrin' whin this pain in the back comes upon us. 
 The last time I seen your mother, Biddy, she was complainin' 
 of a iveid.'^ I hope she's betther, poor woman ?" 
 
 '•' Hut ! bad scran to the thing ails her ! She has as hght 
 a foot as e'er a one of us, an' can dance ' Jackson's mornin' 
 brush' as well as ever she could." 
 
 " Throth, an' I'm proud to hear it. Och ! och ! 'Jackson's 
 mornin' brush !' and it was she that could do it. Sure I 
 remimber her wedding-day like yestherday. Ay, far an' near 
 her fame wint as a dancer, an' the clanest-made girl that ever 
 came from Lisbuie. Like yestherday do I remimber it, an' 
 how the squire himself an' the ladies from the Big House came 
 down to see herself an' your father, the bride and groom — an' 
 
 * A feverish cold. 
 
42 
 
 MARY MARRAY, 
 
 it wasn't on every hill head you'd get sich a couple — dancin' 
 the same 'Jackson's mornin' brush.' Oh ! it was far and near 
 her fame wint for dancin' that. — An' is there no news wid you, 
 Bhried, at all at all?" 
 
 " The sorra word, Mary : where 'ud I get news ? Sure it's 
 yourself that's always on the fut that ought to have the news 
 for us, woman alive." 
 
 " An' maybe I have too. I was spaikin' to a friend o' mine 
 about you the other day.' 
 
 " A friend o' yours, Mary ! Why, what friend could it 
 be?" 
 
 " A friend o' mine — ay, an' of yours too. Maybe you have 
 more friends than you think, Biddy — and kind ones too, as 
 far as wishin' you well goes, 't any rate. Ay have you faix, 
 an' friends that e'er a girl in the parish might be proud to 
 hear named in the one day wid her. Awouh !" 
 
 " Bedad we're in luck, thin, for that's more than I knew of 
 An' who may these great friends of ours be, Mary ?" 
 
 " Awouh ! Faix, as dacent a boy as ever broke bread the 
 same boy is, 'and,' says he, 'if I had goold in bushelfuls, I'd 
 think it too httle for that girl ;' but, poor lad, he's not aisy or 
 happy in his mind in regard o' that. 'I'm afeard,' says he, 
 'that she'd put scorn upon me, an' not think me her aiquals. 
 An' no more I am,' says he again, 'for where, afther all, would 
 you get the likes of Biddy SuUivan ?' — Poor boy ! throth my 
 heart aches for him !" 
 
 " Well, can't you fall in love wid liim yourself, Mary, 
 whoever he is ?" 
 
 " Indeed, an' if I was at your age, it would be no shame 
 to mc to do so; but, to tell you the thruth, the sorra often ever 
 the likes of Paul Ilcffcrnan came acrass me." 
 
 " Paul Iloffernan ! Why, Mary," replied Biddy, smiling with 
 the assumed lightness of indifference, " is that your beauty ? 
 If it is, why, keep him, an' make nmch of him." 
 
THE HUSH MATCH-MAKER. 43 
 
 *' Oh, wurrah ! the differ there is between the hearts an' 
 tongues of some people — one from another — an' the way they 
 spaik behind others' backs ! Well, well, I'm sure that wasn't 
 the way he spoke of you, Biddy; an' God forgive you for 
 runnin' down the poor boy as you're doin'. Trogs ! I beheve 
 you're the only girl would do it." 
 
 " Who, me! I'm not runnin' him down. I'm neither runnin' 
 him up nor down. I have neither good nor bad to say about 
 him — the boy's a black stranger to me, barrin' to know his 
 face." 
 
 " Faix, an' he's in consate wid you these three months 
 past, an' intinds to be at the dance on Friday next, in Jack 
 Gormly's new house. iS'ow, good bye, alanna ; keep your own 
 counsel till the time comes, an' mind what I said to you. It's 
 not behind every ditch the likes of Paul Heffernan grows. 
 Bannaght lliath ! My blessin' be wid you !" 
 
 Thus would Mary depart just at the critical moment, for well 
 she knew that by husbanding her information and leaving the 
 heart something to find out, she took the most effectual steps 
 to excite and sustain that kind of interest which is apt ulti- 
 mately to ripen, even from its own agitation, into the attach- 
 ment she is anxious to promote. 
 
 The next day, by a meeting similarly accidental, she comes 
 in contact with Paul Heffernan, who, honest lad, had never 
 probably bestowed a thought upon Biddy Sullivan in his hfe. 
 
 " Morrow gJind, Paul ! — how is your father's son, ahager ?" 
 
 " Morrow ghutcha, Mary ! — my father's son wants nothin' 
 but a good wife, Mary." 
 
 " An' it's not every set day or bonfire night that a good 
 wife is to be had, Paul — that is, a good one, as you say ; for, 
 throth, there's many o' them in the market, sich as they are. 
 I was talkin' about you to a friend of mine the other day — 
 an', trogs, I'm afeard you're not worth all the abuse we gave 
 vou." 
 
44 MARY MURRAY, 
 
 " More power to you, Mary ! I'm oblaged to you. But who 
 is the friend in the manetime ?" 
 
 " Poor girl ! Throth, when your name sHpped out an her, 
 the point of a rush would take a drop of blood out o' her cheek, 
 the way she crimsoned up. ' An', Mary,' says she, * if ever I 
 know you to breathe it to man or mortual, my lips I'll never 
 open to you to my dyin' day.' Trogs, whin I looked at her, 
 an' the tears standin' in her purty black eyes, I thought I 
 didn't see a betther favoured girl, for both face and figure, 
 this many a day, than the same Biddy Sulhvan." 
 
 *' Biddy Sullivan! Is that long Jack's daughter of Cargah?" 
 
 '' The same. But, Paul, avick, if a syllable o' what I tould 
 you " 
 
 " Hut, Mary ! honour bright ! Do you think me a stag^ 
 that I'd go and inform on you ?" 
 
 " Fwhishsper, Paul ; she'll be at the dance on Friday next 
 in Jack Gormly's new house. So bannaght Ihatk, an' think o' 
 what I betrayed to you." 
 
 Thus did Mary very quietly and sagaciously bind two 
 young hearts together, who probably might otherwise have 
 never for a moment even thought of each other. Of course 
 when Paul and Biddy met at the dance on the following 
 Friday, the one was the object of the closest attention to the 
 other ; and each being prepared to witness strong proofs of 
 attachment from the opposite party, every thing fell out 
 exactly according to their expectations. 
 
 Sometimes it happens that a booby of a fellow, during his 
 calf love, will employ a male friend to plead his suit with a 
 pretty girl, who, if the principal party had spunk, might bo 
 very willing to marry him. To the credit of our foir country- 
 women, however, be it said, that in scarcely one instance out 
 of twenty does it liappcn, or has it ever happened, that any 
 of them ever fails to punish the taint heart by bestowing the 
 fair lady u])on wliat is called tlic blackfoot or spokesman 
 
THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER. 45 
 
 whom he selects to make love for him. In such a case it is 
 very natm*ally supposed that the latter will speak two words 
 for himself and one for liis friend, and indeed the result hears 
 out the supposition. Now, nothing on earth gratifies the heart 
 of the established match-maker so much as to hear of such a 
 disaster befalling a spoony. She exults over his misfortune 
 for months, and pubhshes his shame to the uttermost bounds 
 of her own little world, branding liun as "a poor pitiful 
 crature, who had not the courage to spaik up for himself, 
 or — to employ them that could." In fact, she entertains 
 much the same feehng against him that a regular physician 
 would towards some weak-minded patient, who prefers the 
 knavish ignorance of a quack to the skill and services of an 
 able and educated medical practitioner. 
 
 Characters like Mary are fast disappearing in Ireland ; 
 and indeed in a country where the means of life were ge- 
 nerally inadequate to the wants of the population, they were 
 calculated, however warmly the heart may look back upon 
 the memory of their services, to do more harm than good, 
 by inducing yomig folks to enter into early and improvident 
 marriages. They certainly sprang up from a state of society 
 not thoroughly formed by proper education and knowledge — 
 where the language of a people, too, was in many extensive 
 cUstricts in such a state of transition as in the interchange 
 of affection to render an interpreter absolutely necessary. 
 We have ourselves witnessed marriages where the husband 
 and wife spoke the one English and the other Irish, each 
 being able with difficulty to understand the other. In all 
 such cases Mary was invaluable. She spoke Irish and Enghsh 
 fluently, and indeed was acquainted with every thing in the 
 slightest or most remote degree necessary to the conduct of 
 a love affair, from the first glance up until the priest had 
 pronounced the last words — or, to speak more correctly, until 
 "the throwing of the stocking." 
 
46 MARY MURRAY, 
 
 Mary was invariably placed upon tile hob, which is the seat 
 of comfort and honour at a farmer's fireside, and there she 
 sat neat and tidy, detailing all the news of the parish, telHng 
 them how such a marriage was one unbroken honeymoon — a 
 sure proof, by the way, that she herself had a hand in it — and 
 again, how another one did not turn out well, and she said so ; 
 "there was always a bad dhrop in the Haggarties ; but, my 
 dear, the girl herself was for him ; so as she made her own 
 bed she must He in it, poor tiling. Any way, thanks be to 
 goodness I had nothing to do wid it !" 
 
 Mary was to be found in every fair and market, and always 
 at a particular place at a certain hour of the day, where the 
 parties engaged in a courtship were sure to meet her on these 
 occasions. She took a chirping glass, but never so as to 
 become unsteady. Great deference was paid to every tiling 
 she said ; and if this was not conceded to her, she extorted it 
 with a high hand. Nobody hving could drink a health with 
 half the comic significance that Mary threw into her eye when 
 saying, "Well young couple, here's everything as you wish it!" 
 
 Mary's motions from place to place were usually very slow, 
 and for the best reason in the world, because she was frequently 
 interrupted. For instance, if she met a young man on her 
 way, ten to one but he stood and held a long and earnest 
 conversation with her ; and that it was both important and 
 confidential, might easily be gathered from the fact that 
 whenever a stranger passed, it was either suspended altogether, 
 or carried on in so low a tone as to be inaudible. This held 
 equally good with the girls. JMany a time have I seen them 
 retracing their steps, and probably wallving back a mile or two, 
 all the time engaged in discussing some topic evidently of 
 more than ordinary interest to themselves. And when they 
 shook hands and bade each other good bye, heavens ! at what 
 a pace did the latter scamper homewards across fields and 
 ditclies, in order to make up for the time she had lost ! 
 
THE HUSH MATCH-MAKER. 47 
 
 Nobody ever saw Mary receive a penny of money, and yet 
 when she took a fancy, it was beyond any doubt that she 
 has often been known to assist young folks in their early 
 struggles ; but in no instance was the shghtest aid ever afforded 
 to any one whose union she had not herself been instrumental 
 in bringing about. As to the ivhen and the hoiv she got this 
 money, and the great quantity of female apparel wliich she was 
 known to possess, we think we see our readers smile at the 
 simplicity of those who may not be able to guess the several 
 sources from whence she obtained it. 
 
 One other fact we must mention before we close this sketch 
 of her character. There were some houses — we will not, for 
 we dare not, say hoiu many— imio wliich Mary was never seen 
 to enter. This, however, was not her fault. Every one knew 
 that what she did, she did always for the best ; and if some 
 small bits of execration were occasionally levelled at her, it 
 was not more than the parties levelled at each other. All 
 marriages cannot be happy ; and indeed it was a creditable 
 proof of Mary Murray's sagacity that so few of those effected 
 through her instrumentality were unfortunate. 
 
 Poor Mary ! match-making was the great business of your 
 simple but not absolutely harmless life. You are long since, 
 we trust, gone to the happy place where there are neither 
 marryings nor givings in marriage, but where you will have a 
 long Sabbath from your old habits and tendencies. We love 
 for more reasons than either one or two to think of your faded 
 crimson cloak, peaked shoes, hazel staff, clear grey eye, and 
 nose and chin that were so full of character. As you used to 
 say yourself, hannaght Ihath ! — my blessing be with you ! 
 
BOB PENTLAND; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE GAUGER OUTWITTED. 
 
 That the Irish are a ready-witted people, is a fact to the truth 
 of which testimony has been amply borne both by their friends 
 and enemies. Many causes might be brought forward to 
 account for this questionable gift, if it were our intention to 
 be philosophical; but as the matter has been so generally 
 conceded, it would be but a waste of logic to prove to the world 
 that which the world cares not about, beyond the mere fact 
 that it is so. On this or any other topic one illustration is 
 worth twenty arguments, and, accordingly, instead of broaching 
 a theory we shall relate a story. 
 
 Behind the hill or rather mountain of Altnaveenan lies one 
 of those deep and almost precipitous valleys, on which the 
 practised eye of an illicit distiller would dwell with delight, as 
 a topography not likely to be invaded by the unhallowed feet 
 of the ganger and his red-coats. In point of fact, the spot 
 we speak of was from its peculiarly isolated situation nearly 
 invisible, unless to such as came very close to it. Being so 
 completely hemmed in and concealed by the round and angular 
 projections of the mountain hills, you could never dream of 
 its existence at all, until you came upon the very verge of the 
 little precipitous gorge which led into it. This advantage of 
 position was not, however, its only one. It is true indeed that 
 tlic moment you had entered it, all possibility of its being 
 applied to tlie purposes of distillation at once vanished, and 
 you consequently could not help exclaiming, 'Svhat a pity that 
 
THE GAUGEll OUTWITTED. 40 
 
 SO safe and beautiful a nook should liave not a single spot on 
 Avhicli to erect a still-house, or rather on which to raise a 
 suiScient stream of water to the elevation necessary for the 
 process of distilhno;." If a o;auo:er actually came to the little 
 chasm, and cast his scrutinizing eye over it, he would im- 
 mecUately perceive that the erection of a private still in such 
 a place was a piece of folly not generally to be found in the 
 plans of those who have recourse to such practices. 
 
 This absence, however, of the requisite conveniences was only 
 apparent, not real. To the right, about one hundred yards 
 above the entrance to it, ran a ledge of rocks, some fifty 
 feet high, or so. Along the lower brows, near the ground, 
 grew tliick matted masses of long heath, which covered the 
 entrance to a cave about as large and as high as an ordinary 
 farm-house. Through a series of small fissures in the rocks 
 which formed its roof, descended a stream of clear soft water, 
 precisely in body and volume such as was actually required 
 by the distiller ; but, unless by lifting up this mass of heath, 
 no human being could for a moment imagine that there 
 existed any such grotto, or so unexpected and easy an 
 entrance to it. Here there was a private still-house made 
 by the hand of nature herself, such as no art or ingenuity of 
 man could equal. 
 
 Now it so happened that about the period we wi'ite of, there 
 lived in our parish two individuals so antithetical to each 
 other in their pursuits of life, that we question whether 
 throughout all the instinctive antipathies of nature we could 
 find any two animals more destructive of each other than the 
 two we mean — to wit. Bob Pentland, the ganger, and httle 
 George Steen, the illicit chstiller. Pentland was an old, 
 stanch, well-trained fellow, of about fifty years or more, 
 steady and sure, and with all the characteristic points of the 
 high-bred ganger about liim. He was a talhsh man, thin but 
 lathy, with a hooked nose that could scent the tread of a 
 
 E 
 
50 BOB pentland; or, 
 
 distiller with the keenness of a slew-hound ; Ms dcark eye was 
 deep-set, circumspect, and roguish in its expression, and his 
 shaggy brow seemed always to be engaged in calculating 
 whereabouts liis inveterate foe, Uttle George Steen, that 
 eternally bhnkcd him, when almost in his very fangs, might 
 then be distiUing. To be brief, Pentland was proverbial for 
 his sagacity and adroitness in detecting distillers, and httle 
 George was equally proverbial for having always baffled him, 
 and that, too, sometimes under circumstances where escape 
 seemed hopeless. 
 
 The incidents which we are about to detail occurred at that 
 period of time when the collective wisdom of our legislators 
 thought it advisable to impose a fine upon the whole townland 
 in wliich the Still, Head, and Worm, might be found ; thus 
 opening a door for knavery and fraud, and, as it proved 
 in most cases, rendering the innocent as liable to suffer for an 
 offence they never contemplated, as the guilty who planned 
 and perpetrated it. The consequence of such a law was, that 
 still-houses were always certain to be erected either at the 
 very verge of the neighbouring districts, or as near them as 
 the circumstances of convenience and situation would permit. 
 The moment of course that the hue-and-cry of the ganger and 
 his myrmidons was heard upon the wind, the whole apparatus 
 was immediately heaved over the merhig to the next townland, 
 from which the fine imposed by parhament was necessarily 
 raised, whilst the crafty and offending district actually escaped. 
 The state of society generated by such a blundering and 
 barbarous statute as this, was di-eadful. In the course of a 
 short time, reprisals, law-suits, battles, murders, and massacres, 
 multiplied to such an extent throughout the whole country, 
 tliat the sapient senators who occasioned such commotion 
 were compelled to repeal their own act as soon as they found 
 how it worked. Necessity, together with being the mother 
 of invention, is also the cause of many an accidental discovery. 
 
THE GAUGER OUTWITTED. 51 
 
 Pcntland had been so frequently defeated by little George, 
 that he vowed never to rest until he had secured him ; and 
 George on the other hand frequently told him — for they were 
 otherwise on the best terms — that he defied him, or as he 
 himself more quaintly expressed it, " that he defied the devil, 
 the world, and Bob Pentland." The latter, however, was a 
 very sore thorn in his side, and drove him from place to place, 
 and from one haunt to another, until he began to despair of 
 being able any longer to outwit him, or to find within the 
 parish any spot at all suitable for distillation with which 
 Pentland was not acquainted. In this state stood matters 
 between them, when George fortunately discovered at the hip 
 of Altnaveenan iiill the natural grotto we have just sketched 
 so briefly. Xow, George was a man, as we have abeady 
 hinted, of great fertihty of resom'ces ; but there existed in the 
 same parish another distiller who outstripped him in that 
 far-sighted cunning which is so necessary in misleading or 
 circumventing such a sharp-scented old hound as Pentland. 
 This was httle Mickey M'Quade, a short-necked squat httle 
 fellow with bow legs, who might be said rather to creep in his 
 motion than to walk. George and ^lickey were intimate 
 friends, independently of their joint antipathy against the 
 ganger, and, truth to tell, much of the mortification and many 
 of the defeats which Pentland experienced at George's hands, 
 were, sub rosa, to be attributed to Mickey. George was a 
 distiller from none of the motives which generally actuate others 
 of that class. He was in truth an analytic philosopher — a 
 natm'al chemist never out of some new experiment — and we 
 have reason to think might have been the Kane, or Faraday, or 
 Dalton, of his day, had he only received a scientific education. 
 Not so honest Mickev, who never troubled his head about an 
 experiment, but only thought of making a good running, and 
 defeating the ganger. The first thing of course that George 
 did, was to consult Mickey, and both accorcUngly took a walk 
 
52 BOB PENTLAND : OR, 
 
 up to the scene of their future operations. On examining it, 
 and fully perceiving its advantages, it might well be said that 
 the look of exultation and triumph which passed between them 
 was not unworthy of their respective characters. 
 
 " This will do," said George. Eh — don't you think we'll 
 put our finger in Pentland's eye yet ?" Mickey spat sagaci- 
 ously over his beard, and after a second glance gave one 
 grave grin which spoke volumes. " It '11 do," said he ; " but 
 there's one point to be got over that maybe you didn't think 
 of ; an' you know that half a bhnk, half a point, is enough for 
 Pentland." 
 
 ''What is it?" 
 
 " What do you intend to do with the smoke when the fire's 
 lit ? There'll be no keepin' that down. Let Pentland see but 
 as much smoke risin' as would come out of an ould woman's 
 dudeen, an' he'd have us." 
 
 George started, and it was clear by the vexation and dis- 
 appointment which were visible on his brow that unless this 
 untoward circumstance could be managed, their whole plan 
 was deranged, and the cave of no value. 
 
 " What's to be done ?" he inquired of his cooler companion. 
 " If we can't get over tliis, we may bid good bye to it." 
 
 " Never mind," said Mickey ; " I'll manage it, and do 
 Pentland still." *' Ay, but how ?" 
 
 " It's no matter. Let us not lose a minute in settin' to 
 work. Lave the other thing to me ; an' if I don't account for 
 the smoke without discoverin' the entrance to the stiU, I'll 
 give you lave to crop the ears off my head." 
 
 George knew the cool but steady self-confidence for which 
 Mickey was remarkable, and accordingly, without any further 
 interrogatory, they both proceeded to follow up their plan of 
 operations. 
 
 In those times when distillation might be truly considered 
 as almost universal, it was customary for farmers to build 
 
THE GAUGER OUTWITTED. 53 
 
 tlicir out-houscs with secret cliambers and other requisite 
 partitions necessary for carrying it on. Several of them had 
 private stores built between false walls, the entrance to which 
 was only known to a few, and many of them had what 
 were called Malt-steeps sunk in hidden recesses and hollow 
 gables, for the purpose of steeping the barley, and afterwards 
 of turning and airing it, until it was sufficiently hard to be 
 kiln-dried and ground. From the mill it was usually conveyed 
 to the still-house upon what were termed Slipes, a kind of car 
 that was made without wheels, in order the more easily to 
 pass thi'ough morasses and bogs which no wheeled vehicle 
 could encounter. 
 
 In the course of a month or so, George and Mickey, aided 
 by their friends, had all the apparatus of keeve, hogshead, &c., 
 together with Still, Head, and Worm, set up and in full work. 
 
 "And now Mickey," inquired liis companion, "how will you 
 manage about the smoke '? for you know that the two worst 
 informers against a private distiller, barrin' a stag, is a smoke 
 by day an' a fire by night." 
 
 " I know that," replied Mickey ; " an' a rousin' smoke we'll 
 have, for fraid a little puif wouldn't do us. Come, now, an' 
 I'll show you." 
 
 They both ascended to the top, where Mickey had closed 
 all the open fissures of the roof with the exception of that 
 which was directly over the fire of the still. This was at best 
 not more than six inches in breadth, and about twelve long. 
 Over it he placed a piece of strong plate-iron perforated with 
 holes, and on tliis he had a fire of turf, beside wliich sat a 
 httle boy who acted as a vidette. The thing was simple but 
 effective. Clamps of turf were at every side of them, and the 
 boy was instructed, if the ganger, whom he well knew, ever 
 appeared, to heap on fresh fuel, so as to increase the smoke in 
 such a manner as to induce him to suppose that all he saw of 
 it proceeded merely from the fire before him. In fact, the 
 
54 BOB PENTLAND ; OR, 
 
 smoke from the cave below was so completely identified with 
 and lost in that which was emitted from the fire above, that 
 no human being could penetrate the mystery, if not made 
 previously acquainted with it. The writer of tliis saw it during 
 the hottest process of distillation, and failed to make the dis- 
 covery, although told that the still-house was witliin a circle 
 of three hundi^ed yards, the point he stood on being considered 
 the centre. On more than one occasion has he absconded 
 from home, and spent a whole night in the place, seized with 
 that indescribable fascination which such a scene holds forth to 
 youngsters, as well as from liis irrepressible anxiety to hear the 
 old stories and legends with the recital of which they generally 
 pass the night. 
 
 In tliis way, well provided against the ganger — indeed much 
 better than our readers are yet aware of, as they shall under- 
 stand by and bye — did George, Mickey, and their friends, 
 proceed for the greater part of a winter without a single visit 
 from Pentland. Several successful runnings had come off, 
 which had of course turned out highly profitable, and they 
 were just now preparing to commence their last, not only for 
 the season, but the last they should ever work together, as 
 George was making preparations to go early in the spring to 
 America. Even this running was going on to their satisfaction, 
 and the singlings had been thrown again into the still, from the 
 worm of which projected the strong medicinal first-shot as the 
 doubling commenced — this last term meaning the spirit in its 
 pure and finished state. On this occasion the two worthies 
 were more than ordinarily anxious, and certainly doubled their 
 usual precautions against a surprise, for they knew that 
 Pentland's visits resembled the pounces of a hawk or the 
 springs of a tiger more than any thing else to which they could 
 compare them. In this they were not disappointed. When 
 the doubling was about half finished, he made his appearance, 
 attended by a strong party of reluctant soldiers — for indeed it 
 
THE GAUGER OUTWITTED. 55 
 
 is due to the military to state that they never took dchght in 
 harassing the country people at the command of a keg-hunter, 
 as they generally nicknamed the ganger. It had been ar- 
 ranged that the vidette at the iron plate should whistle a 
 particular tune the moment that the ganger or a red-coat, or 
 in fact any person whom he did not know, should appear. 
 Accordingly, about eight o'clock in the morning they heard 
 the httle fellow in his highest key whisthng up that well-known 
 and very significant old Irish air called " Go to the devil an' 
 shake yourself" — which in this case was apphed to the ganger 
 in any thing but an allegorical sense. 
 
 " Be the pins," which was George's usual oath, " be the pins, 
 Mickey, it's over with us — Pentland's here, for there's the sign." 
 
 Mickey paused for a moment and hstened very gravely ; 
 then squirting out a tobacco spittle, "Take it aisy," said 
 he ; " I have half a dozen fires about the liills, any one as hke 
 this as your right hand is to your left. I didn't spare trouble, 
 for I knew that if we'd get over this day, we'd be out of liis 
 power." 
 
 " Well, my good lad," said Pentland, addressing the vidette, 
 "what's this fire for?" 
 
 " What is it for, is it?" 
 
 " Yes ; if you don't let me know instantly, I'll blow your 
 brams out, and get you hanged and transported afterwards." 
 This he said with a thundering voice, cockmg a large horse 
 pistol at the same time. 
 
 "Why, sir," said the boy, "it's watchin' a still I am; but 
 be the hole o' my coat if you tell upon me, it's broilm' upon 
 these coals I'll be soon." 
 
 " Where is the still, then? An' the still-house, where is it?" 
 
 " Oh, begorra, as to where the still or still-house is, they 
 wouldn't teU me that." 
 
 " Why, sirra, didn't you say this moment you were watching 
 a still?" 
 
5G BOB PENTLAND ; OR, 
 
 '' I meant, sir," replied the lad, with a face that spoke of 
 pure idiocy, ''that it was the gauger I was watchin', an' I 
 was to wliistle upon my fingers to let the boy at that fire on 
 the hill there above know that he was comin'." 
 
 " Who told you to do so ?" 
 
 " Little George, sir, an' Mickey M'Quade." 
 
 " Ay, ay, right enough there, my lad — two of the most 
 notorious schemers unhanged they are both. But now, hke a 
 good boy, tell me the truth, an' I'll give you the price of a 
 pair of shoes. Do you know where the still or still-house is ? 
 Because if you do, an' won't tell me, here are the soldiers at 
 hand to make a prisoner of you ; an' if they do, all the world 
 can't prevent you from being hanged, drawn, and quartered." 
 
 " Oh, bad cess may seize the morsel o' me knows that ; but 
 if you'll give me the money, sir, I'll tell you who can bring 
 you to it, for he tould me yestherday mornin' that he knew, 
 an' offered to bring me there last night, if I'd steal him a bottle 
 that my mother keeps the holy water in at home, tal he'd put 
 whiskey in it." 
 
 " Well, my lad, who is this boy ?" 
 
 "Do you know ' Harry Neil, or Mankind,' * sir ?" 
 
 " I do, my good boy." 
 
 " Well, it's a son of his, sir ; an' look, sir : do you see the 
 smoke farthest up to the right, sir ?" 
 
 " To the right ? Yes," 
 
 " Well, 'tis there, sir, that Darby Neil is watchin' ; and he 
 says he knows." 
 
 " How long have you been watching here ?" 
 
 " This is only the third day, sir, for me ; but the rest, them 
 boys above, has been here a good while." 
 
 " Have you seen nobody stirring about the hills since you 
 came ?" 
 
 * This was a nickname given to Harry, wlio was a cooper, and niadc 
 the necessary vessels for distillers. 
 
THE GAUGER OUTWITTED. 57 
 
 " Only once, sir, yesthcrday, I seen two men, bavin' an 
 empty sack or two, runnin' across the hill there above." 
 
 At this moment the mihtary came up, for he had himself run 
 forward in advance of them, and be repeated the substance of 
 his conversation with our friend the vidette. Upon examining 
 the stolicUty of bis countenance, in which there certainly was 
 a woful deficiency of meaning, they agreed among themselves 
 that bis appearance justified the truth of the story which he 
 told the ganger, and upon being still further interrogated, 
 they were confirmed that none but a stupid lout like himself 
 would entrust to his keeping any secret worth knowing. 
 They now separated themselves into as many detached parties 
 as there were fires burning on the hills about them, the ganger 
 himself resolving to make for that wliich Darby Neil had in 
 his keeping, for he could not help thinking that the vidette's 
 story was too natural to be false. They were just in the act 
 of separating themselves to pursue their different routes, when 
 the lad said, 
 
 " Look, sir ! look, sir ! bad scran be from me but there's a 
 still any way. Sure I often seen a still : that's just like the 
 one that Philip Hogan the tinker mended in George Steen's 
 barn." 
 
 " Hollo, boys," exclaimed Pentland, " stoop ! stoop ! they 
 are coming this way, and don't see us : no, hang them, no ! 
 they have discovered us now, and are off towards Mossfield. 
 By Jove this will be a bitter trick if they succeed ; confound 
 them, they are bent for Ballagh, which is my own property ; 
 and may I be hanged but if we do not intercept them it is I 
 myself who will have to pay the fine." 
 
 The pursuit instantly commenced with a speed and vigour 
 equal to the ingenuity of this singular act of retaUation on the 
 ganger. Pentland himself being long-winded from much 
 practice in this way, and being further stimulated by the 
 prospective loss which he dreaded, made as beautiful a run of 
 
58 BOB PENTLAND ; OR, 
 
 it as any man of his years could do. It was all in vain, 
 however. He merely got far enough to see the Still, Head, 
 and Worm, heaved across the march ditch into his own 
 property, and to reflect after seeing it that he was certain to 
 have the double consolation of being made a standing joke of 
 for life, and of paying heavily for the jest out of his own 
 pocket. In the mean time, he was bound of course to seize 
 the still, and report the caption ; and as he himself farmed 
 the townland in question, the fine was levied to the last 
 shilling, upon the very natural principle that if he had been 
 sufficiently active and vigilant, no man would have attempted 
 to set up a still so convenient to his own residence and 
 property. 
 
 Tliis manoeuvre of keeping in reserve an old or second set 
 of apparatus, for the purpose of acting the lapwing and mis- 
 leading the ganger, was afterwards often practised with 
 success ; but the first discoverer of it was undoubtedly Mickey 
 M'Quade, although the honour of the discovery is attributed 
 to his friend George Steen. The matter, however, did not 
 actually end here, for in a few days afterwards some mahcious 
 wag — in other words, George himself — had correct information 
 sent to Pentland touching the locaHty of the cavern and the 
 secret of its entrance. On this occasion the latter brought 
 a larger mihtary party than usual along with him, but it was 
 only to make him feel that he stood in a position if possible 
 still more ridiculous than the first. He found indeed the 
 marks of recent distillation in the place, but nothing else. 
 Every vessel and implement connected with the process had 
 been removed, with the exception of one bottle of whiskey, 
 to which was attached by a bit of twine the following friendly 
 note : — 
 
 "Mr. Pentland, Sir — Take this bottle home and drink 
 your own health. You can't do less. It was distilled wider 
 your nose, the first day you came to look for us, and bottled 
 
THE GAUGER OUTWITTED. 59 
 
 fur you whilo you were speaking to the little boy that made 
 a hare of you. Being distilled then under your nose, let it be 
 drunk in the same place, and don't forget while doing so to 
 drink the health of G. S." 
 
 The incident went abroad like wildfire, and was known 
 everywhere. Indeed for a long time it was the standing 
 topic of the parish ; and so sharply was it felt by Pentland 
 that he could never keep his temper if asked, " Mr. Pentland, 
 when did you see Httle George Steen ?" — a question to which 
 he was never known to give a civil reply. 
 
IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 THE FATE OF FRANK M'KENNA. 
 
 We have met and conversed with the various classes that 
 
 compose general society, and we feel ourselves bound to say : 
 
 that'in no instance have we ever met any individual, no matter ' 
 
 what his class or rank in life, who was reaUy indifferent to the ; 
 
 subject of dreams, fairies, and apparitions. They are topics i 
 
 that interest the imagination in all; and the hoary head of age | 
 
 is inchned with as much interest to a ghost-story, as the ; 
 
 young and eager ear of youth, wrought up by all the nimble : 
 
 and apprehensive powers of early fancy. It is true the behef 
 
 in ghosts is fast disappearing, and that in fairies is already | 
 
 almost gone ; but with what new wonders they shall be replaced, j 
 
 ... . 1 
 
 it is difficult to say. The physical and natural we suppose j 
 
 will give us enough of the marvellous, without having recourse \ 
 
 to the spiritual and supernatural. Steam and gas, if Science j 
 
 advance for another half century at the same rate as she has j 
 
 done in the last, will give sufficient exercise to all our faculties ! 
 
 for wondering. We know a man who travelled eighty miles \ 
 
 to see whether or not it was a fact that light could be conveyed I 
 
 for miles in a pipe under ground ; and this man to our own 
 
 knowledge possessed the organ of marvcllousness to a surprising j 
 
 degree. It is singular, too, that his fear of ghosts was in f 
 
 proportion to tliis capacious propensity to wonder, as was his 
 
 disposition when snug in a chimney-corner to talk incessantly ' 
 
 of such topics as were calculated to excite it. i 
 
 In our opinion, ghosts and fairies will be seen wherever ' 
 
 they arc much talked of, and a behef in their existence 
 
 k 
 
THE FATE OF FRANK M'KEXNA. 61 
 
 cultivated and nourislicd. So long as the powers of the 
 imagination are kept warm and active by exercise, they will 
 create for themselves such imaojes as thev are in the habit of 
 conceiving or dwelling upon ; and these, when the individual 
 happens to be in the appropriate position, will, even by the 
 mere force of association, engender the particular Eidolon which 
 is predominant m the mind. As an illustration of this I shall 
 mention two cases of apparition wliich occurred in my native 
 parish, one of which was that of a ghost, and the other of the 
 fairies. To those who have read my " Traits and Stories of the 
 Irish Peasantry," the first wliich I shall narrate may possess 
 some interest, as being that upon which I founded the tale of 
 the " Midnight Mass." The circumstances are simply these : — 
 There hved a man named M'Kenna at the liip of one of the 
 mountainous hills which divide the county of Tyrone from 
 that of Monaghan. Tliis M'Kenna had two sons, one of whom 
 was in the habit of tracing hares of a Sunday, whenever there 
 happened to be a fall of snow. His father it seems had 
 frequently remonstrated with him upon what he considered to 
 be a violation of the Lord's day, as well as for his general 
 neglect of mass. The young man, however, though otherwise 
 harmless and inoffensive, was in this matter quite insensible to 
 paternal reproof, and continued to trace whenever the avo- 
 cations of labour would allow liim. It so happened that upon 
 a Christmas morning, I think in the year 1814, there was a 
 deep fall of snow, and young M-'Kenna, instead of going to 
 mass, got down his cock-stick — which is a staff much tliicker 
 and heavier at one end than at the other — and prepared to set 
 out on his favourite amusement. His father, seeing this, 
 reproved liim seriously, and insisted that he should attend 
 prayers. His enthusiasm for the sport, however, was stronger 
 than his love of religion, and he refused to be guided by liis 
 father's advice. The old man during the altercation got warm ; 
 and on finding that the son obstinately scorned his authority, 
 
62 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 he knelt down and prayed that if the boy persisted m following 
 his own will, he might never retmm from the mountains unless 
 as a corpse. The imprecation, which was certainly as harsh 
 as it was impious and senseless, might have startled many a 
 mind from a purpose that was, to say the least of it, at variance 
 with religion and the respect due to a father. It had no 
 effect, however, upon the son, who is said to have replied, that 
 whether he ever returned or not, he was determined on going ; 
 and go accordingly he did. He was not, however, alone, for 
 it appears that three or four of the neighbouring young men 
 accompanied liim. Whether their sport was good or otherwise, 
 is not to the purpose, neither am I able to say ; but the story 
 goes that towards the latter part of the day they started a 
 larger and darker hare than any they had ever seen, and that 
 she kept dodging on before them bit by bit, leading them to 
 suppose that every succeeding cast of the cock-stick would 
 bring her down. It was observed afterwards that she also led 
 them into the recesses of the mountains, and that although 
 they tried to turn her course homewards, they could not 
 succeed in doing so. As evening advanced, the companions of 
 M'Kenna began to feel the folly of pursuing her farther, and 
 to perceive the danger of losing their way in the mountains 
 should night or a snow-storm come upon them. They there- 
 fore proposed to give over the chase and return home ; but 
 M'Kenna would not hear of it. " If you wish to go home, 
 you may," said he ; " as for me, I'll never leave the hills till 
 I have her with me." They begged and entreated of him to 
 desist and return, but all to no purpose : he appeared to be 
 what the Scotch call fey — that is, to act as if he were moved 
 by some impulse that leads to death, and from the influence of 
 which a man cannot withdraw himself. At length, on finding 
 him invincibly obstinate, they left him pursuing the hare 
 (hrcctly into the heart of the mountains, and returned to their 
 respective liomos. 
 
THE FATE OF FRANK M'KENNA. G3 
 
 In the meantime, one of the most terrible snow-storms ever 
 remembered in that part of the country came on, and the 
 consequence was, that the self-willed young man, who had 
 equally trampled on the sanctions of rehgion and parental 
 authority, was given over for lost. As soon as the tempest 
 became still, the neighbours assembled in a body and proceeded 
 to look for him. The snow, however, had fallen so heavily 
 that not a single mark of a footstep could be seen. Nothing 
 but one wide waste of white undulating hills met the eye 
 wherever it turned, and of M'Kenna no trace whatever was 
 visible or could be found. His father now remembering the 
 unnatural character of his imprecation, was nearly distracted ; 
 for although the body had not yet been found, still by every 
 one who witnessed the sudden rage of the storm and who knew 
 the mountains, escape or survival was felt to be impossible. 
 Every day for about a week large parties were out among the 
 hill-ranges seeking him, but to no purpose. At length there 
 came a thaw, and his body was found on a snow-wreath, lying 
 in a supine posture within a circle which he had drawn around 
 him with his cock-stick. His prayer-book lay opened upon 
 his mouth, and his hat was pulled down so as to cover it and 
 his face. It is unnecessary to say that the rumour of his death, 
 and of the circumstances under which he left home, created a 
 most extraordinary sensation in the country — a sensation that 
 was the greater in proportion to the uncertainty occasioned 
 by his not having been found either ahve or dead. Some 
 affirmed that he had crossed the mountains, and was seen in 
 Monaghan; others, that he had been seen in Clones, in Emyvale, 
 in Fivemiletown ; but despite of all these agreeable reports, 
 the melancholy truth was at length made clear by the appear- 
 ance of the body as just stated. 
 
 Now, it so happened that the house nearest the spot where 
 he lay was inhabited by a man named Daly, I think — but of 
 the name I am not certain — who was a herd or care-taker to 
 
64 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 Dr. Porter, then Bishop of Cloghcr. The situation of this 
 house was the most lonclj and desolate-looking that could be 
 imagined. It was at least two miles distant from any human 
 habitation, being surrounded by one wide and dreary waste of 
 dark moor. By tliis house lay the route of those who had 
 found the corpse, and I believe the door of it was borrowed for 
 the purpose of conveying it home. Be this as it may, the 
 family witnessed the melancholy procession as it passed slowly 
 through the mountains, and when the place and circumstances 
 are all considered, we may admit that to ignorant and su- 
 perstitious people, whose minds even upon ordinary occasions 
 were strongly affected by such matters, it was a sight calculated 
 to leave behind it a deep, if not a terrible impression. Time 
 soon proved that it did so. 
 
 An incident is said to have occurred at the funeral which I 
 have alluded to in the " Midnight Mass," and which is certainly 
 in fine keeping with the wild spirit of the whole melancholy 
 event. When the procession had advanced to a place called 
 MuUaghtinny, a large dark-coloured hare, which was instantly 
 recognised, by those who had been out with him on the hills, 
 as the identical one that led liim to his fate, is said to have 
 crossed the road about twenty yards or so before the coffin. 
 The story goes, that a man struck it on the side with a stone, 
 and that the blow, wliich would have killed any ordinary hare, 
 not only did it no injury, but occasioned a sound to proceed 
 from the body resembling the hollow one emitted by an 
 empty barrel when struck. 
 
 In the meantime the interment took place, and the sensation 
 began like every other to die away in the natural progress of 
 time, when, behold, a report ran abroad like wildfire that, to 
 use the language of the people, "Frank M'Kenna was ap- 
 pearing /" Seldom indeed was the rumour of an apparition 
 composed of materials so strongly calculated to win popular 
 assent, or to baftle rational investigation. As every man is not 
 
THE FATE OF FRANK M^KENNA. 6t) 
 
 a Hibbert, or a Nicolai, so will many, until such circumstances 
 arc made properly intelligible, continue to yield credence to 
 testimony which would convince the judgment on any other 
 subject. The case in question furnished as fine a spe- 
 cimen of a true ghost-story, freed from any suspicion of 
 imposture or design, as could be submitted to a philosopher ; 
 and yet, notwithstanding the array of apparent facts con- 
 nected with it, nothing in the world is simpler or of easier 
 solution. 
 
 One night, about a fortnight after his funeral, the daughter 
 of Daly, the herd, a girl about fourteen, while lying in bed 
 saw what appeared to be the likeness of M'Kenna, who had 
 been lost. She screamed out, and covering her head with the 
 bed-clothes, told her father and mother that Frank M'Kenna 
 was in the house. This alarming intelligence naturally pro- 
 duced great terror ; still, Daly, who notwithstanding his belief 
 in such matters possessed a good deal of moral courage, was 
 cool enough to rise and examine the house, which consisted 
 of only one apartment. This gave the daughter some courage, 
 who, on finding that her father could not see him, ventured 
 to look out, and she then could see nothing of him herself. 
 She very soon fell asleep, and her father attributed what she 
 saw to fear, or some accidental combination of shadows pro- 
 ceeding from the furniture, for it was a clear moon-hght night. 
 The hght of the following day dispelled a great deal of their 
 apprehensions, and comparatively little was thought of it until 
 evening again advanced, when the fears of the daughter began 
 to return. They appeai'ed to be prophetic, for she said when 
 night came that she knew he would appear again ; and ac^ 
 cordingly at the same hour he did so. This was repeated for 
 several successive nights, until the girl, from the very hardihood 
 of terror, began to become so far famiharised to the spectre as 
 to venture to address it. 
 
 '' In the name of God !" she asked, '' what is troubling you, 
 
 F 
 
66 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 or why do you appear to me instead of to some of your own 
 family or relations?" 
 
 The ghost's answer alone might settle the question involved 
 in the authenticity of its appearance, being, as it was, an 
 account of one of the most ludicrous missions that ever a spu-it 
 was desj^atched upon. 
 
 " I'm not allowed," said he, ^' to spake to any of my friends, 
 for I parted wid them in anger ; but I'm come to tell you that 
 they are quarrelUn' about my breeches — a new pair that I got 
 made for Christmas day ; an' as I was comin' up to thrace in 
 the mountains, I thought the ould ones 'ud do betther, an' of 
 coorse I didn't put the new pair an me. My raison for ap- 
 pearin'," he added, " is, that you may tell my friends that none 
 of them is to wear them — they must be given in charity." 
 
 This serious and solemn intimation from the ghost was duly 
 communicated to the family, and it was found that the cir- 
 cumstances were exactly as it had represented them. This of 
 course was considered as sufficient proof of the truth of its 
 mission. Their conversations now became not only frequent, 
 but quite friendly and famihar. The girl became a favourite 
 with the spectre, and the spectre on the other hand soon lost 
 all his terrors in her eyes. He told her that whilst his friends 
 were bearing home his body, the handspikes or poles on which 
 they carried him had cut his back, and occasioned him great 
 pain ! The cutting of the back also was known to be true, 
 and strengthened of course the truth and authenticity of their 
 dialogues. The whole neighbourhood was now in a commotion 
 with this story of the apparition, and persons incited by 
 curiosity began to visit the girl in order to satisfy themselves 
 of the truth of what they had heard. Every thing, however, 
 was corroborated, and the child herself, without any symptoms 
 of anxiety or terror, artlessly related her conversations with 
 the spirit. Hitherto tlieir interviews had been all nocturnal, 
 but now that the ghost found his footing made good, he put a 
 
 
THE FATE OF FRANK M'KENNA. G7 
 
 hardy face on, and ventured to appear by day-light. The girl 
 also fell into states of syncope, and while the fits lasted, long 
 conversations with him upon the subject of God, the blessed 
 Virgin, and Heaven, took place between them. He was 
 certainly an excellent moralist, and gave the best advice. 
 Swearing, drunkenness, theft, and every evil propensity of 
 our nature, were declaimed against with a degree of spectral 
 eloquence quite surprising. Common fame had now a topic 
 dear to her heart, and never was a ghost made more of by his 
 best friends, than she made of him. The whole country was 
 in a tumult, and I well remember the crowds which flocked 
 to the lonely httle cabin in the mountains, now the scene of 
 matters so interesting and important. Not a single day passed 
 in which I should think from ten to twenty, thirty, or fifty 
 persons, were not present at these singular interviews. Nothing 
 else was talked of, thought of, and, as I can well testify, 
 dreamt of. I would myself have gone to Daly's were it not 
 for a confounded misgiving I had, that perhaps the ghost might 
 take such a fancy of appearing to me, as he had taken to 
 cultivate an intimacy with the girl; and it so happens, that 
 when I see the face of an individual nailed dow^n in the coffin — 
 chilluig and gloomy operation ! — I experience no particular 
 wish to look upon it again. 
 
 Many persons might imagine that the herd's daughter was 
 acting the part of an impostor, by first orginating and then 
 sustaining such a delusion. If any one, however, was an 
 impostor, it was the ghost, and not the girl, as her ill health 
 and wasted cheek might well testify. The appearance of 
 M'Kenna continued to haunt her for months. The reader is 
 aware that he was lost on Christmas day, or rather on the 
 night of it, and I remember seeing her in the early part of the 
 following summer, during which time she was still the victim 
 of a diseased imagination. Every thing in fact that could be 
 done for her was done. They brought her to a priest named 
 
68 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 Donnelly, who lived down at Ballynasaggart, for the purpose 
 of getting her cured, as he had the reputation of performing 
 cures of that kind. They brought her also to the doctors, who 
 also did what they could for her ; but all to no purpose. Her 
 fits were longer and of more frequent occurrence ; her appetite 
 left her ; and ere four months had elapsed, she herself looked 
 as like a spectre as the ghost himself could do for the life 
 of him. 
 
 Now, this was a pure case of spectral illusion, and precisely 
 similar to that detailed so philosophically by Nicolai the 
 German bookseller, and to others mentioned by Hibbert. 
 The image of M'Kenna not only appeared to her in day-hght 
 at her own house, but subsequently followed her wherever she 
 went ; and what proved this to have been the result of dis- 
 eased organization, produced at first by a heated and excited 
 imagination, was, that, as the story went, she could see him 
 with her eyes shut. Whilst this state of mental and physical 
 feehng lasted, she was a subject of the most intense curiosity. 
 No matter where she went, whether to chapel, to fair, or to 
 market, she was followed by crowds, every one feeling eager 
 to get a glimpse of the girl who had actually seen, and what 
 was more, spoken to a ghost — a Hve ghost. 
 
 Now, here was a young girl of an excitable temperament, 
 and large imagination, leading an almost solitary life amidst 
 scenery of a lonely and desolate character, who happening to 
 be strongly impressed with an image of horror — for surely 
 such was the body of a dead man seen in association with such 
 pecuharly frightful circumstances as filial disobedience and a 
 father's curse were calculated to give it — cannot shake it off, 
 but on the contrary becomes a victim to the disease which it 
 generates. There is not an image which we see in a fever, or 
 a face whether of angel or devil, or an uncouth shape of any 
 Ivind, that is not occasioned by cerebral excitement, or de- 
 rangement of the nervous system, analogous to that under 
 
THE FATE OF FRANK M'KENNA. CO 
 
 ^vliicli Daly's daughter laboured. I saw her several times, aud 
 remember clearly that her pale face, dark eye, and very intellec- 
 tual forehead, gave indications of such a temperament as under 
 her circumstances would be apt to receive strong and fearful 
 impressions from images calculated to excite terror, especially 
 of the supernatural. It only now remains for me to mention 
 the simple method of her cure, which was effected without 
 either priest or doctor. It depended upon a word or two of 
 advice given to her father by a very sensible man, who was in 
 the habit of thinkins; on these matters somewhat above the 
 superstitious absurdities of the people. 
 
 " If you wish your daughter to be cured," said he to her 
 father, " leave the house you are now hving in. Take her to 
 some part of the country where she can have companions of 
 her own class and state of Hfe to mingle with ; bring her away 
 from the place altogether ; for you may rest assured that so 
 long as there are objects before her eyes to remind her of what 
 happened, she will not mend on your hands." 
 
 The father, although he sat rent free, took this excellent 
 advice, even at a sacrifice of some comfort : for nothing short 
 of the temptation of easy circumstances could have induced 
 any man to reside in so wild and remote a sohtude. In the 
 course of a few days he removed from it with his family, and 
 came to reside amidst the cheerful aspect and enlivening 
 intercourse of human life. The consequences were precisely 
 as the man had told him. In the course of a few weeks the 
 httle girl began to find that the visits of the spectre were like 
 those of angels, few and far between. She was sent to school, 
 and what with the confidence derived from human society, and 
 the substitution of new objects and images, she soon perfectly 
 recovered, and ere long was thoroughly set free from the 
 fearful creation of her own brain. 
 
 Now, there is scarcely one of the people in my native parish 
 who does not believe that the spunt of this man came back to 
 
70 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 the world, and actually aiDpeared to this little girl. The time, 
 however, is fast coming when these empty bugbears will al- 
 together disappear, and we shall entertain more reverend and 
 becoming notions of God, than to suppose such senseless pranlvs 
 could be played by the soul of a departed being under liis 
 permission. We might as well assert that the imaginary beings 
 which surround the couch of the madman or hypochondi^iac 
 have a real existence, as those that are conjured up by terror, 
 weak nerves, or impure blood. 
 
 The spot where the body of M'Kenna was found is now 
 marked by a Httle heap of stones, which has been collected 
 since the melancholy event of his death. Every person who 
 passes it throws a stone upon the heap ; but why this old 
 custom is practised, or what it means, I do not know, unless it 
 be simply to mark the spot as a visible means of preserving 
 the memory of the occurrence. 
 
 Daly's house, the scene of the supposed apparition, is now a 
 shapeless ruin, which could scarcely be seen were it not for the 
 green spot that was once a garden, and which now sliines at a 
 distance Uke an emerald, but with no agreeable or pleasing 
 associations. It is a spot which no solitary school-boy will ever 
 visit, nor indeed would the unflinching believer in the popular 
 nonsense of ghosts wish to pass it Avithout a companion. It is 
 under any circumstances a gloomy and barren place, but when 
 looked upon in connexion with what we have just recited, it is 
 lonely, desolate, and awful. 
 
 THE RIVAL KEMPERS. 
 
 In the preceding paper we have given an authentic account of 
 what the country follcs, and we ourselves at the time, looked 
 upon as a genuine instance of apparition. Tt appeared to the 
 
THE RIVAL KEMPERS. 71 
 
 simple-minded to be a clear and distinct case, exhibiting all 
 those minute and subordinate details which, by an arrangement 
 naturally happy, and without concert, go to the formation of 
 truth. There was, however, but one drawback in the matter, 
 and that was the ludicrous and inadequate nature of the moral 
 motive ; for what unsteady and derogatory notions of Provi- 
 dence must we not entertain when we see the order and pur- 
 pose of his divine will so completely degraded and travestied, 
 by the fact of a human soul returning to tliis earth again, 
 for the ridiculous object of settling the claim to a pair of 
 breeches ? 
 
 When we see the succession to crowns and kingdoms, and 
 the inheritance to large territorial property and great personal 
 rank, all left so completely undecided that ruin and desolation 
 have come upon nations and families in attempting their ad- 
 justment, and when we see a laughable dispute about a pair of 
 breeches settled by a personal revelation from another life, we 
 cannot help asking why the supernatural intimation was per- 
 mitted in the one case, and not in the other, especially when 
 their relative importance differed so essentially ? To follow up 
 this question, however, by insisting upon a principle so absurd, 
 would place Providence in a position so perfectly unreasonable 
 and capricious, that we do not wish to press the inference so 
 far as admission of divine interference in such a manner would 
 justify us in doing. 
 
 Having detailed the case of Daly's daughter, however, we 
 take our leave of the girl and the ghost, and turn now to 
 another case, which came under our own observation, in con- 
 nexion with a man named Frank Martin and the fairies. Be- 
 fore commencing, however, we shall, by way of introduction, 
 endeavour to give our readers a few short particulars as to 
 fairies, their origin, character, and conduct. And as we 
 happen to be on this subject, we cannot avoid regretting that 
 we have not by us copies of two most valuable works upon it. 
 
 \ 
 
72 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 from the pen of our learned and admirable countryman, 
 Thomas Keightly. We allude to his Fairy Mythology and 
 his History of the Transmission of Popular Fictions ; two 
 works which cannot be perused without delight at the happy 
 manner in which so much learning and amusement, so much 
 sohd information, and all that is agreeable in extensive re- 
 search, are inimitably combined. 
 
 With the etymology of the word Fairy we do not intend in 
 a sketch like this to puzzle our readers. It is with the tradi- 
 tion connected with the thing we have to do, and not with a 
 variety of learned speculations, which appear, after all, to be 
 yet unsettled. The general opinion, at least in Ireland, is, 
 that during the war of Lucifer in heaven, the angels were 
 divided into three classes. The first class consisted of those 
 faithful spirits who at once, and without hesitation, adhered to 
 the standard of the Omnipotent ; the next consisted of those 
 who openly rebelled, and followed the great apostate, sharing 
 eternal perdition along with him ; the third and last consisted 
 of those who, during the mighty clash and uproar of the con- 
 tending hosts, stood timidly aloof, and refused to join either 
 power. These, says the tradition, were hurled out of heaven, 
 some upon earth, and some into the waters of the earth, where 
 they are to remain, ignorant of their fate, until the day of 
 judgment. They know their own power, however, and it is 
 said that notliing but their hopes of salvation prevent them 
 from at once annihilating the whole human race. Such is the 
 broad basis of the general superstition ; but our traditional 
 history and conception of the popular fairy falls far short of 
 the historical dignity associated with its origin. The fairy of 
 the people is a diminutive creature, generally di^essed in green, 
 irritable, capricious, and quite unsteady in all its principles and 
 dealings with mankind. Sometimes it exliibits singular proofs 
 of ingenuity, but, on the contrary, is frequently over-reached 
 by mere mortal capacity. It is impossible to say, in deahng 
 
THE RIVAL KEMPERS. 73 
 
 with it, whether its conduct will be found benevolent or other- 
 wise, for it often has happened that its threats of injury have 
 ended in kindness, and its promises of protection terminated 
 in maUce and treachery. What is very remarkable, too, is, 
 that it by no means appears to be a mere spirit, but a being 
 with passions, appetites, and otner natural wants like ourselves. 
 Indeed, the society or community of fairies appears to be less 
 self-dependent than ours, inasmuch as there are several offices 
 among them which they not only cannot perform, but which 
 render it necessary that we should be stolen and domiciled with 
 them, for the express purpose of performing for them. Like 
 us they are married and given in marriage, and rear famihes ; 
 but whether their offspring are subject to death, is a matter 
 not exactly the clearest. Some traditions affirm that they 
 are, and others that they are as immortal as the angels, al- 
 though possessing material bodies analogous to our own. The 
 fairy, in fact, is supposed to be a singular mixture of good 
 and evil, not very moral in its actions or objects, often very 
 tliievish, and sometimes benevolent, when kindness is least 
 expected from it. It is generally supposed by the people that 
 this singular class of fictitious creatures enjoy, as a kind of 
 right, the richest and best of all the fruits of the earth, and 
 that the top grain of wheat, oats, &c., and the ripest apple, 
 pear, &c., all belong to them, and are taken as their own ex- 
 clusive property. 
 
 They have also other acknowledged rights which they never 
 suffer to be violated with impunity. For instance, wherever 
 a meal is eaten upon the grass in the open field, and the crumbs 
 are not shaken down upon the spot for their use, there they 
 are sure to leave one of their curses, called the fair gurtha, or 
 the hungry-grass ; for whoever passes over that particular spot 
 for ever afterwards is Hable to be struck down with weakness 
 and hunger ; and unless he can taste a morsel of bread he 
 neither will nor can recover. The weakness in this instance. 
 
74 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 however, is not natural, for if the person affected but tastes 
 as much meal or flour as would lie on the point of a penknife, 
 he will instantaneously break the spell of the fairies, and 
 recover his former strength. Such spots are said to be ge- 
 nerally known by their superior verdure ; they are always 
 round, and the diameter of these httle circles is seldom more 
 than a single step. The grass which grows upon them is called, 
 as we have said, hungry-grass, and is accounted for as we have 
 already stated. Indeed, the walks and haunts of the fairies 
 are to be considered as very sacred and inviolable. For in- 
 stance, it is dangerous to throw out dirty water after dusk, or 
 before sunrise, lest in doing so you bespatter them, on their 
 passage : for these httle gentry are peculiarly fond of cleanh- 
 ness and neatness, both in dress and person. Bishop Andrews' 
 Lamentation for the Fairies gives as humourous and correct a 
 notion of their personal habits in this way, and their disposi- 
 tion to reward cleanliness in servants, as could be wi^itten. 
 
 We shall ourselves relate a short anecdote or two toucliing 
 them, before we come to Frank Martin's case ; premising to 
 our readers that we could if we wished fill a volume — ay, three 
 of them — with anecdotes and legends connected with our irri- 
 table but good-humoured little friends. 
 
 Paddy Corcoran's wife was for several years afflicted with a 
 kind of complaint which nobody could properly understand. 
 She was sick, and she was not sick : she was well and she was 
 not well ; she was as ladies wish to be who love their lords, and 
 she was not as such ladies wish to be. In fact, nobody could 
 tell what the matter with her was. She had a gnawing at 
 the heart which came heavily upon her husband; for, with 
 the help of God, a keener appetite than the same gnawing 
 amounted to, could not be met with of a summer's day. The 
 poor woman was dchcate beyond behef, and had no appetite 
 at all, so she hadn't, barring a little relish for a mutton-chop, 
 or a " staik," or a bit o' mait, anyway ; for sure, God help 
 
THE RIVAL KEMPERS. 75 
 
 her ! she hadii't the laist inclination for the dhry pratic, or the 
 dhrop o' sour butthermilk along wid it, especially as she was 
 so poorly : and, indeed, for a woman in her condition — for, 
 sick as she was, poor Paddy always was made to believe her in 
 that condition — but God's will be done ! she didn't care. A 
 pratie an' a grain o' salt was as welcome to her — glory be to 
 his name ! — as the best roast an' boiled that ever was dressed ; 
 an' why not ? There was one comfort : she wouldn't be long 
 wid him — long throubhn' him; it matthered little what she got; 
 but sure she knew herself, that from the gnawin' at her heart, 
 she could never do good widout the little bit o' mait now and 
 then ; an', sure, if her own husband begridged it to her, who 
 else had she a betther right to expect it from ? 
 
 Well, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invahd for long 
 enough, trying doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes, and 
 sizes, and all without a fartliing's benefit, until at the long run 
 poor Paddy was nearly brought to the last pass, in striving to 
 keep her in "the bit o' mait." The seventh year was now on 
 the point of closing, when one harvest day, as she lay be- 
 moaning her hard condition, on her bed beyond the kitchen 
 fire, a httle weeshy woman, di^essed in a neat red cloak, comes 
 in, and sitting down by the hearth, says : 
 
 " Well, Ejtty Corcoran, you've had a long lair of it there on 
 the broad o' yer back for seven years, an' you're jist as far 
 from bein' cured as ever." 
 
 " Mavrone, ay," said the other ; '' in tliroth that's what I 
 was this minnit tliinkin' ov, and a sorrowful thought it is to me." 
 
 '' It's yer own fau't, thin," says the httle woman;" an' mdeed, 
 for that matter, it's yer fau't that ever you wor there at all." 
 
 " Arra, how is that ?" asked Kitty ; " sure I wouldn't be 
 here, if I could help it ? Do you tliuik it's a comfort or a 
 pleasure to me to be sick and bedridden ?" 
 
 " No," said the other, " I do not; but I'll tell you the truth: 
 for the last seven years you have been annoyin' us. I am one 
 
76 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 o' the good people ; an' as I have a regard for you, I'm come 
 to let you know the raison why you've been sick so long as 
 you are. For all the time you've been ill, if you'll take the 
 thrubble to remimber, your childlire threwn out yer dirty 
 wather afther dusk an' before sunrise, at the very time we're 
 passin' yer door, which we pass twice a day. Now, if you 
 avoid this, if you throw it out in a different place, an' at a 
 different time, the complaint you have will lave you : so will 
 the gnawin' at the heart ; an' you'll be as well as ever you 
 wor. If you don't follow this advice, why, remain as you are, 
 an' all the art o' man can't cure you." She then bade her 
 good-bye, and disappeared. 
 
 Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, imme- 
 diately compUed with the injunction of the fairy ; and the 
 consequence was, that the next day she found herself in as 
 good health as ever she enjoyed during her hfe. 
 
 Lanty M'Clusky had married a wife, and, of course, it was 
 necessary to have a house in which to keep her. Now, Lanty 
 had taken a bit of a farm, about six acres ; but as there was 
 no house on it, he resolved to build one ; and that it might be 
 as comfortable as possible, he selected for the site of it one of 
 those beautiful green circles that are supposed to be the play- 
 ground of the fairies. Lanty was warned against this ; but 
 as he was a headstrong man, and not much given to fear, he 
 said he would not change such a pleasant situation for his 
 house, to oblige all the fairies in Europe. He accordingly 
 proceeded with the building, which he finished off very neatly ; 
 and, as it is usual on these occasions to give one's neighbours 
 and friends a house-warming, so, in compliance with this good 
 and pleasant old custom, Lanty having brought home the wife 
 in the course of the day, got a fiddler and a lot of whiskey, 
 and gave those who had come to see him a dance in the 
 evening. This was all very well, and the fnn and hilarity 
 were proceeding briskly, when a noise was heard after night 
 
THE RIVAL KEMPERS. 77 
 
 had set in, like a crushing and straining of ribs and rafters 
 on the top of the house. The folks assembled all hstened, 
 and without doubt there was nothing heard but crushing, and 
 heaving, and pushing, and groaning, and panting, as if a 
 thousand Httle men were engaged in pulUng down the roof. 
 
 " Come," said a voice, wliich spoke in a tone of command, 
 " work hard : you know we must have Lanty's house down 
 before midnight." 
 
 Tliis was an unwelcome piece of intelHgence to Lanty, who, 
 finding that his enemies were such as he could not cope with, 
 walked out, and addressed them as follows : — 
 
 " Gintlemen, I humbly ax yer pardon for buildin' on any 
 place belongin' to you ; but if you'll have the civihtude to let 
 me alone this night, I'll begin to pull down and remove the 
 house to-morrow morning." 
 
 Tliis was followed by a noise like the clapping of a thousand 
 tiny httle hands, and a shout of " Bravo, Lanty ! build half 
 way between the two Whitethorns above the boreen;" and 
 after another hearty little shout of exultation, there was a 
 brisk rushing noise, and they were heard no more. 
 
 The story, however, does not end here ; for Lanty, when 
 digging the foundation of his new house, found the full of a 
 Team* of gold : so that in leaving to the fairies their play- 
 ground, he became a richer man than ever he otherwise would 
 have been, had he never come in contact with them at all. 
 
 There is another instance of their interference mentioned, in 
 which it is difficult to say whether their simphcity or benevo- 
 lence is the most amusing. In the north of Ireland there are 
 spinning meetings of unmarried females frequently held at the 
 houses of farmers, called hemps. Every young woman who 
 has got the reputation of being a quick and expert spinner, 
 attends where the kemp is to be held, at an hour usually before 
 
 * Kam — a metal vessel in wliich the peasantry dip rushlights. 
 
78 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 day-light, and on these occasions she is accompanied by her 
 sweetheart or some male relative, who carries her wheel, and 
 conducts her safely across the fields or along the road, as the 
 case may be. A kemp is indeed an animated and joyous scene, 
 and one, besides, which is calculated to promote industry and 
 decent pride. Scarcely anything can be more cheering and 
 ao'reeable than to hear at a distance, breakina; the silence of 
 morning, the light-hearted voices of many girls either in mirth 
 or song, the humming sound of the busy wheels — jarred upon 
 a Httle, it is true, by the stridulous noise and checkings of the 
 reels, and the voices of the reelers, as they call aloud the 
 checks, together with the name of the girl and the quantity 
 she has spun up to that period ; for the contest is generally 
 commenced two or three hours before day-break. Tliis mirth- 
 ful spirit is also sustained by the prospect of a dance — with 
 which, by the way, every kemp closes ; and when the fair 
 victor is declared, she is to be looked upon as the queen of the 
 meeting, and treated with the necessary respect. 
 
 But to our tale. Every one knew Shaun Buie M'Gaveran 
 to be the cleanest, best-conducted boy, and the most indus- 
 trious too, in the whole parish of Faugh-a-ballagh. Hard was 
 it to find a young fellow who could handle a flail, spade, or 
 reaping-hook, in better style, or who could go through his 
 day's work in a more creditable or workman-hke manner. In 
 addition to this, he was a fine, well-built, handsome young man 
 as you could meet in a fair ; and so, sign was on it, maybe the 
 pretty girls weren't likely to pull each other's caps about him. 
 Shaun, however, was as prudent as he was good-looking ; and 
 although he wanted a wife, yet the sorrow one of him but 
 preferred taking a well-handed, smart girl, who was known to 
 bo well-behaved and industrious, like himself. Here, however, 
 was where the puzzle lay on him ; for instead of one girl of 
 that kind, there were in the neighbourhood no less than a 
 dozen of them — all equally fit and wiUing to become his wife, 
 
THE RIVAL KEMPERS. 79 
 
 and all equally good-looking. There were two, however, whom 
 he thought a trifle above the rest ; but so nicely balanced were 
 Biddy Corrigan and Sally Gorman, that for the life of him he 
 could not make up his mind to decide between them. Each 
 of them had won her kemp ; and it was currently said by 
 them who ought to know, that neither of them could over- 
 match the other. No two girls in the parish were better re- 
 spected, or deserved to be so ; and the consequence was, they 
 had every one's good word and good wish. Now, it so hap- 
 pened that Shaun had been pulling a cord with each ; and as 
 he knew not how to decide between, he thought he would allow 
 them to do that themselves if they could. He accordingly 
 gave out to the neighbours that he would hold a kemp on that 
 day week, and he told Biddy and Sally especially that he had 
 made up his mind to marry whichever of them won the kemp, 
 for he knew right well, as did all the parish, that one of them 
 must. The girls agreed to this very good-humouredly, Biddy 
 telhng Sally that she (Sally) would surely win it ; and Sally, 
 not to be outdone in civihty, telling the same thing to her. 
 
 Well, the week was nearly past, there being but two days 
 till that of the kemp, when, about three o'clock, there walks 
 into the house of old Paddy Corrigan, a httle woman dressed 
 in high-heeled shoes, and a short red cloak. There was no 
 one in the house but Biddy, at the time, who rose up and 
 placed a chair near the fire, and asked the little red woman to 
 sit down and rest herself. She accordingly did so, and in a 
 short time a hvely chat commenced between them. 
 
 " So," said the strange woman, " there's to be a great kemp 
 in Shaun Buie M'Gaveran's ?" 
 
 " Indeed there is that, good woman," replied Biddy, smihng 
 a little, and blushing to the back of that again, because she 
 knew her own fate depended on it. 
 
 " And," continued the little w^oman, "whoever wins the kemp 
 wins a husband ?" 
 
80 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 " Ay, so it seems." 
 
 " Well, whoever gets Shaun will be a happy woman, for he's 
 the moral of a good boy." 
 
 " That's nothing but the truth, anyhow," rephed Biddy, 
 sighing, for fear, you may be sure, that she herself might lose 
 him ; and indeed a young woman might sigh from many a 
 worse reason. " But," said she, changing the subject, " you 
 appear to be tired, honest woman, an' I think you had better 
 eat a bit, an' take a good drink of huinnhe ramiuher (thick 
 milk) to help you on your journey." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, a colleen," said the woman ; " I'll take 
 a bit, if you plase, hopin', at the same time, that you won't be 
 the poorer of it this day twelve months." 
 
 " Sure," said the girl, " you know that what we give from 
 kindness, ever an' always leaves a blessing beliind it." 
 
 " Yes, acuslila, when it is given from kindness." 
 
 She accordingly helped herself to the food that Biddy placed 
 before her, and appeared, after eating, to be very much re- 
 freshed. 
 
 " Now," said she, rising up, " you're a very good girl, an' 
 if you are able to find out my name before Tuesday morning, 
 the kemp-day, I tell you that you'll win it, and gain the hus- 
 band." 
 
 " Why," said Biddy, '* I never saw you before. I don't 
 know who you are, nor where you live ; how, then, can I ever 
 find out your name ?" 
 
 " You never saw me before, sure enough," said the old wo- 
 man, " an' I tell you that you will never see me again but 
 once ; an' yet if you have not my name for me at the close of 
 tlie kcmp, you'll lose all, an' that will leave you a sore heart, 
 for well I know you love Shaun Buie." 
 
 So saymg, she went away, and left poor Biddy quito cast 
 ♦lown at what she had said, for, to tell the truth, she loved 
 Shaun very much, and had no hopes of being able to find out 
 
THE RIVAL KEMPERS. 81 
 
 the name of tlic little woman, on which it appeared so much to 
 her depended. 
 
 It was very near the same hour of the same day that Sally 
 Gorman was sitting alone in her father's house, thinking of 
 the kemp, when who should walk into her but our friend the 
 little red woman. 
 
 " God save you, honest woman," said Sally, " this is a fine 
 day that's in it, the Lord be praised!" 
 
 '' It is," said the woman, " as fine a day as one could wish 
 for: indeed it is." 
 
 ^' Have you no news on your travels ?" asked Sally. 
 
 " The only news in the neighbourhood," repUed the other, 
 " is this great kemp that's to take place at Shaun Buie 
 M'Gaveran's. They say you're either to win him or lose him 
 then," she added, looking closely at Sally as she spoke. 
 
 " I'm not very much afraid of that," said Sally, with con- 
 fidence ; '' but even if I do lose him, I may get as good." 
 
 " It's not easy gettin' as good," rejoined the old woman, 
 " an' you ought to be very glad to win him, if you can." 
 
 "Let me alone for that," said Sally. " Biddy's a good girl, 
 I allow ; but as for spinnin', she never saw the day she could 
 leave me behind her. Won't you sit an' rest you ?" she 
 added ; " maybe you're tired." 
 
 " It's time for you to think of it," thought the woman, but 
 she spoke nothing : " but," she added to herself on reflection, 
 " it's better late than never — I'll sit awhile, till I see a little 
 closer what she's made of." 
 
 She accordingly sat down and chatted upon several subjects, 
 such as young women like to talk about, for about half an 
 hour; after which she arose, and taking her httle staff in 
 hand, she bade Sally good-bye, and went her way. After 
 passing a Httle from the house she looked back, and could not 
 help speaking to herself as follows : — 
 
 G 
 
82 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 •• She's smooth and smart. 
 But she -tt-ants the heart ; 
 She's tight and neat, 
 But she gave no meat." 
 
 Poor Biddy now made all possible inquiries about the old 
 woman, but to no purpose. Not a soul she spoke to about her 
 had ever seen or heard of such a woman. She felt very 
 dispirited, and began to lose heart, for there is no doubt that 
 if she missed Shaun it would have cost her many a sorrowful 
 day. She knew she would never get his equal, or at least any 
 one that she loved so well. At last the kemp day came, and 
 with it all the pretty girls of the neighbourhood, to Shaun 
 Buie's. Among the rest, the two that were to decide their 
 right to him were doubtless the handsomest pair by far, and 
 every one admired them. To be sure, it was a blythe and 
 merry place, and many a light laugh and sweet song rang out 
 from pretty hps that day. Biddy and Sally, as every one 
 expected, were far a-head of the rest, but so even in their 
 spinning, that the reelers could not for the life of them declare 
 wliich was the best. It was neck-and-neck and head-and-head 
 between the pretty creatures, and all who were at the kemp 
 felt themselves wound up to the highest pitch of interest and 
 curiosity to know which of them would be successful. 
 
 The day was now more than half gone, and no difference 
 was between them, when, to the surprise and sorrow of every 
 one present, Biddy Corrigan's heck broke in two, and so to 
 all appearance ended the contest in favour of her rival ; and 
 what added to her mortification, she was as ignorant of the 
 red little woman's name as ever. What was to be done ? All 
 tliat could be done was done. Her brother, a boy of about 
 fourteen years of age, happened to be present when the ac- 
 cident took place, having been sent by his father and mother to 
 l)ring them word how the match went on between the rival 
 s])insters. Johnny Corrigan was accordingly despatched with 
 
THE RIVAL KEMPERS. 83 
 
 all speed to Donnel M'Cusker's, the wheelwright, in order to 
 get the heck mended, that being Biddy's last but hopeless 
 chance. Johnny's anxiety that his sister should win was of 
 course very great, and in order to lose as httle time as possible 
 he struck across the country, passing through, or rather close 
 by, Kilrudden forth, a place celebrated as a resort of the fairies. 
 What was his astonishment, however, as he passed a white- 
 thorn tree, to hear a female voice singing, in accompaniment to 
 the sound of a spinning-wheel, the following words : — 
 
 ' ' There's a girl in this town doesn't know my name ; 
 But my name's Even Trot — Even Trot." 
 
 " There's a girl in this town," said the lad, " who's in great 
 distress, for she has broken her heck, and lost a husband. I'm 
 now goin' to Donnel M'Cusker's to get it mended." 
 
 " What's her name ?" said the little red woman. 
 
 " Biddy Corrigan." 
 
 The little woman immediately whipped out the heck from 
 her own wheel, and giving it to the boy, desired him to bring 
 it to his sister, and never mind Donnel M'Cusker. 
 
 " You have little time to lose," she added, " so go back and 
 give her this ; but don't tell her how you got it, nor, above 
 all things, that it was Even Trot that gave it to you." 
 
 The lad returned, and after giving the heck to his sister, as 
 a matter of course told her that it was a little red woman called 
 Even Trot that sent it to her, a circumstance wliich made 
 tears of delight start to Biddy's eyes, for she knew now that 
 Even Trot was the name of the old woman, and having 
 known that, she felt that something good would happen to 
 her. She now resumed her spinning, and never did human 
 fingers let down the thread so rapidly. The whole kemp were 
 amazed at the quantity which from time to time filled her 
 pirn. The hearts of her friends began to rise, and those of 
 Sally's party to sink, as hour after hour she was fast ap- 
 
84 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 proaching lier rival, who now spun if possible with double 
 speed on finding Biddy coming up with her. At length they 
 were again even, and just at that moment in came her friend 
 the httle red woman, and asked aloud, "is there any one in this 
 kemp that knows my name ?" Tliis question she asked three 
 times before Biddy could pluck up courage to answer her. 
 She at last said, 
 
 " There's a girl in this town does know your name — 
 Your name is Even Trot — Even Trot." 
 
 " Ay," said the old woman, "and so it is ; and let that name 
 be your guide and your husband's through life. Go steadily 
 along, but let your step be even ; stop little ; keep always 
 advancing ; and you'll never have cause to rue the day that 
 you first saw Even Trot." 
 
 We need scarcely add that Biddy won the kemp and the 
 husband, and that she and Shaun lived long and happily 
 together ; and I have only now to wish, kind reader, that you 
 and I may Hve longer and more happily still. 
 
 FRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES. 
 
 When a superstition is once impressed strongly upon the 
 popular credulity, the fiction always assumes the shape and 
 form which the pecuhar imagination of the country is constituted 
 to body forth. This faculty depends so much on chmate, tem- 
 perament, rehgion, and occupation, that the notions entertained 
 of supernatural beings, though generally based upon one broad 
 feature pecuhar to all countries, differ so essentially respecting 
 the form, character, habits, and powers of these beings, that 
 they appear to have been drawn from sources widely removed. 
 
FRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES. 85 
 
 To an inquiring mind there can be no greater proof than this 
 of their being nothing but the creations of our own brain, and 
 of assuming that shape only which has uniformly been im- 
 pressed upon our imagination at the precise period of life when 
 such impressions are strongest and most permanent, and the 
 reason which ought to combat and investigate them least 
 capable of doing so. If these inane bugbears possessed the 
 consistence of truth and reahty, their appearance to mankind 
 would be always uniform, unchangeable, and congruous ; but 
 they are beheld, so to speak, through different prejudices and 
 impressions, and consequently change with the media through 
 which they are seen, just as light assumes the hue of the glass 
 through which it passes. Hence their different shape, charac- 
 ter, and attributes in different countries, and the frequent 
 absence of rational analogy with respect to them even in the 
 same. 
 
 The force of imagination alone is capable of conjuring up and 
 shaping out that which never had existence, and that top with 
 as much apparent distinctness and truth as if it were real. Go 
 to the lunatic asylum or the mad-house, and there it may be 
 seen in all its strong delusion and positive terror. 
 
 Before I close this portion of my little disquisition, I shall 
 relate an anecdote connected with it, of which I myself was 
 the subject. Some years ago I was seized with typhus fever 
 of so terrific a character, that for a long time I lay in a state 
 hovering between life and death, unconscious as a log, without 
 either hope or fear. At length a crisis came, and, aided by 
 the strong stamina of an unbroken constitution, I began to 
 recover, and every day to regain my consciousness more and 
 more. As yet, however, I was very far from being out of 
 danger, for I felt the malady to be still so fiery and oppressive, 
 that I was not surprised when told that the shghtest mistake 
 either in my medicine or regimen would have brought on a re- 
 lapse. At all events, thank God, my recovery advanced; but, 
 
80 IRISH SUPERSTITION'S. 
 
 at the same time, the society that surrounded me was wild and 
 picturesque in the highest degree. Never indeed was such a 
 combination of the beautiful and hideous seen, unless in the 
 dreams of a feverish brain hke mine, or the distorted reason 
 of a madman. At one side of my bed, looking in upon me 
 with a most hellish and satanic leer, was a face, compared with 
 which the vulgar representations of the devil are comehness 
 itself, whilst on the other was a female countenance beaming 
 in beauty that was ethereal — angelic. Thus, in fact, was my 
 whole bed surrounded; for they stood as thickly as they could, 
 sometimes flitting about and seeming to crush and jostle one 
 another, but never leaving my bed for a moment. Here were 
 the deformed features of a dwarf, there an angel apparently 
 fresh from heaven ; here was a gigantic demon with his huge 
 mouth placed longitudinally in his face, and his nose across it, 
 whilst the Gorgon-like coxcomb grinned as if he were vain, 
 and had cause to be vain, of his beauty. This fellow annoyed 
 me much, and would, I apprehended, have done me an injury, 
 only for the angel on the other side. He made perpetual 
 attempts to come at me, but was as often repulsed by that 
 seraphic creature. Indeed, I feared none of them so much as I 
 did the Gorgon, who evidently had a design on me, and would 
 have rendered my situation truly pitiable, were it not for the 
 protection of the seraph, who always succeeded in keeping him 
 aloof. At length he made one furious rush as if he meant to 
 pounce upon me, and in self-preservation I threw my right arm 
 to the opposite side, and, grasping the seraph by the nose, I 
 found I had caught my poor old nurse by that useful organ, 
 while she was in the act of offering me a drink. For several 
 days I was in this state, the victim of images produced by dis- 
 ease, and the inflammatory excitement of brain consequent 
 upon it. Gradually, however, they began to disappear, and I 
 felt manifest relief, for they were succeeded by impressions as 
 amusing now as the former had been distressing. I imagined 
 
FRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES. 87 
 
 that there was a serious dispute between my right foot and my 
 left, as to which of them was entitled to precedency ; and, what 
 was singular, my right leg, thigh, hand, arm and shoulder, 
 most unflinchingly supported the right foot, as did the other 
 limbs the left. The head alone, with an impartiality that did 
 it honour, maintained a strict neutrahtv. The truth was, I 
 imagined that all my hmbs were endowed with a conscious- 
 ness of individual existence, and I felt quite satisfied that each 
 and all of them possessed the faculty of reason. I have fre- 
 quently related this anecdote to my friends ; but, I know not 
 how it happened, I never could get them to look upon it in any 
 other light than as a specimen of that kind of fiction which is 
 indulo-entlv termed '• di'awing the Ions: bow." It is, however, 
 as true as that I now exist, and relate the fact ; and, what is 
 more, the arguments which I am about to give are substan- 
 tially the same that were used by the rival claimants and their 
 respective supporters. The discussion, I must observe, was 
 opened by the left foot, as being the discontented party, and, 
 like all discontented parties, its language was so very violent, 
 that, had its opinions prevailed, there is no doubt but they 
 would have succeeded in completely overturning my consti- 
 tution. 
 
 Left foot. Brother (addressing the right with a great show 
 of affection, but at the same time with a spasmodic twitch of 
 strong discontentment in the big toe). Brother, I don't know 
 how it is that you have during our whole hves always taken 
 the hberty to consider yourself a better foot than I am ; and 
 I would feel much obliged to you if you would tell me why it 
 is that you claim this superiority over me. Are we not both 
 equal in every tiling ? 
 
 Right foot. Be quiet, my dear brother. We are equal in 
 every thing, and why, therefore, are you chscontented ? 
 
 Left foot. Because you presume to consider yourself the 
 better and more useful foot. 
 
88 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 Right foot. Let us not dispute, my dear brother : each is 
 equally necessary to the other. What could I do without you? 
 Nothing, or at least very httle ; and what could you do with- 
 out me ? Very httle indeed. We were not made to quarrel. 
 
 Left foot {very hot), I am not disposed to quarrel, but I 
 trust you will admit that I am as good as you, every way your 
 equal, and, begad, in many things your superior. Do you 
 hear that ? I am not disposed to quarrel, you rascal, and how 
 dare you say so ? 
 
 Here there was a strong sensation among all the right mem- 
 bers, who felt themselves insulted through this outrage offered 
 to their chief supporter. 
 
 Right foot. Since you choose to insult me without provoca- 
 tion, I must stand upon my right 
 
 Left {shoving off to a distance). Eight ! — there, again, what 
 right have you to be termed "righf any more than I? — 
 ("Bravo ! — go it, Left; pitch into him ; we are equal to him 
 and his," from the friends of the Left. The matter was now 
 likely to become serious, and to end in a row.) 
 
 "What's the matter there below?" said the Head; "don't 
 be fools, and make yourselves ridiculous. What would either 
 of you be with a crutch or a cork-leg ? which is only another 
 name for a wooden shoe any day." 
 
 Right foot. Since he provokes me, I tell him, that ever 
 since the world began, the prejudice of mankind in all nations 
 has been in favour of the ri^ht foot and the rio-lit hand. 
 (Strong sensation among the left members). Surely he ought 
 not to be ignorant of the proverb, which says, when a man is 
 peculiarly successful in any thing he undertakes, " that man 
 knew how to go about it — he put the right foot foremost /" 
 (Cheers from the right party). 
 
 Left. That's mere special pleading — the right foot there 
 does not mean you, because you happen to be termed such ; 
 but it means the foot which, from its position under the circum- 
 
FRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES. 89 
 
 stances, happens to be the proper one. (Loud applause from 
 the left members). 
 
 Right foot. You know you are weak and feeble and awkward 
 when compared to me, and can do httle of yourself. (Hurra ! 
 that's a poser !) 
 
 Left. Why, certainly, I grant I am the gentleman, and that 
 you are very useful to me, you plebeian, ("Bravo !" from the 
 left hand; ''ours is the aristocratic side — hear the operatives! 
 Come, hornloof, what have you to say to that ?") 
 
 Right hand {addressing his opponent). You may be the 
 aristocratic party if you will, but we are the useful. Who are 
 the true defenders of the constitution, you poor sprig of no- 
 bihty ? 
 
 Left hand. The heart is with us, the seat and origin of life 
 and power. Can you boast as much ? (Loud cheers). 
 
 Right foot. Why, have you never heard it said of an excel- 
 lent and worthy man — a fellow of the right sort, a trump — as 
 a mark of his sterhng quahties, " liis heart's in the right place !" 
 How then can it be in the left ? (Much applause). 
 
 Left. Which is an additional proof that mine is that place 
 and not yours. Yes, you rascal, we have the heart, and you 
 cannot deny it. 
 
 Right. We admit he resides with you, but it is merely because 
 you are the weaker side, and require his protection. The best 
 part of his energies are given to us, and we are satisfied. 
 
 Left. You admit, then, that our party keeps yours in power, 
 and why not at once give up your right to precedency ? — why 
 not resign ? 
 
 Right. Let us put it to the vote. 
 
 Left. With all my heart. 
 
 It was accordingly put to the vote; but on telling the house, 
 it was found that the parties were equal. Both then appealed 
 very strenuously to Mr. Speaker, the Head, who, after having 
 heard their respective arguments, shook himself very gravely, 
 
90 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 and informed them (much after the manner of Sh' Roger De 
 Coverley) that "much might be said on both sides." "But 
 one tiling," said he, " I beg both parties to observe, and very 
 seriously to consider. In the first place, there would be none 
 of this nonsense about precedency, were it not for the feverish 
 and excited state in which you all happen to be at present. If 
 you have common sense enough to wait until you all get some- 
 what cooler, there is little doubt but you will feel that you 
 cannot do without each other. As for myself, as I said before, 
 I give no specific opinion upon disputes which would never have 
 taken place were it not for the heat of feehng which is between 
 you. I know that much might and has been said upon both 
 sides ; but as for me, I nod significantly to both parties, and say 
 nothing. One thing, however, I do say, and it is this — take 
 care, you right foot, and you, left foot, that by pursuing this 
 senseless quarrel too far it may not happen that you will both 
 get stretched and tied up together in a wooden surtout, when 
 precedency will be out of the question, and nothing but a most 
 pacific stillness shall remain between you for ever. I shake, 
 and have concluded." 
 
 Now, seriously, this case, which as an illustration of my 
 argument possesses a good deal of physiological interest, is 
 another key to the absurd doctrine of apparitions. Here was 
 I at the moment strongly and seriously impressed with a belief 
 that a quarrel was taking place between my two feet about the 
 right of going foremost. Nor was this absurdity all. I actually 
 beheved for the time that all my Umbs were endowed with 
 separate hfe and reason. And why ? All simply because my 
 whole system was in a state of unusually strong excitement, 
 and the nerves and blood stimulated by disease into a state of 
 derangement. Such, in fact, is the condition in which every 
 one must necessarily be who thinks he sees a spirit ; and this, 
 which is known to be an undeniable fact, being admitted, it 
 follows of course that the same causes will, other thlufrs beino' 
 
FRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES. !.)1 
 
 alike, produce the same eifects. For instance, docs not the 
 terror of an apparition occasion a violent and increased action 
 of the heart and vascular system, similar to that of fever ? 
 Does not the very hair stand on end, not merely when the 
 imaginary ghost is seen, but when the very apprehension of it 
 is strong ? Is not the action of the brain, too, accelerated in 
 proportion to that of the heart, and the nervous system in pro- 
 portion to that of both ? What, then, is this but a fever for 
 the time being, which is attended by the very phantasms the 
 fear of which created it; for in this case it so happens that the 
 cause and effect mutually reproduce each other. 
 
 Hibbert mentions a case of imagination, which in a man is 
 probably the strongest and most unaccountable on record. It 
 is that of a person — an invalid — who imagined that at a 
 certain hour of the day a carter or drayman came into liis bed- 
 room, and, uncovering him, inflicted several heavy stripes upon 
 liis body with the thong of his whip ; and such was the power 
 of fancy here, that the marks of the lash were visible in black 
 and blue streaks upon liis flesh. I am inclmed to think, how- 
 ever, that this stands very much in need of confirmation. 
 
 I have already mentioned a case of spectral illusion which 
 occurred in my native parish. I speak of Daly's daughter, who 
 saw what she imagined to be the ghost of M'Kenna, who had 
 been lost among the mountains. I shall now relate another, 
 connected with the fairies, of which I also was myself an eye- 
 witness. The man's name, I tliink, was Martin, and he fol- 
 lowed the thoughtful and somewhat melancholy occupation of 
 a weaver. He was a bachelor, and wi'ought journey-work in 
 every farmer's house where he could get employment ; and 
 notwithstanding his supernatural vision of the fairies, he was 
 considered to be both a quick and an excellent workman. The 
 more sensible of the country people said he was deranged, but 
 the more superstitious of them maintained that he had a Lian- 
 han Shee, and saw them against his will. The Lianhan Shee 
 
92 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 is a malignant fairy, which, by a subtle compact made with 
 any one whom it can induce by the fairest promises to enter 
 into, secures a mastery over them by inducing its unhappy 
 victims to violate it; otherwise, it is and must be like the 
 oriental genie, their slave and di^udge, to perform such tasks 
 as they wish to impose upon it. It will promise endless wealth 
 to those whom it is anxious to subjugate to its authority, but 
 it is at once so malignant and ingenious, that the party en- 
 tering into the contract with it is always certain by its 
 manoeu\Tes to break through his engagement, and thus be- 
 come slave in his turn. Such is the nature of this wild and 
 fearful superstition, which I think is fast disappearing, and is 
 now but rarely known in the country. 
 
 Martin was a thin pale man, when I saw him, of a sickly 
 look, and a constitution naturally feeble. His hair was a hght 
 auburn, his beard mostly unshaven, and liis hands of a singular 
 delicacy and whiteness, owing, I dare say, as much to the soft 
 and easy nature of his employment, as to his infirm health. In 
 every thing else he was as sensible, sober, and rational as any 
 other man ; but on the topic of fairies, the man's mania was 
 peculiarly strong and immoveable. Indeed, I remember that 
 the expression of liis eyes was singularly wild and hollow, and 
 his long narrow temples sallow and emaciated. 
 
 Now, this man did not lead an unhappy hfe, nor did the 
 malady he laboured under seem to be productive of either 
 pain or terror to him, although one might be apt to imagine 
 otherwise. On the contrary, he and the fairies maintained 
 the most friendly intimacy, and their dialogues — wliich I fear 
 were wofully one-sided ones — must have been a source of great 
 pleasure to him, for they were conducted with much mirth and 
 laughter, on his part at least. 
 
 " Well, Frank, when did you see the fairies ?" 
 
 '' Whist! there's two dozen of them in the shop (the weaving 
 shop) tliis minute. Tlioro's a little ould fellow sittin' on the 
 
 I 
 
FRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES. 93 
 
 top of the sleys, an' all to be rocked while I'm woaviii.' The 
 sorrow's in them, but they're the greatest httle skamcrs alive, 
 so they are. See, there's another of them at my dressin' 
 noggin.* Go out o' that, you shingawn ; or, bad cess to me, if 
 you don't, but I'll lave you a mark. Ha ! cut, you thief you !" 
 
 " Frank, aren't you afeard o' them ?" 
 
 *' Is it me ? Arra, what 'ud I be afeard o' them for ? Sure 
 they have no power over me." 
 
 " And why haven't they, Frank ?" 
 
 *' Becaise I was baptized against them." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ?" 
 
 " Why, the priest that christened me was tould by my 
 father to put in the prayer against the fairies — an' a priest 
 can't refuse it when he's axed — an' he did so. Begorra, it's 
 well for me that he did — (let the tallow alone, you little 
 glutton — see, there's a weeny thief o' them aitin' my tallow) — 
 becaise, you see, it was their intention to make me king o' the 
 fairies." 
 
 ''Is it possible?" 
 
 " Devil a lie in it. Sure you may ax them, an' they'll teUyou." 
 
 " What size are they, Frank ?" 
 
 " Oh, little wee fellows, with green coats an' the purtiest 
 little shoes ever you seen. There's two o' them — both ould 
 acquaintances o' mine — runnin' along the yarn-beam. That 
 ould fellow with the bob-wig is called Jim Jam, an' the other 
 chap with the three-cocked hat is called Nickey JS'ick. Nickey 
 plays the pipes. Nickey, give us a tune, or I'll maUvogue 
 you — come now, ' Lough Erne Shore.' Whist, now — Hsten !" 
 
 The poor fellow, though weaving as fast as he could all the 
 time, yet bestowed every possible mark of attention to the 
 music, and seemed to enjoy it as much as if it had been real. 
 
 * The dressings are a species of sizy flummery, which is brushed into the 
 yarn to keep the thread round and even, and to prevent it from being frayed 
 by the friction of the reed. 
 
94 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 But who can tell whether that wliich we look upon as a 
 privation may not after all be a fountain of increased happiness, 
 greater perhaps than any which we ourselves enjoy ? I forget 
 who the poet is who says — 
 
 " Mysterious are thy laws ; 
 The \'ision's finer than the view ; 
 Her landscape Nature never drew 
 So fair as Fancy draws." 
 
 Many a time, when a mere child not more than six or seven 
 years of age, have I gone as far as Frank's weaving-shop, in 
 order, with a heart divided between curiosity and fear, to listen 
 to his conversation with the good people. From morning till 
 night his tongue was going almost as incessantly as his shuttle ; 
 and it was well known that at night, whenever he awoke out 
 of his sleep, the first thing he did was to put out his hand and 
 push them as it were off his bed. 
 
 '' Go out o' this, you thieves you — go out o' this, now, an' 
 let me alone. Nickey, is this any time to be playin' the pipes, 
 and me wants to sleep ? Go off, now — troth if yez do, you'll 
 see what I'll give yez to-morrow. Sure I'll be makin' new 
 dressin's ; and if yez behave dacently, maybe I'll lave yez the 
 scrapin' o' the pot. There now. Och ! poor things, they're 
 dacent crathurs. Sure they're all gone barrin' poor Red-cap, 
 that doesn't like to lave me." And then the harmless monoma- 
 niac would fall back into what we trust was an mnoccnt slumber. 
 
 About this time there was said to have occurred a very 
 remarkable circumstance, which gave poor Frank a vast deal 
 of importance among the neighbours. A man named Frank 
 Thomas, the same in whose house Mickey M'Rorey held the 
 first dance at which I ever saw Vim, as detailed in a former 
 sketch — this man, I say, had a cnild sick, but of what complaint 
 I cannot now remember, nor is it of any importance. One of 
 the gables of Thomas's house was built against, or rather into, 
 a Forth or Rath called Tuwny, or properly Tonagh Forth. 
 
FRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES. 05 
 
 It was said to be haunted by the fairies, and what gave it a 
 character pecuharly wild in my eyes, was, that there were on 
 the southern side of it two or three httle green mounds, which 
 were said to be the graves of unchristened children, over 
 which it was considered dangerous and unlucky to pass. At 
 all events, the season was mid-summer ; and one evening about 
 dusk, during the illness of the child, the noise of a hand-saw 
 was heard uj)on the Forth. This was considered rather 
 strange, and after a httle time, a few of those who were as- 
 sembled at Frank Thomas's, went to see who it could be that 
 was sawing in such a place, or what they could be sawing at 
 so late an hour, for every one knew that nobody in the 
 whole country about them would dare to cut down the few 
 white-thorns that grew upon the Forth. On going to examine, 
 however, judge of their surprise, when, after surrounding and 
 searcliing the whole place, they could discover no trace of either 
 saw or sawyer. In fact, with the exception of themselves, 
 there was no one, either natural or supernatural, visible. They 
 then returned to the house, and had scarcely sat down, when 
 it was heard again within ten yards of them. Another ex- 
 amination of the premises took place, but with equal success. 
 Now, however, while standing on the Forth, they heard the 
 sawing in a little hollow, about a hundred and fifty yards below 
 them, which was completely exposed to their view, but they 
 could see nobody. A party of them immediately went down 
 to ascertain, if possible, what this singular noise and invisible 
 labour could mean ; but on arriving at the spot, they heard 
 the sawing, to which were now added hammering and the 
 driving of nails, upon the Forth above, whilst those who stood 
 on the Forth continued to hear it in the hollow. On comparing 
 notes, they resolved to send down to BiUy Nelson's for Frank 
 Martin, a distance of only about eighty or ninety yards. ' He 
 was soon on the spot, and without a moment's hesitation solved 
 the enigma. 
 
96 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 " 'Tis the fairies," said he. " I see them, and busy crathurs 
 they are." 
 
 ** But what are they sawing, Frank ?" 
 
 " They are makin' a child's coffin," he rephed ; " they have 
 the body already made, an' they're now nailin' the lid to- 
 gether." 
 
 That night the child certainly died, and the story goes, that 
 on the second evening afterwards, the carpenter who was called 
 upon to make the coffin brought a table out from Thomas's 
 house to the forth, as a temporary bench ; and it is said that 
 the sawing and hammering necessary for the completion of his 
 task were precisely the same which had been heard the even- 
 ing but one before — neither more nor less. I remember the 
 death of the child myself, and the making of its coffin, but I 
 think that the story of the supernatural carpenter was not 
 heard in the village for some months after its interment. 
 
 Frank had every appearance of a hypochondriac about him. 
 At the time I saw him, he might be about thirty-four years of 
 age, but I do not think, from the debility of his frame and infirm 
 health, that he has been ahve for several years. He was an 
 object of considerable interest and curiosity, and often have I 
 been present when he was pointed out to strangers as " the 
 man that could see the good people." With respect to his 
 solution of the supernatural noise, that is easily accounted for. 
 This superstition of the coffin-making is a common one, and to 
 a man like him, whose mind was familiar with it, the illness 
 of the child would naturally suggest the probabihty of its 
 death, which he immediately associated with the imagery and 
 agents to be found in his unhappy malady. 
 
> 
 
4 C-^ 
 
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY. 1)7 
 
 A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY. 
 
 AYhat Irish man, woman, or child, has not heard of our re- 
 nowned Hibernian Hercules, the great and glorious Fin 
 M'Coul? Not one, from Cape Clear to the Giant's Causeway, 
 nor from that back again to Cape Clear. And by the way, 
 speaking of the Giant's Causeway brings me at once to the 
 beginning of my story. Well, it so happened that Fin and his 
 gigantic relatives were all working at the Causeway, in order 
 to make a bridge, or what was still better, a good stout pad- 
 road, across to Scotland ; when Fin, who was very fond of his 
 wife Oonagh, took it into his head that he would go home and 
 see how the poor woman got on in his absence. To be sure, 
 Fin was a true Irishman, and so the sorrow thing in hfe 
 brought liim back, only to see that she was snug and comfort- 
 able, and, above all things, that she got her rest well at night ; 
 for he knew that the poor woman, when he was with her, used 
 to be subject to nightly qualms and configurations, that kept 
 him very anxious, decent man, striving to keep her up to the 
 good spirits and health that she had when they were first 
 married. So, accordingly, he pulled up a fir-tree, and, after 
 lopping oif the roots and branches, made a walking-stick of it, 
 and set out on his way to Oonagh. 
 
 Oonagh, or rather Fin, hved at this time on the very tip-top 
 of Knockmany Hill, which faces a cousin of its own, called 
 Cullamore, that rises up, half-hill, half-mountain, on the oppo- 
 site side — east-east by south, as the sailors say, when they 
 wish to puzzle a landsman. 
 
 Now, the truth is, for it must come out, that honest Fin's 
 affection for his wife, though cordial enough in itself, was by 
 no manner or means the real cause of his journey home. 
 There was at that time another giant, named CucuUin — some 
 
 H 
 
98 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 say he was Irish, and some say he was Scotch — but whether 
 Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was a targer. No 
 other giant of the day could stand before liim ; and such was 
 his strength, that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that 
 shook the country about him.* The fame and name of him 
 went far and near ; and nothing in the shape of a man, it was 
 said, had any chance with him in a fight. Whether the story 
 
 • The subjoined note by the Messrs. Chambers, in whose admirable Jour- 
 nal the above Legend appeared, exhibits a most extraordinary coincidence 
 between my illustration of Cucullin's strength and that of the giant alluded 
 to by the Messrs. Chambers : — 
 
 ** The above paper gives a good idea of the strange hues which the national 
 humour and fancy have thrown over most of the early popular legends of 
 Ireland. Fin or Fion M'Coul is the same half-mythic being who figures 
 as Fingal in Macpherson's Ossian's Poems. He was probably a distinguished 
 warrior in some early stage of the history of Ireland ; diflferent authorities 
 place him in the fifth and the ninth centuries. Whatever his real age, and 
 whatever his real qualities, he was afterwards looked back to as a giant of 
 immense size and strength, and became the subject of nmnerous wild and 
 warlike legends both in Ireland and in the Highlands of Scotland. Our 
 Lowland poets of the middle ages give incontestible evidence of the great 
 fame then enjoyed by both Fingal and Gaul the son of Morni. Barbour, 
 for instance, in 1375, represents his hero Robert Bruce as making allusion 
 to these two personages at the skirmish in Glendochart. Gavin Douglas, 
 who died in 1522, introduces their names into liis poem the Palace of 
 Honour : \ 
 
 " * Great Gow MacMorn, and Fin MacCowl, and how 
 They should be gods in Ireland, as they say.' 
 
 "Another Scottish poem, of obscure authorship, but of the same age as the 
 above, entitled An Interlude of the Droich's [Dwarf's] Part of the Play, con- 
 veys the extravagant popular notions of the day respecting the vast stature of 
 not only Fin and Gaul, but of Fin's wife. Of Fin it says 
 
 " 'Ay when he danced, the warld wad shog — 
 
 • • • « • 
 
 After he grew mickle at fouth. 
 
 
 Eleven mile wide was his mouth. 
 
 His teeth were ten miles square ; 
 
 He wad upon his taes stand. 
 
 And tak the sterns down with his hand, 
 
 And set them in a gold garland, 
 Above his wife's hair.' 
 
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY. 9^ 
 
 is true or not, I cannot say, but the report went that, by one 
 blow of his fist, he flattened a thunderbolt, and kept it in his 
 pocket, in the shape of a pancake, to show to all his enemies 
 when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly he had 
 given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring 
 Fin M'Coul himself ; and he swore, by the solemn contents of 
 Moll Kelly's Primer, that he would never rest, night or day, 
 winter or summer, till he would serve Fin with the same sauce, 
 if he could catch him. Fin, however, who no doubt was the cock 
 of the walk on his own dunghill, had a strong disincUnation to 
 meet a giant who could make a young earthquake, or flatten 
 a thunderbolt when he was angry ; so he accordingly kept 
 dodging about from place to place, not much to his credit as a 
 Trojan, to be sure, whenever he happened to get the hard 
 word that Cucullin was on the scent of him. This, then, was 
 the marrow of the whole movement, although he put it on his 
 anxiety to see Oonagh ; and I am not saying but there was 
 some truth m that too. However, the short and the long of it 
 was, with reverence be it spoken, that he heard Cuculhn was 
 coming to the Causeway to have a trial of strength with him ; 
 and he was naturally enough seized, in consequence, with a 
 very warm and sudden fit of affection for his wife, poor woman, 
 
 * ' Of the wife it may be enough to say — 
 
 * ' ' For cauld she took the fever-tertan, * 
 For all the claith in France and Bertanf 
 Wad not be till her leg a garten, 
 
 Though she was young and tender.' 
 
 "In Irish traditionary narrative, as appears from Mr. Carleton's present 
 sketch, Fin and his dame are kept within something comparatively moderate 
 as respects bulk and strength, at the same time that enough of the giant is 
 retained to contrast ludicrously with the modern and natural feelings assigned 
 to them, and the motives and maxims on which they and their enemy Cu- 
 cullin are represented as acting." 
 
 * Tertian fever. t Britain. 
 
100 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 who was delicate in her health, and leading, besides, a very 
 lonely uncomfortable life of it (he assured them), in his absence. 
 He accordingly pulled up the fir-tree, as I said before, and 
 having snedded it into a walking-stick, set out on his affection- 
 ate travels to see his darhng Oonagh on the top of Knockmany, 
 by the way. 
 
 In truth, to state the suspicions of the country at the time, 
 the people wondered very much why it was that Fin selected 
 such a windy spot for his dwelling-house, and they even went 
 so far as to tell him as much. 
 
 " What can you mane, Mr. M'Coul," said they, " by pitch- 
 ing your tent upon the top of Knockmany, where you never 
 are without a breeze, day or night, winter or summer, and 
 where you're often forced to take your nightcap* without 
 either going to bed or turning up your little finger ; ay, an' 
 where, besides this, there's the sorrow's own want of water ?" 
 
 " Why," said Fin, " ever since I was the height of a round 
 tower, I was known to be fond of having a good prospect of 
 my own ; and where the dickens, neighbours, could I find a 
 better spot for a good prospect than the top of Knockmany ? 
 As for water, I am sinking a pump,f and, plase goodness, as 
 soon as the Causeway 's made, I intend to finish it.'' 
 
 Now, this was more of Fin's philosophy ; for the real state 
 of the case was, that he pitched upon the top of Knockmany in 
 order that he might be able to see CucuUin coming towards 
 the house, and, of course, that he himself might go to look after 
 his distant transactions in other parts of the country, rather 
 than — but no matter — we do not wish to be too hard on Fin. 
 
 • A common name for the cloud or rack that hangs, as a forerunner of wet 
 weather, about the peak of a mountain. 
 
 t There is upon the top of this hill an opening that bears a very strong re- 
 semblance to the crater of an extinct volcano. There is also a stone, upon 
 which, I have heard the Rev. Sidney Smith, F. T. C, now rector of the ad- 
 joining jmrish, say that he found Ogham characters; and, if I do not mis- 
 take, I think he took ?i facsimile of them. 
 
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY. 101 
 
 All we have to say is, that if he wanted a spot from which to 
 keep a sharp look-out — and, between ourselves, he did want 
 it grievously — barring Slieve Croob, or Slieve Donard, or its 
 own cousin, Cullamore, he could not find a neater or more con- 
 venient situation for it in the sweet and sagacious province of 
 Ulster. 
 
 " God save all here !" said Fin, good humouredly, on 
 putting liis honest face into liis own door. 
 
 " Musha Fin, avick, an' you're welcome home to your own 
 Oonagh, you darlin' bully." Here followed a smack that is 
 said to have made the waters of the lake at the bottom of the 
 hill curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy. 
 
 "Faith," said Fin, "beautiful; an' how are you, Oonagh — 
 and how did you sport your figure during my absence, my 
 bHberry?" 
 
 " Never a merrier — as bouncing a grass widow as ever there 
 was in sweet 'Tyrone among the bushes.'" 
 
 Fin gave a short good-humoured cough, and laughed most 
 heartily, to show her how much he was delighted tliat she 
 made herself happy in his absence. 
 
 " An' what brought you home so soon. Fin ? " said she. 
 
 " Why, avourneen," said Fin, putting in his answer in the 
 proper way, "never the thing but the purest of love and affec- 
 tion for yourself. Sure you know that's truth, any how, 
 Oonagh." 
 
 Fin spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt 
 himself very comfortable, considering the dread he had of 
 Cuculhn. This, however, grew upon liim so much that his 
 wife could not but perceive that something lay on his mind 
 which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone, in 
 the meantime, for ferreting or wheedling a secret out of her 
 good man, when she wishes. Fin was a proof of this. 
 
 " It's this Cuculhn," said and, " that's troubhng me. When 
 the fellow gets angry, and begins to stamp, he'll shake you a 
 
102 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 whole townland ; and it's well known that he can stop a thun- 
 derbolt, for he always carries one about him in the shape of a 
 pancake, to show to any one that might misdoubt it." 
 
 As he spoke, he clapped his thumb in liis mouth, which he 
 always did when he wanted to prophesy, or to know any thing 
 that happened in his absence ; and the wife, who knew what 
 he did it for, said, very sweetly, 
 
 "Fin, darling, I hope you don't bite your thumb at me, 
 dear?" 
 
 " JN'o," said Fin ; "but I bite my thumb, acushla," said he. 
 
 "Yes, jewel; but take care and don't draw blood," said she. 
 " Ah, Fin ! don't, my bully— don't." 
 
 " He's coming," said Fin ; " I see him below Dungannon." 
 
 *' Thank goodness, dear ! an' who is it, avick ? Glory be 
 to God !" 
 
 "That baste Cucullin," replied Fin; "and how to manage 
 I don't know. If I run away, I am disgraced ; and I know 
 that sooner or later I must meet him, for my thumb tells me 
 so." 
 
 " When will he be here ?" said she. 
 
 " To-morow, about two o'clock," rephed Fin, with a groan. 
 
 " Well, my bully, don't be cast down," said Oonagh ; " de- 
 pend on me, and maybe I'll bring you better out of this scrape 
 than ever you could bring yourself, by your rule o' thumb." 
 
 This quieted Fin's heart very much, for he knew that Oonagh 
 was hand and glove with the fairies ; and, indeed, to tell the 
 truth, she was supposed to be a fairy herself. If she was, 
 however, she must have been a kind-hearted one ; for, by all 
 accounts, she never did any thing but good in the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 Now, it so happened that Oonagh had a sister named Granua, 
 living opposite them, on the very top of Cullamore, which I 
 have mentioned already, and this Granua was quite as powerful 
 as herself. The beautiful valley that lies between them is not 
 
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY. 
 
 103 
 
 more than about three or four miles broad, so that of a sum- 
 mer's evening, Granua and Oonagh were able to hold many an 
 agreeable conversation across it, from the one hill-top to the 
 other. Upon this occasion, Oonagh resolved to consult her 
 sister as to what was best to be done in the difficulty that 
 surrounded them. 
 
 " Granua," said she, " are you at home ?" 
 
 " No," said the other ; " I'm picking bilberries in Althad- 
 hawan" {AnglicS, the Devil's Glen). 
 
 *' Well," said Oonagh, ''get up to the top of Cullamore, look 
 about you, and then tell us what you see." 
 
 " Very well," replied Granua, after a few minutes, " I am 
 there now." 
 
 " What do you see ?" asked the other. 
 
 " Goodness be about us !" exclaimed Granua, " I see the 
 biggest giant that ever was known, coming up from Dungannon." 
 
 " Ay," said Oonagh, " there's our difficulty. That giant is 
 the great Cuculhn ; and he's now comin' up to leather Fin. 
 What's to be done?" 
 
 " I'll call to him," she replied, " to come up to Cullamore, 
 and refresh himself, and maybe that will give you and Fin 
 time to think of some plan to get yourselves out of the scrape. 
 *' But," she proceeded, " I'm short of butter, having in the 
 house only half a dozen firkins, and as I'm to have a few giants 
 and giantesses to spend the evenin' with me, I'd feel thankful, 
 Oonagh, if you'd throw me up fifteen or sixteen tubs, or the 
 largest miscaun you have got, and you'll oblige me very 
 much." 
 
 " I'll do that with a heart and a half," replied Oonagh ; 
 " and, indeed, Granua, I feel myself under great obhgations to 
 you for your kindness in keeping him off of us, till we see what 
 can be done ; for what would become of us all if any thing 
 happened Fin, poor man?" 
 
 She accordingly got the largest miscaun of butter she had — 
 
104 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 wliich might be about the weight of a couple dozen millstones, 
 so that you may easily judge of its size — and calling up to her 
 sister, " Granua," said she, " are you ready ? I'm going to 
 throw you up a miscaun, so be prepared to catch it." 
 
 " I will," said the other ; "a good throw now, and take care 
 it does not fall short." 
 
 Oonagh threw it ; but in consequence of her anxiety about 
 Fin and Cucullin, she forgot to say the charm that was to send 
 it up, so that, instead of reaching Cullamore, as she expected, 
 it fell about half way between the two hills, at the edge of the 
 Broad Bog near Augher. 
 
 " My curse upon you !" she exclaimed ; " you've disgraced 
 me. I now change you into a grey stone. Lie there as a 
 testimony of what has happened ; and may evil betide the first 
 living man that will ever attempt to remove or injure you !" 
 
 And, sure enough, there it lies to this day, with the mark 
 of the four fingers and thumb imprinted in it, exactly as it came 
 out of her hand. 
 
 *' Never mind," said Granua ; " I must only do the best I 
 can with Cucullin. If all fail, I'll give him a cast of heather 
 broth to keep the wind out of his stomach, or a panada of oak- 
 bark to draw it in a bit ; but, above all things, think of some 
 plan to get Fin out of the scrape he's in, otherwise he's a lost 
 man. You know you used to be sharp and ready-witted ; and 
 my own opinion, Oonagh, is, that it will go hard with you, or 
 you'll outdo Cuculhn yet." 
 
 She then made a high smoke on the top of the hill, after 
 which she put her finger in her mouth, and gave three whistles, 
 and by that Cucullin knew he was invited to Cullamore — for 
 this was the way that the Irish long ago gave a sign to all 
 strangers and travellers, to lot them know they were welcome 
 to come and take share of whatever was going. 
 
 In the meantime, Fin was very melancholy, and did not 
 know what to do, or how to act at all. Cucullin was an ugly 
 
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY. 105 
 
 customer, no doubt, to meet with ; and, moreover, the idea 
 of the confounded " cake" aforesaid, flattened the very heart 
 within him. What chance could he have, strong and brave 
 though he was, with a man who could, when put into a passion, 
 walk the country into earthquakes and knock thunderbolts into 
 pancakes ? The thing was impossible ; and Fin knew not on 
 what hand to turn him. Right or left — backward or forward — 
 where to go he could form no guess whntsoever. 
 
 " Oonagh," said he, "can you do nothing for me ? Where's 
 all your invention ? Am I to be skivered like a rabbit before 
 your eyes, and to have my name disgraced for omt in the sight 
 of all my tribe, and me the best man among them ? How am 
 I to fight this man-mountain — this huge cross between an 
 earthquake and a thunderbolt ? — with a pancake in his pocket 
 that was once" 
 
 " Be easy, Fin," replied Oonagh ; " troth, I'm ashamed of 
 you. Keep your toe in your pump, will you ? Talking of 
 pancakes, maybe we'll give him as good as any he brings with 
 him — thunderbolt or otherwise. If I don't treat him to as 
 smart feeding as he's got this many a day, n^ver trust Oonagh 
 again. Leave him to me, and do just as I bid you." 
 
 This relieved Fin very much ; for, after all, he had great 
 confidence in his wife, knowing, as he did, that she had got him 
 'out of many a quandary before. The present, however, was 
 the greatest of all ; but still he began to get courage, and was 
 able to eat his victuals as usual. Oonagh then drew the nine 
 woollen threads of different colours, which she always did to 
 find out the best way of succeeding in any thing of importance 
 she went about. She then platted them into three plats with 
 three colours in each, putting one on her right arm, one round 
 her heart, and the third round her right ankle, for then she 
 knew that nothing could fail with her that she undertook. 
 
 Having every thing now prepared, she sent round to the 
 neighbours and borrowed onc-and-twenty iron griddles, which 
 
106 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 she took and kneaded into the hearts of one-and-twenty cakes 
 of bread, and these she baked on the fire in the usual way, 
 setting them aside in the cupboard according as they were 
 done. She then put down a large pot of new milk, which she 
 made into curds and whey, and gave Fin due instructions how 
 to use the curds when CuculHn should come. Having done all 
 this, she sat down quite contented, waiting for his arrival 
 on the next day about two o'clock, that being the hour at 
 which he was expected — for Fin knew as much by the sucking 
 of his thumb. !N'ow, this was a curious property that Fin's 
 thumb had ; but, notwithstanding all the wisdom and logic he 
 used to suck out of it, it could never have stood to him here were 
 it not for the wit of his wife. In tliis very thing, moreover, he 
 was very much resembled by his great foe Cuculhn ; for it was 
 well known that the huge strength he possessed all lay in the 
 middle finger of his right hand, and that, if he happened by 
 any mischance to lose it, he was no more, notwithstanding his 
 bulk, than a common man. 
 
 At length, the next day, he was seen coming across the 
 valley, and Oonajh knew that it was time to commence opera- 
 tions. She immediately made the cradle, and desired Fin to 
 lie down in it, and cover himself up with the clothes. 
 
 " You must pass for your own child," said she ; " so just he 
 there snug, and say notliing, but be guided by me." This, to* 
 be sure, was wormwood to Fin — I mean going into the cradle 
 in such a cowardly manner — but he knew Oonagh well ; and 
 finding that he had nothing else for it, with a very rueful face 
 he gathered himself into it, and lay snug as she had desired 
 him. 
 
 About two o'clock, as he had been expected, CucuUin came 
 in. " God save all here !" said he ; is this where the great 
 Fin M'Coul lives?" 
 
 " Indeed it is, honest man," replied Oonagh ; " God save 
 you kindly — won't you be sitting ?" 
 
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY. 107 
 
 " Thaiik you, ma'am," says he, sitting down ; '' you're Mrs. 
 M'Coul, I suppose ?" 
 
 " I am," said she ; '^ and I have no reason, I hope, to be 
 ashamed of my husband." 
 
 " No," said the other ; " he has the name of being the 
 strongest and bravest man in Ireland ; but for all that, there's 
 a man not far from you that's very desirous of taking a shake 
 with him. Is he at home ?" 
 
 " Why, then, no," she rephed ; " and if ever a man left his 
 house in a fury, he did. It appears that some one told him of 
 a big basthoon of a giant called Cuculhn being down at the 
 Causeway to look for him, and so he set out there to try if he 
 could catch him. Troth, I hope, for the poor giant's sake, he 
 won't meet with him, for if he does, Fin will make paste of 
 him at once." 
 
 " Well," said the other, " I am Cucullin, and I have been 
 seeking him these twelvemonths, but he always kept clear of 
 me ; and I will never rest night or day till I lay my hands on 
 him." 
 
 At tliis Oonagh set up a loud laugh, of great contempt, by 
 the way, and looked at liim as if he was only a mere handful 
 of a man. 
 
 " Did you ever see Fin ?" said she, changing her manner all 
 at once. 
 
 " How could I ?" said he ; "he always took care to keep his 
 distance." 
 
 *' I thought so," she rephed ; " I judged as much ; and if 
 you take my advice, you poor-looking creature, you'll pray 
 night and day that you may never see him, for I teU you it 
 will be a black day for you when you do. But, in the mean 
 time, you perceive that the wind's on the door, and as Fin him- 
 self is from home, maybe you'd be civil enough to turn the 
 house, for it's always what Fin does when he's here." 
 
 This was a startler even to CuculHn ; but he got up, how- 
 
108 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 ever, and after pulling the middle finger of his right hand until 
 it cracked three times, he went outside, and getting his arms 
 about the house, completely turned it as she had wished. 
 When Fin saw this, he felt a certain description of moisture, 
 which shall be nameless, oozing out through every pore of his 
 skin ; but Oonagh, depending upon her woman's wit, felt not a 
 whit daunted. 
 
 " Arrah, then," said she, " as you are so civil, maybe you'd 
 do another obhging turn for us, as Fin's not here to do it him- 
 self. You see, after this long stretch of dry weather we've 
 had, we feel very badly off for want of water. Now, Fin says 
 there's a fine spring-well somewhere under the rocks behind the 
 hill here below, and it was his intention to pull them asunder ; 
 but having heard of you, he left the place in such a fury, that 
 he never thought of it. Now, if you try to find it, troth I'd 
 feel it a kindness." 
 
 She then brought CucuUin down to see the place, which was 
 then all one soUd rock ; and, after looking at it for some time, 
 he cracked his right middle finger nine times, and, stooping 
 down, tore a cleft about four hundred feet deep, and a quarter 
 of a mile in length, which has since been christened by the 
 name of Lumford's Glen. This feat nearly threw Oonagh her- 
 self off her guard; but what won't a woman's sagacity and 
 presence of mind accomplish ? 
 
 "You'll now come in," said she, "and eat a bit of such 
 humble fare as we can give you. Fin, even although he and 
 you are enemies, would scorn not to treat •you kindly in his 
 own house ; and, indeed, if I didn't do it even in his absence, 
 he would not be pleased with me." 
 
 She accordingly brought him in, and placing half a dozen of 
 the cakes we spoke of before him, together with a can or two 
 of butter, a side of boiled bacon, and a stack of cabbage, she 
 desired him to help himself — for this, bo it known, was long 
 before the invention of potatoes. Cucullin, who, by the way, 
 
A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY. 109 
 
 was a glutton as well as a hero, put one of the cakes in his 
 mouth to take a hu2:c whack out of it, when both Fin and 
 Oonagh were stunned with a noise that resembled something 
 between a growl and a yell. " Blood and fury !" he shouted ; 
 *' how is this ? Here are two of my teeth out ! What kind of 
 bread is this you gave me ?" 
 
 " What's the matter ?" said Oonagh coolly. 
 
 " Matter !" shouted the other again ; " why, here are the 
 two best teeth in my head gone !" 
 
 " Why," said she, " that's Fin's bread — the only bread he 
 ever eats when at home ; but, indeed, I forgot to tell you that 
 nobody can eat it but liimself, and that child in the cradle 
 there. I thought, however, that, as you were reported to be 
 rather a stout httle fellow of your size, you might be able to 
 manage it, and I did not wish to affront a man that tliinks 
 himself able to fight Fin. Here's another cake — maybe it's 
 not so hard as that." 
 
 Cuculhn at the moment was not only hungry but ravenous, 
 so he accordingly made a fresh set at the second cake, and im- 
 mediately another yell was heard twice as loud as the first. 
 " Thunder and giblets !" he roared, " take your bread out of 
 this, or I will not have a tooth in my head ; there's another 
 pair of them gone !" 
 
 " Well, honest man," repHed Oonagh, " if you're not able to 
 eat the bread, say so quietly, and don't be wakening the child 
 in the cradle there. There, now, he's awake upon me." 
 
 Fin now gave a skirl that startled the giant, as coming from 
 such a youngster as he was represented to be. ''Mother," 
 said he, " I'm hungry — get me sometliing to eat." Oonagh 
 went over, and putting into his hand a cake that had no griddle 
 in it, Fin, whose appetite in the meantime was sharpened by 
 what he saw going forward, soon made it disappear. Cucullin 
 was thunderstruck, and secretly thanked his stars that he had 
 
110 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 the good fortune to miss meeting Fin, for, as he said to him- 
 self, I'd have no chance with a man who could eat such bread 
 as that, which even his son that's but m his cradle can munch 
 before my eyes. 
 
 " I'd like to take a glimpse at the lad in the cradle," said he 
 to Oonagh ; '' for I can tell you that the infant who can manage 
 that nutriment is no joke to look at, or to feed of a scarce 
 summer." 
 
 " With all the veins of my heart," replied Oonagh. " Get 
 up, acushla, and show this decent httle man something that 
 won't be unworthy of your father. Fin M'Coul." 
 
 Fin, who was dressed for the occasion as much like a boy as 
 possible, got up, and bringing Cuculhn out — " Are you strong ?" 
 said he. 
 
 " Thunder an' ounds !" exclaimed the other, " what a voice 
 in so small a chap !" 
 
 *' Are you strong ?" said Fin again ; " are you able to 
 squeeze water out of that white stone ?" he asked, putting one 
 into Cucullin's hand. The latter squeezed and squeezed the 
 stone, but to no purpose : he might pull the rocks of Lumford's 
 Glen asunder, and flatten a thunderbolt, but to squeeze water 
 out of a white stone was beyond his strength. Fin eyed him 
 with great contempt, as he kept straining and squeezing, and 
 squeezing and straining, till he got black in the face with the 
 efforts. 
 
 " Ah, you're a poor creature I" said Fin. " You a giant ! 
 Give me the stone here, and when I'll show what Fin's little 
 son can do, you may then judge of what my daddy himself is." 
 
 Fin then took the stone, and slily exchanging it for the 
 curds, he squeezed the latter until the whey, as clear as water, 
 oozed out in a httle shower from his hand. 
 
 " rU now go in," said he, " to my cradle ; for I'd scorn to 
 lose my time with any one that's not able to eat my daddy's 
 
A LEGEND OF KNOCKM.VNY. Ill 
 
 bread, or squeeze water out of a stone. Bedad, you had better 
 be off out of this before he comes back ; for if he catches you, 
 it's in flummery he'd have you in two minutes." 
 
 CuculHn, seeing what he had seen, was of the same opinion 
 himself ; his knees knocked together with the terror of Fin's 
 return, and he accordingly hastened in to bid Oonagh farewell, 
 and to assure her, that from that day out, he never wished to 
 hear of, much less to see, her husband. " I admit fairly that 
 I'm not a match for him," said he, " strong as I am ; tell Mm 
 I will avoid him as I would the plague, and that I wiU make 
 myself scarce in this part of the country while I live." 
 
 Fin, in the mean time, had gone into the cradle, where he 
 lay very quietly, liis heart at his mouth with dehght that 
 Cucullin was about to take his departure, without discovering 
 the tricks that had been played off on him. 
 
 " It's well for you," said Oonagh, " that he doesn't happen 
 to be here, for it's nothing but hawk's meat he'd make of you." 
 
 " I know that," says Cuculhn ; " divil a thing else he'd make 
 of me ; but before I go, will you let me feel what kind of teeth 
 they are that can eat griddle-bread like that F" — and he pointed 
 to it as he spoke. 
 
 " With all pleasure in life," said she ; " only, as they're far 
 back in his head, you must put your finger a good way in." 
 
 CuculHn was surprised to find such a powerful set of grinders 
 in one so young; but he was still much more so on finding, 
 when he took his hand from Fin's mouth, that he had left the 
 very finger upon which his whole strength depended, behind 
 him. He gave one loud groan, and fell down at once with 
 terror and weakness. This was all Fin wanted, who now knew 
 that his most powerful and bitterest enemy was completely at 
 his mercy. He instantly started out of the cradle, and in a 
 few minutes the great Cucullin, that was for such a length of 
 time the terror of him and all his followers, lay a corpse before 
 him. Thus did Fin, through the wit and invention of Oonagh, 
 
112 IRISH SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 his wife, succeed in overcoming his enemy by stratagem, 
 which he never could have done by force ; and thus also is it 
 proved that the women, if they bring us into many an unplea- 
 sant scrape, can sometimes succeed in getting us out of others 
 that are as bad.* 
 
 • Of the grey stone mentioned in this legend, there is a very striking and 
 melancholy anecdote to be told. Some twelve or thirteen years ago, a gen- 
 tleman in the vicinity of the site of it was building a house, and, in defiance 
 of the legend and curse connected with it, he resolved to break it up and use 
 it. It was with some difficulty, however, that he could succeed in gettmg 
 his labourers to have any thing to do with its mutilation. Two men, how- 
 ever, undertook to blast it, but, somehow, the process of ignition being mis. 
 managed, it exploded prematurely, and one of them was killed. This coin- 
 cidence was held as a fulfilment of the curse mentioned in the legend. I 
 have heard that it remains in that mutilated state to the present day, no 
 other person being found who had the hardihood to touch it. This stone, 
 before it was disfigured, exactly resembled that which the country people 
 term a miscaun of butter, which is precisely the shape of a complete prism, 
 a circumstance, no doubt, which, in the fertile imagination of the old Sena- 
 chies, gave rise to the superstition annexed to it. 
 
 " It may be mentioned that, in the Interlude of the Droich's Part of the 
 Play, above quoted, the wife of Fin M'Coul is represented as the originator 
 of a much larger mass of rock than the grey stone — namely, the basaltic hill 
 of Craigforth, near Stirling. In like manner, Hibernian legend makes St. 
 Patrick drop the rock of Dumbarton and Ailsa Crag on his way to Ireland," — , 
 Messrs. Chambers. 
 
ROSE MOAN, 
 
 THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 
 
 Of the many remarkable characters that have been formed 
 by the spnnt and habits of Irish feehng among the peasantry, 
 there is not one so clear, distinct, and well traced, as that of 
 the Midwife. We could mention several that are certainly 
 marked with great precision, and that stand out in fine relief 
 to the eye of the spectator, but none at all, who, in richness of 
 colouring, in boldness of outline, or in firmness and force, can 
 for a moment be compared with the Midwife. The Fiddler, 
 for instance, lives a life sufiftciently graphic and distinct ; so 
 does the Dancing-master, and so also does the Match-maker, 
 but with some abatement of colouring. As for the Cosherer, 
 the Senachie, the Keener, and the Foster-nurse, although all 
 mellow-toned, and well individuaUzed by the strong power 
 of hereditary usage, yet do they stand dim and shadowy, 
 when placed face to face with this great exponent of the 
 national temperament. 
 
 It is almost impossible to conceive a character of greater 
 self-importance than an Irish Midwife, or who exhibits in her 
 whole bearing a more complacent conciousness of her own 
 privileges. The Fiddler, might be dispensed with, an the 
 Dancing-master might follow him off the stage ; the Cosherer, 
 Senachie, Keener, might all disappear, and the general business 
 of life still go on as before. But not so with her whom we are 
 describing ; and this conviction is the very basis of her power, 
 the secret source from which she draws the confidence tliat 
 bears down every rival claim upon the affections of the people. 
 I 
 
114 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 Before we introduce Rose Moan to our kind readers, we 
 shall briefly relate a few points of character pecuhar to the 
 Irish Midwife, because they are probably not in general known 
 to a very numerous class of our readers. Tliis is a matter 
 which we are the more anxious to do, because it is undeniable 
 that an acquaintance with many of the old lengendary powers 
 with which she was supposed to be invested, is fast fading out 
 of the public memory ; and unless put into timely record, it is 
 to be feared that in the course of one or two generations more, 
 they may altogether disappear and be forgotten. 
 
 One of the least known of the secrets which old traditionary 
 lore affirmed to have been in possession of the midwife, was the 
 knowledge of how beer might be brewed from heather. The 
 Irish people believe that the Danes understood and practised 
 this valuable process, and will assure you that the liquor pre- 
 pared from materials so cheap and abundant was superior in 
 strength and flavour to any ever produced from malt. Nay, 
 they will tell you how it conferred such bodily strength and 
 courage upon those who drank it, that it was to the influence 
 and virtue of this alone that the Danes held such a protracted 
 sway, and won so many victories in Ireland. It was a secret, 
 however, too valuable to be disclosed, especially to enemies, 
 who would lose no time in turning the important consequences 
 of it against the Danes themselves. The consequence was, that 
 from the day the first Dane set foot upon the soil of Ireland, 
 until that upon which they bade it adieu for ever, no Irishman 
 was ever able to get possession of it. It came to be known, 
 however, and the knowledge of it is said to be still in the 
 country, but must remain unavailable until the fulfilment of a 
 certain prophecy connected with the liberation of Ireland shall 
 take away the obligation of a most solemn oath, which bound 
 the original recipient of the secret to this conditional silence. 
 The circumstances are said to have been these : — 
 
 On the evening previous to the final embarkation of the 
 
THE HUSH MIDWIFE. 115 
 
 Danes for their own country, the wife of their prince was 
 seized with the pains of child-birth, and there being no midwife 
 among themselves, an Irish one was brought, who, as the 
 enmity between the nations was both strong and bitter, reso- 
 lutely withheld her services, unless upon the condition of being 
 made acquainted with this invaluable process. The crisis it 
 seems being a very trying one, the condition was comphed with; 
 but the midwife was solemnly sworn never to communicate 
 it to any but a woman, and never to put it in practice until 
 Ireland should be free, and any two of its provinces at peace 
 with each other. The midwife, thinking very naturally that 
 there remained no obstacle to the accomplishment of these 
 conditions but the presence of the Danes themselves, and 
 seeing that they were on the eve of leaving the country for 
 ever, imagined herself perfectly safe in entering into the 
 obligation ; but it so happened, says the tradition, that although 
 the knowledge of the secret is among the Irish midwives still, 
 yet it never could be apphed, and never will, until Ireland shall 
 be in the state required by the terms of her oath. So runs 
 the tradition. 
 
 There is, however, one species of power with wliich some of 
 the old midwives were said to be gifted, so exquisitely ludicrous, 
 and yet at the same time so firmly fixed in the belief of many 
 among the people, that we cannot do justice to the character 
 without mentioning so strange an acquisition. It is tliis, that 
 where a husband happens to be cruel to his wife, or suspects 
 her unjustly, the midwife is able, by some mysterious charm, 
 to inflict upon him and remove from the wife the sufferings 
 annexed to her confinement, as the penalty mentioned by holy 
 writ wliich is to follow the sex in consequence of the trans- 
 gression of our mother Eve. Some of our readers may 
 perhaps imagine this to be incredible, but we assure them that 
 it is strictly true. Such a superstition did prevail in Ireland 
 among the humbler classes, and still does, to an extent which 
 
116 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 Avould surprise any one not as well acquainted with the old 
 Irish usages and superstitions as we happen to be. The manner 
 in which the midwife got possession of tliis power is as 
 follows : — It frequently happened that the " good people/' or 
 Dhoine Shee — that is, the fairies — were put to the necessity of 
 having recourse to the aid of the midwife. On one of those 
 occasions it seems, the good woman discharged her duties so 
 successfully, that the fairy matron, in requital for her services 
 and promptitude of attendance, communicated to her this 
 secret, so formidable to all bad husbands. From the period 
 alluded to, say the people, it has of course been gladly trans- 
 mitted from hand to hand, and on many occasions resorted to 
 with fearful but salutary effect. Within our own memory 
 several instances of its application were pointed out to us, and 
 the very individuals themselves, when closely interrogated, 
 were forced to an assertion that was at least equivalent to an 
 admission, " it was nothing but an attack of the cholic," which, 
 by the way, was little else than a libel upon that departed 
 malady. Many are the tales told of cases in which midwives 
 were professionally serviceable to the good people ; but unless 
 their assistance was repaid by the communication of some 
 secret piece of knowledge, it was better to receive no payment, 
 any other description of remuneration being considered un- 
 fortunate. 
 
 From this source also was derived another most valuable 
 quality said to be possessed by the Irish midwife, but one 
 which we should suppose the virtue of our fair countrywomen 
 rendered of very unfrequent application. This was the power 
 of destroying jealousy between man and wife. We forget whe- 
 ther it was said to be efficacious in cases of guilt, but we should 
 imagine that the contrary would rather hold good, as an Irish- 
 man is not exactly that description of husband who would suf- 
 fer himself to be charmed back into the arms of a faithless wife. 
 This was effected by the knowledge of a certain herb, a decoc- 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 117 
 
 tion of which the pcarties were to drink nine successive times, 
 each time before sunrise and after sunset. Of course the name 
 of the herb was kept a profound secret; but even if it had been 
 known, it could have proved of httle value, for the full force 
 of its influence depended on a charm which the midwife had 
 learned among the fairies. Whether it was the Anacampse- 
 rotes of the middle ages or not, is difiicult to say; but one thing 
 is certain, that not only have midwives, but other persons of 
 both sexes, gone about through the country professing to cure 
 jealousy by the juice or decoction of a mysterious herb, which 
 was known only to themselves. It is not unhkely to suppose 
 that this great secret was, after all, nothing more than a per- 
 verted apphcation of the Waters of Jealousy, mentioned by 
 Moses, and that it only resembled many other charms prac- 
 tised in this and other countries, which are generally founded 
 upon certain passages of Scripture. Indeed, there is httle 
 doubt that the practice of attempting to cure jealousy by herbs 
 existed elsewhere as well as in Ireland; and one would certainly 
 imagine that Shakspeare, who left nothing connected with the 
 human heart untouched, must have alluded to the very custom 
 we are treating of, when he makes lago, speaking of Othello's 
 jealousy, say — 
 
 " Look where he comes ! not poppy, nor mandragora. 
 Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world. 
 Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep 
 Which thou hadst yesterday." 
 
 Here it is quite evident that the efficacy of the "syrups" 
 spoken of was to be tried upon the mind only in which the 
 Moor's horrible malady existed. That Shakspeare, in the 
 passage quoted, alluded to this singular custom, is, we think, 
 at least probable. 
 
 We have said that the midwife stood high as a match-maker, 
 and so, unquestionably, she did. No woman was better ac- 
 quainted with charms of all kinds, especially with those that 
 
118 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 were calculated to aid or throw light upon the progress of love. 
 If, for instance, young persons of either sex felt doubt as to 
 whether their passion was retui^ned, they generally consulted 
 the midwife, who, on hearing a statement of their apprehen- 
 sions, appointed a day on which she promised to satisfy them. 
 Accordingly, at the time agreed upon, she and the party 
 interested repaired as secretly as might be, and with much 
 mystery, to some lonely place, where she produced a Bible 
 and key both of w^hich she held in a particular position — ^that 
 is, the Bible suspended by a string which passed through the 
 key. She then uttered with a grave and solemn face the 
 following verses from the Book of Ruth, which the young per- 
 son accompanying her was made to repeat slowly and dehbe- 
 rately after her : — 
 
 " And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee or to return 
 from following after thee : for whither thou goest I will go ; 
 and where thou lodgest I will lodge : thy people shall be my 
 people, and thy God my God : 
 
 " Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried : 
 the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part 
 thee and me." 
 
 If, at the conclusion of these words, the Bible turned, she 
 affirmed, with the air of a prophetess, not only that the affec- 
 tion of the parties was mutual, but that their courtship would 
 terminate in marriage. If, on the contrary, it remained sta- 
 tionary, the passion existed only on one side, and the parties 
 were not destined for each other. Oh, credulous love I not to 
 see that the venerable sybil could allow the Bible to turn or 
 not, just as she may have previously ascertained from either 
 party whether their attachment was reciprocal or otherwise ! 
 We dare say the above charm is seldom resorted to now, and 
 of course this harmless imposition on the lovers will soon cease 
 to be practised at all. 
 
 The midwife's aid to lovers, however, did not stop here. If 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 119 
 
 they wished to create a passion in some heart where it had not 
 previously existed, she told them to get a dormouse and reduce 
 it to powder, a pinch of which, if put into the drink of the 
 person beloved, would immediately rivet his or her affections 
 upon the individual by whose hand it was administered. Many 
 anecdotes are told of humorous miscarriages that resulted from 
 a neglect of this condition. One is especially well known, of 
 a young woman who gave the potion through the hands of her 
 grandmother ; and the consequence was, that the bachelor im- 
 mecUately made love to the old lady instead of the young one, 
 and eventually became grandfather to the latter instead of her 
 husband. Indeed, the administering of philters and the use of 
 charms in Ireland was formerly very frequent, and occasionally 
 attended by results which had not been anticipated. The use 
 especially of cantharides, or French flies, in the hands of the 
 ignorant, has often been said to induce madness, and not 
 unfrequently to occasion death. It is not very long since a 
 melancholy case of the latter from this very cause appeared in 
 an Irish newspaper. 
 
 The midwife was also a great interpreter of dreams, omens, 
 auguries, and signs of all possible sorts, and no youngsters who 
 ever consulted her need be long at a loss for a personal view 
 of the object of their love. They had only to seek in some 
 remote glen or dell for a briar whose top had taken root in 
 the ground, or a briar with two roots, as it is called : this they 
 were to put under their pillow and sleep upon, and the certain 
 consequence was, that the image of the future wife or husband 
 would appear to them in a dream. She was also famous at 
 cup-tossing ; and nothing could surpass the slirewd and sapient 
 expression of her face as she sat solemnly peering into, the 
 grounds of the tea for the imaginary forms of rings, and love- 
 letters, and carriages, which were necessary to the happy 
 purport of her divination, for she felt great reluctance to fore- 
 tell calamity. She seldom, however, had recourse to card- 
 cutting, which she looked upon as an unholy practice; the 
 
120 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 cards, as every one knows, being the only book on which the 
 devil says his prayers night and morning. Who has not heard 
 of his prayer-booh ? 
 
 We are now to consider the midwife in the capacity of a 
 woman not only brimful of medicinal knowledge, but possessed 
 of many secrets, which the mere physician or apothecary could 
 never penetrate. As a doctress, she possessed a very high 
 reputation for all complaints incident to children and females ; 
 and where herbal skill failed, unlike the mere scientific man 
 of diplomas, she could set physical causes and effects aside, and 
 have recourse at once to the supernatural and miraculous. 
 
 For instance, there are two complaints which she is, beyond 
 any other individual, celebrated for managing — that is to say, 
 head-ache, and another malady which is anonymous, or only 
 known to country folk by what is termed " the spool or bone 
 of the breast being down." The first she cures by a very 
 formal and serious process called "measuring the head." 
 This is done by a ribbon, which she puts round the cranium, 
 repeating, during the admeasurement, a certain prayer or 
 charm from which the operation is to derive its whole efficacy. 
 The measuring is performed twice — in the first instance, to 
 show that its sutures are separated by disease, or, to speak 
 more plainly, that the bones of the head are absolutely opened, 
 and that as a natural consequence the head must bo much 
 larger than when the patient is in a state of health. The 
 circumference of the first admeasurement is marked upon a 
 ribbon, after which she repeats the charm that is to remove 
 the head-ache, and measures the cranium again, in order to 
 show, by a comparison of the two ribbons, that the sutures 
 have been closed, the charm successful, and the head-ache 
 consequently removed. It is impossible to say how the dis- 
 crepancy in the measurement is brought about ; but be that 
 as it may, the writer of this has frequently seen the operation 
 performed in such a way as to defy the most scrutinizing eye 
 to detect any appearance of imposture, and he is convinced 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 121 
 
 that in the majority of cases there is not the shghtest imposture 
 intended. The operator is in truth a dupe to a strong and 
 dehisive enthusiasm. 
 
 When the midwife raises the spool of the breast, the 
 operation is conducted without any assistance from the super- 
 natm'al. If a boy or girl diminishes in flesh, is troubled with 
 want of rest or of appetite, without being afllicted with any 
 particular disease, either acute or local, the midwife puts her 
 finger under the bone which projects over the pit of the 
 stomach, and immediately feels that " the spool of the breast 
 is down" — in other words, she informs the parents that the 
 bone is bent inwards, and presses upon the heart! The 
 raising of tliis precisely resembles the operation of cupping. 
 She gets a penny piece, which she places upon the spot 
 affected, the patient having been first laid in a supine posture; 
 after this she burns a httle spirits in a tumbler in order to 
 exhaust the air in it ; she then presses it quickly against the 
 part which is under the penny piece ; and in a few moments, 
 to the amazement of the lookers-on, it is drawn strongly up, 
 and remains so until the heart-bone is supposed to be raised in 
 such a manner as that it will not return. 
 
 The next charm for which she is remarkable among the 
 people, is that by which a mote is taken out of the eye. The 
 manner of doing tliis is as follows : A white basin is got, and a 
 jug of the purest water ; the midwife repeatedly rinses her 
 mouth with the water, until it returns as pure and clear as 
 when she took it. She then walks to and fro, repeating the 
 words of the charm, her mouth all the time filled with the 
 water. When the charm is finished, she pours the water out 
 of her mouth into the clean basin, and will point out the mote, 
 or whatever it may have been, floating in the water, or lying 
 in the bottom of the vessel. In fact, you could scarcely 
 mention a malady with wliich the midwife of the old school 
 was not prepared to grapple by the aid of a charm. The 
 tooth-ache, the choUc, measles, child-birth, all had their 
 
122 ROSE MOANy 
 
 respective charms. The latter especially required one of a 
 very pithy cast. Every one knows that the power of fairies 
 in Ireland is never so strong, nor so earnestly put forth, as in 
 the moment of parturition, when they strive by all possible 
 means to secure the new-born infant before it is christened, 
 and leave a changeling in its stead. Invaluable indeed is the 
 midwife who is possessed of a charm to prevent this, and 
 knows how to arrange all the ceremonies that are to be 
 observed upon the occasion, without making any mistake, for 
 that would vitiate all. Many a time, on such occasions, have 
 the ribs of the roof been made to crack, the windows rattled 
 out, the door pushed with violence, and the whole house shaken 
 as if it would tumble about their heads — and aU by the fairies; 
 but to no purpose : the charm of the midwife was a rock of 
 defence ; the necessary precautions had been taken, and they 
 were ultimately forced to depart in a strong blast of wind, 
 screaming and howling with rage and disappointment as they 
 went. 
 
 There were also charms for the diseases of cattle, to cure 
 which there exist in Ireland some processes of very distant 
 antiquity. We ourselves have seen elemental fire produced by 
 the friction of two green boughs together, applied as a remedy 
 for the black-leg and murrain. This is evidently of Pagan 
 origin, and must have some remote affinity with the old 
 doctrines of Baal, the ancient god of fire, whose worship was 
 once so general in Ireland. 
 
 Of these charms it may be said that they are all of a 
 religious character, some of them evidently the production of 
 imposture, and others apparently of those who seriously 
 believed in their efficacy. There is one thing pecuhar about 
 them, wliich is, that they must be taught to persons of the 
 opposite sex : a man, for instance, cannot teach a charm to a 
 man, nor a woman to a woman, but he may to a woman, as a 
 woman may to a man. If taught or learned in violation of 
 this principle, they possess no virtue. 
 
THE IRISH MIDWirE. 123 
 
 In treating of the Irish midwife, we cannot permit ourselves 
 to overlook the superstition of the " lucky caul," which comes 
 so clearly within her province. The caul is a thin membrane, 
 about the consistence of very fine silk, which covers the head 
 of a new-born infant like a cap. It is always the omen of 
 great good fortune to the infant and parents ; and in Ireland, 
 when any one has unexpectedly fallen into the receipt of 
 property, or any other temporal good, it is customary to say, 
 " such a person was born with a ' lucky caul' on his head." 
 
 Why these are considered lucky, it would be a very difficult 
 matter to ascertain. Several instances of good fortune, 
 happening to such as were born with them, might by their 
 coincidences form a basis for the superstition ; just as the fact 
 of three men during one severe winter having been found 
 drowned, each with two sliirts on, generated an opinion which 
 has now become fixed and general in that parish, that it is 
 unlucky to wear two sliirts at once. We are not certain 
 whether the caul is in general the perquisite of the midwife — • 
 sometimes we believe it is ; at all events, her integrity occa- 
 sionally yields to the desire of possessing it. In many cases 
 she conceals its existence, in order that she may secretly 
 dispose of it to good advantage, which she frequently does ; 
 for it is considered to be the herald of good fortune to those 
 who can get it into their possession. JN'ow, let not our Enghsh 
 neighbours smile at us for those tilings, until they wash their 
 own hands clear of such practices. At this day a caul wdll 
 bring a good price in the most civihzed city in the world — to 
 wit, the good city of London — the British metropohs. Nay, 
 to such lengths has the mania for cauls been carried there, 
 that they have been actually advertised for in the Times 
 newspaper ; and it is perfectly weU known that a large price 
 wiU be given for them by that very intelhgent class of men, 
 the sliip captains of England, who look upon a caul as a certain 
 preservative against shipwreck. 
 
124 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 Of a winter evening, at the fireside, there can be few more 
 amusing companions than a midwife of the old school. She 
 has the smack of old times and old usages about her, and 
 tastes of that agreeable simphcity of manners which always 
 betokens a harmless and inoffensive heart. Her language is 
 at once easy, copious, and minute, and if a good deal pedantic, 
 the pedantry is rather the traditionary phraseology and 
 antique humour which descends with her profession, than the 
 pecuUar property or bias of her individual mind. She affects 
 much mystery, and intimates that she could tell many strange 
 stories of high life ; but she is always too honourable to betray 
 the confidence that hq.s been reposed in her good faith and 
 secrecy. In her dress she always consults warmth and comfort, 
 and seldom or never looks to appearance. Flannel and cotton 
 she heaps on herself in abundant folds, and the consequence is, 
 that although subject to all the inclemency of the seasons both 
 by night and day, she is hardly ever known to be sick. 
 
 Having thus recited everything, so far as we could remem- 
 ber it, connected with the social antiquities of her calhng, and 
 detailed some matters not generally known, that may, we 
 trust, be interesting to those who are fond of looking at the 
 springs which often move rustic society, we now close this 
 " Essay on Midwifery," and beg to bring the midwife herself 
 personally on the stage, that she may speak and act for herself 
 
 The village of Bally comaisy was as pleasant a little place as 
 one might wish to sec of a summer's day. To be sure, lil^e all 
 other Irish villages, it was remarkable for a superfluity of 
 " pigs, praties, and childro," which being the stock in trade of 
 an Irish cabin, it is to bo presumed that very few villages either 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 125 
 
 in Ireland or elsewhere could go on properly without them. 
 It consisted principally of one long street, which you entered 
 from the north-west side by one of those old-fashioned bridges, 
 the arches of which were much more akin to the Gothic than 
 the Roman. Most of the houses were of mud, a few of stone, 
 one or two of which had the honour of being slated on the 
 front side of the roof, and rustically thatched on the back, 
 where ostentation w^as not necessary. There were two or three 
 shops, a hberal sprinkhng of public houses, a chapel a httle 
 out of the town, and an old dilapidated market-house near the 
 centre. A few little bye-streets projected in a lateral direction 
 from the main one, which was terminated on the side opposite 
 to the north-west by a pound, through which, as usual, ran a 
 shallow stream, that was gathered into a little gutter as it 
 crossed the road. A crazy antiquated mill, all covered and 
 cobwebbed with grey mealy dust, stood about a couple of hun- 
 dred yards out of the town, to which two straggling rows of 
 houses, that looked like an abortive street, led you. Tliis mill 
 was surrounded by a green common, which was again hemmed 
 in by a fine river, that ran round in a curving line from under 
 the hunchbacked arch of the bridge we mentioned at the be- 
 ginning. Kow, a httle behind, or rather above this mill, on the 
 skirt of the aforesaid common, stood a rather neat-looking 
 whitish cabin with about half a rood of garden behind it. It 
 was but small, and consisted merely of a sleeping-room and 
 kitchen. On one side of the door there was a window, opening 
 on liinges ; and on the outside, to the right as you entered the 
 house, there was placed a large stone, about four feet high, 
 backed by a sloping mound of earth, so graduated as to allow a 
 person to ascend the stone without any difficulty. In this cabin 
 lived Rose Moan, the midwife ; and we need scarcely inform our 
 readers that the stone in question was her mounting-stone, by 
 which she was enabled to place herself on piUion or crupper, 
 as the case happened, w^hen called out upon her usual avocation. 
 
126 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 Rose was what might be called a flahoolagh, or portly 
 woman, with a good-humoured set of Milesian features ; that 
 is to say, a pair of red, broad cheeks, a well-set nose, allowing 
 for the disposition to turn up, and two black twinkhng eyes, 
 with a mellow expression that betokened good nature, and a 
 pecuHar description of knowing professional humour that is 
 never to be met with in any hut a midwife. Rose was di'essed 
 in a red flannel petticoat, a warm cotton sack or wrapper, wliich 
 pinned easily over a large bust, and a comfortable woollen 
 shawl. She always wore a long-bordered morning cap, over 
 which, while travelhng, she pinned a second shawl of Scotch 
 plaid ; and to protect her from the cold night air, she enfolded 
 her precious person in a deep blue cloak of the true indigo 
 tint. On her head, over cloak and shawl and morning cap, 
 was fixed a black " splush hat," with the leaf strapped down 
 by her ears on each side, so that in point of fact she cared 
 little how it blew, and never once dreamed that such a process 
 as that of Raper or Mackintosh was necessary to keep the liege 
 subjects of these realms warm and water-proof, nor that two 
 systems should exist in Ireland so strongly antithetical to each 
 other as those of Raper and Father Mathew. 
 
 Having thus given a brief sketch of her local habitation and 
 personal appearance, we shall transfer our readers to the house 
 of a young new-married farmer named Keho, who hved in a 
 distant part of the parish. Keho was a comfortable fellow, full 
 of good nature and credulity; but liis wife happened to be one 
 of the sharpest, meanest, most suspicious, and miserable devils 
 that ever was raised in good-humoured Ireland. Her voice 
 was as sharp and her heart as cold as an icicle; and as for her 
 tongue, it was incessant and interminable. Were it not that 
 her husband, who, though good-natured, was fiery and resolute 
 when provoked, exercised a firm and salutary control over her, 
 she would have starved both him and her servants into perfect 
 skeletons. And what was still worse, with a temper that was 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 127 
 
 vindictive and tyrannical, she affected to be religious, and upon 
 those who did not know her, actually attempted to pass herself 
 off as a saint. 
 
 One night, about ten or twelve months after his marriage, 
 honest Corny Keho came out to the barn, where slept his two 
 farm servants, named Phil Hannigan and Barny Casey. He 
 had been sitting by himself, composing his mind for a calm 
 night's sleep, or probably for a curtain lecture, by taking a 
 contemplative whiff of the pipe, when the servant wench, with 
 a certain air of hurry, importance, and authority, entered the 
 kitchen, and informed him that Rose Moan must immediately 
 be sent for. 
 
 " The misthress isn't well, masther, an' the sooner she's sint 
 for, the betther. So mind my words, sir, if you plaise, an' pack 
 aff either Pliil or Barny for Rose Moan, an' I hope I won't 
 have to ax it again — hem !" 
 
 Dandy Keho — for so Corny was called, as being remarkable 
 for his slovenhness — started up hastily, and having taken the 
 pipe out of his mouth, was about to place it on the hob ; but 
 reflecting: that the whiff could not much retard him in the 
 dehvery of his orders, he sallied out to the barn, and knocked. 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 '' Lave that, wid you, unless you wish to be shotted." This 
 was followed by a loud laugh from within. 
 
 " Boys, get up wid all haste : it's the misthress. Phil, saddle 
 Hollo wback and fly — (puff) — fly in a jiffy for Rose Moan ; an' 
 do you, Barny, clap a back-sugaun — (puff) — an Sobersides, 
 an' be aff for the misthress's mother — (puff)." 
 
 Both were dressing themselves before he had concluded, and 
 in a very few minutes were off in different directions, each 
 according to the orders he had received. With Barny we 
 have nothing to do, unless to say that he lost little time in 
 bringing Mrs. Keho's mother to her aid ; but as Phil is gone 
 for a much more important character, we beg our readers to 
 
128 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 return with us to the cabin of Rose Moan, who is now fast 
 asleep — for it is twelve o'clock of a beautiful moonhght night, 
 in the pleasant month of August. Tap-tap. " Is Mrs. Moan 
 at home?" In about half a minute her warm good-looking 
 face, enveloped in flannel, is protruded from the window. 
 
 " Who's that, in God's name .^" The words in italics were 
 added, lest the message might be one from the fairies. 
 
 " I'm Dandy Keho's servant — one of them, at any rate — 
 an' my misthress has got a stitch in her side — ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Aisy, avick — so, she's doiun, thin — aisy — I'll be wid you 
 like a bow out of an arrow. Put your horse over to ' the 
 stone,' an' have him ready. The Lord bring her over her 
 difficulties, any way, amin, a chierna !" 
 
 She then pulled in her head, and in about three or four 
 minutes sallied out, dressed as we have described her ; and 
 having placed herself on the crupper, coolly put her right 
 arm round Phil's body, and desired him to ride on with all 
 possible haste. 
 
 " Push an, avouchal, push an — time's precious at all times, 
 but on business like this every minute is worth a life. But 
 there's always one comfort, that God is marciful. Push 
 for rid, avick." 
 
 " Never fear, Mrs. Moan. If it's in HoUowback, bcdad I'm 
 the babe that'll take it out of him. Come, ould Hackball, trot 
 out — you don't know the message you're an, nor who you're 
 carry in'." 
 
 " Isn't your misthress — manin' the Dandy's wife — a daugh- 
 ter of ould Fitzy Finnegan's, the schrew of Glendhu ?" 
 
 " Faith, you may say that, Rose, as we all know to our cost. 
 Be me song, she does have us sometimes that you might see 
 
 through us; an' only for the masther but, dang it, no 
 
 matter — she's down now, poor woman, an' it's not jist the time 
 to be rakin' up her failins." 
 
 " It is not, an' God mark you to grace for sayin' so. At a 
 
 I 
 1 
 
 ( 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 129 
 
 time like tliis we must forget every thing, only to do the best 
 we can for our fellow-creatures. What are you lookin' at, 
 avick ?" 
 
 Now, this question naturally arose from the fact that honest 
 Phil had been, during their short conversation, peering keenly 
 on each side of him, as if he expected an apparition to rise 
 from every furze-bush on the common. The truth is, he was 
 almost proverbial for his terror of ghosts and fairies, and all 
 supernatural visitants whatever ; but upon this occasion his 
 fears rose to a painful height, in consequence of the popular 
 belief, that, when a midwife is sent for, the Good People 
 throw every possible obstruction in her way, either by laming 
 the horse, if she rides, or by disqualifying the guide from per- 
 forming his duty as such. Pliil, however, felt ashamed to 
 avow his fears on these points, but still could not help uncon- 
 sciously turning the conversation to the very topic he thought 
 to have avoided. 
 
 '' What war you lookin' at, avick ?" 
 
 " Why, bedad, there appeared something there bey ant, Hke 
 a man, only it was darker. But be this and be that — hem, 
 ehem ! — if I could get my hands on him, whatsomever he" 
 
 " Hushth, boy, hould your tongue ; you don't know but it's 
 the very word you war goin' to say might do us harm." 
 
 " — Whatsomever he is, that I'd give him a hft on Hollow- 
 back, if he happened to be any poor fellow that stood in need 
 of it. Oh! the sorra word I was goin' to say against any 
 thing or any body." 
 
 " You're right, dear. If you knew as much as I could tell 
 you — push an — you'd have a dhrop o' sweat at the ind of 
 every hair on your head." 
 
 " Be my song, I'm tould you know a power o' quare things, 
 Mrs. Moan ; an' if all that's said is thrue, you sartinly do." 
 
 Now, had Mrs. Moan and her heroic guide passed through 
 the village of Bally comaisy, the latter would not have felt his 
 
 K 
 
130 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 fears so strong upon him. The road, however, along which 
 they were now going was a grass-grown bohreen, that led 
 them from behind her cabin through a waste and lonely part 
 of the country ; and as it was a saving of better than two 
 miles in point of distance, Mrs. Moan would not hear of their 
 proceeding by any other direction. The tenor of her conver- 
 sation, however, was fast bringing Phil to the state she so 
 grapliically and pithily described. 
 
 " What's your name ?" she asked. 
 
 " Phil Hannigan, a son of fat Phil's of Balnasaggart, an' a 
 cousin to Paddy, who lost a finger in the Gansy (Guernsey) 
 wars." 
 
 "I know. Well, Phil, in throth the hairs 'ud stand hke 
 stalks o' barley, upon your head, if you heard all I could 
 mintion." 
 
 Phil instinctively put his hand up and pressed down liis hat, 
 as if it had been disposed to fly from off his head. 
 
 "Hem! ahem! Why, Pm tould it's wondherful. But is 
 it tlirue, Mrs. Moan, that you have been brought on business 
 to some o' the" — here Phil looked about him cautiously, and 
 lowered his voice to a whisper — " to some o' the fairy women ?" 
 
 "Hushth, man alive — what the sorra timpted you to call 
 them anything but the Good People? This day's Thurs- 
 day — God stand betune us an' harm. No, Phil, I name no- 
 body. But there was a woman, a midwife — mind, avick, that 
 I don't say who she was — may be I know why too, an' may 
 be it would be as much as my life is worth" 
 
 " Aisey, Mrs. Moan ! God presarve us I what is that tall 
 thing there to the right?"— and he commenced the Lord's 
 Prayer in Irish, as fast as he could get out the words. 
 
 " Why, don't you see, boy, it's a fir-tree ?" 
 
 " Ay, faix, an' so it is ; bcdad I thought it was gettin' taller 
 an' taller. Ay ! — hut I it is only a tree." 
 
 " Well, dear, there was a woman, an' she was called away 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 131 
 
 one night by a little gentleman dressed in green. I'll tell you 
 the story some time — only this, that havin' done her duty, an' 
 tuck no payment, she was called out the same night to a 
 neighbour's wife, an' a purtier boy you couldn't see than she 
 left behind her. But it seems she happened to touch one of 
 his eyes wid a hand that had a taste of their panado an it ; 
 an' as the child grew up, every one w^ondhered to hear him 
 speak of the multitudes o' thim that he seen in all directions. 
 Well, my dear, he kept never say in' anything to them, until 
 one day, when he was in the fair of Bally comaisy, that he saw 
 them whippin' away meal an' cotton an' butther, an' every- 
 thing that they thought serviceable to them ; so you see he 
 could hould in no longer, an' says he, to a httle fellow that was 
 very active an' thievish among them, ' Why duv you take 
 what doesn't belong to you ?' says he. The little fellow 
 looked up at him" 
 
 " God be about us. Rose, what is that white thing goin' 
 along the ditch to the left of us ?" 
 
 " It's a sheep, don't you see ? Faix, I beUeve you're cow- 
 ardly at night." 
 
 " Ay, faix, an' so it is, but it looked very quare, somehow." 
 
 " — An', says he, ' How do you know that ?' ' Bekase I see 
 you all,' says the other. ' An' which eye do you see us all 
 wid ?' says he agam. ' Why, wid the left,' says the boy. 
 Wid that he gave a short whiif of a blast up into the eye, 
 an' from that day not a stime the poor boy was never able to 
 see wid it. No, Phil, I didn't say it was myself — I named 
 nobody.'" 
 
 " An', Mrs. Moan, is it thrue that you can put the dughaughs 
 upon them that trate their wives badly ?" 
 
 *' Whisht, Phil. When you marry, keep your timper — 
 that's all. You knew long Ned Donnelly ?" 
 
 " Ay, bedad, sure enough ; there was quare things said 
 about" 
 
132 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 " Push an, avick, push an ; for who knows how some of us 
 is wanted ? You have a good masther, I beheve, Phil ? It's 
 poison the same Ned would give me if he could. Push an, 
 dear." 
 
 Phil felt that he had got his answer. The abrupt mystery 
 of her manner and her curt allusions left him little, indeed, to 
 guess at. In this way did the conversation continue, Phil 
 feloniously filching, as he thought, from her own lips, a cor- 
 roboration of the various knowledge and extraordinary powers 
 which she was behoved to possess, and she ingeniously feed- 
 ing his credulity, merely by enigmatical hints and masked 
 allusions; for although she took care to affirm nothing di- 
 rectly or personally of herself, yet did she contrive to answer 
 him in such a manner as to confirm every report that had 
 gone abroad of the strange purposes she could effect. 
 
 *' Phil, wasn't there an uncle o' yours up in the Mountain 
 Bar that didn't live happily for some time wid his wife ?" 
 
 *' I believe so. Rose ; but it was before my time, or any way 
 when I was only a young shaver." 
 
 " An' did you ever hear how the reconcilement came betune 
 them ?" 
 
 " No, bedad," replied Phil, " I never did ; an' that's no 
 wondher, for it was a thing they never liked to spake of." 
 
 " Throth, it's thrue for you, boy. Well, I brought about 
 
 Push an, dear, push an. They're as happy a couple 
 
 now as breaks bread, any way, and that's all they wanted." 
 
 " I'd wager a thirteen it was you did that, Rose." 
 
 " Hut, gorsoon, hould your tongue. Sure they're happy, 
 now, I say, whosomever did it. I named nobody, nor I take 
 no pride to myself, Phil, out o' sich things. Some people's 
 gifted above others, an' that's all. But, Phil ?" 
 
 " Well, ma'am ?" 
 
 " How does the Dandy an' his scald of a wife agree ? for, 
 throth I'm tould she's notliing else." 
 
 I 
 
THE HUSH xAllDVVIFE. 133 
 
 *' Faix, but middlin' itself. As I tould you, she ofteu lias 
 us as empty as a paper lanthern, wid devil a thing but the 
 light of a good conscience inside of us. If we pray ourselves, 
 begorra she'll take care we'll have the fastin' at first cost ; 
 so that you see, ma'am, we hould a devout situation undher 
 her." 
 
 " An' so that's the way wid you?" 
 
 **Ay, the downright thruth, an' no mistake. Why, the 
 stirabout she makes would run nine miles along a dale boord, 
 an' scald a man at the far end of it." 
 
 " Throth, Phil, I never like to go next or near sich women, 
 or sich places ; but for the sake o' the innocent we must forget 
 the guilty. So, push an, avick, push an. Who knows but it's 
 life an' death wid us ? Have you ne'er a spur on ?" 
 
 '' The devil a spur I tuck time to wait for." 
 
 " Well, afther all, it's not right to let a messager come for a 
 woman like me, widout what is called the Midwife's Spur — a 
 spur in the head — for it has long been said that one in the head 
 is worth two in the heel, an' so indeed it is,— on business like 
 this, any way." 
 
 " Mrs. Moan, do you know the Moriartys of Ballaghmore, 
 ma'am ?" 
 
 " Which o' them, honey ?" 
 
 '' Mick o' the Esker Beg." 
 
 "To be sure I do. A well-favoured dacent family they are, 
 an' full o' the world too, the Lord spare it to them." 
 
 " Bedad, they are, ma'am, a well-favoured* family. Well, 
 ma'am, isn't is odd, but somehow there's neither man, woman, 
 nor child in the parish but gives you the good word above all 
 the women in it ; but as for a midwife, why, I heard my aunt 
 say that if ever mother an' cliild owended their lives to another, 
 she did her's and the babby's to you." 
 
 * This term in Ireland means " handsome" — "good-looking." 
 
134 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 The reader may here perceive that Phil's flattery must have 
 had some peculiar design in it, in connexion with the Moriartys, 
 and such indeed was the fact. But we had better allow him to 
 explain matters himself. 
 
 " Well, honey, sure that was but my duty ; but God be 
 praised for all, for every thing depinds on the Man above. 
 She should call in one o' those newfangled women who take 
 out their Dispatches from the Lying-in-College in Dubhn 
 below ; for you see, Phil, there is sich a place there — an' it 
 stands to raison that there should be a Fondlin' Hospital beside 
 it, which there is too, they say ; but, honey, what are these 
 poor ignorant cratures but new lights, every one o' them, that 
 a dacent woman's life isn't safe wid ?" 
 
 " To be sure, Mrs. Moan ; an' every one knows they're not 
 to be put in comparishment wid a woman like you, that knows 
 sich a power. But how does it happen, ma'am, that the 
 Moriartys does be spakin' but middhn' of you ?" 
 
 '*0f me, avick?" 
 
 " Ay, faix ; Fm tould they spread the mouth at you some- 
 times, espishily when the people does be talkin' about all the 
 quare things you can do." 
 
 " Well, well, dear, let them have their laugh — they may 
 laugh that win, you know. Still one doesn't like to be pro- 
 voked — no indeed." 
 
 '' Faix, an' Mick Moriarty has a purty daughther, Mrs. 
 Moan, an' a purty penny he can give her, by all accounts. 
 The nerra one o' myself but would be glad to put my commedher 
 on her, if I knew how. I hope you find yourself aisey on your 
 sate, ma'am ?" 
 
 " I do, honey. Let them talk, Phil ; let them talk ; it may 
 come their turn yet — only I didn't expect it from them. You ! 
 hut, avick, what chance would you have with Mick Moriarty 's 
 daughther ?" 
 
 " Ay, every chance an' sartinty too, if some one that I know, 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 135 
 
 and that every one that knows her, respects, would only give 
 me a lift. There's no use in comin' about tho bush, Mrs. 
 Moan — bedad it's yourself I mane. You could do it. An', 
 whisper, betune you and me it would be only sarvin' them 
 right, in regard of the way they spake of you — say in', indeed, 
 an' galivantin' to the world that you know no more than 
 another woman, an' that ould Pol Dooliii of Ballymagowan 
 knows oceans more that you do." 
 
 This was, perhaps, as artful a plot as could be laid for en- 
 gaging the assistance of Mrs. Moan in Phil's design upon 
 Moriarty's daughter. He knew perfectly well that she would 
 not, unless strongly influenced, lend herself to any tiling of the 
 kind between two persons whose circumstances in life cUffered 
 so widely as those of a respectable farmer's daughter with a 
 good portion, and a penniless labouring boy. With great 
 adroitness, therefore, he contrived to excite her prejudices 
 against them by the most successful arguments he could possibly 
 use, namely, a contempt for her imputed knowledge, and praise 
 of her rival. Still she was in the habit of acting coolly, and 
 less from impulse than from a shrewd knowledge of the best 
 way to sustain her own reputation, without imdertaking too 
 much. 
 
 " Well, honey, an' so you wish me to assist you ? Maybe 
 I could do it, an' maybe — But push an, dear, move him an — 
 we'll think of it, an' spake more about it some other time. 
 I must tliink of what's afore me now — so move, move, acushla ; 
 push an." 
 
 Much conversation of the same nature took place between 
 them, in which each bore a somewhat characteristic part ; for 
 to say truth, Phil was as kno^ving a "boy" as you might wish 
 to become acquainted with. In Rose, however, he had a 
 woman of no ordinary shrewdness to encounter ; and the con- 
 sequence was, that each, after a httle more chat, began to 
 understand the other a httle too well to render the topic of the 
 
136 
 
 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 Moriartys, to which Pliil again reverted, so interesting as it 
 had been. Rose soon saw that Phil was only a plasthey, or 
 sweetener, and only " soothered" her for his own purposes ; 
 and Phil perceived that Rose understood his tacties too well 
 to render any further tampering with her vanity, either safe 
 or successful. 
 
 At length they arrived at Dandy Kelio's house, and in a 
 moment the Dandy himself took her in his arms, and, placing 
 her gently on the ground, shook hands with and cordially 
 welcomed her. It is very singular, but no less true, that the 
 moment a midwife enters the house of her patient, she always 
 uses the plural number, whether speaking in her own person 
 or in that of the former. 
 
 " You're welcome, Rose, an' I'm proud an' happy to see you 
 here, an' it 'ill make poor Bridget strong, an' give her courage, 
 to know you're near her." 
 
 " How are we, Dandy ? how are we, avick ?" 
 
 " Oh, bedad, middhn', wishin' very much for you of coorse, 
 as I hear" 
 
 " Well, honey, go away now. I have some words to say 
 afore I go in, that'll sarve us, maybe — a charm it is that has 
 great vartue in it." 
 
 The Dandy then Avithdrew to the barn, where the male 
 portion of the family were staying until the ultimatum should 
 be known. A good bottle of potheen, however, was circulating 
 among them, for every one knows that occasions of this nature 
 usually generate a festive and hospitable spirit. 
 
 Rose now went round the house in the direction from east 
 to west, stopping for a short time at each of the windows, 
 which she marked with the sign of the cross five times ; that is 
 to say, once at each corner, and once in the middle. At each 
 corner also of the house she signed the cross, and repeated the 
 following words or charm : — 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 137 
 
 The four Evangels and the four Divines, 
 
 God bless the moon an us when it shines. 
 
 New moon,* true moon, God bless me, 
 
 God bless this house an' this family. 
 
 Matthew, Mark, Luke, an' John, 
 
 God bless the bed that she lies on. 
 
 God bless the manger where Christ was born, 
 
 An' lave joy an' comfort here in the morn. 
 
 St. Bridget an' St. Patrick, an' the holy spouse. 
 
 Keep the fairies for ever far from this house. Amen. 
 Glora yea, Glora yea, Glora yea yeelish, 
 Glora n'ahir, Glora n'vac, Glora n' spirid neev. Amen. 
 
 These are the veritable words of the charm, which she 
 uttered in the manner and with the forms aforesaid. Having 
 concluded them, she then entered into the house, where we 
 leave her for a time with our best wishes. 
 
 In the barn, the company were very merry. Dandy liimself 
 being as pleasant as any of them, unless when his brow 
 became shaded by the very natural anxiety for the welfare of 
 his wife and child, which from time to time returned upon him. 
 Stories were told, songs sung, and jokes passed, all full of good 
 nature and not a httle fun, some of it at the expense of the 
 Dandy himself, who laughed at and took it all m good part. 
 An occasional bulletin came out thi^ough a servant maid, that 
 matters were just in the same way ; a piece of intelHgence 
 which damped Keho's mirth considerably. At length he 
 himself was sent for by the midwife, who wished to speak with 
 him at the door. 
 
 " I hope there's nothing lilve danger, Eose ?" 
 
 " Not at all, honey ; but the truth is, we want a seventh 
 son who isn't left-handed." 
 
 " A seventh son ! Why, what do you want liim for ?" 
 
 " Why, dear, just to give her three shakes in his arms — 
 it never fails." 
 
 '' Bedad, an' that's fortunate ; for there's Mickey M'Sorley 
 
 • K it did not happen to be new moon, the words were "good moon," &c. 
 
138 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 of the Broad Bog's a seventh son, an' he's not two gunshots 
 from this." 
 
 " Well, aroon, hurry off one or two o' the boys for him, and 
 tell Phil, if he makes haste, that I'll have a word to say to 
 him afore I go." This intimation to Phil put feathers to his 
 heels ; for from the moment that he and Barny started, he did 
 not once cease to go at the top of his speed. It followed, as a 
 matter of course, that honest Mickey M'Sorley dressed himself 
 and was back at Keho's house before the family behoved it 
 possible the parties could have been there. This ceremony of 
 getting a seventh son to shake the sick woman, in cases where 
 difficulty or danger may be apprehended, is one which fre- 
 quently occurs in remote parts of the country. To be sure, it 
 is only a form, the man merely taking her in liis arms, and 
 moving her gently three times. The writer of this, when 
 young, saw it performed with his own eyes, as the saying is ; 
 but in his case the man was not a seventh son, for no such 
 person could be procured. When this difficulty arises, any 
 man who has the character of being lucky, provided he is not 
 married to a red-haired vrife, may be called in to give the 
 three shakes. In other and more dangerous cases. Rose 
 would send out persons to gather half a dozen heads of 
 blasted barley ; and having stripped them of the black fine 
 powder with which they were covered, she would administer 
 it in a little new milk, and this was always attended by the 
 best effects. It is somewhat surprising that the w^hole Faculty 
 should have adopted this singular medicine in cases of similar 
 difficulty, for, in truth, it is that which is now administered 
 under the more scientific name of Urgot of Bye. 
 
 In the case before us, the seventh son sustained his reputa- 
 tion for good luck. In about three quarters of an hour Dandy 
 was called in "to kiss a strange young gintlcman that wanted 
 to see him." This was an agreeable ceremony to Dandy, as 
 it always is, to catch the first glimpse of one's own first-born. 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 139 
 
 On entering, he found Rose sitting beside the bed in all the 
 pomp of authority and pride of success, bearing the infant in 
 her arms, and dandling it up and down, more from habit than 
 any necessity that then existed for doing so. 
 
 " Well," said she, " here we are, all safe and sound, God 
 wiUin' ; an' if you're not the father of as purty a young man 
 as ever I laid eyes on, I'm not here. Corny Keho, come an' 
 kiss your son, I say." 
 
 Corny advanced, somewhat puzzled whether to laugh or 
 to cry, and taking the child up, with a smile, he kissed it five 
 times — for that is the mystic number — and as he placed it once 
 more in Rose's arms, there was a soHtary tear on its cheek. 
 
 " Arra, go an' kiss your wife, man ahve, an' tell her to have 
 a good heart, an' to be as kind to all her fellow-creatures as 
 God has been to her this night. It isn't upon this world the 
 heart ought to be fixed, for we see how small a thing an' how 
 short a time can take us out of it." 
 
 " Oh, bedad," said Dandy, who had now recovered the 
 touch of feehng excited by the child, " it would be too bad 
 if I'd grudge her a smack." He accordingly stooped, and 
 kissed her ; but, truth to confess, he did it with a very cool 
 and business-like air. " I know," he proceeded, " that she'll 
 have a heart like a jyant, now that the son is come." 
 
 " To be sure she will, an' she must ; or if not, I'll play the 
 sorra, an' break things. Well, well, let her get strength a bit 
 first, an' rest and quiet ; an' in the meantime get the groanin'- 
 malt ready, until every one in the house drinks the health of 
 the stranger. My sowl to happiness, but he's a born beauty. 
 The nerra Keho of you all ever was the aiquails of what he'll 
 be yet, plaise God. Throth, Corny, he has daddy's nose upon 
 him, any how. Ay, you may laugh ; but, faix, it's thrue. 
 l^u may take with him, you may own to him, any where. 
 Arra, look at that ! My soul to happiness, if one egg's liker 
 another ! Eh, my posey ! Where was it, alanna ? Ay, 
 
140 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 you're there, my duck o' diamonds ! Troth, you'll be the 
 flower o' the flock, so you will. An' now, Mrs. Keho, honey, 
 we'll lave you to yourself awhile, till we thrate these poor 
 cratures of sarvints ; the hkes o' them oughtn't to be over- 
 looked ; an', indeed, they did feel a great dale itself, poor 
 things, about you ; an', moreover, they'll be longin' of coorse 
 to see the darlin' here." 
 
 Mrs. Keho's mother and Rose superintended the birth-treat 
 between them. It is unnecessary to say that the young men 
 and girls had their own sly fun upon the occasion ; and now 
 that Dandy's apprehension of danger was over, he joined in 
 their mirth with as much glee as any of them. This being 
 over, they all retired to rest; and honest Mickey M'Sorley 
 went home very hearty,* in consequence of Dandy's grateful 
 sense of the aid he had rendered his wife. The next morning, 
 Rose, after dressing the infant and performing all the usual 
 duties that one expected from her, took her leave in these 
 words : — 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Keho, God bless you an' yours, and take care 
 of yourself. I'll see you again on Sunday next, when it's to 
 be christened. Until then, throw out no dirty wather before 
 sunrise or afther sunset ; an' when Father Molloy is goin' to 
 christen it, let Corny teU him not to forget to christen it 
 against the fairies, an' thin it'll be safe. Good-bye, ma'am ; 
 an' look you to her, Mrs. Finnegan," said she, addressing her 
 patient's mother, *' an' hanaght lath till I see all again." 
 
 The following Sunday morning, Rose paid an early visit to 
 her patient, for, as it was the day of young Dandy's christen- 
 ing, her presence was considered indispensable. There is, 
 
 • Tipsy. 
 
 \ 
 
 I 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 141 
 
 besides, sometliiiig in the appearance and bearing of a midwife 
 upon those occasions which diffuses a spirit of Hght-heartedncss 
 not only through the immediate family, but also through all 
 w^ho may happen to participate in the ceremony, or partake of 
 the good cheer. In many instances it is known that the very 
 presence of a medical attendant communicates such a cheerful 
 confidence to his patient, as, independently of any prescription, 
 is felt to be a manifest reUef. So it is with the midwife ; with 
 this difference, that she exercises a greater and more comical 
 latitude of consolation than the doctor, although it must be 
 admitted that she generally falls woefully short of that con- 
 ventional di'ess with which we cover nudity of expression. Xo 
 doubt many of her very choicest stock jokes, to carry on the 
 metaphor, are a little too fccshionahly dressed to pass current 
 out of the sphere in wliich they are used; but be this as it 
 may, they are so traditional in character, and so humorous in 
 conception, that we never knew the veriest prude to feel 
 offended, or the morosest temperament to maintain its sourness, 
 at their recital. Not that she is at all gross or unwomanly in 
 any thing she may say, but there is generally in her aj^othegms 
 a passing touch of fancy — a quick but terse vivacity of insi- 
 nuation, at once so full of fun and sprightUness, and that truth 
 which all know but few Uke to acknowledge, that we defy any 
 one not irretrievably gone in some incurable melancholy to 
 resist her humour. The moment she was seen approaching 
 the house, every one in it felt an immediate elevation of sj^irits, 
 with the exception of Mrs. Keho herself, who knew that 
 wherever Rose had the arrangement of the bill of fare, there 
 was sure to be what the Irish call " full an' plinty" — " lashins 
 an' lavuis" — a fact which made her groan in spirit at the bare 
 contemplation of such waste and extravagance. She was 
 indeed a woman of a very un-Irish heart — so sharp in her 
 temper and so penurious in soul, that one would imagine her 
 veins were filled with vinegar instead of blood. 
 
142 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 " Banaght Dheah in shoh" (the blessing of God be here), 
 Rose exclaimed on entering. 
 
 " Banaght Dheah agus Murra ghuid" (the blessing of God 
 and the Virgin on you), rephed Corny, " an' you're welcome, 
 Rose, ahagur." 
 
 " I know that, Corny. Well, how are we ? — ^how is my 
 son?" 
 
 " Begarra, thrivin' like a pair o' throopers." 
 
 " Thank God for it ! Hav'n't we a good right to be grate- 
 ful to him any way ? An' is my little man to be christened 
 to-day?" 
 
 " Indeed he is — the gossips will be here presently, an' so 
 will her mother. But, Rose, dear, will you take the ordherin' 
 of the aitin' an' drinkin' part of it? — you're betther up to 
 these things than we are, an' so you ought, of coorse. Let 
 there be no want of any thing ; an' if there's an overplush, 
 sorra may care; there'll be poor mouths enough about the door 
 for whatever's left. So, you see, keep never mindin' any hint 
 she may give you — you know she's a httle o' the closest ; but 
 no matther. Let there, as I said, be enough an' to spare." 
 
 '^ Throth, there spoke your father's son, Corny: all the ould 
 dacency's not dead yet, any how. Well, I'll do my best. But 
 she's not fit to be up, you know, an' of coorse, can't disturb 
 us." The expression of her eye could not be misunderstood as 
 she uttered this. " I see," said Corny — " devil a betther, if 
 you manage that, all's right." 
 
 " An' now I must go in, till I see how she an' my son's 
 gettin' an: that's always my first start; bekase you know. 
 Corny, honey, that their health goes afore every tiling." 
 
 Having thus undertaken the task required of her, she passed 
 into the bedroom of Mrs. Keho, whom she found determined 
 to be up, in order, as she said, to be at the head of her own 
 table. 
 
 " Well, alanna, if you must, you must ; but in the name of 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 143 
 
 goodness I wash my hands out of the business tcetotally. 
 Dshk, dshk, dshk ! Oh, wurra ! to think of a woman in your 
 state risin' to sit at her own table ! That I may never, if I'll 
 see it, or be about the place at all. If you take your life by 
 your own wilfulness, why, God forgive you ; but it mustn't be 
 while I'm here. Howandiver, since you're bent on it, why, 
 give me the child, an' afore I go, any how, I may as well dress 
 it, poor thing ! The heavens pity it — my little man — eh ? — 
 where was it? — cheep — that's it, a ducky; stretch away. Aye 
 stretcliin' an' thrivin' an, my son ! O, thin, wurra ! Mrs. Keho, 
 but it's you that ought to ax God's pardon for goin' to do what 
 might lave that darlin' o' the world an orphan, may be. 
 Arrah be the vestments, if I can have patience wid you. May 
 God pity you, my child. If any thing happened your mother, 
 what 'ud become of you, and what 'ud become of your poor 
 father this day ? Dshk, dshk, dshk !" These latter sounds, 
 exclamations of surprise and regret, were produced by striking 
 the tongue against that part of the inward gum which covers 
 the roots of the upper teeth. 
 
 "Indeed, Rose," replied her patient, in her sharp, shrill, 
 quick voice, " I'm able enough to get up; if I don't, we'll be 
 harrished. Corny's a fool, an' it '11 be only rap an' rive wid 
 every one in the place." 
 
 " Wait, ma'am, if you plaise. — Where's his httle barrow ? 
 Ay, I have it. — Wait, ma'am, if you plaise, till I get the child 
 dressed, an' I'U soon take myself out o' this. Heaven presarve 
 us ! I have seen the like o' this afore — ay have I — where it 
 was as clear as crystal that there luas somethm' over them — 
 ay, over them that took their own way as you're doin'." 
 
 " But if I don't get up" 
 
 " Oh, by all manes, ma'am — by all manes. I suppose you 
 have a laise of your life, that's all. It's what I wish I could get." 
 
 " An' must I stay here in bed all day, an' me able to rise, 
 an' sich wilful waste as will go an too ?" 
 
144 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 " Remember you're warned. This is your first babby, God 
 bless it, an' spare you both. But, Mrs. Keho, does it stand to 
 raison that you're as good a judge of these things as a woman 
 like me, that it's my business ? I ax you that, ma'am." 
 
 This poser in fact settled the question, not only by the 
 reasonable force of the conclusion to be derived from it, but 
 by the cool authoritative manner in which it was put. 
 
 " Well," said the other, "in that case, I suppose, I must give 
 in. You ought to know best." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, ma'am ; have you found it out at last? 
 No, but you ought to put your two hands undlier my feet for 
 previntin' you from doin' what you intinded. That I may 
 never sup sorrow, but it was as much as your life was worth. 
 Compose yourself; I'll see that there's no waste, and that's 
 enough. Here, hould my son — why, thin, isn't he the beauty 
 o' the world, now that he has got liis little dress upon him? — 
 till I pin up this apron across the windy ; the light's too strong 
 for you. There now : the light's apt to give one a head-ache 
 when it comes in full bint upon the eyes that way. Come, 
 alanna, come an now, till I show you to your father an' them 
 all. Wurra, thin, Mrs. Keho, darlin'," (this was said in a low 
 confidential whisper, and in a playful wheedling tone which 
 baffles all description), " wurra, thin, Mrs. Keho, darhn', but 
 it's he that's the proud man, the proud Corny, this day. Rise 
 your head a little — aisy — there now, that'll do — one kiss to 
 my son, now, before he laives his mammy, he says, for a weeny 
 while, till he pays his little respects to his daddy an' to all his 
 frinds, he says, an' tliin he'll come back to mammy agin — to 
 his own little bottle, he says." 
 
 Young Corny soon went the rounds of the whole family, 
 from his father down to the little herd-boy who followed and 
 took care of the cattle. Many were the jokes which passed 
 between the youngsters on this occasion — jokes which have 
 been registered by such personages as Rose, almost in every 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. J 45 
 
 family in the kingdom, for centuries, and with which most of 
 the Irish people are too intimately and thoroughly acquainted 
 to render it necessary for us to repeat them here. 
 
 Rose now addressed herself to the task of preparing break- 
 fast, which, in honour of the happy event, was nothing less 
 than " tay, white bread, and Boxty," with a glass of potheen 
 to sharpen the appetite. As Boxty, however, is a description 
 of bread not generally known to our readers, we shall give 
 them a sketch of the manner in w^hich this Irish luxury is 
 made. A basket of the best potatoes is got, which are washed 
 and peeled raw ; then is procured a tin grater, on which they 
 are grated; the water is then shired off them, and the 
 macerated mass is put into a clean sheet, or table-cloth, or 
 bolster-cover. This is caught at each end by two strong men, 
 w^ho twist it in opposite directions, until the contortions drive 
 up the substance into the middle of the sheet, &c. ; this of 
 course expels the water also ; but lest the twisting should be 
 insufficient for that purpose, it is placed, like a cheese-cake, 
 under a heavy weight, until it is properly dried. They then 
 knead it into cakes, and bake it on a pan or griddle ; and when 
 eaten with butter, we can assure our readers that it is quite 
 delicious. 
 
 The hour was now about nine o'clock, and the company 
 asked to the christening began to assemble. The gossips, or 
 sponsors, were four in number ; two of them w^ealthy friends of 
 the family, that had never been married, and the two others a 
 simple country pair, who were anxious to follow in the matri- 
 monial steps of Corny and his wife. The rest were, as usual, 
 neighbours, relatives, and deaveens, to the amount of sixteen 
 or eighteen persons, men, w^omen, and children, all di'essed in 
 their best apparel, and disposed to mirth and friendship. 
 Along with the rest was Bob M'Cann, the fool, who, by the 
 way, could smell out a good dinner with as keen a nostril as 
 the wisest man in the parish could boast of, and who on such 
 
 L 
 
146 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 occasions carried turf and water in quantities that indicated the 
 supernatural strength of a Scotch brownie rather than that of 
 a human being. Bob's quahties, however, were well propor- 
 tioned to each other, for, truth to say, liis appetite was equal 
 to his strength, and his cunning to either. 
 
 Corny and Mrs. Moan were in great spirits, and indeed we 
 might predicate as much of all who were present. Not a soul 
 entered the house who was not brought up by Corny to an 
 out-shot room, as a private mark of his friendship, and treated 
 to an underhand glass of as good potheen "as ever went down 
 the red lane," to use a phrase common among the people. 
 Nothing upon an occasion naturally pleasant gives conversa- 
 tion a more cheerful impulse than this ; and the consequence 
 was, that in a short time the scene was animated and mirthful 
 to an unusual degree. 
 
 Breakfast at length commenced in due form. Two bottles 
 of whiskey were placed upon the table, and the first thing 
 done was to administer another glass to each guest. 
 
 " Come, neighbours," said Corny, " we must dhrink the 
 good woman's health before we ate, especially as it's the first 
 time, any how." 
 
 *' To be sure they will, achora, an' why not ? An' if it's 
 the first time, Corny, it won't be the last, plaise goodness ! 
 Musha ! you're welcome, Mrs. M'Cann ! and jist in time too" — 
 this she said, addressing his mother-in-law, who then entered. 
 " Look at this swaddy, Mrs. M'Cann ; my soul to happmess, 
 but he's fit to be the son of a lord. Eh, a pet ? Where was 
 my darhn' ? Corny, let me dip my finger in the wliiskey till 
 I rub his gums" wid it. That's my bully ! Oh, the heavens 
 love it ; see how it puts the Httle mouth about lookin' for it 
 agin. Throth you'll have the spunlv in you yet, acushla, an' 
 it's a credit to the Kehos you'll be, if you're spared, as you 
 will, plaise the heavens I" 
 
 " Well, Corny," said one of the gossips, "here's a speedy tj 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 147 
 
 uprise an' a sudden recovery to the good woman, an' the httle 
 sthranger's health, an' God bless the baker that gives thirteen 
 to the dozen, any how !" 
 
 " Ay, ay, Paddy Raiferty, you'll have your joke any way ; 
 an' throth you're welcome to it, Paddy ; if you weren't, it isn't 
 standin' for young Corny you'd be to-day." 
 
 " Thrue enough," said Rose, '* an' by the dickens, Paddy 
 isn't the boy to be long undher an obligation to any one. Eh, 
 Paddy, did I help you there, avick ? Aisy, childre ; you'll 
 smother my son if you crush about liim that way." Tliis was 
 addressed to some of the youngsters, who were pressing round 
 to look at and touch the infant. 
 
 " It won't be my fault if I do, Rose," said Paddy, slyly 
 eyeing Peggy Betagh, then betrothed to liim, who sat 
 opposite, her dark eyes flashing with repressed humour and 
 affection. Deafness, however, is sometimes a very convenient 
 malady to young ladies, for Peggy immediately commenced a 
 series of playful attentions to the unconscious infant, which 
 were just sufficient to excuse her from noticing this allusion to 
 theu' marriage. Rose looked at her, then nodded comically to 
 Paddy, shutting both her eyes, by way of a wink, adding 
 aloud, "Throth you'll be the happy boy, Paddy; an' woe 
 betide you if you aren't the sweetest end of a honeycomb to 
 her. Take care an' don't bring me upon you. Well, Peggy, 
 never mind, alanna ; who has a betther right to his joke than 
 the dacent boy that's — aisy, cliildi'e : saints above ! but ye'll 
 smother the child, so you will. Where did I get him, Dinney ? 
 sure I brought him as a present to Mi'S. Keho ; I never come 
 but I bring a purty httle babby along wid me — than the 
 dacent boy, dear, that's soon to be your lovin' husband? 
 Arrah, take your glass, acushla ; the sorra harm it '11 do you.' 
 " Bedad, I'm afeard, Mrs. Moan. What if it 'ud get into 
 my head, an' me's to stand for my little godson ? JS'o, bad 
 scran to me if I could — faix, a glass 'ud be too many for me." 
 
148 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 " It's not more than half filled, dear ; but there's sense in 
 what the girl says, Dandy, so don't press it an her." 
 
 In the brief space allotted to us we could not possibly give 
 any thing like a full and correct picture of the happiness and 
 hilarity which prevailed at the breakfast in question. When 
 it was over, they all prepared to go to the parish chapel, which 
 was distant at least a couple of miles, the midwife staying at 
 home to see that all the necessary preparations were made for 
 dinner. As they were departing, Rose took the Dandy aside, 
 and addressed him thus : 
 
 " JN'ow, Dandy, when you see the priest, tell him that it is 
 your wish, above all things, ' that he should christen it against 
 the fairies.' If you say that, it's enough. And Peggy, achora, 
 come here. You're not carryin' that child right, alanna ; but 
 you'll know betther yet, plaise goodness. No, avilhsh, don't 
 keep its little head so closely covered wid your cloak; the 
 day's a biirnin' day, glory be to God, an' the Lord guard my 
 child; sure the laist thing in the world, where there's too 
 much hait, 'ud smother my darlin'. Keep its head out farther, 
 and just shade its little face that way from the sun. Och, will 
 I ever forget the Sunday whin poor Molly M'Guigan wint to 
 take Patt Feasthalagh's child from under her cloak to be 
 christened, the poor infant was a corpse ; an' only that the 
 Lord put it into my head to have it privately christened, the 
 father an' mother's hearts would break. Glory be to God ! 
 Mrs. Duggan, if the child gets cross, dear, or misses any thing, 
 act the mother by him, the little man. Eh, alanna ! where was 
 it ? Where was my duck o' diamonds — my little Con Roe ? 
 My own sweety Uttle ace o' hearts — eh, alanna I Well, God 
 keep it, till I see it again, the jewel !" 
 
 Well, the child was baptized by the name of his father, and 
 the persons assembled, after their return from chapel, lounged 
 about Corny's house, or took little strolls in the neighbour- 
 hood, until the hour of dinner. This of course was much more 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 14^ 
 
 convivial, and ten times more vociferous, than the breakfast, 
 cheerful as that meal was. At dinner they had a dish, -which 
 we beheve is, like the Boxty , pecuharly Irish in its composition : 
 we mean what is called sthilk. This consists of potatoes and 
 beans, pounded up together in such a manner that the beans 
 are not broken, and on tliis account the potatoes are well 
 champed before the beans are put into them. This is dished 
 in a large bowl, and a hole made in the middle of it, into which 
 a miscaun or roll of butter is thrust, and then covered up until 
 it is melted. After this, every one takes a spoon and digs away 
 with his utmost vigour, dipping every morsel into the well of 
 butter in the middle, before he puts it into his mouth. Indeed, 
 from the strong competition which goes forward, and the rapid 
 motion of each right hand, no spectator could be mistaken in 
 ascribing the motive of their proceedings to the principle of the 
 old proverb, devil take the hindmost. Sthilk differs from 
 another dish made of potatoes in much the same way, called 
 colcannon. If there were beans, for instance, in colcannon, it 
 would be sthilk. This practice of many persons eating out of 
 the same dish, though Irish, and not cleanly, is of very old 
 antiquity. Clii'ist liimself mentions it at the Last Supper. Let 
 us hope, however, that, like the old custom wliich once pre- 
 vailed in Ireland, of several persons drinking at meals out of 
 the same mother, the usage we speak of will soon be replaced 
 by one of more cleanhness and individual comfort. 
 
 After dinner the wliiskey began to go round, for in these 
 days punch was a luxury almost unknown to the class we are 
 writing of. It fact, nobody there knew how to make it but 
 the midwife, who wisely kept the secret to herself, aware that 
 if the whiskey were presented to them in such a palatable shape, 
 they would not know when to stop, and she herself might fall 
 short of the snug bottle that is usually kept as a treat for those 
 visits which she continues to pay during the convalescence of 
 her patients. 
 
150 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 " Come, Rose" said Corny, who was beginning to soften 
 fast, " it's your turn now to thry a glass of what never seen 
 wather." " I'll take the glass, Dandy — 'deed will I — but the 
 thruth is, I never dhrink it hard. No, but I'll jist take a drop 
 o' hot wather an' a grain o' sugar, an' scald it ; that an' as 
 much carraway seeds as will lie upon a sixpence does me good : 
 for, God help me, the stomach isn't at all sthrong wid me, in 
 regard of bein' up so much at night, an' deprived of my 
 nathural rest." 
 
 " Rose," said one of them, " is it thrue that you war called 
 out one night, an' brought blindfoulded to some grand lady 
 belongin' to the quality ? " 
 
 ''Wait, avick, till I make a drop o' wan-grace^ for the mis- 
 thress, poor thing ; an', Corny, I'll jist throuble you for about 
 a thimbleful o' spirits to take the smell o' the wather off it. 
 The poor crature, she's a little weak still, an' indeed it's 
 wondherful how she stood it out ; but, my dear, God's good 
 to his own, an' fits the back to the burden, praise be to his 
 name ! " 
 
 She then proceeded to scald the drop of spirits for herself, 
 or, in other words, to mix a good tumbler of ladies' punch, 
 making it, as the phrase goes, hot, strong, and sweet — not 
 forgetting the carraway s, to give it a flavour. This being 
 accomplished, she made the wan-grace for Mrs. Keho, still 
 throwing in a word now and then to sustain her part in the 
 conversation, which was now rising fast into mirth, laughter, 
 and clamour. 
 
 " Well, but, Rose, about the lady of quality, will you tell us 
 that?" 
 
 "Oh, many a thing happened me as well worth tellin', if 
 you go to that ; but I'll tell it to you, childre, for sure the 
 curiosity's nathural to yez. Why, I was one night at home 
 
 * A wan-grace is a kind of small gruel or meal-tea sweetened with sugar. 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 151 
 
 an' asleep, an" I hears a horse's foot gallopiii' for the bare hfo 
 up to the door. I immediately put my head out, an' the horse- 
 man says, ' Are you Mrs. Moan ?' 
 
 " 'That's the name that's an me, your honour,' says myself. 
 
 " 'Dress yourself thin,' says he, 'for you're sadly wanted; 
 dress yourself, and mount behind me, for there's not a moment 
 to be lost!' At the same time I forgot to say that his hat was 
 tied about liis face in sich a way that I couldn't catch a glimpse 
 of it. Well, my dear, we didn't let the grass grow undher our 
 feet for about a mile or so. 'Now,' says he, 'you must allow 
 yourself to be blindfoulded, an' its useless to oppose it, for it 
 must be done. There's the character, maybe the life of a great 
 lady at stake ; so be quiet till I cover your eyes, or,' says he, 
 lettin' out a great oath, ' it'll be worse for you. I'm a despe- 
 rate man;' an' sure enough, I could feel the heart of him 
 beatin' undher his ribs, as if it would bui'st in pieces. AYell, 
 my dears, what could I do in the hands of a man that was 
 strong and desperate. So, says I, ' Cover my eyes an' wel- 
 come ; only, for the lady's sake, make no delay.' AYid that 
 he dashed his spurs into the poor horse, an' he foamin' an' 
 smokin' Hke a lime-kiln already. Any way, in about half an 
 hour I found myself in a grand bedroom ; an' jist as I was put 
 into the door, he whispers me to bring the child to him in the 
 next room, as soon as it would be born. Well, sure I did so, 
 afther lavin' the mother in a fair way. But what 'ud you have 
 of it ? — the first thing I see, lyin' an the table, was a purse of 
 money an' a case o' pistols. Wliin I looked at him, I thought 
 the devil. Lord guard us ! was in his face, he looked so black 
 and terrible about the brows. ' Now, my good woman,' says 
 he, ' so far you've acted well, but there's more to be done yet. 
 Take your choice of these two,' says he, ' this purse, or the 
 contents o' one o' these pistols, as your reward. You must 
 murdlier the child upon the spot.' ' In the name of God an' his 
 Mother, be you man or devil, I defy you,' says I; 'no innocent 
 
152 ROSE MOAN, 
 
 blood '11 ever be shed by these hands.' * I'll give you ten 
 minutes,' says he, * to put an end to that brat there ; ' an' wid 
 that he cocked one o' the pistols. My dears, I had nothin' for 
 it but to say in to myself a pather an' ave as fast as I could, 
 for I thought it was all over wid me. However, glory be to 
 God ! the prayers gove me great strinth, an' I spoke stoutly. 
 
 * Whin the king of Jerusalem,' says I — * an' he was a greater 
 man than ever you'll be — whin the king of Jerusalem ordhered 
 the mid wives of Aigyp to put Moses to death, they wouldn't 
 do it, and God presarved them in spite of him, king though he 
 was,' says I ; ^ an' from that day to this it was never known 
 that a midwife took away the life of the babe she aided into ; 
 the world — No, an' I'm not goin' to be the first that'll do it.' 
 
 * The time is out,' says he, puttin' the pistol to my ear, ' but ^ 
 I'll give you one minute more.' 'Let me go to my knees first,' 1 
 says I ; * an' now may God have mercy on my sowl, for, bad f 
 as I am, I'm willin' to die, sooner than commit murdher an the \ 
 innocent.' He gave a start as I spoke, an' threw the pistol f 
 down. 'Ay,' said he, 'an the innocent — an the innocent — | 
 that is thrue ! But you are an extraordinary woman : you 
 have saved that child's life, and previnted me from committing 
 
 two great crimes, for it was my intintion to murder you afther v 
 
 you had murdhered it.' I thin, by his ordhers, brought the f 
 
 poor child to its mother, and whin I came back to the room, J 
 
 ' Take that purse,' says he, ' an' keep it as a reward for your 
 honesty.' ' Wid the help o' God,' says I, ' a .penny of it will 
 never come into my company, so it's no use to ax me.' 'Well,' 
 says he, ' afore you lave this, you must swear not to mintion 
 to a livin' sowl what has happened this night, for a year and 
 a day.' It didn't signify to me whether I mintioncd it or not, 
 so being jack-indifferent about it, I tuck the oath, and kept it. 
 He thin bound my eyes agin, hoisted me up behind him, an' in 
 a short time left me at home. Indeed, I wasn't the bctther o' 
 the start it tuck out o' me for as good as six weeks afther !" 
 
THE IRISH MIDWIFE. 153 
 
 The company now began to grow musical ; several songs 
 were sung ; and when the evening got farther advanced, a 
 neighbouring fiddler was sent for, and the little party had a 
 dance in the barn, to which they adjourned lest the noise 
 might disturb Mrs. Keho, had they held it in the dwelling- 
 house. Before this occurred, however, " the midwife's glass" 
 went the round of the gossips, each of whom drank her 
 health, and dropped some silver, at the same time, into the 
 bottom of it. It was then returned to her, and with a smiUng 
 face she gave the following toast : — '' Health to the parent 
 stock ! So long as it thrives, there will always be branches ! 
 Corny Keho, long life an' good health to you an' yours ! May 
 your son live to see himself as happy as his father ! Young- 
 sters, here's that you may follow a good example ! The com- 
 pany's health in general I wish ; an' Paddy Rafferty, that you 
 may never have a blind child but you'll have a lame one to 
 lead it I ha ! ha ! ha ! What's the world widout a joke ? I 
 must see the good woman an' my little son afore I go ; but as 
 I won't follow yez to the barn, I'll bid yez good night, neigh- 
 bours, an' the blessin' of Rose Moan be among yez ! " 
 
 And so also do we take leave of our old friend, Rose Moan, 
 the Irish Midwife, who, we understand, took her last leave of 
 the world only about a twelvemonth ago. 
 
TALBOT AND GAYNOR, 
 
 THE IRISH PIPERS. 
 
 Those who minister to amusement are every where popular 
 characters, and fully as much so in Ireland as in other coun- 
 tries. Here, amongst the people at large, no sort of person is 
 more kindly regarded than the wandering fiddler or piper, 
 two classes of artists who may be said to have the whole 
 business of keeping Paddy in good humour upon their shoulders. 
 The piper is especially a favourite in the primitive provinces 
 of Munster and Connaught. In Leinster they are not so 
 common ; and in the North may be described as rare, though 
 I am not sure but that, for this very reason, they are as 
 welcome in Ulster as in the other provinces, their notes pro- 
 ducing an impression which is agreeable in proportion to its 
 novelty. 
 
 Of course it is but natural that there should exist a strikinjr 
 resemblance between the respective habits and modes of life 
 which characterize the fiddler and the piper ; and of the latter, 
 as well as the former, it may be observed, that, although most 
 of his associations are drawn from the habits of the people, 
 in contradistinction to those of the higher classes, yet it is un- 
 questionably true that he is strongly imbued with the lingering 
 remains of that old feudal spirit which has now nearly departed 
 from the country. Even although generally neglected by the 
 gentry, and almost utterly overlooked by the nobihty, yet it 
 is a melancholy but beautiful trait of " the old fcehng," which 
 prompts him always to speak of them with respect and de- 
 ference. He will admit, indeed, that there is a degeneration ; 
 
 I 
 
THE IIIISII PIPERS. 155 
 
 that " the good oiilJ stock is gone ;" and that " the big house 
 is not what it used to be, whin the square's father would bring 
 him into the parlour before all the quahty, and make him play 
 his two favourite tunes of the Fox-Hunther' s Jig and the Hare 
 in tJie Corn. Instead o' that, the sorra ha'porth now will 
 sarve them but a kind of musical coffin, that they call a 
 pianna thirty, or forty, or something that way, that to hear 
 it 'ud make a dog sthrike his father, if he didn't behave 
 himself." 
 
 This is the utmost length to which he carries his censure, 
 and even this is uttered " more in sorrow than in anger." On 
 the contrary, nothing can be more amusing than the simple 
 and complacent pride with which he informs liis hearers that, 
 '' as he passed the big house, the young square brought hirn 
 in — an' it's himself that knows what the good ould smack o' 
 the pipes is, an' more betoken, so he ought — an' kind father 
 for him to do so — it's the ould square liimself that had the 
 true Irish rehsh for them. I played him all his father's 
 favourites, both in the light way and in the sorrowful. Whin 
 I was done, he shpped five shilhngs into my hand. ' Take tliis,' 
 said he, ' for the sake o' thim that's gone, an' of the ould times.' 
 He spoke low, an' in a hurry, as if his heart was in what he 
 said ; an' somehow I felt a tear on my cheek at the time ; for 
 it is a sorrowful thing to think how the blessed ould airs of our 
 counthry — the only ones that go to the heart — are now so little 
 known an' thought of, that a fashionable lady of the present 
 day would feel ashamed to acknowledge them, or play them in 
 company. Fareer gair ! — it's a bad sign of the times, any 
 how — may God mend them !" 
 
 The Irish piper, from the necessary monotony of his life, is 
 generally a man of much simplicity of character — not, however, 
 without a cast of humour, which is at once single-minded and 
 shrewd. His httle jealousies and heart-burnings — and he has 
 his share — form the serious evils of his Ufe ; but it is remarkable 
 
156 TALBOT AND GAYNOR, 
 
 that scarcely in a single instance are these indulged in at the 
 expense of the agreeable fiddler, who is by no means looked 
 upon as a rival. Not so his brother piper ; for, in truth, the 
 high and doughty spirit of competition by which they are 
 animated, never passes out of their own class, but burns with 
 heroic rage amongst themselves. The lengths to which this spirit 
 has been frequently carried, are ludicrous almost beyond belief. 
 The moment a piper's reputation is estabhshed on his beat, 
 that moment commences his misery. Those from the neigh- 
 bouring beats assail him by challenges that contain any thing 
 but principles of harmony. Sometimes, it is true, they are 
 cunning enough to come disguised to hear him ; and if they 
 imagine that a trial of skill is not hkely to redound to their 
 credit, they shnk off without allowing any one, unless some 
 particular confidant, to become cognizant of their secret. 
 
 These comical contests were, about forty or fifty years ago, 
 much more frequent than they have been of late. In the 
 good old times, however, when the farmers of Ireland brewed 
 their own beer, and had whiskey for a shilling a quart, the 
 challenges, defeats, escapes, and pursuits, which took place 
 between persons of this class, were rich in dramatic effect, and 
 afforded great amusement to both the gentry and the people, 
 I remember hearing the history of a chase, in wliich a piper 
 named Sullivan pursued a rival for eighteen months through 
 the whole province of Munster before he caught him, and all 
 in order to ascertain, by a trial of skill, whether his antagonist 
 was more entitled to have the epithet " great" perfixed to his 
 name than he himself. It appears that the friends and admirers 
 of the former were in the habit of calling him '' the Great 
 Piper Reillaghan," a circumstance which so completely roused 
 the aspiring soul of his opponent, that he declared he would 
 never rest, night or day, until he stripped him of the epithet 
 " great" and transferred it to his own name. He was beaten, 
 however, and that by a manoeuvre of an extraordinary kind. 
 
THE IRISH PIPERS. l.',7 
 
 Reillaghan offered to play against him while drunk — Sullivan 
 to remain sober. 
 
 SuHivan, thrown off his guard, and anxious under any 
 circumstances to be able to boost of a victory over such an 
 antagonist, agreed, and was consequently overcome ; the truth 
 being, that his opponent, hke Carolan, when composing on the 
 harp, was never able properly to distinguif^h himself as a 
 performer unless when under the inspiration of whiskey. 
 
 Sullivan, not at all aware of the trick that the other had 
 played upon him, of course took it for granted that, as he had 
 stood no chance with Reillaghan when drunk, he must have a 
 still less one in his sobriety ; and the consequence was, that 
 the next morning it was found he had taken leave in the course 
 of the niffht. 
 
 There was some years ago, playing in the taverns of Dubhn, 
 a blind piper named Talbot, whose performance was singularly 
 powerful and beautiful. Tliis man, though bhnd from his 
 infancy, possessed mechanical genius of a high order, and 
 surprisingly dehcate and exact manipulation, not merely as a 
 musician but as a mechanic. He used to perform in Ladly's 
 tavern in Capel-street, where he arrived every night about 
 eight o'clock, and played till twelve, or, as the case might be, 
 one. He w^as very social, and, when drawn out, possessed 
 much genuine Irish humour and rich conversational powers. 
 Sometimes, at a late period of the night, he was prevailed 
 upon to attach himself to a particular party of pleasant fellows, 
 who remained after the house was closed, to enjoy themselves 
 at full swing. Then it was that Talbot shone, not merely as a 
 companion but as a performer. The change in his style and 
 manner of playing was extraordinary : the spirit, the power, 
 humour, and pathos which he infused into his execution, were 
 observed by every one ; and when asked to account for so 
 remarkable a change, his reply was, " My Irish heart is 
 warmed ; I'm not now playing for money, but to please myself." 
 
158 TALBOT AND GAYNOR, 
 
 " But could you not play as well during the evening, Talbot, 
 if you wished, as you do now ?" 
 
 " No, if you were to hang me. My heart must get warmed, 
 and Irish — I must be as I am this minute." 
 
 This, indeed, was very significant, and strongly indicative 
 of the same genius which distinguished Neil Gow, Carolan, and 
 other eminent musicians. 
 
 Talbot, though blind, used to employ his leisure hours in 
 tuning and stringing organs and pianos, and mending almost 
 every description of musical instrument that could be named. 
 His own pipes, which he called the " grand pipes," were at least 
 eight feet long ; and for beauty of appearance, richness, and 
 dehcacy of workmanship, surpassed any thing of the kind that 
 could be witnessed ; and when considered as the production of 
 his own hands, were indeed entitled to be ranked as an extra- 
 ordinary natural curiosity. Talbot played before George IV., 
 and appeared at most of the London theatres, where his per- 
 formances were received with the most enthusiastic applause. 
 In person, Talbot was a large portly-looking man, red faced, 
 and good-looking, though strongly marked by traces of the 
 small-pox. He always wore a blue coat, fully made, with gilt 
 buttons, and had altogether the look of what we call in Ireland 
 a well-dressed hadagli,^ or half-sir, which means a kind of 
 gentleman-farmer. 
 
 His pipes, indeed, were a very wonderful instrument, or 
 rather combination of instruments, being so comphcated that 
 no one could play upon them but himself. The tones which 
 he brought out of them might be imagined to proceed from 
 almost every instrument in an orchestra — now resembling the 
 sweetest and most attenuated notes of the finest Cremona 
 violin, and again the deep and solemn diapason of the organ. 
 
 * Badagh signifies a clmrl, and was original!}^ applied as a word of offence 
 to tlie English settlers. The oflcnsive meaning, however, is not now always 
 attached to it, although it often is. 
 
THE IRISH PIPERS. 159 
 
 Like every Irish performer of talent that we have met witli, he 
 always preferred the rich old songs and airs of Ireland to 
 every other description of music ; and when lit up into the en- 
 thusiasm of his profession and his love of country, he has often 
 deplored, with tears in his sightless eyes, the inroads which 
 modern fashion had made, and was making, upon the good old 
 spirit of the by-gone times. Nearly the last words I ever heard 
 from his lips were highly touching, and characteristic of the man 
 as well as the musician : " If we forget our own old music," said 
 he, " what is there to remember in its place ?" — words alas I 
 which are equally fraught with melancholy and truth. 
 
 The man, however, who ought to sit as the true type and 
 representative of the Irish piper, is he whose whole hfe is 
 passed among the peasantry, with the exception of an occasional 
 elevation to the lord's hall or the squire's parlour — who is 
 equally conversant with the Irish and English languages — has 
 neither wife nor cliild, house nor home, but circulates from one 
 village or farm-house to another, carrying mirth, amusement, 
 and a warm welcome with him, wherever he goes, and filHng 
 the hearts of the young with happiness and delight. The 
 true Irish piper must wear a frieze coat, corduroy breeches, 
 grey woollen stockings, smoke tobacco, drink whiskey, and take 
 snuff ; for it is absolutely necessary, from liis pecuUar position 
 among the people, that he should be a walking encyclopaedia 
 of Irish social usages. And so he generally is ; for to the 
 practice and cultivation of these the simple tenor of his in- 
 offensive life is devoted. 
 
 The most perfect specimen of this class we ever were ac- 
 quainted with, was a bhnd man known by the name of "Piper 
 Gaynor." His beat extended through the county of Louth, 
 and occasionally through those of Meath and Monaghau. 
 Gaynor was precisely such a man as I have just described, 
 both as to dress, a knowledge of EngUsh and Irish, and a 
 thorough feehng of all those mellow old tints, which an incipient 
 
160 TALBOT AND GAYNOR, 
 
 change in the spirit of Irish society threatened even then to 
 obhterate. I have said he was bhnd, but, unhke Talbot's, his 
 face was smooth ; and his pale placid features, while playing 
 on his pipes, were absolutely radiant with enthusiasm and 
 genius. He was a widower, and had won one of the fairest and 
 mo«t modest girls in the rich agricultural county of Louth, in 
 spite of the competition and rivalry of many wealthy and inde- 
 pendent suitors. But no wonder ; for who could hear his magic 
 performances without at once surrendering the whole heart 
 and feelings to the almost preternatural influence of this mu'a- 
 culous enchanter ? Talbot ? — no, no ! — after hearing Gaynor, 
 the very remembrance of the music which proceeded from the 
 '' grand pipes" was absolutely indifferent. And yet the pipes 
 on which he played were the meanest in appearance you could 
 imagine, and in point of size the smallest I ever saw. It is 
 singular, however, but no less true, that we can scarcely name a 
 celebrated Irish piper whose pipes were not known to be small, 
 old-looking, greasy, and marked by the stains and dinges 
 wliich indicate an indulgence in the habits of convivial life. 
 
 Many a distinguished piper have we heard, but never at all 
 any whom we could think for a moment of comparing with 
 Gaynor. Unlike Talbot, it mattered not when or where he 
 played ; his ravishing notes were still the same, for he pos- 
 sessed the power of utterly abstracting his whole spirit into liis 
 music, and any body who looked upon liis pale and intellectual 
 countenance, could perceive the lights and shadows of the Irish 
 heart flit over it, with a change and rapidity which nothing 
 but the soul of genius could command. 
 
 Gaynor, though comparatively unknown to any kind of fame 
 but a local one, was yet not unknown to himself. In truth, 
 though modest, humble, and unassuming in his manners, he 
 possessed the true pride of genius. For instance, though 
 wiUing to play in a respectable farmer's house for the amuse- 
 ment of the family, he never could be prevailed on to play at 
 
THE IRISH PIPERS. 101 
 
 a common dance ; and his reasons, which I have often lieard 
 him urge, were such as exhibit the spirit and intellect of tlic 
 man. " My 7mmc," said he, " isn't for the feet or the floor, 
 but for the ear and the heart ; you'll get plenty of foot pipers ^ 
 but I'm none o' them." 
 
 I will now give a brief sketch of the last evening I ever 
 spent in his society ; and as some of his observations bore 
 slightly upon Scotch music, they may probably be perused 
 with the more interest by Caledonian readers. 
 
 He was seated, when I entered, at the spacious hearth of a 
 wealthy farmer in the neighbourhood, surrounded by large 
 chests, clean settles, and an ample dresser, whose well-scoured 
 pewter reflected the dancing blaze of a huge turf fire. The 
 ruddy farmer and his comely wife were placed opposite to him, 
 their family of sons and daughters in a wide circle at a due 
 distance, whilst behind, on the settles, were the servant men 
 and maids, with several of the neighbours, both young and old, 
 some sitting on chairs, and others leaning against the dresser, 
 the tables, and the meal-chests. Within the chimney-brace 
 depended large sides and flitches of fat bacon, and dark smoke- 
 dried junks of hung beef ; presenting altogether that agreeable 
 manifestation of abundance, which gives such a cheerful sense 
 of sohd comfort to the inmates of a substantial farmer's house. 
 
 When I made my appearance in the kitchen, he was putting 
 a tobacco-pipe into his mouth, but held it back for a moment, 
 and exclaimed, ^' I ought to know that foot ! " — after which he 
 extended his hand, and asked me by name how I did. He then 
 sat a while in silence — for such was liis habit — and having 
 " sucked his doodeen,'' as they say, he began to blow liis bellows, 
 and played Scots wha hae. When he had finished it, " Well," 
 I observed, " what a fine piece of martial music that is I" 
 
 *' ISTo, no," he replied, shaking his head, "there's more tears 
 than blood in it. It's too sorrowful for war ; play it as j^ou 
 will, it's not the thing to me the heart, but to sink it." 
 
 M 
 
162 TALBOT AND GAYNOR, 
 
 *' But what do you think, Gaynor, of the Scotch music in 
 general?" 
 
 " Would you have me to spake ill of my own?" he replied, 
 with a smile ; " sure, they had it from uz." 
 
 " Well, even so ; they have not made a bad use of it." 
 
 " God knows they haven't," he replied; "the Scotch airs — 
 many o' them — is the very breath of the heart itself." 
 
 Even then I was much struck with the force of this expres- 
 sion ; but I was too young fully to perceive either its truth 
 or beauty. The conversation then became general, and he 
 addressed himself with a great deal of naivete to the young- 
 sters, who began to banter him on the subject of a second wife. 
 
 " How can dark men choose a wife, Mr. Gaynor ?" 
 
 *' God, avourneen, makes up in one sense what they want 
 in another. 'Tis the ear, 'tis the ear ! " continued he, with 
 apparent emotion ; " that's what will never desave you. It 
 did not desave me, an' it never will desave any body — no, 
 indeed !" 
 
 *' Why, how do you prove that, Ned?" 
 
 " It isn't the song," continued Ned ; " no, nor the laugh ; 
 for I Tcnewn them that could sing like angels, and, to all appear- 
 ance, were merry enough too, an' God forgive them, there was 
 httle but bittherness in them after all : but it's the every-day 
 voice, aisy and natural ; if there's sweetness in that, you may 
 depind there's music in the heart it comes from ; so that, as I 
 said, childre, it's the ear that judges." 
 
 This, coming from a man who had not his sight, was 
 indeed, very characteristic ; and we certainly believe that the 
 observation contains a great deal of moral truth — at least 
 Shakspeare was certainly of the same opinion. 
 
 " Now, childre," said he, " hadn't we betther have a dance, 
 and afthcr that I'll play all your favourites. So now, trim 
 your heels for a dance. What's the world good for, if we don't 
 take it aisy ?" 
 
THE lUISIT PIPERS. 103 
 
 After playing the old bard's exquisite air, the youngsters, 
 myself among the rest, joined in the dance. The punch being 
 then introduced, a happy night was spent in chat, music, rich 
 old legends, and traditions, principally furnished by Gaynor 
 himself ; who, in addition to his many social and amusing qua- 
 lities, possessed in a liigh degree the free and fluent powers 
 pecuHar to the old Irish senachie. 
 
 Such is a very feeble and imperfect sketch of the Irish piper, 
 a character whom his countrymen love and respect, and in 
 every instance treat with the kindness and cordiality due to a 
 relation. Indeed, the musicians of Ireland are as harmless 
 and inoffensive a class of persons as ever existed ; and there 
 can be no greater proof of this than the very striking fact, 
 that, in the criminal statistics of the country, the name of an 
 Irish piper or fiddler, &c., has scarcely, if ever, been known to 
 appear. 
 
 
FRANK FINNEGAN, 
 
 THE FOSTER BROTHER. 
 
 There is scarcely a trait of human nature involved in more 
 mystery, or generally less understood, than the singular 
 strength of affection which binds the humble peasant of Irish 
 life to his foster-brother, and more especially if the latter be a 
 person of rank or consideration. This anomalous attachment, 
 though it may to a certain extent be mutual, is nevertheless 
 very seldom known to be equal in strength between the parties. 
 Experience has sufficiently proved to us, that whilst instances 
 of equahty in feehng have been known to characterize it, the 
 predominant power of its spirit has always been found to exist 
 in the person of the humbler party. How to account for this • 
 would certainly require a more philosophical acquaintance with | 
 human nature than has fallen to our lot; we must therefore 
 be content to know that the fact is precisely as we have stated 
 it. Irish history and tradition furnish us with sufficient 
 materials on which to ground clear and distinct proofs that 
 the attachment of habit and contiguity in these instances far 
 transcends that of natural affection itself. It is very seldom 
 that one brother will lay down his life for another, and yet 
 instances of such high and heroic sacrifices have occurred in 
 the case of the foster-brother, whose affection has thus not 
 unfrequently triumphed over death itself. It is certainly 
 impossible to impute this wild but indomitable attachment to 
 the force of domestic feehng, because, whilst we maintain that 
 the domestic affections in Ireland are certainly stronger than 
 those of any other country in the world, still instances of this 
 
THE FOSTER BROTHER. 165 
 
 inexplicable devotion have occurred in the persons of those in 
 whom the domestic ties were known to be very feeble. It is 
 true, there are many moral anomalies in the human heart with 
 which we are as yet but imperfectly acquainted ; and as they 
 arise from some wayward and irregular combination of its 
 impulses, that operate independently of any known principles 
 of action, it is not likely that we shall ever thoroughly under- 
 stand them. There is another peculiarity in Irish feeling, 
 which, as it is analogous to this, we cannot neglect to mention 
 it. We allude to the Parisheen, a term which we must explain 
 at further length to our readers. When the Dublin Foundling 
 Hospital was in existence, the poor infants whom an unhappy 
 destiny consigned to that gloomy and withering institution, 
 were transmitted to different parts of the country, to be nursed 
 by the wives of the lower classes of the peasantry — such as 
 day-labourers, cottiers, and small farmers, who cultivated from 
 three to six or eight acres of land. These children were 
 generally, indeed almost always, called Parisheens — a word 
 which could be properly applied only to such as, having no 
 known parents, were supported by the parish in which they 
 happened to be born. It was transferred to the Foundlings, 
 however ; although, with the exception of the metropohs, which 
 certainly paid a parish tax for their maintenance, they were 
 principally supported by a very moral act of parhament, which, 
 by the wise provision of a large grant, held out a very liberal 
 bounty to profligacy. At all events, the opprobrious epithet 
 of Parisheen was that usually fixed upon them. 
 
 Now, of all classes of our fellow-creatures, one might almost 
 naturally suppose that those deserted and forsaken beings 
 would be apt, consigned as they uniformly were to the care of 
 mercenary strangers, to experience neglect, ill-treatment, or 
 even cruelty itself; and yet, honour be to the generous hearts 
 and affectionate feeUngs of our humble people, it has been 
 proved, by the incontestible authority of a Commission 
 
 
166 FRANK FINNEGAN, 
 
 expressly appointed to examine and report on the working of 
 the very Hospital in question, that the care, affection, and 
 tenderness with which these ill-fated creatures were treated by 
 the nurses to whom they were given out, were equal, if not 
 superior, to those which were bestowed upon their own children. 
 Even when removed from these nurses to situations of incom- 
 parably more comfort — situations in which they were lodged, 
 fed, and clothed, in a far superior manner — they have been 
 known, in innumerable instances, to elope from their masters 
 and mistresses, and return to their old abodes, preferring the 
 indulgence of their affection, with poverty and distress, to any 
 thing else that life could offer. 
 
 All this, however, was very natural and reasonable, for we 
 know that even the domestic animal will love the hand that 
 feeds him. But that which we have alluded to as constituting 
 the strong analogy between it and the attachment of the foster- 
 brother, is the well-known fact, that the affection of the 
 children to the nurses, though strong and remarkable, was as 
 nothing when compared with that which the nurses felt for 
 them. This was proved by a force of testimony which no 
 scepticism could encounter. The parting scenes between them 
 were affecting, and in many instances agonizing, to the last 
 degree. Nay, nurses have frequently come up to Dublin, and, 
 with tears in their eyes, and in accents of the most unfeigned 
 sorrow, begged that the orphans might be allowed to stay with 
 them, undertaking, rather than part with them, that they 
 would support them at their own expense. It would be very 
 difficult to produce a more honourable testimony to the moral 
 honesty, generosity, and exquisite kindness of heart which 
 characterize our people, than the authentic facts we have just 
 mentioned. They fell naturally in our way when treating of 
 the subject which preceded them, and we could not, in justice 
 to circumstances so beautiful and striking, much less in justice 
 to the people themselves, pass them over in silence. 
 
THE FOSTER BROTHER. 167 
 
 We shall now relate a short story, illustrating the attach- 
 ment of a foster-brother ; but as we have reason to believe that 
 the circumstances are true, we shall introduce fictitious names 
 instead of real ones. 
 
 The rebellion of ninety-eight was just at its height when 
 the incidents we are about to mention took place. A gentleman 
 named Moore had a daughter remarkable for her beauty and 
 accomphshments. Indeed, so celebrated had she become, that 
 her health was always drunk as the toast of her native county. 
 Many suitors she had, of course, but among the rest two were 
 remarkable for their assiduous^attentions to her, and an intense 
 anxiety to secure her affections. Henry Irwin was a high 
 loyahst, as was her own father, whose consent to gain the 
 affections of his daughter had been long given to his young 
 friend. The other, a young gentleman named Hewson, who 
 in point of fact had already secui^ed her affections, was, unfor- 
 tunately, deeply involved in, or, we should rather say, an open 
 leader on, the insurgent side. His principles having become 
 known to Moore, as repubhcan, for some time before the 
 breaking out of the insurrection, he was, in consequence, for- 
 bidden the house, and warned against holding communication 
 •with any member of his family. He had succeeded, however, 
 before this, by the aid of Miss Moore herself, who was aware 
 of his principles, in placing as butler in her father's family his 
 own foster-brother, Frank Finnegan — an arrangement which 
 never would have been permitted, had Moore known of the 
 pecuhar bond of affection wliich subsisted between them. Of 
 this, however, he was ignorant; and in admitting Finnegan into 
 his family, he was not aware of the advantages he afforded to 
 the proscribed suitor of liis daughter. This interdiction, how- 
 ever, came too late for the purposes of prudence. Ere it was 
 issued, Hewson and his daughter had exchanged vows of mutual 
 affection ; but the national outbreak wliich immediately ensued, 
 by forcing Hewson to assume his place as an insurgent leader. 
 
168 FRANK FINNEGAN, 
 
 appeared to have placed a barrier between him and her, wliich 
 was naturally considered to be insurmountable. In the mean- 
 time, Moore himself, who was a local magistrate, and also a 
 captain of yeomanry, took an extremely active part in quelling 
 the insurrection, and in hunting down and securing the rebels. 
 Nor was Irwin less zealous in following the footsteps of the 
 man to whom he wished to recommend himself as his future 
 sdn-in-law. They acted together; and so vigorous were the 
 measures of the young loyahst, that the other felt it necessary 
 in some instances to check the exuberance, of his loyalty. 
 This, however, was not known to the opposite party ; for as 
 Irwin always seemed to act under the instructions of his friend 
 Moore, so was it obviously enough inferred that every harsh 
 act and wanton stretch of authority which he committed, was 
 either sanctioned or suggested by the other. The consequence 
 was, that Moore became, if possible, more odious than Irwin, 
 who was looked upon as a rash, hot-headed zealot; whilst the 
 veteran was marked as a cool and wily old fox, who had ten 
 times the cunning and cruelty of the senseless puppet he was 
 managing. In this, it is unnecessary to say, they were egre- 
 giously mistaken. 
 
 In the meantime the rebellion went forward, and many acts 
 of cruelty and atrocity were committed on both sides. Moore's 
 house and family would have been attacked, and most probably 
 murder and ruin might have visited him and liis, were it not 
 for the influence of Hewson with the rebels. Twice did the 
 latter succeed, and on each occasion with great difliculty, in 
 preventing him and his household from falling victims to the 
 vengeance of the insurgents. Moore was a man of great 
 personal courage, but apt to underrate the character and 
 enterprize of those who were opposed to him. Indeed, his 
 prudence was by no means on a par with his bravery or 
 zeal, for he has often been known to sally out at the head 
 of a party in quest of his enemies, and leave his own man- 
 
THE FOSTER BROTHER. 1(39 
 
 sion, and the lives of those who were in it, exposed and 
 defenceless. 
 
 On one of those excursions it was that he chanced to capture 
 a small body of the insurgents, headed by an intimate friend 
 and distant relative of Hewson's. As the law at that unhappy 
 period was necessarily quick in its operations, we need scarcely 
 say, that, having been taken openly armed against the king 
 and the constitution, they were tried and executed by the 
 summary sentence of a court-martial. A deep and bloody 
 vengeance was now sworn against him and his by the rebels, 
 who for some time afterwards lay in wait for the purpose of 
 retaUating in a spirit prompted by the atrocious character of 
 the times. 
 
 Hewson's attachment to Moore's daughter, however, had 
 been long known, and his previous interference on behalf of 
 her father had been successful on that account only. Now, 
 however, the plan of attack was laid vdthout his cognizance, 
 and that with the most solemn injunctions to every one con- 
 cerned in it not to disclose their object to any human being 
 not officially acquainted with it, much less to Hewson, who 
 they calculated would once more take such steps as might 
 defeat their sanguinary purpose. These arrangements having 
 been made, matters were allowed to remain quiet for a Httle, 
 until Moore should be off his guard; for we must observe here, 
 that he had felt it necessary, after the execution of the 
 captured rebels, to keep his house strongly and resolutely 
 defended. The attack was therefore postponed until the 
 apprehensions created by his recent activity should gradually 
 wear away, and his enemies might with less risk undertake the 
 work of bloodshed and destruction. The night at length was 
 appointed on which the murderous attack must be made. All 
 the dark details were arranged with a deliberation at which, 
 removed as we now are from the sanguinary excitement of the 
 times, the very soul shudders and gets sick. A secret, how- 
 
170 FRANK FINNEGAN, 
 
 ever, communicated, even under the most solemn sanction, to a 
 great number, stands a great chance of being no secret at all, 
 especially during civil war, where so many interests of friend- 
 ship, blood, and marriage, bind the opposing parties together, 
 in spite of the pubhc principles under which they act. Miss 
 Moore's maid had a brother, for instance, who, together with 
 several of his friends and relatives, being appointed to aid in 
 the attack, felt anxious that she should not be present on that 
 night, lest her acquaintance with them might be ultimately 
 dangerous to the assailants. He accordingly sought an oppor- 
 tunity of seeing her, and in earnest language urged her to 
 absent herself from her master's house on the appointed night. 
 The girl was not much surprised at the ambiguity of liis hints, 
 for the truth was, that no person, man or woman, possessing 
 common sense, could be ignorant of the state of the country, 
 or of the evil odour in which Moore and Irwin, and all those 
 who were active on the part of government, were held. She 
 accordingly told him that she would follow his advice, and 
 spoke to him in terms so shrewd and significant, that he deemed 
 it useless to preserve further secrecy. The plot was thus 
 disclosed, and the girl warned to leave the house, both for her 
 own sake and for that of those who were to wreak their ven- 
 geance upon Moore and his family. 
 
 The poor girl, hoping that her master and the rest might 
 fly from the impending danger, communicated the circum- 
 stances to Miss Moore, who forthwith communicated them to 
 her father, who, again, instead of flying, took measures to 
 collect about his premises, during the early part of the dreaded 
 night, a large and well-armed force from the next military 
 station. Now, it so happened that this girl, whose name was 
 Baxter, had a leaning towards Hewson's foster-brother Fin- 
 negan, her fellow-servant, who in plain language was her 
 accepted lover. If love will not show itself in a case of danger, 
 it is good for nothing. We need scarcely say that Peggy 
 
THE FOSTER-BROTHER. 171 
 
 Baxter, apprehensive of danger to her sweetheart, confided the 
 secret to him also in the early part of the day of the attack. 
 Finnegan was surprised, especially when he heard from Peggy 
 that Hewson had been kept in ignorance of the whole design 
 (for so her brother had told her), in consequence of his attach- 
 ment to her young mistress. There was now no possible way 
 of warding off such a calamity, unless by communicating with 
 Hewson ; and this, as Finnegan was a sound United Irishman, 
 he knew he could do without any particular danger. He lost 
 no time, therefore, in seeing him ; and we need scarcely say 
 that his foster-brother felt stunned and thunderstruck at the 
 deed that was about to be perpetrated without his knowledge. 
 Finnegan then left him, but ere he reached home, the darkness 
 had set in, and on arriving, he sought the kitchen and its com- 
 forts, ignorant, as were indeed most of the servants, that the 
 upper rooms and out-houses were hterally crammed with fierce 
 and well-armed soldiers. 
 
 Matters were now coming to a crisis. Hewson, aware that 
 there was little time to be lost, collected a small party of his 
 own immediate and personal friends, not one of whom, from 
 their known attachment to him, had been, any more than him- 
 self, admitted to a knowledge of the attack upon Moore. 
 Determined, therefore, to be beforehand with the others, he 
 and they met at an appointed place, from whence they went 
 quickly, and with as much secrecy as possible, to Moore's house, 
 for the purpose not only of apprizing him of the fate to which 
 he and his were doomed, but also with an intention of escorting 
 him and all his family as far from his house as might be con- 
 sistent with the safety of both parties. Our readers are of 
 course prepared for the surprise and capture of honest Hewson 
 and his friends, of whose friendly intentions they are aware. 
 It is too true. Not expecting to find the house defended, they 
 were unprepared for an attack or sally ; and the upshot was, 
 that in a few minutes Uyo of them were shot, and most of the 
 
172 FRANK FINNEGAN, 
 
 rest, among whom was Hewson, taken prisoners on the spot. 
 Those who escaped communicated to the other insurgents an 
 account of the streno^th with which Moore's house was defended ; 
 and the latter, instead of making an attempt to rescue their 
 friends, abandoned the meditated attack altogether, and left 
 Hewson and his party to their fate. A gloomy fate that was. 
 Assertions and protestations of their innocence were all in vain. 
 An insurgent party were expected to attack the house, and of 
 course they came, headed by Hewson himself, who, as Moore 
 said, no doubt intended to spare none of them but his daughter, 
 and her, only, in order that she might become a rebel's wife. 
 Irwin, too, liis rival in love and his foe in pohtics, was on the 
 court-martial, and what had he to expect? Death ; and nothing 
 but the darkness of the night prevented his enemies from 
 putting it into immediate execution upon him and his com- 
 panions. 
 
 Hewson maintained a dignified silence ; and upon seeing his 
 friends guarded from the hall, where they were now assembled, 
 into a large barn, he desired to be placed along with them. 
 
 " ]S"o," said Moore ; " if you are a rebel ten times over, you 
 are a gentleman ; you must not herd with them ; and besides, 
 Mr. Hewson, with great respect to you, we shall place you in 
 a much safer place. In the highest room, in a house unusally 
 high, we shall lodge you, out of which if you escape, we will 
 say you are an innocent man. Frank Finnegan, show him and 
 those two soldiers up to the observatory ; get him refreshments, 
 and leave him in their charge. Guard liis door, men, for you 
 shall be held responsible for his appearance in the morning." 
 
 The men, in obedience to these orders, escorted liim to the 
 door, outside of which was their station for the night. When 
 Frank and he entered the observatory, the former gently shut 
 the door, and, turning to his foster-brother, exclaimed in 
 accents of deep distress, but lowering his voice, " There is not 
 a moment to be lost ; you must escape." 
 
THE FOSTER-BROTHER. 173 
 
 " That is impossible," replied Hewson, " unless I hud winfrs 
 and could use them." 
 
 " We must try," returned Frank ; " we can only fail — at 
 the most they can only take your life, and that they'll do at 
 all events." 
 
 " I know that," said Hewson, " and I am prepared for it." 
 
 " Hear me," said the other ; "I will come up by and bye 
 with refreshments, say in about half an hour ; be you stripped 
 when I come. We are both of a size ; and as these fellows don't 
 know either of us very well, I wouldn't say but you may go out 
 in my clothes. I'll hear nothing," he added, seeing Hewson 
 about to speak ; "I am here too long, and these fellows might 
 begin to suspect something. Be preparred when I come. Good 
 bye, Mr. Hewson," he said aloud, as he opened the door ; "in 
 troth an' conscience I'm sorry to see you here, but that's the 
 consequence of turnin' rebel against King George, an' glory to 
 him — soon and sudden,^' he added in an undertone. " In about 
 half an hour I'll bring you up some supper, sir. Keep a sharp 
 eye on him," he whispered to the two soldiers, giving them at 
 the same time a knowing and confidential wink ; " these same 
 rebels are hke eels, an' will slip as aisily tlirough your fingers 
 — an' the devil's bitther one yez have in there ;" and as he 
 spoke, he pointed over his shoulder with his inverted thumb to 
 the door of the observatory. 
 
 Much about the time he had promised to return, a crash was 
 heard upon the stairs, and Finnegan's voice in a high key 
 exclaiming, " The curse o' blazes on you for stairs, an' hell 
 iwesume all the rebels in Europe, I pray heavens this night ! 
 There's my nose broke between you all !" He then stooped 
 down, and in a torrent of bitter imprecations — all conveyed, 
 however, in mock oaths — he collected and placed again upon 
 the tray on which they had been, all the materials for Hew- 
 son's supper. He then ascended, and on presenting himself at 
 the prisoner's door, the blood was copiously streaming from 
 
174 FRANK FINNEGAN, 
 
 his nose. The soldiers — who by the way were yeomen— on 
 seeing him, could not avoid laughing at his rueful appearance 
 — a circumstance which seemed to nettle him a good deal. 
 " Yez may laugh !" he exclaimed, " but I'd hould a wager 
 I've shed more blood for his majesty this night than either of 
 you ever did in your hves ! May hell renounce all rebels any 
 how !" 
 
 This only heightened their mirth, in the midst of which he 
 entered Hewson's room ; and ere the action could be deemed 
 possible, they had exchanged clothes. 
 
 " Now," said he, " fly. Beliind the garden Miss Moore is 
 waitin' for you ; she knows all. Take the bridle-road through 
 the broad bog, an' get into Captain Corny's demesne. Take 
 my advice, too, an' go both of you to America, if you can. 
 But, aisy. God forgive me for pulhn' you by the nose in- 
 stead of shakin' you by the hand, an' me may never see you 
 more." 
 
 The poor fellow's voice became unsteady with emotion, 
 although the smile at his own humour was upon his face at the 
 time. 
 
 " As I came in with a bloody nose," he proceeded, giving 
 that of Hewson a fresh pull, " you know you must go out with 
 one. An' now God's blessin' be with you ! Think of one who 
 loved you as none else did." 
 
 The next morning there was uproar' tumult, and confusion 
 in the house of the old loyalist magistrate, when it was disco- 
 vered that his daughter and the butler were not forthcoming. 
 But when, on examining the observatory, it was ascertained 
 that Finnegan was safe and Hewson gone, no language can 
 describe the rage and fury of Moore, Irwin, and the mihtary 
 in general. Our readers may anticipate what occurred. The 
 noble fellow was brought to the drum-head, tried, and sen- 
 tenced to be shot where he stood ; but ere the sentence was put 
 into execution, Moore addressed him. " Now, Finnegan," said 
 
 ^ 
 
THE FOSTER-BROTHER, 175 
 
 he, " I will get you off, if you tell us where Ilewson and my 
 daughter are. I pledge my honour publicly that I'll save your 
 life, and get you a free pardon, if you enable us to trace and 
 recover them." 
 
 " I don't know where they are," he rephed, " but even if I 
 did, I would not betray them." 
 
 " Think of what has been said to you," added Irwin. " I 
 give you my pledge also to the same effect." 
 
 " Mr. Irwin," he replied, " I have but one word to say. 
 When I did what I did, I knew very well that my life would 
 go for his ; an' I know that if he had thought so, he would be 
 standin' now in my place. Put your sentence into execution ; 
 I'm prepared." 
 
 " Take five minutes," said Moore. " Give him up and Hve." 
 
 "Mr. Moore," said he, with a decision and energy which 
 startled them all, " I a3i his Foster-Brother." 
 
 This was felt to be sufficient ; he stood at the appointed 
 place, calm and unshrinking, and at the first discharge fell 
 instantaneously dead. 
 
 Thus passed a spirit worthy of a place in a brighter page than 
 that of our humble miscellany, and which, if the writer of this 
 hves, shall be more adequately recorded. 
 
 Hewson, finding that the insurgent cause was becoming 
 hopeless, escaped, after two or three other unsuccessful engage- 
 ments, to America, instigated by the sohcitations of his young 
 wife. Old Moore died in a few years afterwards, but he sur- 
 vived his resentment, for he succeeded in reconciling the then 
 government to his son-in-law, who returned to Ireland ; and it 
 was found by liis wiU, much to the mortification of many of his 
 relatives, that he had left the bulk of his property to Mrs. 
 Ilewson, who had always been his favourite child, and whose 
 attachment to Ilewson he had himself originally encouraged. 
 
 There are two records more connected with this transaction, 
 with which we shall close. In a northern newspaper, dated 
 
176 FRANK FINNEGAN. 
 
 some fifteen years afterwards, there occurs the following 
 paragraph : — 
 
 " Affair of Honour — Fatal Duel. — Yesterday morning, 
 at the early hour of five o'clock, a duel was fought between 
 A. Irwin, Esq. and J. Hewson, Esq., of Mooredale, the former 
 of whom, we regret to say, fell by the second fire. We hope 
 the words attributed to one of the parties are not correctly 
 reported. ' The blood of Frank Finnegan is now avenged.' " 
 
 The other record is to be found in the churchyard of , 
 
 where there is a handsome monument erected, with the fol- 
 lowing inscription : — 
 
 ^acrttf to t|je fHemor^ of 
 
 FRANCIS FINNEGAN, 
 
 Wliose Death presented an instance of the greatest Virtue 
 of which Human Nature is capable — 
 
 That of laying down his Life for his Friend. 
 
 This Monument is erected to his Memory, by 
 
 JAMES HEWSON, 
 
 His Friend and Foster-Brother, 
 
 To save whose more unworthy life, he nobly sacrificed his own. 
 
iS^^ 
 
 e^Tz/z^i 
 
TOM GRESSIEY, 
 
 THE IRISH SENACHIE. 
 
 The state of Irish society has changed so rapidly within the 
 last thirty or forty years, that scarcely any one could believe 
 it possible for the present generation to be looked upon in 
 many things as the descendants of that which has immediately 
 gone before it. The old armorial bearings of society which 
 were empannelled upon the ancient manners of our country, 
 now hano; like tattered scutcheons over the tombs of customs 
 and usages which sleep beneath them ; and, unless rescued 
 from the obhterating hand of time, scarcely a vestige of them 
 will be left even to tradition itself. That many gross 
 absurdities have been superseded by a social condition more 
 enlightened and healthy, is a fact which must gratify every 
 one who wishes to see the general masses actuated by those 
 principles which follow in the train of knowledge and civiliza- 
 tion. But at the same time it is undeniable that the simphcity 
 which accompanied those old vestiges of harmless ignorance 
 has departed along with them ; and, in spite of education and 
 science, we miss the old familiar incUviduals who stood forth as 
 the representatives of manners, whose very memory touches 
 the heart and affections more strongly than the hard creations 
 of sterner but more salutary truths. For our own part, we 
 have always loved the rich and ruddy twilight of the rustic 
 hearth, where the capricious tongues of blazing light shoot out 
 from between the kindling turf, and dance in vivid reflection in 
 the well-scoured pewter and delft as they stand neatly arranged 
 on the kitchen di'esser — loved, did we say ? ay, and ever pre^ 
 
 N 
 
178 TOM GRESSIEY, 
 
 ferred it to philosophy, with all her light and fashion, with all 
 her heartlessness and hypocrisy. For this reason it is, that 
 whilst retracing, as it were, the steps of our early life, and 
 bringing back to our memory the acquaintances of our youthful 
 days, we feel our heart touched with melancholy ^nd sorrow, 
 because we know that it is like taking our last farewell of old 
 friends whom we shall never see again, from whom we never 
 experienced any thing but kindness, and whose time-touched 
 faces were never turned upon us but with pleasure, and amuse- 
 ment, and affection. 
 
 In this paper it is not with the Senachie, whose name and 
 avocations are associated with high and historical dignity, that 
 we have any thing to do. Our sketches do not go very far 
 beyond the manners of our own times; by which we mean that 
 we paint or record nothing that is not remembered and known 
 by those who are now living. The Senachie we speak of is 
 the dim and diminished reflection of him who filled a distinct 
 calling in a period that has long gone by. The regular 
 Senachie — the herald and historian of individual families, the 
 faithful genealogist of liis long-descended patron — has not been 
 in existence for at least a century and a half, perhaps two. He 
 with whom we have to do is the humble old man who, feehng 
 himself gifted with a strong memory for genealogical liistory, 
 old family anecdotes, and legendary lore in general, passes a 
 happy hfe in going from family to family, comfortably dressed 
 and much respected — dropping in of a Saturday night without 
 any previous notice, bringing eager curiosity and dehglit to 
 the youngsters of the house he visits, and filhng the sedate 
 ears of the old with tales and legends, in which, perhaps, 
 individuals of their own name and blood have in former a^es 
 been known to take a remarkable and conspicuous part. 
 
 Indeed, there is no country in the world where, from the 
 peculiar features of its social and political changes, the chro- 
 nicles of the Senachie would be more likely to produce such a 
 
THE IRISH SENACHIE. 179 
 
 powerful effect as in Ireland. When we consider that it was 
 once a country of princes and chiefs, each of whom was followed 
 and looked up to with such a spirit of feudal enthusiasm and 
 devoted attachment as might naturally be expected from a 
 people remarkable for the force of their affection and their 
 power of imagination, it is not surprising that the man who, 
 in a state of society which presented to the minds of so many 
 notliing but the records of fallen greatness or the decay of 
 powerful names, and the downfal of rude barbaric grandeur, 
 together with the ruin of fanes and the prostration of rehgious 
 institutions, each invested with some local or national interest — 
 it is not surprising, we say, that such a man should be welcomed, 
 and hstened to, and honoured, with a feehng far surpassing 
 that which was awakened by the idle jingle of a Provencal 
 Troubadour, or the gorgeous dreams begotten by Arabian 
 fiction. iS'either the transition state of society, however, nor 
 the scanty diffusion of knowledge among the Irish, allowed the 
 Senacliie to produce any permanent impression upon the 
 people ; and the consequence was, that as the changes of society 
 hurried on, he and his audience were carried along with them; 
 his traditionary lore was lost in the ignorance which ever arises 
 when a ban has been placed upon education; and from the 
 recital of the high deeds and heroic feats of by-gone days, he 
 sank down into the humble chronicler of hoary legends and 
 dim traditions, for such only has he been within the memory 
 of the oldest man hving, and as such only do we intend to 
 present him to our readers. 
 
 The most accomphshed Senachie of tliis kind that ever came 
 within our observation, was a man called Tom Gressiey, or 
 Tom the Shoemaker. He was a very stout well-built man, 
 about fifty years of age, with a round head somewhat bald, 
 and an expansive forehead that argued a considerable reach of 
 natural intellect. His knowing organs were large, and pro- 
 jected over a pair of deep-set hvely eyes, that scintillated with 
 
180 TOM GRESSIEY, 
 
 strong t',vinklings of humour. His voice was loud, his 
 enunciation rapid, hut distinct; and such was the force and 
 buoyancy of his spirits, added to the vehemence of his manner, 
 that altogether it was impossible to resist him. His laughter 
 was infectious, and so loud that it might be heard of a calm 
 summer evening at an incredible distance. Indeed, Tom 
 possessed many qualities that rendered him a most agreeable 
 companion : he could sing a "good song for instance, dance a 
 hornpipe as well as any dancing-master, and we need not say 
 that he could tell a good story. He could also imitate a Jew's 
 harp or trump upon his lips, with his mere fingers, in such a 
 manner that the deception was complete; and it was well known 
 that flocks of the country people used to crowd about liim for 
 the purpose of hearing his performance upon the ivy leaf, 
 which he played upon by putting it in his mouth, and uttering 
 a most melodious whistle. Altogether, he was a man of great 
 natural powers, and possessed such a memory as the wi^iter of 
 this never knew any other human being to be gifted with. He 
 not only remembered every thing he saw or was concerned in, 
 but every thing he heard also. His language, when he spoke 
 Irish, was fluent, clear, and sometimes eloquent ; but when he 
 had recourse to the English, although his fluency remained, 
 yet it was the fluency of a man who made an indiscriminate 
 use of a vocabulary which he did not understand. His 
 pedantry on this account was highly ludicrous and amusing, 
 and his wit and humour surprisingly original and pointed. He 
 had never received any education, and was consequently com- 
 pletely iUiteratc, yet he could repeat every word of Gallagher's 
 Irish Sermons, Donlevy's Catechism, Think Well On't, the 
 Seven Champions of Christendom, and the substance of 
 Pastorini's and Kolumb Kill's Prophecies, all by heart. Many 
 a time have we seen him read, as he used to call it, one of Dr. 
 Gallagher's Sermons out of the skirt of his big-coat ; a feat 
 which was looked upon with twice the wonder it woidd have 
 
I 
 
 THE IRISH SENACHIE. 181 
 
 produced had lie merely said that he repeated it. But to read 
 it out of the skirt of his coat ! Heavens, how we used to look 
 on with awe and veneration, as Tom, in a loud rapid voice, 
 " rhymed it out of him," for such was the term we gave to his 
 recital of it ! His learning, however, was not confined to mere 
 English and Irish, for Tom was also classical in his way, and 
 for want of a better substitute it was said could serve mass, 
 which must always be done in Latin. Certain it was that he 
 could repeat the De profimdis, and the Dies L^ce, in that 
 language. We need scarcely add, that in these learned exhi- 
 bitions he dealt largely in false quantities, and took a course 
 for himself altogether independent of syntax and prosody ; 
 this, however, was no argument against his natural talents, or 
 the surprising force of his memory. 
 
 Tom was also an easy and happy Improviser both in prose 
 and poetry ; his invention was indeed remarkably fertile, but 
 his genius knew no medium between encomium and satire. He 
 either lashed his friends, for the deuce an enemy he had, with 
 rude and fearful attacks of the latter, or gave them, as Pope 
 did to Berkeley, every virtue under heaven, and indeed a good 
 many more than ever were heard of beyond his own system of 
 philosophy and morals. 
 
 Tom was a great person for attending wakes and funerals, 
 where he was always a busy man, comforting the afflicted 
 relatives with many learned quotations, repeating ramis, or 
 spiritual songs, together with the De prqfundis or Dies Irce^ 
 over the corpse, directing even the domestic concerns, paying 
 attention to strangers, looking after the pipes and tobacco, and 
 in fact making himself not only generally useful, but essentially 
 necessary to them, by his happiness of manner, the cordiality 
 of his sympathy, and his unextinguishable humour. 
 
 At one time you might see him engaged in leading a Bosary 
 for the repose of the soul of the departed, or singing the Hermit 
 of Killarney, a religious song, to edify the company ; and this 
 
182 TOM GRESSIEY, 
 
 duty being over, he would commence a series of comic tales 
 and humourous anecdotes, which he narrated with an ease and 
 spirit that the best of us all might envy. The Irish heart 
 passes rapidly from the depths of pathos to the extremes of 
 humour ; and as a proof of tliis, we can assure our readers 
 that we have seen the nearest and most afflicted relatives of 
 the deceased carried away by uncontrollable laughter at the 
 broad, grotesque, and ludicrous force of his narratives. It was 
 here also that he shone in a character of which he was very 
 proud, and for the possession of which he was looked up to with 
 great respect by the people ; we mean that of a polemic, or, as 
 it is termed, " an arguer of Scripture," for when a man in the 
 country parts of Ireland wins local fame as a controversiaHst, 
 he is seldom mentioned in any other way than as a great arguer 
 of Scripture. To argue Scripture well, therefore, means the 
 power of subduing one's antagonist in a religious contest. 
 Many challenges of this kind passed between Tom and his 
 polemical opponents, in most of all of which he was successful. 
 His memory was infallible, his wit prompt and dexterous, and 
 his humour either broad or sarcastic, as he found it convenient 
 to apply it. In these dialectic displays he spared neither logic 
 nor learning : where an Enghsh quotation failed, he threw in 
 one of Irish ; and where that was understood, he posed them 
 with a Latin one, closing the quotation by desiring them to 
 give a translation of it ; if this too were accomplished, he rattled 
 out the five or six first verses of John, in Greek, which some 
 one had taught him ; and as this was generally beyond their 
 reading, it usually closed the discussion in his favour. Without 
 doubt he possessed a mind of great natural versatility and 
 power ; and as these polemical exercitations were principally 
 conducted in wake-houses, it is almost needless to say that 
 the wake at which they expected him was uniformly a crowded 
 one. 
 
 Tom had a good flexible voice, and used to sing the old Irish 
 
THE IRISH SENACHIE. 
 
 183 
 
 songs of our country with singular pathos and effect, lie sang 
 Peggy Slevin,the Red-haired Man's Wife, and ShcelaNa Guira, 
 with a feeUng that early impressed itself upon our heart. 
 Indeed we think that his sweet but artless voice still rings in 
 our ears ; and whilst we remember the tears which the enthu- 
 siasm of sorrow brought down his cheeks, and the quivering 
 pause in the fine old melody which marked what he felt, we 
 cannot help acknowledging that the memory of these things is 
 mom^nful, and that the hearts of many, in spite of new systems 
 of education and incarcerating poor-houses, will yearn after 
 the homely but touching traits which marked the harmless 
 Senachie, and the times in which he lived. 
 
 But now all these innocent fireside enjoyments are gone, and 
 we will never more have our hearts made glad by the sprightly 
 mirth and rich good humour of the Senachie, nor ever again 
 pay the artless tribute of our tears to his old pathetic songs of 
 sorrow, nor feel our hearts softened at the ideal miseries of 
 tale or legend as they proceeded in mournful recitative from 
 his hps. Alas ! alas ! knowledge may be power, but it is no^ 
 happiness. 
 
 Such is, we fear, an imperfect outline of Tom's Hfe. It was 
 one of ease and comfort, without a care to disturb him, or a 
 passion that was not calmed by the simple but virtuous integrity 
 of his heart. His wishes were few, and innocently and easily 
 gratified. The great deUght of his soul was not that he should 
 experience kindness at the hands of others, but that he should 
 communicate to them, in the simple vanity of his heart, that 
 degree of amusement and instruction and knowledge which 
 made them look upon him as a wonderful man, gifted with rare 
 endowments ; for in what hght was not that man to be looked 
 upon who could trace the old names up to times when they 
 were great, who could climb a genealogical tree to the top 
 branch, who could tell all the old Irish tales and legends of the 
 country, and beat Paddy Crudden the methodist horse-jockey, 
 

 184 TOM GRESSIEY, 
 
 who had the whole Bible by heart, at arguing Scripture ? 
 Harmless ambition ! humble as it was, and limited in compass, 
 to thee it was all in all ; and yet thou wert happy in feeling 
 that it was gratified. This httle boon was all thou didst ask ^ 
 
 of life, and it was kindly granted thee. The last night we | 
 
 ever had the pleasure of being amused by Tom, was at a wake 
 in the neighbourhood ; for it somehow happened that there 
 was seldom either a wake or a dance within two or three miles 
 of us that we did not attend ; and, God forgive us ! when old 
 Poll DooUn was on her death-bed, the only care that troubled 
 us was an apprehension that she might recover, and thus 
 defraud us of a right merry wake ! Upon the occasion we 
 allude to, it being known that Tom Gressiey would be present, 
 of course the house was crowded. And when he did come, and 
 his loud good-humoured voice was heard at the door, heavens ! 
 how every young heart bounded with glee and delight ! 
 
 The first thing he did on entering was to go where the 
 corpse was laid out, and in a loud rapid voice repeat the De 
 profimdis for the repose of her soul, after which he sat down 
 and smoked a pipe. Oh, well do we remember how the whole 
 house was hushed, for all was expectation and interest as to 
 what he would do or say. At length he spoke — ^' Is Frank 
 Magavren there ?" 
 
 *' All that's left o' me's here, Tom." 
 
 " An' if the sweep-chimly -general had his due, Frank, that 
 wouldn't be much ; and so the longer you can keep him out of 
 that same, the betther for yourself." 
 
 ** Folly on, Tom ! you know there's none of us all able to 
 spake up to you, say what you will." 
 
 " It's not so when you're beside a purty girl, Frank. But 
 sure that's not surprisin' ; you were born wid butther in jouv 
 mouth, an' that's what makes your orations to the fair sect bo 
 so soft an' meltin', ha, ha, ha ! Well, Frank, never mind ; 
 there's worse where you'll go to : keep your own counsel fast : 
 
THE IRISH SENACHIE. 185 
 
 let's salt your gums, an' you'll do yet. Whisht, boys ; I'm 
 goin' to sing a rann, an' afther that Frank an' I will pick a 
 couple o' dozen out o' yez ' to box tho Connaughtman.' " 
 Boxing the Connaughtman is a play or diversion peculiar to 
 wakes; it is grotesquely athletic in its character, but full, 
 besides, of comic sentiment and farcical humour. 
 
 He then commenced an Irish rann or song, the substance of 
 which was as follows, according to his own translation : — 
 
 " St. Patrick, it seems, was one Sunday morning crossing a 
 mountain on his way to a chapel to say mass, and as he was 
 an humble man (coaches weren't then invented, at any rate) 
 an' a great pedestrium (pedestrian), he took the shortest cut 
 across the mountain. In one of the lonely glens he met a 
 herd-caudy, who spent his time in eulogizm' his masther's 
 cattle, according to the precepts of them times, which was not 
 by any means so larned an' primogenitive as now. The 
 countenance of the day was clear an' extremely sabbathical ; 
 every tiling was at rest, barring the httle river before him, 
 an' indeed one would think that it flowed on with more decency 
 an' betther behaviour than upon other sympatliizing occasions. 
 The birds, to be sure, were singin', but it was aisy to see that 
 they chirped out their best notes in honour of the day. * Good 
 morrow on you,' said St. Patrick ; ' what's the raison you're 
 not goin' to prayers, my fine httle fellow ?' 
 
 '' ' What's prayers ?' axed the boy. St. Patrick looked at 
 him with a very pitiful and calamitous expression in his face. 
 'Can you bless yourself?' said he. ']S"o,' said the boy, 'I 
 don't know what it means ?' ' Worse and worse,' thought 
 St. Patrick. 
 
 " ' Poor bouchal, it isn't your fault. An' how do you pass 
 your time here ?' 
 
 " ' Why, my mate (food) 's brought to me, an' I do be makin' 
 kings' crowns out of my rushes, whin I'm not watching the 
 cows and sheep.' 
 
186 TOM GRESSIEY, 
 
 " St. Patrick sleeked down his head wid great derehction, an' 
 said, * Well, acushla, you do be operatin' king's crowns, but I 
 tell you you're born to wear a greater one than a king's, an' 
 that is a crown of glory. Come along wid me.' 
 
 " * I can't lave my cattle,' said the other, for fraid they might 
 go astray.' 
 
 *' ' Right enough, rephed St. Patrick, * but I'll let you see that 
 they won't.' Now, any how St. Patrick undherstood cattle 
 irresistibly himself, havin' been a herd-caudy (boy) in his 
 youth ; so he clapped his thumb to his thrapple, an' gave the 
 Loy-a-loa to the sheep, an' behould you they came about him 
 wid great relaxation an' respect. * Keep yourselves sober an' 
 fictitious,' says he, addressin' them, ' till this boy comes back, 
 an' don't go beyant your owner's property ; or if you do, it '11 
 be worse for yez. If you regard your health durin' the ap- 
 proximatin' season, mind an' attend to my words. The rot 
 this year's likely to be rife I can tell yez.' 
 
 " Now, you see, every sheep, while he was spakin', hfted the 
 right fore-leg, an' raised the head a little, an' behould when 
 he finished, they kissed their foot, an' made him a low bow 
 as a mark of their estimation an' superfluity. He thin clapped 
 his finger an' thumb in his mouth, gave a loud whistle, an' in 
 a periodical time he had all the other cattle on the hill about 
 him, to which he addressed the same ondeniable oration, an' 
 they bowed to him wid the same polite gentiUty. He then 
 brought the lad along wid him, an' as they made progress in 
 the journey, the little fellow says, 
 
 " * You seem frustrated by the walk, an' if you let me carry 
 your bundle, I'll feel obhged to you.' 
 
 " * Do so,' said the saint ; ' an' as it's rather long, throw the 
 bag that the things are in over your shoulder ; you'll find it the 
 aisiest way to carry it.' 
 
 "■ Well, the boy adopted this insinivation, an' they went 
 ambiguously along till they reached the chapel. 
 
THE IRISH SENACHIE. 187 
 
 " *Do you sec that house ?' said St. Patrick. 
 
 " ' I do,' said the other ; ' it has no chimney on it. 
 
 " *No,' said the saint; ' it has not; but in that house, Christ, 
 he that saved you, will be present to-day.' An' the boy thin 
 shed tears, when he thought of the goodness of Christ in saving 
 one that was a stranger to him. So they entered the chapel, 
 an' the first thing the lad was struck with was the beams of 
 the sun that came in through the windy, shinin' beside the 
 altar. Now, he had never seen the like of it in a house before, 
 an' thinkin' it was put there for some use or other in the in- 
 tarior, he threw the wallet, which was hke a saddle-bag, across 
 the sunbeams, an' lo an' behould you, the sunbeams supported 
 it, an' at the same time, a loud sweet voice was heard, sayin' 
 * This is mv servant St. Kieran, an' he's welcome to the house 
 o' God ! ' St. Patrick then tuck him an' instructed him in the 
 various edifications of the larned languages until he became 
 one of the greatest saints that ever Ireland saw, with the ex- 
 ception an' Hquidation of St. Patrick himself." 
 
 Such is a faint outhne of the style and manner peculiar to 
 the narratives of Tom Gressiey. Indeed, it has frequently 
 surprised not only us, but all who knew him, to think how and 
 where and when he got together such an incredible number of 
 hard and difficult words. Be this as it may, one thing was 
 perfectly clear, that they cost him httle trouble and no study 
 in their application. His pride was to speak as learnedly as 
 possible, and of course he imagined that the most successful 
 method of doing this was to use as many sesquipidalian expres- 
 sions as he could crowd into his language, without any regard 
 whatsoever as to their propriety. 
 
 Immediately after the relation of this legend, he passed at 
 once into a different spirit. He and Frank Magavi^en mar- 
 shalled their forces, and in a few minutes two or three dozen 
 young fellows were hotly engaged in the humorous game of 
 " Boxing the Connaughtman." Boxing the Connaughtman 
 
188 TOM GRESSIEY, 
 
 was followed by " the Standing Brogue" and " th€ Sitting 
 Brogue," two other sports practised only at wakes. And here 
 we may observe generally, that the amusement resorted to on 
 such occasions are never to be found elsewhere, but are exclu- 
 sively pecuhar to the house of mourning, where they are 
 benevolently introduced for the purpose of alleviating sorrow. 
 Having gone through a few more such sports, Tom took a 
 seat and addressed a neighbouring farmer, named Gordon, as 
 folloAVS : — " Jack Gordon, do you know the liistory of your 
 own name and its original fluency ?" 
 
 " Indeed no, Tom, I cannot say I do." 
 
 " Well, boys, if you derogate your noise a little, I'll tell you 
 the origin of the name of Gordon ; * it's a story about ould 
 Oliver Crummle, whose tongue is on the look-out for a drop 
 of wather ever since he went to the lower story." 
 
 * See the following Legend. 
 
THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; 
 
 OB, 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT. 
 
 Narrated hy Tom Gressiey, the Irish Senachie. 
 
 The hum of general conversation now gradually subsided into 
 silence, and every face assumed an expression of curiosity and 
 interest, with the exception of Jemsy Baccagh, who was rather 
 deaf, and blind George M'Girr, so called because he wanted an 
 eye ; both of whom, in high and piercing tones, carried on an 
 angry discussion toucliing a small law-suit that had gone against 
 Jemsy in the Court Leet, of which George was a kind of rustic 
 attorney. An outburst of impatient rebuke was immediately 
 poured upon them from fifty voices. " Wliisht wid yez, ye pair 
 of devils' hmbs, an' Tom goin' to tell us a story. Jemsj, your 
 sowl's as as crooked as your lame leg, you sinner ; an' as for 
 bUnd George, if roguery would save a man, he'd escape the devil 
 yet. Tarenation to yez, an' be quiet till we hear the story I" 
 
 "Ay," said Tom, "Scripthur says that when the blind leads 
 the blind, both will fall into the ditch ; but God help the lame 
 that have bhnd George to lead them ; we may aisily guess 
 where he'd guide them to, especially such a poor innocent as 
 Jemsy there." This banter as it was not intended to give 
 oifence, so was it received by the parties to whom it was 
 addi'essed with laughter and good humour. 
 
 " Silence, boys," said Tom ; " 111 jist take a draw of the 
 pipe till I put my mind in a proper state of transmigration for 
 what I'm goin' to narrate." 
 
190 THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN ; OR, 
 
 He then smoked on for a few minutes, his eyes complacently 
 but meditatively closed, and his whole face composed into the 
 philosophic spirit of a man who knew and felt his own supe- 
 riority, as well as what was expected from him. When he had 
 sufficiently arranged the materials in his mind, he took the pipe 
 out of his mouth, rubbed the shank-end of it against the cuff 
 of his coat, then handed it to his next neighbour, and having 
 given a short preparatory cough, thus commenced his legend : — 
 
 " You must know that afther Charles the First happened to 
 miss his head one day, bavin' lost it while playin' a game of 
 * Heads an' Points' with the Scotch, that a man called Nolly 
 Rednose, or Oliver Crummle, was sent over to Ireland with a 
 parcel of breekless Highlanders an' English Bodaghs to sub- 
 duvate the Irish, an' as many of the Prodestans as had been 
 friends to the late king, who were called Royalists. Now, it 
 appears by many larned transfigurations that NoUy Rednose 
 had in his army a man named Balgruntie, or the Hog of Cupar; 
 a fellow who was as coorse as sackin', as cunnin' as a fox, an' 
 as gross as the swine he was named afther. Rednose, there is 
 no doubt of it, was as nate a hand at takin' a town or castle as 
 ever went about it ; but then, any town that didn't surrendher 
 at discretion was sure to experience little mitigation at his 
 hands ; an' whenever he was bent on wickedness, he was sure 
 to say his prayers at the commencement of every siege or 
 battle — that is, that he intended to show no marcy in — for he'd 
 get a book, an' openin' it at the head of his army, he'd cry, 
 ' Ahem, my brethren, let us praise God by endeavourin' till 
 sing sich or sich a psalm ;' an' God help the man, woman, or 
 child, that came before him after that. Well an' good : it so 
 happened that a squadron of his psalm-singers were dispatched 
 by him from Enniskillcn, where he stopped to rendher assist- 
 ance to a party of his army that O'JSTcill was leatherin' down 
 near Dungannon, an' on their way they happened to take up 
 their quarthers for the night at the Mill of Aughentain. Now, 
 
A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT. 191 
 
 above all men in the creation, who should be appointed to lca<l 
 this same squadron but the Hog of Cupar. * Balgruntie, go off 
 wid you,' said Crummlc, when administering his instructions 
 to liim ; 'but be sure that wherever you meet a fat royahst on 
 the way, to pay your respects to him as a Christian ought,' 
 says he ; ' an', above all things, my dear brother Balgruntie, 
 don't neglect your devotions, otherwise our arms can't prosper ; 
 and be sure,' says he, with a pious smile, ' that if they promul- 
 gate opposition, you will make them bleed anyhow, either in 
 purse or person ; or if they provoke the grace o' God, take a 
 little from them in both ; an' so the Lord's name be praised, 
 yeamen !" 
 
 " Balgruntie sang a psalm of thanksgivin' for bein' elected 
 by his commander to sich a holy office, set out on liis march, 
 an' the next night he an' his choir slept in the mill of Augh- 
 entain, as I said. Now, Balgruntie had in this same congre- 
 gation of his, a long-legged Scotchman named Sandy Saveall, 
 which name he got by way of etymology, for his charity ; for 
 it appears by the historical elucidations that Sandy was per- 
 petually rantinizin' about sistherly affection an' brotherly love : 
 an' what showed more taciturnity than any tiling else was, 
 that while this same Sandy had the persuasion to make every 
 one beheve that he thought of nothing else, he shot more 
 people than any ten men in the squadron. He was indeed 
 what they call a dead shot, for no one ever knew him to miss 
 any thing he fired at. He had a musket that would throw 
 point blank an Enghsh mile, an' if he only saw a man's nose 
 at that distance, he used to say that with aid from above he 
 could blow it for liim with a leaden handkerchy, meaning that 
 he could blow it off his face with a musket bullet ; and so by 
 all associations he could, for indeed the faits he performed 
 were very insinivating an' problematical. 
 
 " Now, it so happened, that at this period there lived in the 
 castle a fine wealthy ould royahst, named Graham or Grimes, 
 
192 THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN ; OR, 
 
 as they are often denominated, who had but one child, a 
 daughter, whose beauty an' perfections were meUifluous far an' 
 near over the country, an' who had her health drunk, as the 
 toast of Ireland, by the Lord Lieutenant in the Castle of 
 Dublin, undher the sympathetic appellation of ' the Rose of 
 Aughentain.' It was her son that afterwards ran through the 
 estate, and was forced to part wid the castle ; an' it's to him 
 the proverb colludes, which mentions ' ould John Grame, that 
 sivallied the castle of Aughentain.' 
 
 "Howsomever, that bears no prodigality to the story I'm 
 narratin'. So what could you have of it, but Balgruntie, who 
 had heard of the father's wealth and the daughter's beauty, 
 took a holy hankerin' afther both ; an' havin' as usual said 
 his prayers an' sung a psalm, he determined for to clap his 
 thumb upon the father's money, thinkin' that the daughter 
 would be the more aisily superinduced to folly it. In other 
 words, he made up his mind to sack the castle, carry off the 
 daughter and marry her righteously, rather, he said, through 
 a sincere wish to bring her into a state of grace, by a union 
 with a God-fearin' man, whose walk he trusted was Zion-ward, 
 than from any cardinal detachment for her wealth or beauty. 
 He accordingly sent up a file of the most pious men he had, 
 picked fellows, with good psalm-singin' voices and strong noses, 
 to request that John Graham would give them possession of the 
 castle for a time, an' afterwards join them at prayers, as a 
 proof that he was no royalist, but a friend to Crummle an' the 
 Commonwealth. Now, you see, the best of it was, that the 
 very man they demanded this from was commonly denomi- 
 nated by the people as ' Gunpowder Jack,' in consequence of 
 the great signification of his courage ; an', besides, he was 
 known to be a member of the Hell-fire Club, that no person 
 could join that hadn't fought three duels, and killed at least 
 one man ; and in ordher to show that they regarded neither 
 God nor hell, the^^ were obligated to dip one hand in blood an' 
 
A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT. 193 
 
 the other in fire, before they could be made members of the 
 club. It's aisy to sec, then, that Graham was not likely to 
 quail before a handful of the very men he hated wid all the 
 vociferation in his power, an' he accordingly put his head 
 out of the windy, an' axed them their tergiversation for bein' 
 there. 
 
 " ' Begone about your business,' he said ; ' I owe you no 
 regard. What brings you before the castle of a man who 
 despises you? Don't think to determinate me, you canting 
 rascals, for you can't. My castle's well provided wid men an* 
 ammunition, an' food ; an' if you don't be off, I'll make you 
 sing a different tune from a psalm one.' Begad he did, plump 
 to them, out of the windy. 
 
 " When Crummle's men returned to Balgr untie in the mill, 
 they related what had tuck place, and he said that afther 
 prayers he'd send a second message in writin', an' if it wasn't 
 attended to, they'd put their trust in God an' storm the castle. 
 The squadron he commanded was not a numerous one ; an' as 
 they had no artillery, an' were surrounded by enemies, the 
 takin' of the castle, which was a strong one, might cost them 
 some snufflication. At all events, Balcrruntie was bent on 
 makin' the attempt, especially afther he heard that the castle 
 was well vittled, an' indeed he was meritoriously joined by his 
 men, who piously hcked their lips on hearin' of such glad 
 tidings. Graham was a hot-headed man, without much ambi- 
 dexterity or dehberation, otherwise he might have known that 
 the bare mintion of the beef and mutton in his castle was only 
 fit to make such a hungry pack desperate. But be that as it 
 may, in a short time Balgruntie wi'ote him a letter, demandin' 
 of him, in the name of Nolly Rednose an' the Commonwealth, 
 to surrendher the castle, or if not, that, ould as he was, he 
 would make him as soople as a two-year-ould. Graham, afther 
 readin' it, threw the letther back to the messengers, wid a certain 
 recommendation to Balgruntie regardin' it ; but whether the 
 o 
 
194 THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN ; OR, 
 
 same recommendation was followed up an' acted on so soon a^ 
 he wished, historical retaUations do not inform. 
 
 " On their return, the military narrated to their commander 
 the reception they resaved a second time from Graham, an' he 
 then resolved to lay regular siege to the castle; but as he knew 
 he could not readily take it by violence, he determined, as 
 they say, to starve the garrison leisurely an' by degrees. But, 
 first an' foremost, a thought struck him, an' he immediently 
 called Sandy Saveall behind the mill-hopper, which he had 
 now turned into a pulpit for the purpose of expoundin' the 
 word, an' givin' exhortations to his men. 
 
 " 'Sandy,' said he, 'are you in a state of justification to-day?' 
 
 " 'Towards noon,' replied Sandy, 'I had some strong wrest- 
 lings with the enemy ; but I am able, undher praise, to say that 
 I defated him in three attacks, and I consequently feel my 
 righteousness much recruited. I had some wholesome com- 
 munings with the miller's daughter, a comely lass, who may 
 yet be recovered from the world, an' led out of the darkness of 
 Aigyp, by a word in saison.' 
 
 " ' Well, Sandy,' replied the other, ' I lave her to your own 
 instructions; there is another poor benighted maiden, who is 
 also comely, up in the castle of that godless sinner, who 
 belongeth to the Perdition Club ; an' indeed, Sandy, until he 
 is somehow removed, I think there is little hope of plucking 
 her like a brand out of the burning.' 
 
 " He serenaded Sandy in the face as he spoke, an' then cast 
 an extemporary glance at the musket, which was as much as 
 to say, 'can you translate an insinivation ?' Sandy concocted a 
 smilin' reply; an' takin' up the gun, rubbed the barrel, an' patted 
 it as a sportsman would pat the neck of his horse or dog, wid 
 reverence for comparin' the villain to either one or the other. 
 
 " 'If it was known, Sandy,' said Balgruntie, 'it would harden 
 her heart against me ; an' as he is hopeless at all events, bein* 
 a member of that Perdition Club' 
 
A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT. 195 
 
 " 'True,' said Sandy, 'but you lave the miller's daughter to 
 me?' 
 
 " ' I said so.' 
 
 " ' Well, if his removal will give you any consohdation in the 
 matther, you may say no more.' 
 
 " ' I could not, Sandy, justify it to myself to take him away 
 by open violence, for you know that I bear a conscience if any 
 thing too tendher and dissolute. Also I wish, Sandy, to pre- 
 sarve an ondeniable reputation for humanity ; an', besides, the 
 daughter might become as reprobate as the father if she 
 suspected me to be personally concarned in it. I have heard a 
 good deal about him, an' am sensibly informed that he has been 
 shot at twice before, by the sons, it is thought, of an enemy 
 that he liimself killed rather significantly in a duel.' 
 
 " 'Very well,' rephed Sandy ; 'I would myself feel scruples ; 
 but as both our consciences is touched in the business, I think 
 I am justified. Indeed, captain, it is very hkely afther all that 
 we are but the mere instruments in it, an' that it is through us 
 that this ould unrighteous sinner is to be removed by a more 
 transplendant judgment.' 
 
 " Begad, neighbours, when a rascal is bent on wickedness, it 
 is aisy to find cogitations enough to back him in liis villany. 
 And so was it with Sandy Saveall and Balgruntie. 
 
 " That evenin' ould Graham was shot through the head stand- 
 in' in the windy of his own castle, an' to extenuate the suspicion 
 of sich an act from Crummle's men, Balgruntie liimself went 
 up the next day, beggin' very politely to have a friendly 
 explanation with Squire Graham, sayin' that he had harsh 
 ordhers, but that if the castle was peaceably dehvered to him, 
 he would, for the sake of the young lady, see that no injury 
 should be offered either to her or her father. 
 
 " The young lady, however, had the high drop in her, and 
 becoorse the only answer he got was a flag of defiance. This 
 nettled the villain, an' he found there was nothin' else for it 
 
196 THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN ; OR, 
 
 but to plant a strong guard about the castle to keep all that 
 was in, in — and all that was out, out. 
 
 " In the meantime, the very appearance of the CrumweUians 
 in the neighbourhood struck such terror into the people, that 
 the country, which was then only very thinly inhabited, 
 became quite desarted, an' for miles about the face of a human 
 bein' could not be seen, barrin' their own, sich as they were. 
 Crummle's track was always a bloody one, an' the people 
 knew that they were wise in puttin' the hills and mountain 
 passes between him an' them. The miller an' his daughter 
 bein' encouraged by Sandy, staid principally for the sake of 
 Miss Graham; but except them, there was not a man or woman 
 in the barony to bid good morrow to, or say Salvey Dominey. 
 On the beginnin' of the third day, Balgruntie, who knew his 
 officialities extremely well, an' had sent down a messenger to 
 Dungannon to see whether matters were so bad as they had 
 been reported, was delighted to hear that O'Neill had disap- 
 peared from the neighbourhood. He immediately informed 
 Crummle of this, and tould him that he had laid siege to one 
 of the leadin' passes of the north, an' that, by gettin' possession 
 of the two castles of Aughentain and Augher, he could keep 
 O'Neill in check, an' command that part of the country. 
 Nolly approved of this, an' ordhered him to proceed, but was 
 sorry that he could send him no assistance at present ; * how- 
 ever,' said be, ' with a good cause, sharp swords, an' aid from 
 above, there is no fear of us.' 
 
 " They now set themselves to take the castle in airnest. 
 Balgruntie an' Sandy undherstood one another, an' not a day 
 passed that some one wasn't dropped in it. As soon as ever 
 a face appeared, pop went the deadly musket, an' down fell 
 the corpse of whoever it was aimed at. Miss Graham herself 
 was spared for good reasons, but in the coorse of ten or twelve 
 days she was nearly alone. Ould Graham, though a man that 
 feared nothing, Avas only guilty of a profound swagger when 
 
A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT. 197 
 
 he reported the strength of the castle and the state of the 
 provisions to Balgruntic an' his crew. But above all things, 
 that wliich eclipsed their distresses was the want of wathcr. 
 There was none in the castle, an' although there is a beautiful 
 well beside it, yet, fareer gair, it was of small responsibihty to 
 them. Here, then, was the poor young lady placed at the 
 marcy of her father's murdhcrer ; for however she might have 
 doubted in the beginnin' that he was shot by the Crumwelhans, 
 yet the death of nearly all the servants of the house in the 
 same way was a sufficient proof that it was hke masther hke 
 man in tliis case. What, however, was to be done? The 
 whole garrison now consisted only of Miss Graham herself, a 
 fat man-cook advanced in years, who danced in liis distress in 
 ordher that he might suck his own perspiration, and a Httle 
 orj^han boy that she tuck undher her purtection. It was a 
 hard case, and yet, God bless her, she held out like a man. 
 
 " It's an ould sayin' that there's no tyin' up the tongue of 
 Fame, an' it's also a true one. The account of the siege had 
 gone far an' near in the counthry, an' none of the Irish, no 
 matter what they were who ever heard it, but wor sorry, 
 Sandy Saveall was now the devil an' all. As there was no 
 more in the castle to shoot, he should find something to rege- 
 nerate his hand upon : for instance, he practised upon three or 
 four of Graham's friends, who undher one pretence or other 
 were seen skulkin' about the castle, an' none of their relations 
 durst come to take away their bodies in ordher to bury them. 
 At length things came to that pass, that poor Miss Graham 
 was at the last gasp for something to di^nk ; she had ferreted 
 out as well as she could a drop of moisture here an' there in 
 the damp corners of the castle, but now all that was gone ; the 
 fat cook had sucked himself to death, and the httle orphan boy 
 died calmly away a few hours afther him, lavin' the helpless 
 lady with a tongue swelled an' furred, and a mouth parched 
 an' burned, for want of drink. Still the blood of the Grahams 
 
198 THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN ; OR, 
 
 was in her, and yield she would not to the villain that left her 
 as she was. Sich then was the transparency of her situation, 
 when, happening to be on the battlements to catch, if possible, 
 a little of the dew of heaven, she was surprised to see somethin' 
 flung up, which rolled down towards her feet : she hfted it, an' 
 on examinin' the contents, found it to be a stone covered with 
 a piece of brown paper, inside which was a shp of white, con- 
 taining the words, ' Endure — rehef is near you 1' But, poor 
 young lady, of what retrospection could these tidings be to one 
 in her situation ? — she could scarcely see to read them ; her 
 brain was dizzy, her mouth like a cindher, her tongue swelled 
 an' black, an' her breath felt as hot as a furnace. She could 
 barely breathe, an' was in the very act of lyin' down undher 
 the triumphant air of heaven to die, when she heard the shrill 
 voice of a young kid in the castle yard, and immediently 
 remembered that a brown goat wliich her lover, a gentleman 
 named Simpson, had, when it was a kid, made her a present of, 
 remained in the castle about the stable during the whole siege. 
 She instantly made her way slowly down stairs, got a bowl, 
 and havin' milked the goat, she took a little of the milk, which 
 I need not asseverate at once relieved her. By tliis means she 
 recovered, an' findin' no further anticipation from druth, she 
 resolved like a hairo to keep the Crumwellians out, an' to wait 
 till either God or man might lend her a helpin' hand. 
 
 " Now, you must know that the miller's purty daughter had 
 also a sweetheart, called Suil Gair Maguire, or sharp-eyed 
 Maguire, an humble branch of the great Maguires of Ennis- 
 killen ; and this same Suil Gair was servant an' foster-brother 
 to Simpson, who was the intended husband of Miss Graham. 
 Simpson, who hved some miles oif, on hearin' the condition of 
 the castle, gathered together all the royahsts far an' near; an' 
 as Crummle was honestly hated by both Romans an' Prodestans, 
 faith, you sec, Maguire himself promised to send a few of his 
 followers to the rescue. In the meantime Suil Gair dressed 
 
A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT. 199 
 
 liimself up like a fool or idiot, an' undlicr the pui'tection of tho 
 miller's daughter, who blarnied Saveall in great style, was 
 allowed to wandher about an' joke wid the sogers ; but 
 especially he took a fancy to Sandy, and challenged liim to 
 put one stone out of five in one of the port-holes of the castle, 
 at a match of finger-stone. Sandy, who was nearly as famous 
 at that as the musket, was rather relaxed when he saw that 
 Suil Gair could at least put in every fifth stone, an' that he 
 himself could hardly put one in out of twenty. Well, at all 
 events, it was durin' their sport that fool Paddy, as they called 
 him, contrived to fling the scrap of writin' I spoke of across the 
 battlements at all chances ; for when he undhertook to go to 
 the castle, he gave up liis life as lost; but he didn't care about 
 that, in case he was able to save either his foster-brother or 
 Miss Graham. But this is not at all indispensable, for it is 
 well known that many a foster-brother sacrificed his life the 
 same way, and in cases of great danger, when the real brother 
 would beg to decline the compliment. 
 
 " Things were now in a very connubial state entirely. Bal- 
 gruntie heard that relief was comin' to the castle, an' what to 
 do he did not know ; there was little time to be lost, however, 
 an' something must be done. He praiched flowery discourses 
 twice a-day from the mill-hopper, an' sang psalms for grace to 
 be du-ected in liis righteous intentions ; but as yet he derived 
 no particular predilection from either. Sandy appeared to 
 have got a more bountiful modelum of grace than his captain, 
 for he succeeded at last in bringin' the miller's daughter to sit 
 undher the word at her father's hopper. Fool Paddy, as they 
 called Maguire, had now become a great favourite wid the 
 sogers, an' as he proved to be quite harmless and inoffen- 
 sive, they let him run about the place widout opposition. The 
 castle, to be sure, was still guarded, but Miss Graham kept 
 her heart up in consequence of the note, for she hoped every 
 day to get relief from her friends. Balgruntie, now seein' that 
 
200 THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN ; OR, 
 
 the miller's daughter was becomin' more serious undher the 
 taichin' of Saveall, formed a plan that he thought might enable 
 him to penethrate the castle, an' bear oif the lady an' the 
 money. This was to strive wid very delicate meditation to 
 prevail on the miller's daughter, through the renown that he 
 thought Sandy had over her, to open a correspondency wid 
 Miss Graham ; for he knew that if one of the gates was un- 
 locked, and the unsuspectin' girl let in, the whole squadron 
 would soon be in afther her. Now, this plan was the more 
 dangerous to Miss Graham, because the miller's daughter had 
 intended to bring about the very same denouncement for a 
 different purpose. Between her friends an' her enemies it 
 was clear the poor lady had little chance ; an' it was Bal- 
 gr untie' s intention, the moment he had sequestrated her and 
 the money, to make his escape, an' lave the castle to whosom- 
 ever might choose to take it. Things, however, were ordhered 
 to take a different bereavement : the Hog of Cupar was to be 
 trapped in the hydrostatics of his own hypocrisy, an' Saveall 
 to be overmatched in his own premises. Well, the plot was 
 mentioned to Sandy, who was promised a good sketch of the 
 prog ; an' as it was jist the very thing he dreamt about night 
 an' day, he snapped at it as a hungry dog would at a sheep's 
 trotter. That night the miller's daughter — whose name I may 
 as well say was Nannie Duffy, the purtiest girl an' the sweetest 
 singer that ever was in the counthry — was to go to the castle 
 an' tell Miss Graham that the sogers wor all gone, Crummle 
 killed, an' his whole army massacrayed to atoms. This was a 
 different plan from poor Nannie's, who now saw clearly what 
 they were at. But never heed a woman for bein' witty when 
 hard pushed. 
 
 " ' I don't like to do it,' said she, *for it looks hke thrachcry, 
 espishilly as my father has left the neighbourhood, and I don't 
 know where he is gone to; an' you know thrachcry 's ondacent 
 in either man or woman. Still, Sandy, it goes hard for me to 
 
A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT. 201 
 
 refuse one that I — I well, I wish I knew where my father 
 
 is — I would lilve to know what he'd think of it.' 
 
 ^' * Hut/ said Sandy, ' were's the use of such scruples in a 
 good cause ? — when we get the money, we'll fly. It is princi- 
 pally for the sake of waining you an' her from the darkness 
 of idolatry that we do it. Indeed, my conscience would not 
 rest well if I let a soul an' body like yours remain a prey to 
 Sathan, my darlin'.' 
 
 "■ ' Well,' said she, ' doesn't the captain exhort this evenin'?' 
 
 " ' He does, my beloved, an' with a blessin' will expound a 
 few verses from the song of Solomon.' 
 
 " ' It's betther then,' said she, '. to sit under the word, an' 
 perhaps some light may be given to us.' 
 
 "Tliis dehghted SaveaU's heart, who now looked upon pretty 
 Nannie as his own ; indeed, he was obliged to go gradually 
 and cautiously to work, for cruel though Nolly Rednose was, 
 Sandy knew that if any violent act of that kind should raich 
 him, the guilty party would sup sorrow. Well, accordin' to 
 this pious arrangement, Balgruntie assembled all his men, who 
 were not on duty, about the hopper, in which he stood as usual, 
 an' had commenced a powerful exhortation, the substratum of 
 which was devoted to Nannie ; he dwelt upon the happiness of 
 religious love ; said that scruples were often suggested by 
 Satan, an' that a heavenly duty was but terrestrial when put 
 in comparishment wid an earthly one. He also made collusion 
 to the old Squire that was popped by Sandy ; said it was often 
 a judgment for the wicked man to die in his sins ; an' was 
 gettin' on wid great eloquence an' emulation, when a low rum- 
 blin' noise was heard, an' Balgruntie, throwin' up his clenched 
 hands an' grindin' his teeth, shouted out, ' Hell and d — n, I'll 
 be ground to death ! The mill's goin' Murdher ! murdher ! 
 I'm gone !' 
 
 " Faith, it was true enough — she had been wickedly set 
 a-goin' by some one ; an' before they had time to stop her, 
 
202 THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN ; ORj 
 
 the Hog of Cupar had the feet and legs twisted off him before 
 their eyes — a fair illustration of his own doctrine, that it is 
 often a judgment for the wicked man to die in his sins. When 
 the mill was stopped, he was pulled out, but didn't Hve twenty 
 minutes, in consequence of the loss of blood. Time was pressin', 
 so they ran up a shell of a coffin, and tumbled it into a pit that 
 was hastily dug for it on the mill-common. 
 
 *'This, however, by no manner of manes reheved poor Nannie 
 from her difficulty, for Saveall, finding himself now first in 
 command, determined not to lose a moment in tolerating his 
 plan upon the castle. 
 
 *' ' You see,' said he, ^ that a way is opened for us that we 
 didn't expect ; an' let us not close our eyes to the light that has 
 been given, lest it might be suddenly taken from us again. In 
 this instance I suspect that fool Paddy has been made the 
 chosen instrument ; for it appears upon enquiry, that he too 
 has disappeared. However, heaven's will be done ! we will 
 have the more to ourselves, my beloved — ehem ! It is now 
 dark,' he proceeded, ' so I shall go an' take my usual smoke 
 at the mill window, an' in about a quarther of an hour I'll be 
 ready.' 
 
 '' ' But I'm all in a tremor after sich a frightful accident,' 
 replied ^Nannie : ' an' I want to get a few minutes' quiet before 
 we engage upon our undhertakin.' 
 
 " This was very natural, and Saveall accordingly took his 
 usual seat at a little windy in the gable of the mill, that 
 faced the miller's house ; an' from the way the bench was fixed, 
 he was obliged to sit with his face exactly towards the same 
 direction. There we leave liim meditatin' upon his own 
 righteous approximations, till we folly Suil Gair Maguire, or 
 fool Paddy, as they called him, who practicated all that was 
 done. 
 
 " Maguire and Nannie, findin' that no time was to be lost, 
 gave all over as ruined, unless somethin' could be acted on 
 
A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT. 203 
 
 quickly. Suil Gair at once had thought of settin' the mill 
 a-goin' but kept the plan to himself, any farther than tellin' 
 her not to be surprised at any thing she might see. He then 
 told her to steal him a gun, but if possible to let it be Saveall's, 
 as he knew it could be depended on. ' But I hope you won't 
 shed any blood if you can avoid it,' said she ; ' that I don't 
 like.' ' Tut,' rephed Suil Gair, makin' evasion to the question, 
 ' it's good to have it about me for my own defence.' 
 
 " He could often have shot either Balgruntie or Saveall in 
 dayhght, but not without certain death to himself, as he knew 
 that escape was impossible. Besides, time was not before so 
 pressin' upon them, an' every day rehef was expected. Now, 
 however, that rehef was so near — for Simpson with a party of 
 royahsts an' Maguire's men must be witliin a couple of hours' 
 journey — it would be too intrinsic entirely to see the castle 
 plundhered, and the lady carried off by such a long-legged 
 skybill as Saveall. Nannie consequentially, at great risk, took 
 an opportunity of shppin' his gun to Suil Gair, who was the 
 best shot of the day in that or any other part of the country ; 
 and it was in consequence of this that he was called Suil Gair, 
 or Sharp Eye. But, indeed, all the Maguires were famous 
 shots ; an' I'm tould there's one of them now in Dubhn that 
 could hit a pigeon's egg, or a silver sixpence at the distance of 
 a huncbed yards.* Suil Gair did not merely raise the sluice 
 when he set the mill a-goin', but he wliipped it out altogether 
 an' threw it into the dam, so that the possibihty of sa^dng the 
 Hog of Cupar was irretrievable. He made off, however, an' 
 threw himself among the tall ragweeds that grew upon the 
 common, till it got dark, when Saveall, as was his custom, 
 should take his evenin' smoke at the windy. Here he sat for 
 some period, thinlvin' over many ruminations, before he ht his 
 cutty pipe, as he called it. 
 
 * The celebrated Brian Maguire, the first shot of his day, was at this time 
 living in Dublin. 
 
204 THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN ; OR, 
 
 '* 'Now/ said he to himself, 'what is there to hindher me from 
 takin' away, or rather from makin' sure of the grand lassie, 
 instead of the miller's dochter ? If I get intil the castle, it can 
 be soon effected ; for if she has ony regard for her reputation, 
 she will be quiet. I'm a braw handsome lad enough, a wee 
 thought high in the cheek-bones, scaly in the skin, an' knock- 
 knee' d a trifle, but stout an' lathy, an' tough as a withy. But, 
 again, what is to be done wi' Nannie? Hut, she's but a 
 miller's dochter, an' may be disposed of if she gets troublesome. 
 I know she's fond of me, but I dinna blame her for that. 
 However, it wadna become me now to entertain scruples, seein' 
 that the way is made so plain for me. But, save us ! eh, sirs, 
 that was an awful death, an' very like a judgment on the Hog 
 of Cupar ! It is often a judgment for the wicked to die in 
 their sins ! Balgruntie wasna that' Whatever he in- 
 tended to say further, cannot be analogized by man, for, just 
 as he had uttered the last word, wliich he did while holding 
 the candle to his pipe, the bullet of his own gun entered between 
 his eyes, and the next moment he was a corpse. 
 
 " Suil Gair desarved the name he got, for truer did never 
 bullet go to the mark from Saveall's own aim than it did from 
 his. There is now little more to be superadded to my story. 
 Before daybreak the next mornin', Simpson came to the rehef 
 of his intended wife ; Crummle's party were surprised, taken, 
 an' cut to pieces ; an' it so happened that from that day to this 
 the face of a soger belongin' to him was never seen near the 
 mill or castle of Aughentain, with one exception only, and that 
 was this : You all know that the mill is often heard to go at 
 night when nobody sets her a-goin', an' that the most seven- 
 dable scrames of torture come out of the hopper, an' that when 
 any one has the courage to look in, they're sure to see a man 
 dressed like a soger, with a white mealy face, in the act, so to 
 say, of havin' his legs ground off him. Many a guess was made 
 about who the sj)irit could be, but all to no purpose. There, 
 
A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT. 205 
 
 however, is the truth for yez ; the spirit that shrieks in the 
 hopper is Balgrimtie's ghost, an' he's to be ground that way 
 till the day of judgment. 
 
 " Be coorse, Simpson and Miss Graham were married, as war 
 Nannie Duffy an' Suil Gair ; an' if they all hved long an' 
 happy, I wish we may all hve ten times longer an' happier ; an' 
 so we will, but in a betther world than this, plaise God." 
 
 " Well, but, Tom," said Gordon, '' how does that account for 
 my name, which you said you'd tell me ?" 
 
 " Right," said Tom'; ''begad I was near forgettin' it. Why, 
 you see, sich was their veneration for the goat that was the 
 manes, undher God, of savin' Miss Graham's life, that they 
 changed the name of Simpson to Gordon, which signifies in 
 Irish gor dhim, or a brown goat, that all their posterity might 
 know the great obhgations they lay undher to that reverend 
 animal." 
 
 " An' do you mane to tell me," said Gordon, "that my name 
 was never heard of until Oliver Crummle's time ?" 
 
 "I do. Never in the wide an' subterraneous earth was sich 
 a name known till afther the prognostication I tould you ; an' 
 it never would either, only for the goat, sure. I can prove it 
 by the pathepathetics. Denny Mulhn, will you give us another 
 draw o' the pipe ?" 
 
 Tom's authority in these matters was unquestionable, and, 
 besides, there was no one present learned enough to contradict 
 him, with any chance of success, before such an audience. 
 The argument was consequently, without further discussion, 
 decided in his favour, and Gordon was silenced touching the 
 origin and etymology of his own name. 
 
BARNEY M'HAIGNEY, 
 
 THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN. 
 
 The individual to whom the heading of tliis article is uni- 
 formly apphed, stands, among the lower classes of his coun- 
 trymen, in a different light and position from any of those 
 characters that we have already described to our readers. 
 The intercourse which they maintain with the people is one 
 that simply involves the means of procuring subsistence for 
 themselves by the exercise of their professional skill, and their 
 powers of contributing to the lighter enjoyments and more 
 harmless amusements of their fellow-countrymen. All the 
 collateral influences they possess, as arising from the hold 
 which the peculiar nature of this intercourse gives them, 
 generally affect individuals only on those minor points of 
 feeling that act upon the lighter phases of domestic life. 
 They bring Httle to society beyond the mere accessories that 
 are appended to the general modes of life and manners, and, 
 consequently, receive themselves as strong an impress from 
 those with whom they mingle, as they communicate to them 
 in return. 
 
 Now, the Prophecy Man presents a character far different 
 from all this. With the ordinary habits of hfe he has little 
 sympathy. The amusements of the people are to him Httle 
 else than vanity, if not something worse. He despises that 
 class of men who live and think only for the present, without 
 ever once performing their duties to posterity, by looking into 
 those great events that lie in the womb of futurity. Domestic 
 joys or distresses do not in the least affect him, because the 
 
THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN. 207 
 
 man has not to do with feeUngs or emotions, but with prin- 
 ciples. The speculations in which he indulges, and by which 
 his whole life and conduct are regulated, place him far above 
 the usual impulses of humanity. He cares not much who has 
 been married or who has died, for his mind is, in point of time, 
 communing with unborn generations upon affairs of high and 
 solemn import. The past, indeed, is to him something, the 
 future, every thing; but the present, unless when marked by 
 the prophetic symbols, little or nothing. The topics of his 
 conversation are vast and mighty, being nothing less than the 
 fate of kingdoms, the revolution of empires, the ruin or estab- 
 lishment of creeds, the fall of monarchs, or the rise and 
 prostration of principahties and powers. How can a mind 
 thus engaged descend to those petty subjects of ordmary life, 
 which engage the common attention ? How could a man hard 
 at work in evolving out of prophecy the subjugation of some 
 hostile state, care a farthing whether Loghlin Roe's daughter 
 was married to Gusty Given's son, or not ? The thing is im- 
 possible. Like Fame, the head of the Prophecy Man is always 
 in the clouds, but so much higher up as to be utterly above 
 the reach of any intelhgence that does not affect the fate of 
 nations. There is an old anecdote told of a very high and a 
 very low man meeting. " What news down there '?" said the 
 tall fellow. '' Very httle," rephed the other : " what kind of 
 weather have you above ?" Well, indeed, might the Prophecy 
 Man ask what news there is below, for liis mind seldom leaves 
 those aerial heights from wliich it watches the fate of Eui'ope, 
 and the shadowing forth of future changes. 
 
 The Prophecy Man — ^that is, he who solely devotes himself 
 to an anxious observation of those pohtical occurrences which 
 mark the signs of the times, as they bear upon the future, the 
 principal business of whose hfe it is to associate them with his 
 own prophetic theories — is now a rare character in Ireland. 
 He was, however, a very marked one. The Senachie and 
 
208 BARNEY M'HAIGNEY, 
 
 other itinerant characters had, when compared Avith him, a 
 very hmited beat, indeed. Instead of being confined to a 
 parish or a barony, the bounds of the Prophecy Man's travels 
 were those of the kingdom itself ; and, indeed, some of them 
 have been known to make excursions to the Highlands of 
 Scotland, in order, if possible, to pick up old prophecies, and 
 to make themselves, by cultivating an intimacy with the 
 Scottish seers, capable of getting a clearer insight into fu- 
 turity, and surer rules for developing the latent secrets of 
 time. 
 
 One of the heaviest blows to the speculations of this class 
 was the downfal and death of Buonaparte — especially the lat- 
 ter. There are still hving, however, those who can get over 
 this difficulty, and who will not hesitate to assure you, with a 
 look of much mystery, that the real " Bony party" is ahve and 
 well, and will make his due appearance when the time comes ; 
 he who surrendered himself to the English being but an accom- 
 plice of the true one. 
 
 The next fact is the failure of the old prophecy that a 
 George the Fourth would never sit on the throne of England. 
 His coronation and reign, however, puzzled our prophets 
 sadly, and, indeed, sent adrift for ever the pretensions of this 
 prophecy to truth. 
 
 But that which has nearly overturned the system, and 
 routed the whole prophetic host, is the failure of the specula- 
 tions so confidently put forward by Dr. Walmsey in his Gene- 
 ral History of the Christian Church, vulgarly called Pastorini's 
 Prophecy, he having assumed the name Pastorini as an incog- 
 nito or nam de guerre. The theory of Pastorini was, that 
 Protestantism and all descriptions of heresy would disappear 
 about the year eighteen hundred and twenty-five, an inference 
 which he drew with considerable ingenuity and learning from 
 Scriptural prophecy, taken in connexion with past events, and 
 which he argued with all the zeal and enthusiasm of a theorist 
 
THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN. 201) 
 
 naturally anxious to see the truth of his own prognostications 
 verified. The failure of this, which was their great modern 
 standard, has nearly demoHshcd the poUtical seers as a class, 
 or compelled them to fall back upon the more antiquated reve- 
 lations ascribed to St. Columkill, St. Bridget, and others. 
 
 Having thus, as is our usual custom, given what we con- 
 ceive to be such preliminary observations as are necessary to 
 make both the subject and the person more easily understood, 
 we shall proceed to give a short sketch of the only Prophecy 
 Man we ever saw who deserved properly to be called so, in 
 the full and unrestricted sense of the term. This individual's, 
 name was Barney M'Haigney ; but in what part of Ireland he 
 was born I am not able to inform the reader. All I know 
 is, that he was spoken of on every occasion as The Pro- 
 phecy Man ; and that, although he could not himself read, 
 he carried about with him, in a variety of pockets, several 
 old books and manuscripts that treated upon his favourite 
 subject. 
 
 Barney was a taU man, by no means meanly dressed ; and 
 it is necessary to say that he came not within the character or 
 condition of a mendicant. On the contrary, he was consi- 
 dered as a person who must be received with respect, for the 
 people knew perfectly well that it was not with every farmer 
 in the neighbourhood he would condescend to sojom^n. He 
 had notliing of the ascetic and abstracted meagreness of the 
 Prophet in his appearance. So far from that, he was inclined 
 to corpulency ; but, like a certain class of fat men, his natural 
 disposition was calm, but, at the same time, not unmixed with 
 something of the pensive. His habits of tliinking, as might 
 be expected, were quiet and meditative ; his personal motions 
 slow and regular ; and his transitions from one resting-place 
 to another never of such length during a single day as to 
 exceed ten miles. At tliis easy rate, however, he traversed 
 the whole kingdom several times; nor was there probably a 
 p 
 
 j^ 
 
210 BARNEY M'HAIGNEY, 
 
 local prophecy of any importance in the country with which 
 he was not acquainted. He took much dehght in the greater 
 and lesser prophets of the Old Testament ; but his heart and 
 soul lay, as he expressed it, " in the Revelations of St. John 
 the Divine." 
 
 His usual practice was, when the family came home at 
 night from their labour, to stretch himself upon two chairs, 
 his head resting upon the hob, with a boss for a piUow, his 
 eyes closed, as a proof that his mind was deeply engaged with 
 the matter in hand. In this attitude he got some one to read 
 the particular prophecy upon which he wished to descant; 
 and a most curious and amusing entertainment it generally 
 was to hear the text, and his own singular and original com- 
 mentaries upon it. That he must have been often hoaxed by 
 wags and wits, was quite evident from the startling traves- 
 ties of the text which had been put into his mouth, and which, 
 having been once put there, his tenacious memory never 
 forgot. 
 
 The fact of Barney's arrival in the neighbourhood soon 
 went abroad, and the natural consequence was, that the house 
 in which he thought proper to reside for the time became 
 crowded every night as soon as the hours of labour had 
 passed, and the people got leisure to hear him. Having thus 
 procured him an audience, it is full time that we should allow 
 the fat old Prophet to speak for himself, and give us all an in- 
 sight into futurity. 
 
 " Barney, ahagur," the good man his host would say, 
 *' here's a lot o' the neighbours come to hear a whirrangue 
 from you on the Prophecies ; and, sure, if you can't give it to 
 them, who is there to be found that can ?" 
 
 " Throth, Paddy Tray nor, although I say it that should 
 not say it, there's truth in that, at all evints. The same 
 knowledge has cost mc many a weary blisthur an' sore heel in 
 liuntin' it up an' down, through mountain an' glen, in Ulsther, 
 
THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN. 211 
 
 Miiiistlicr, Leinsthcr, an' Connaught — not forgettin* the Iligli- 
 llinds of Scotland, where there's what they call the ' short 
 prophecy,' or second sight, but wherem there's afther all but 
 little of the Irish or long prophecy, that regards what's to 
 befall the winged woman that flewn into the wilderness. No, 
 no ; their second sight isn't thrue prophecy at all. If a man 
 goes out to fish, or steal a cow, an' that he happens to be 
 drowned or shot, another man that has the second sight will 
 see this in his mind about or afther the time it happens. 
 Why, that's httle. Many a time our own Irish drames are 
 aiqual to it ; an', indeed, I have it from a knowledgeable 
 man, that the gift they boast of has four parents — an empty 
 stomach, thin air, a weak head, an' strong whisky — an' that 
 a man must have all these, espishilly the last, before he can 
 have the second sight properly ; an' it's my own opinion. 
 Now, I have a little book (indeed, I left my books with a 
 friend down at Errigle) that contains a prophecy of the milk- 
 wliite liind an' the bloody panther, an' a forebodin' of the 
 slaughter there's to be in the Valley of the Black Pig, as fore- 
 tould by Beal Derg, or the prophet wid the red mouth, who 
 never was known to speak but when he prophesied, or to pro- 
 phesy but when he spoke." 
 
 " The Lord bless an' keep us ! — an' why was he called the 
 Man wid the Red Mouth, Barney ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you that. First, bekase he always prophesied 
 about the slaughter an' fightin' that was to take place in the 
 time to come ; an', secondly, bekase, while he spoke, the red 
 blood always trickled out of his mouth, as a proof that what 
 he foretould was true." 
 
 " Glory be to God ! but that's wondherful all out. Well, 
 well !" 
 
 " Ay, an' Beal Derg, or the Red Mouth, is still hvin'." 
 
 " Livin' ! why, is he a .man of our own time ?" 
 
 " Our own time ! The Lord help you ! It's more than a 
 
212 BARNEY M'HAIGNEY, 
 
 thousand years since he made the prophecy. The case you 
 see is this : he an' the ten thousand witnesses are lyin' in am 
 enchanted sleep in one of the Montherlony mountains." 
 
 " An* how is that known, Barney ?" 
 
 " It's known. Every night at a certain hour one of the 
 witnesses — an' they're all sogers, by the way — must come out 
 to look for the sign that's to come." 
 
 " An' what is that, Barney ?" 
 
 " It's the fiery cross ; an' when he sees one on aich of the 
 four mountains of the north, he's to know that the same sign's 
 abroad in all the other parts of the kingdom. Beal Derg an' 
 his men are then to waken up, an' by their aid the Yalley of 
 the Black Pig is to be set free for ever." 
 
 " An' what is the Black Pig, Barney ?" 
 
 *' The Prosbytarian Church, that stretches from Enniskillen 
 to Darry, an' back again from Darry to Enniskillen." 
 
 " Well, weU, Barney ; but prophecy is a strange thing, to be 
 sure ! Only think of men Hvin' a thousand years !" 
 
 " Every night one of Beal Derg's men must go to the 
 mouth of the cave, which opens of itself, an' then look out 
 for the sign that's expected. He walks up to the top of the 
 mountain, an' turns to the four corners of the heavens, to 
 thry if he can see it ; an' when he finds that he cannot, he 
 goes back to Beal Derg, who, afther the other touches him, 
 starts up, an' axes him, ' Is the time come ?' He rephes, 
 * No ; the man is, but the hour is not /' an' that instant they're 
 both asleep again. Now, you see, while the soger is on the 
 mountain top, the mouth of the cave is open, an' any one may 
 go in that might happen to see it. One man, it appears, did, 
 an' wishin' to know from curiosity whether the sogers were 
 dead or hvin', he touched one of them wid his hand, who 
 started up, an' axed him the same question, ' Is the time 
 come ?' Very fortunately he said ' No ;' an' that minute the 
 soger was as sound in his trance as before." 
 
THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN. 213 
 
 " An', Barney, what did the soger mane when he said, ' The 
 man is, but the hour is not ?' " 
 
 " What did he mane ? I'll tell you that. The man is 
 Bonyparty, which manes, when put into proper explanation, 
 the right side; that is, the true cause. Larned men have 
 found that out.'* 
 
 " Barney, wasn't Columkill a great prophet ?" 
 
 " He was a great man entirely at prophecy, and so was St. 
 Bridget. He prophesied ' that the cock wid the purple comb 
 is to have both liis wings clipped by one of his own breed 
 before the struggle comes.' Before that time, too, we're to 
 have the Black Mihtia, an' afther that it is time for every 
 man to be prepared." 
 
 " An', Barney, who is the cock wid the purple comb ?" 
 
 " Why, the Orangemen, to be sure. Isn't purple their 
 colour, the dirty thieves ?" 
 
 " An' the Black IVIihtia, Barney, who are they ?" 
 
 "I have gone far an' near, through north an' through 
 south, up an' down, by liiU an' hoUow, tiU my toes were 
 corned, an' my heels in griskins, but could find no one able 
 to resolve that, or bring it clear out o' the prophecy. They're 
 to be sogers in black, an' all their arms an' 'coutrements is 
 to be the same colour ; an' farther than that is not known 
 as yet." 
 
 "It's a wondher you don't know it, Barney, for there's 
 Httle about prophecy that you haven't at your finger ends." 
 
 " Three birds is to meet (Barney proceeded in a kind of 
 recitative enthusiasm) upon the saes — two ravens an' a dove — 
 the two ravens is to attack the dove until she's at the point of 
 death ; but before they take her life, an eagle comes and tears 
 the two ravens to pieces, an' the dove recovers. 
 
 " There's to be two cries in the kingdom ; one of them is 
 to rache from the Giant's Causeway to the centre house of the 
 town of Sligo ; the other is to rache from the Falls of Beleek 
 
214 BARNEY M'HAIGNEY, 
 
 to the Mill of Loutli, which is to be turned three times with 
 human blood ; but this is not to happen until a man with two 
 thumbs an' six fingers upon liis right hand happens to be the 
 miller." 
 
 " Who's to give the sign of freedom to Ireland?" 
 
 " The httle boy wid the red coat that's born a dwarf, hves 
 a giant, and dies a dwarf again ! He's lightest of foot, but 
 leaves the heaviest foot-mark behind him. An' it's he that's 
 to give the sign of freedom to Ireland.* 
 
 " There's a period to come when Antichrist is to be upon the 
 earth, attended by his two body servants Gog and Magog." 
 
 '' Who are they, Barney ?" 
 
 " They are the sons of Hegog an' Shegog, or in other 
 words, of Death an' Damnation, and cousin-jarmins to the 
 Devil himself, which of coorse is the raison why he promotes 
 them." 
 
 " Lord save us ! But I hope that won't be in our time, 
 Barney !" 
 
 " Antichrist is to come from the land of Crame o' Tarthar 
 (Crim Tartary, according to Pastorini), which will account for 
 himself an' his army breathin' fire an' brimstone out of their 
 mouths, according to the glorious Revelation of St. John the 
 Divine, an' the great prophecy of Pastorini, both of which 
 beautifully compromise upon the subject. 
 
 '' The prophet of the Black Stone is to come, who always 
 prophesies backwards, and foretells what has happened. He is 
 to be a mighty hunter, an' instead of ridin' to his fetlocks in 
 blood, he is to ride upon it, to the admiration of his times. It's 
 of him it is said ' that he is to be the only proj)het that ever 
 went on horseback !' " 
 
 '' Then there's Bardolphus, who, as there was a prophet 
 wid the red mouth, is called * the prophet wid the red nose.' 
 Ireland was, it appears from ancient books, undher wather for 
 
 • This means fire. 
 
THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN. 215 
 
 many hundred years before her discovery ; but bein' allowed 
 to become visible one day in every year, the enchantment was 
 broken by a sword that was thrown upon the earth, an' from 
 that out she remained dry, an' became inhabited. ' Woe, woe, 
 woe,' says Bardolphus, ' the time is to come when we'll have a 
 second deluge, an' Ireland is to be undhcr wather once more. 
 A well is to open at Cork that will cover the whole island from 
 the Giants' Causeway to Cape Clear. In them days St. Patrick 
 wdll be despised, an' will stand over the pleasant houses wid 
 his pasthoral crook in his hand, crying out Cead millefailtha 
 in vain ! Woe, woe, woe,' says Bardolphus, ' for in them days 
 there will be a great confusion of colours among the people ; 
 there will be neither red noses nor pale cheeks, an' the divine 
 face of man, alas ! will put forth blossoms no more. The heart 
 of the times will become changed; an' when they rise up in 
 the mornin', it will come to pass that there will be no longer 
 hght heads or shaking hands among Irishmen! Woe, woe, 
 woe, men, women, and children will then die, an' their only 
 complaint, hke all those who perished in the flood of ould, will 
 be wather on the brain — wather on the brain! Woe, woe, 
 woe,' says Bardolphus, ' for the changes that is to come, an' 
 the misfortunes that's to befall the many for the noddification 
 of the few ! an' yet such things must be, for I, in virtue of the 
 red spirit that dwells in me, must prophesy them. In those 
 times men will be shod in hquid fire an' not be burned ; their 
 breeches shall be made of fire, an' will not burn them ; their 
 bread shall be made of fire, an' will not burn them ; their meat 
 shall be made of fire, an' will not burn them ; an' why ? — Oh, 
 woe, woe, wather shall so prevail that the coolness of their 
 bodies will keep them safe ; yea, they shall even get fat, fair, 
 an' be full of health an' strength, by wearing garments 
 wrought out of hquid fire, by eating Jiquid fire, an' all because 
 they do not dhrink hquid fire — an' this calamity shall come to 
 pass,' says Bardolphus, the prophet of the red nose. 
 
216 BARNEY M'HAIGNEY, 
 
 *' Two widows shall be grinding at the Mill of Louth (so 
 saith the prophecy) ; one shall be taken and the other left." 
 
 Thus would Barney proceed, repeating such ludicrous and 
 heterogeneous mixtures of old traditionary prophecies and 
 spurious quotations from Scripture as were concocted for him 
 by those who took dehght in amusing themselves and others at 
 the expense of his inordinate love for prophecy. 
 
 " But, Barney, touchin' the Mill of Louth, of the two widows 
 grindin' there, whether will the one that is taken or the one 
 that is left be the best off?" 
 
 " The prophecy doesn't say," rephed Barney, " an' that's a 
 matther that larned men are very much divided about. My 
 own opinion is, that the one that is taken will be the best off ; 
 for St. Bridget says, 'that betune wars an' pestilences, an' 
 famine, the men are to be so scarce that several of them are to 
 be torn to pieces by the women in their struggles to see who 
 will get them for husbands.' That time, they say, is to 
 come." 
 
 " But, Barney, isn't there many ould prophecies about par- 
 ticular famihes in Ireland ?" 
 
 *' Ay, several : an' I'll tell you one of them, about a family 
 that's not far from us this minute. You all know the hangin' 
 waU of the ould Church of Ballynasaggart, in Errigle Keeran 
 parish ?" 
 
 " We do, to be sure ; an' we know the prophecy too." 
 
 *' Of coorse you do, bein' in the neighbourhood. Well, 
 what is it in the meantime ?" 
 
 " Why, that's never to fall till it comes down upon an' takes 
 the life of a M'Mahon." 
 
 " Right enough ; but do you know the raison of it ?" 
 
 *' We can't say that, Barney ; but, however, we're at home 
 when you're here." 
 
 *' Well, I'll tell you. St. Keeran was, may be next to St. 
 Patrick himself, one of the greatest saints in Ireland, but at any 
 
THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN. 217 
 
 rate we may put him next to St. Columkill. Now, you see, 
 when he was building the church of Ballynasaggart, it came 
 to pass that there arose a great famine in the land, an' the 
 saint found it hard to feed the workmen where there was no 
 vittles. What to do, he knew not, an' by coorse he was at a 
 sad amplush, no doubt of it. At length, says he, ' Boys, we're 
 all hard set at present, an' widout food bedad we can't work ; 
 but if you observe my directions, we'll conthrive to have a bit 
 o' mate in the mean time, an' among ourselves, it was seldom 
 more wanted, for, to tell you the thruth, I never thought my 
 back an' belly would become so well acquainted. For the last 
 three days they haven't been asunder, an' I find they are 
 perfectly wilhng to part as soon as possible, an' would be glad 
 of any thing that 'ud put betune them.' 
 
 " Now, the fact was, that, for drawin' timber an' stones, an' 
 all the necessary matayrials for the church, they had but one 
 bullock, an' him St. Keeran resolved to kill in the evenin', an' 
 to give them a fog meal of liim. He accordingly slaughtered 
 him with his own hands, ' but,' said he to the workmen, ' mind 
 what I say, boys; if any one of you breaks a single bone, even 
 the smallest, or injures the hide in the laste, you'll destroy all; 
 an' my sowl to glory but it'll be worse for you besides.' 
 
 " He then took all the flesh off the bones, but not till he had 
 boiled them, of coorse ; afther which he sewed them up again 
 in the skin, an' put them in the shed, wid a good wisp o' straw 
 before them ; an' glory be to God, what do you think, but the 
 next mornin' the bullock was alive, an' in as good condition as 
 ever he was in during his Hfe ! Betther fed workmen you 
 could't see, an', bedad, the saint himself got so fat an' rosy 
 that you'd scarcely know him to be the same man afther it. 
 Now, this went on for some time : whenever they wanted mate, 
 the bullock was killed, an' the bones an' skin kept safe as 
 before. At last it happened that a long-sided fellow among 
 them named M'Mahon, not satisfied wid his allowance of the 
 
218 BARNEY M'HAIGNEY, 
 
 mate, took a fancy to have a lick at the marrow, an' accord- 
 ingly, in spite of all the saint said, he broke one of the legs an' 
 sucked the marrow out of it. But behold you ! — the next day 
 when they went to yoke the bullock, they found that he was 
 useless, for the leg was broken an' he couldn't work. This, 
 to be sure, was a sad misfortune to them all, but it couldn't be 
 helped, an' they had to wait till betther times came ; for the 
 truth is, that afther the marrow is broken, no power of man 
 could make the leg as it was before until the cure is brought 
 about by time. However, the saint was very much vexed, an' 
 good right he had. ' Now, M'Mahon,' says he to the guilty 
 man, ' I ordher it, an' prophesy that the church we're building 
 will never fall till it falls upon the head of some one of your 
 name, if it was to stand a thousand years. Mark my words, 
 for they must come to pass.' 
 
 " An' sure enough you know as well as I do that it's all down 
 long ago, wid the exception of a piece of the wall, that's not 
 standin' but hangin', widout any visible support in hfe, an' 
 only propped up by the prophecy. It can't fall till a M'Mahon 
 comes undher it; but although there's plenty of the name in 
 the neighbourhood, ten o' the strongest horses in the kingdom 
 wouldn't drag one of them widin half a mile of it. There, now, 
 is the prophecy that belongs to the hangin' wall of Ballynasag- 
 gart church." 
 
 " But, Barney, didn't you say somethin' about the winged 
 woman that flewn to the wildlierness ?" 
 
 " I did ; that's a deep point, an' it's few that undherstands 
 it. The baste wid seven heads an' ten horns is to come ; an' 
 when he was to make his appearance, it was said to be time for 
 them that might be alive then to go to their padareens." 
 
 " What does the seven heads and ten horns mane, Barney ?" 
 
 " Why, you see, as I am informed from good authority, the 
 baste has come, an' it's clear from the ten horns that he could 
 be no other than Harry the Eighth, who was married to five 
 
THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN. 219 
 
 wives, an' by all accounts they strengthened an' ornanicntcd 
 him sore against his will. Now, set in case that each o' them 
 — five times two is ten — hut ! the thing's as clear as crystal. 
 But I'll prove it betther. You see the woman wid the two 
 wino^s is the church, an' she flew into the wildherness at the 
 very time Harry the Eighth wid his ten horns on him was in 
 his greatest power." 
 
 " Bedad that's puttin' the explanations to it in great style." 
 
 " But the woman wid the wings is only to be in the wildher- 
 ness for a time, times, an' half a time, that's exactly tliree 
 hundred an' fifty years, an' afther that there's to be no more 
 Prodestans." 
 
 " Faith that's great 1" 
 
 " Sure Columkill prophesied that until H E M E I A M 
 should come, the church would be in no danger, but that afther 
 that she must be undher a cloud for a time, times, an' half a 
 time, jist in the same way." 
 
 " Well, but how do you explain that, Barney ?" 
 
 "An' St. Bridget prophesied that when D C is upper- 
 most, the church will be hard set in Ireland. But, indeed, 
 there's no end to the prophecies that there is concerning 
 Ireland an' the church. However, neighbours, do you know 
 that I feel the heat o' the fire has made me rather di^owsy, an' 
 if you have no objection, I'U take a bit of a nap. There's 
 great things near us, any how. An' talkin' about DOC brings 
 to my mind another ould prophecy, made up, they say, betune 
 Columkill and St. Bridget ; an' it is this, that the triumph of 
 the counthi'y will never be at hand tiU the DOC flourishes in 
 Ireland." 
 
 Such were the speculations upon which the harmless mind 
 of Barney M'Haigney ever dwelt. From house to house, 
 from parish to parish, and from province to province, cUd he 
 thus trudge, never in a hurry, but always steady and constant 
 in his motions. He might be not inaptly termed the Old 
 
 / 
 
220 BARNEY M^HAIGNEY. 
 
 Mortality of traditionary prophecy, which he often chiselled 
 a-new, added to, and improved, in a manner that generally 
 gratified himself and his hearers. He was a harmless, kind 
 man, and never known to stand in need of either clothes or 
 money. He paid little attention to the silent business of 
 on-going life, and was consequently very nearly an abstraction. 
 He was always on the alert, however, for the result of a battle ; 
 and after having heard it, he would give no opinion whatsoever 
 until he had first silently compared it with his own private 
 theory in prophecy. If it agreed with this, he immediately 
 pubhshed it in connexion with his estabhshed text ; but if it 
 did not, he never opened his hps on the subject. 
 
 His class has nearly disappeared, and indeed it is so much 
 the better, for the minds of the people were thus filled with 
 antiquated nonsense that did them no good. Poor Barney, to 
 his great mortification, hved to see with his own eyes the 
 failure of his most favourite prophecies, but he was not to be 
 disheartened even by this ; though some might fail, all could 
 not ; and his stock was too varied and extensive not to furnish 
 him with a sufficient number of others over which to cherish 
 his imagination, and expatiate during the remainder of his 
 inoffensive life. 
 
 ^r 
 
MOLL ROE'S MARRIAGE; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE PUDDING BEWITCHED. 
 
 It is utterly impossible for any one but an Irishman fully to 
 comprehend the extravagance to which the spirit of Irish 
 humour is often carried, and that even in circumstances which 
 one would suppose it ought least to be expected. In other 
 countries the house of death is in reahty the house of mourning, 
 and so indeed it is also in Ireland, where domestic grief is felt 
 with a power that reaches to the uttermost depths of the heart. 
 But then in Ireland this very fullness of sorrow, unlike that 
 which is manifested elsewhere, is accompanied by so many 
 incongruous associations, apparently incompatible with, or 
 rather altogether opposed to, the idea of affliction, that stran- 
 gers, when assured of such an anomalous admixture of feehngs, 
 can scarcely bring themselves to beheve in their existence. I 
 have said that in Ireland the house of death is without doubt 
 the house of moui^ning ; but I must not conceal the additional 
 fact, that it is also, in consequence of the calamity which has 
 occurred, the house of fun ; and of fun, too, so broad, gro- 
 tesque, and extravagant, that in no other condition of society, 
 even in Ireland, is there anything to be found like it. This 
 no doubt, may appear a rather starthng assertion, but it is 
 quite true. 
 
 And now many of my sagacious readers wiU at once set 
 about accounting for such a singular combination of mad mirth 
 and profound sorrow. Let them, however, spare their meta- 
 
222 MOLL roe's marriage ; or, 
 
 pliysics, for I will save them a long process of reasoning on the 
 subject, by stating, that all this clatter of laughter and comic 
 uproar proceeds from a principle that does honour to Paddy's 
 heart — I mean sympathy with those whom the death of some 
 dear relative has thrown into affliction. Indeed no people 
 sympathize more deeply with each other than the Irish, or 
 enter more fully into the spirit that prevails, whether it be one 
 of joy or sorrow. The reason, then, why the neighbours and 
 acquaintances of the deceased flock at night to hold Wakes — 
 the merriest of all merry meetings — frequently in the very 
 house where he or she lies dead, is simply that the sense of 
 the bereavement may be mitigated by the hght-hearted amuse- 
 ments which are enacted before their eyes. The temperament 
 of the Irish, however, is strongly susceptible of the extremes 
 of mirth and sorrow, and our national heart is capable of being 
 moved by the two impulses almost at the same moment. Many 
 a time I have seen a widow sitting over the dead body of an 
 affectionate husband, amidst her desolate orphans, so completely 
 borne away by the irresistible fun of some antic wag, who acted 
 as Master of the Revels, that she has been forced into a fit of 
 laughter that brought other tears than those of sorrow to her 
 eyes. Often has the father — the features of the pious and 
 chaste mother of his children composed into the mournful still- 
 ness of death before him — been, in the same manner, carried 
 into a fit of immoderate mirth on witnessing the inimitable 
 drolleries exhibited in " Boxing the Connaughtman," or the 
 convulsive fun of the " Screw-pin Dance." The legends and 
 tales and stories that are told at Irish wakes all bear the im- 
 press of this mad extravagance ; and it is because I am now 
 about to relate one of them, that I have deemed it expedient 
 to introduce it to my readers by this short but necessary pre- 
 face. Those who peruse it are not to imagine that I am gravely 
 writing it in my study ; but that, on the contrary, they arc 
 sitting in the chimney-corner, at an Irish wake, and that some 
 
THE PUDDING BEWITCHED. 223 
 
 droll Senachie, his face lit up into an expression of broad 
 farcical humour, is proceeding somewhat as follows : — 
 
 " Moll Roe Kafferty was the son — daughter I mane — of ould 
 Jack Eafferty, who was remarkable for a habit he had of 
 always wearing his head undher his hat ; but indeed the same 
 family was a quare one, as every body knew that was acquainted 
 wid them. It was said of them — but whether it was thrae or 
 not I won't undhertake to say, for 'fraid I'd tell a lie — that 
 whenever they didn't wear shoes or boots they always went 
 barefooted ; but I hard aftherwards that this was disputed, so 
 rather than say anything to injure their caracther, I'll let that 
 pass. Now, ould Jack Eafferty had two sons, Paddy and 
 Molly — hut ! what are you all laughing at ? — I mane a son 
 and daughter, and it was generally behoved among the neigh- 
 bours, that they were brother and sisther, which you know 
 might be thrue or it might not ; but that's a tiling that, wid 
 the help o' goodness, we have notlmig to say to. Throth there 
 was many ugly tilings put out on them that I don't wish to 
 repate, such as that neither Jack nor liis son Paddy ever 
 walked a perch widout puttin' one foot afore the other, like a 
 salmon ; an' I know it was whispered about, that whinever 
 Moll Roe slep', she had an out of the way custom of keepin' 
 her eyes shut. If she did, however, God forgive her — the loss 
 was her own ; for sure we all know that when one comes to 
 shut their eyes they can't see as far before them as another. 
 
 " Moll Roe was a fine young bouncin' girl, large and lavish, 
 wid a purty head o' hair on her hke scarlet, that bein' one of 
 the raisons why she was called Hoe or red ; her arms an' 
 cheeks were much the colour of the hair, an' her saddle nose 
 was the purtiest thing of its kind that ever was on a face. Her 
 fists — for, thank goodness, she was well sarved wid them too — 
 had a strong simularity to two thumpin' turnips, reddened by 
 the sun ; an' to keep all right and tight, she had a temper as 
 fiery as her head — for, indeed, it was well known that all the 
 
224 MOLL roe's marriage ; or, 
 
 Rafferties were warm-hesiYted. Howandiver, it appears that 
 God gives notliing in vain, and of course the same fists, big and 
 red as they were, if all that is said about them is thrue, were 
 not so much given to her for ornament as use. At laist, takin' 
 them in connexion wid her lively temper, we have it upon 
 good authority, that there was no danger of their getting blue- 
 moulded for want of practice. She had a twist, too, in one of 
 her eyes that was very becomin' in its way, and made her 
 poor husband, when she got him, take it into his head that she 
 could see round a corner. She found him out in many quare 
 things, widout doubt ; but whether it was owin' to that or not 
 I wouldn't undertake to say, for /raid I'd tell a lie. 
 
 " Well, begad, anyhow, it was Moll Roe that was the dilsy; 
 and as they say that marriages does be sometimes made in 
 heaven, so did it happen that there was a nate vagabone in the 
 neighbourhood, just as much overburdened wid beauty as her- 
 self, and he was named Gusty Gillespie. Gusty, the Lord 
 guard us, was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, and 
 wouldn't keep Christmas day, the blagard, except what they 
 call " ould style." Gusty was rather good-lookin' when seen 
 in the dark, as well as Moll herself ; and indeed it was purty 
 well known that — accordin' as the talk went — it was in nightly 
 meetings that they had an opportunity of becomin' detached 
 to one another. The quensequence was, that in due time both 
 famihes began to talk very seriously as to what was to be 
 done. Moll's brother, Pawdien O'Rafferty, gave Gusty the 
 best of two choices. What they were it's not worth spakin' 
 about ; but at any rate one of them was a poser, an' as Gusty 
 knew his man, he soon came to his senses. Accordianly every- 
 thing was deranged for their marriage, and it was appointed 
 that they should be spliced by the Rev. Samuel M' Shuttle, the 
 Prosbytarian parson, on the following Sunday. 
 
 " Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a 
 long time in the neighbourhood betune a black-mouth an' a 
 
THE PUDDING BEWITCHED. 225 
 
 Catholic, an' of coorse there was strong objections on both 
 sides aginst it ; an' begad, only for one thing it would never 
 'a' tuck place at all. At any rate, faix, there was one of the 
 bride's uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairy-man, who could 
 cure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as he didn't wish 
 to see his niece marrid upon sich a fellow, he fought bittherly 
 aginst the match. All Moll's friends, however, stood up for 
 the marriage barrin' him, an' of coorse the Sunday was ap- 
 pointed, as I said, that they were to be dove-tailed together. 
 
 " Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went to 
 mass, and Gusty to meeting, afther which they were to join 
 one another in Jack Rafferty's, where the priest. Father 
 M'Sorley, was to slip up afther mass to take liis dinner wid 
 them, and to keep Misther M'Shuttle, who was to marry 
 them, company. JS'obody remained at home but ould Jack 
 Rafferty an' his wife, who stopped to dress the dinner, for to 
 tell the truth it was to be a great let out entirely. Maybe, if 
 all was known, too, that Father M'Sorley was to give them a 
 cast of liis office over an' above the Ministher, in regard that 
 Moll's friends weren't altogether satisfied at the kind of mar- 
 riage which M'Shuttle could give them. The sorrow may care 
 about that — splice here — sphce there — all I can say is, that 
 when Mrs. Rafferty was goin' to tie up a big bag pudden, in 
 walks Harry Connolly, the fairy-man, in a rage, and shouts 
 out, — ' Blood and blunderbushes, what are y ez here for ? ' 
 
 " ' Arra why, Harry ? AYhy, avick ?' 
 
 *' 'Why, the sun 's in the suds and the moon in the high 
 Horicks ; there's a dipstick comin' an, an' there you're both 
 as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mother. Go out and 
 cross yourselves tlii^ee times in the name o' the four Mandi'o- 
 marvins, for as prophecy says : — Fill the pot, Eddy, superna- 
 culum — a blazing star 's a rare spectaculum. Go out both of 
 you and look at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the condition he's 
 in— off!' 
 
 Q 
 
226 MOLL roe's marriage ; or, 
 
 " Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, and 
 his wife leaped like a two-year ould, till they were both got on 
 a stile beside the house to see what was wrong in the sky. 
 
 ** * Arra, what is it, Jack,' said she, ' can you see anything?' 
 
 " ' No,' says he, ' sorra the full o' my eye of anything I can 
 spy, barrin' the sun himself, that's not visible in regard of the 
 clouds. God guard us ! I doubt there's something to happen.' 
 
 " ' If there wasn't, Jack, what 'ud put Harry, that knows so 
 much, in the state he's in ? ' 
 
 " * I doubt it's this marriage,' said Jack : ' betune ourselves, 
 it's not over an' above religious for Moll to marry a black- 
 mouth, an' only for , but it can't be helped now, though 
 
 you see, the divil a taste o' the sun is willin' to show his face 
 upon it.' 
 
 '* ' As to that,' says the wife, winkin' wid both her eyes, ' if 
 Gusty's satisfied wid Moll, it's enough. I know who'll carry 
 the whip hand, any how ; but in the mane time let us ax 
 Harry 'ithin what ails the sun.' 
 
 " Well, they accordianly went in an' put the question to 
 him. 
 
 " ' Harry, what's wrong, ahagur ? What is it now, for if 
 anybody alive knows, 'tis yourself?' 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' said Harry, sere win' his mouth wid a kind of a 
 dhry smile, ' the sun has a hard twist o' the cholic ; but never 
 mind that, I tell you you'll have a merrier weddin' than you 
 think, that's all ; ' and havin' said this, he put on his hat and i 
 left the house. ; 
 
 " Now, Harry's answer relieved them very much, and so, ' 
 afther calhng to him to be back for the dinner, Jack sat down ' 
 to take a shough o' the pipe, and the wife lost no time in tying 
 up the pudden and puttin' it in the pot to be boiled. j 
 
 " In this way things went on well enough for a while. Jack ' 
 smokin' away, an' the wife cookin' and dhressin' at the rate of , 
 a hunt. At last Jack, while sittin', as I said, contentedly at 
 
 [. 
 
THE PUDDING BEWITCHED. 227 
 
 the fire, thought he could persave an odd dancin' kind of 
 motion in the pot, that puzzled him a good deal. 
 
 " ' Katty,' said he, * what the dickens is in this pot on the 
 fire •?' 
 
 " * Nerra thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax ?' 
 says she. 
 
 " * Why,' said he, ' if ever a pot tuck it into its head to 
 dance a jig, and this did. Thundher arid sparables, look 
 at it !' 
 
 *' Begad, it was thrue enough ; there was the pot bobbin' 
 up an' down and from side to side, jiggin' it away as merry as 
 a grig ; an' it was quite aisy to see that it wasn't the pot itself, 
 but what was inside of it, that brought about the hornpipe. 
 
 " ' Be the hole o' my coat,' shouted Jack, ' there's something 
 ahve in it, or it would never cut sich capers !' 
 
 " * Be the vestment, there is, Jack ; something sthrange 
 entirely has got into it. Wirra, man alive, what's to be 
 done ?' 
 
 " Jist as she spoke, the pot seemed to cut the buckle in 
 prime style, and afther a spring that 'ud shame a dancin'- 
 masther, off flew the lid, and out bounced the pudden itself, 
 hoppin', as nimble as a pea on a drum-head, about the floor. 
 Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed herself. Jack shouted, 
 and Katty screamed. ' In the name of the nine Evangels,' 
 said he, ' keep yom' distance, no one here injured you !' 
 
 " The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack lepped 
 first on a chair and then on the kitchen table to avoid it. It 
 then danced towards Katty, who was now repatin' her pather 
 an' avys at the top of her voice, while the cunnin' thief of a 
 pudden was hoppin' and jiggin' it round her, as if it was amused 
 at her distress. 
 
 " ' If I could get the pitchfork,' said Jack, ' I'd dale wid it — 
 hj goxty I'd thry its mettle.' 
 
 " * ^o, no,' shouted Katty, thinkin' there was a fairy in it ; 
 
228 MOLL roe's marriage ; or, 
 
 ' let us spake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do. 
 Aisy now,' said she to the pudden, ' aisy, dear ; don't harm 
 honest people that never meant to offend you. It wasn't us — 
 no, in throth, it was ould Harry Connolly that bewitched you ; 
 pursue him if you wish, but spare a woman like me ; for, 
 whisper, dear, I'm not in a condition to be frightened — throth 
 I'm not.' 
 
 " The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and 
 danced away from her towards Jack, who, hke the wife, 
 believin' there was a fairy in it, an' that spakin' it fair was the 
 best plan, thought he would give it a soft word as well as her. 
 
 " ' Plase your honour,' said Jack, ' she only spaiks the truth. 
 You don't know what harm you might do her ; an', upon my 
 voracity, we both feels much oblaiged to your honour for your 
 quietness. Faith, it's quite clear that if you weren't a gentle- 
 manly pudden all out, you'd act otherwise. Ould Harry, the 
 dam' rogue, is your mark ; he's jist gone down the road there, 
 and if you go fast you'll overtake him. Be me song, your 
 dancin'-masther did his duty, any how. Thank your honour ! 
 God speed you, an' may you never meet wid a priest, parson, 
 or alderman in your thravels !' 
 
 " Jist as Jack spoke, the pudden appeared to take the hint, 
 for it quietly hopped out, and as the house was directly on the 
 road side, turned down towards the bridge, the very way that 
 ould Harry went. It was very natural of coorse that Jack 
 and Katty should go out to see how it intended to thravel ; 
 and, as the day was Sunday, it was but natural, too, that a 
 greater number of people than usual were passin' the road. 
 This was a fact. And when Jack and his wife were seen 
 followin' the pudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up 
 and afther it. 
 
 " ' Jack Rafferty, what is it ? Katty, ahagur, will you tell 
 us what it manes ?' 
 
 '•'Why,' repHcd Katty, ' be the vestments,j it 's my big 
 
THE PUDDING BEWITCHED. 229 
 
 piidden that's bewitched, an' it's now hot-foot pursuin' , 
 
 here she stopped, not wishin' to mention her brother's name, — 
 * some one or other that surely put pist rogues an it'.* 
 
 " This was enough ; Jack, now seein' that he had assistance, 
 found his courage comin' back to him, so says he to Katty, 
 ^go home,' says he, * an' lose no time in makin' another pudden 
 as good, an' here's Paddy Scanlan's wife, Bridget, says she'll 
 let you boil it on her fire, as you'll want our own to dress the 
 rest o' the dinner ; and Paddy himself will lend me a pitclifork, 
 for divle resave the morsel of that same pudden will escape till 
 I let the wind out of it, now that I've the neighbours to back 
 an' support me,' says Jack. 
 
 " This was agreed to, and Katty went back to prepare a 
 fresh pudden, while Jack an' half the townland pursued the 
 other wid spades, graips, pitchforks, scythes, flails, and all 
 possible description of instruments. On the pudden went, 
 however, at the rate of about six Irish miles an hour, an' divle 
 sich a chase ever was seen. Cathohcs, Prodestans, an' Pros- 
 bytarians were all afther it, armed as I said, an' bad end to 
 the thing but its own activity could save it. Here it made a 
 hop, and there a prod was made at it ; but off it went, an' some 
 one as aiger to get a shce at it on the other side, got the prod 
 instead of the pudden. Big Frank FarreU, the miller of 
 Ballyboulteen, got a prod backwards that brought a hullabaloo 
 out of him you might hear at the other end of the parish. 
 One got a slyce of a scythe, another a whack of a flail, 
 a third a rap of a spade that made him look nine ways at 
 wanst. 
 
 '' ' AYhere is it goin' ?' asked one. 
 
 " ' It's goin' to mass,' rephed a second. ' Then it's a 
 Cathohc pudden,' exclaimed a third — ' down wid it.' ' ^o,' 
 said a fourth, ' it's above superstition ; my hfe for you, it's on 
 it's way to Meeting. Three cheers for it, if it turns to 
 
 * Put it under fairy influence. 
 
230 MOLL roe's marriage ; or, 
 
 Carntaul.' * Prod the sowl out of it, if it's a Prodestan,' 
 shouted the others ; ' if it turns to the left, shce it into pancakes. 
 We'll have no Prodestan' puddens here.' 
 
 " Begad, by this time the peoj)le were on the point of 
 beginnin' to have a regular fight about it, when, very for- 
 tunately, it took a short turn down a little by-lane that led 
 towards the Methodist praichin-house, an' in an instant all 
 parties were in an uproar aginst it as a Methodist pudden. 
 ' It's a Wesleyan,' shouted several voices * an' by this an' by 
 that, into a Methodist chapel it won't put a foot to-day, or 
 we'll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it: Come, boys, where's 
 your pitchforks ?' 
 
 " The divle purshue the one of them, however, ever could 
 touch the pudden, an' jist when they thought they had it up 
 against the gavel of the Methodist chapel, begad it gave them 
 the slip, and hops over to the left, clane into the river, and sails 
 away before all their eyes as light as an egg-shell. 
 
 " Now, it so happened, that a little below this place, the 
 demesne-wall of Colonel Bragshaw was built up to the very 
 edge of the river on each side of its banks ; and so findin' 
 there was a stop put to their pursuit of it, they went home 
 again, every man, woman, and child of them, puzzled to think 
 what the pudden was at all — whether Catholic, Prodestan, 
 Prosbytarian, or Methodist — what it meant, or where it was 
 goin' ! Had Jack RafFerty an' his wife been willin' to let out 
 the opinion they held about Harry Connolly bewitchin' it, 
 there is no doubt of it but poor Harry might be badly trated 
 by the crowd, when their blood was up. They had sense 
 enough, howandiver, to keep that to themselves, for Harry 
 bein' an ould bachelor, was a kind friend to the Raffertys. 
 So, of coorse, there was all kinds of talk about it — some 
 guessin' this, and some guessin' that — one party sayin' the 
 pudden was of their side, another party deny in' it, an' insistin' 
 it belonged to them, an' so on. 
 
THE PUDDING BEWITCHED. 231 
 
 " In the mane time, Katty Rafferty, for 'fraid the dinner 
 might come short, went home and made another pudden much 
 about the same size as the one that had escaped, and bringin' 
 it over to their next neighbour, Paddy vScanlan's, it was put 
 into a pot and placed on the fire to boil, hopin' that it might 
 be done in time, espishilly as they were to have the priest an* 
 the ministher, and that both loved a warm shce of a good 
 pudden as well as e'er a pair of gintlemen in Euroj^e. 
 
 " Anyhow, the day passed ; Moll and Gusty were made 
 man an' wife, an' no two could be more lovin'. Their friends 
 that had been asked to the weddin' w^ere saunterm' about in 
 pleasant little groups till dinner time, chattin' an' laughin' ; 
 but, above all things, sthrivin' to account for the figaries of 
 the pudden, for, to tell the truth, its adventures had now gone 
 thi'ough the whole parish. 
 
 " Well, at any rate, dinner-time was dhrawin' near, and 
 Paddy Scanlan was sittin' comfortably wid his wife at the fire, 
 the pudden boilen before their eyes, when in walks Harry 
 Connolly, in a flutter, shoutin' — ' Blood an' blunderbushes, 
 what are yez here for ?' 
 
 " ' Arra, why, Harry — why, avick ?' said Mrs. Scanlan. 
 
 " ' Why,' said Harry, ' the sun's in the suds an' the moon in 
 the high Horicks ! Here's a dipstick comin' an, an' there you 
 sit as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mother ! Go out 
 an' cross yourselves three times in the name of the four 
 Mandromarvins, for, as prophecy says : — Fill the pot, Eddy, 
 supernaculum — a blazin' star's a rare spectaculum ! Go out 
 both of you, an' look at the sun, I say, and ye'll see the con- 
 dition he's in — off !' 
 
 " ' Ay, but, Harry, what's that rowled up in the tail of your 
 cothamore (big coat) ?' 
 
 *' ' Out wid yez,' said Harry ; ' cross yourselves three times 
 in the name of the four ^landromarvins, an' pray aginst the 
 dipstick — the sky's fallin' !' 
 
232 MOLL roe's marriage ; or, 
 
 " Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife got 
 out first, they were so much alarmed by Harry's wild thin 
 face, an' piercin' eyes ; so out they went to see what was won- 
 dherful in the sky, an' kep' lookin' an' lookin' in every direc- 
 tion, but divle a thing was to be seen, barrin' the sun shinin' 
 down wid great good humour, an' not a single cloud in the 
 sky. 
 
 *' Paddy an' the wife now came in laughin', to scould 
 Harry, who, no doubt, was a great wag, in his way, when 
 
 he wished. ^ Musha, bad scran to you, Harry .' They 
 
 had time to say no more, howandiver, for, as they were goin' 
 into the door, they met him comin' out of it wid a reek of 
 smoke out of his tail, like a lime-kiln. 
 
 " ' Harry,' shouted Bridget, ' my sowl to glory, but the tail 
 of your cothamore's a-fire — you'll be burned. Don't you see 
 the smoke that's out of it ?' 
 
 " * Cross yourselves three times,' said Harry, widout stop- 
 pin', or even lookin' behind him — ' cross yourselves three 
 times in the name of the four Mandromarvins, for, as the 
 
 prophecy says: — Fill the pot, Eddy ' They could hear 
 
 no more, for Harry appeared to feel Mke a man that carried 
 something a great deal hotter than he wished, as any one 
 might see by the livehness of his motions, and the quare faces 
 he was forced to make as he went along. 
 
 " ' What the dickens is he carry in' in the skirts of his big 
 coat,' asked Paddy. 
 
 " * My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stole the pud- 
 den,' said Bridget, ' for it's known that many a sthrange thing 
 he does.' 
 
 " They immediately examined the pot, but found that the 
 pudden was there as safe as tuppence, an' this puzzled them 
 the more, to think what it was he could be carry in' about wid 
 him in the manner he did. But little they knew what he had 
 done while they were sky-gazin' ! 
 
THE PUDDING BEWITCHED. 233 
 
 *' AVell, anyhow, the day passed and the dinner was ready, 
 an' no doubt but a fine gatherin' there was to partake of it. 
 Tlie priest and the Prosbytarian ministher had met the 
 Methodist praicher — a divihsh stretcher of an appetite he had, 
 in throth — on their way to Jack Rafferty's, an' as they knew 
 they could take the hberty, why they insisted on his dinin' 
 wid them ; for, afther all, begad, in thim times the clargy of 
 all discriptions lived upon the best footin' among one another, 
 not all as one as now — but no matther. Well, they had 
 nearly finished their dinner, when Jack Rafferty himself axed 
 Katty for the pudden ; but, jist as he spoke, in it came as big 
 as a mess-pot. 
 
 " ' Gintlemen,' said he, ' I hope none of you will refuse 
 tastin' a bit of Katty 's pudden ; I don't mane the dancin' one 
 that tuck to its thravels to-day, but a good solid fellow that 
 she med since.' 
 
 " ' To be sure we won't,' rephed the priest ; ' so, Jack, put 
 a thrifle on them three plates at your right hand, and send 
 them over here to the clargy, an' maybe,' he said, laughin' — 
 for he was a droll good-humoured man — ' maybe, Jack, we 
 won't set you a proper example.' 
 
 " ' Wid a heart an' a half, yer reverence an' gintlemen ; in 
 throth, it's not a bad example ever any of you set us at the 
 likes, or ever will set us, I'll go bail. An' sure I only wish it 
 was betther fare I had for you; but we're humble people, 
 gintlemen, and so you can't expect to meet here what you 
 would in higher places.' 
 
 " ' Betther a male of herbs,' said the Methodist praicher 
 
 where pace is .' He had time to go no farther, however, 
 
 for, much to his amazement, the priest and the ministher 
 started up from the table jist as he was goin' to swallow the 
 first spoonful of the pudden, and before you could say Jack 
 Robinson, started away at a lively jig down the floor. 
 
 " At this moment a neighbour's son came runnin' in, an' 
 
234 MOLL roe's marriage ; or, 
 
 tould them that the parson was comin' to see the new-married 
 couple, an' wish them all happiness ; an' the words were 
 scarcely out of his mouth when he made his appearance. 
 What to think he knew not, when he saw the priest an' 
 ministher footing it away at the rate of a weddin'. He had 
 very little time, however, to think, for, before he could sit 
 down, up starts the Methodist praicher, and clappin' his two 
 fists in his sides, chimes in in great style along wid them. 
 
 *' ^ Jack Rafferty,' says he — and, by the way. Jack was his 
 tenant — ' what the dickens does all this mane ?' says he ; ' I'm 
 amazed !' 
 
 " ' The divle a particle o' me can tell you,' says Jack ; ' but 
 will your reverence jist taste a morsel o' pudden, merely that 
 the young couple may boast that you ait at their weddin' ; for 
 sure if you wouldn't, wlio would ?' 
 
 " ' Well,' says he, ' to gratify them I will ; so just a morsel. 
 But, Jack, this bates Bannagher,' says he again, puttin' the 
 spoonful o' pudden into his mouth, 'has there been dhrink here?' 
 
 " ' Oh, the divle a spudh," says Jack, ' for although there's 
 plinty in the house, faith, it appears the gintlemen wouldn't 
 wait for it. Unless they tuck it elsewhere, I can make nothin' 
 of this.' 
 
 *' He had scarcely spoken, when the parson, who was an 
 active man, cut a caper a yard high, an' before you could 
 bless yourself, the four clargy were hard at work dancin', as 
 if for a wager. Begad, it would be unpossible for me to tell 
 you the state the whole meetin' was in when they seen this. 
 Some were hoarse wid laughin' ; some turned up their eyes 
 wid wondher ; many thought them mad, an' others thought 
 they had turned up their little fingers a thrifle too often. 
 
 " ' Be goxty, it's a burnin' shame,' said one, * to see four 
 clargy in sich a state at tliis early hour!' ' Thundher an' 
 ounzc, what's over them at all ?' says others ; ' why, one would 
 tliink they're bewitched. Holy Moses, look at the caper the 
 
THE PUDDING BEWITCHED. 235 
 
 Methodist cuts! An' Father M'Sorley ! Honam an dioual! 
 who woukl think he could handle his feet at sich a rate ! Be 
 this an' be that, he cuts the buckle, and does the threbhn step 
 aiquil to Paddy Horaghan, the dancin'-masther himself ! An' 
 see ! Bad cess to the morsel of the ministher an' the parson 
 that's not hard at Pease upon a trencher, an' it of a Sunday 
 too ! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun's in yez afther all — whish ! 
 more power to yez !' 
 
 " The sorra's own fun they had, an' no wondher ; but judge 
 of what they felt, when all at once they saw ould Jack 
 Rafferty himself bouncin' in among them, and footing it away 
 like the best o' them. Bedad no play could come up to it, an' 
 nothin' could be heard but laughin', shouts of encouragement, 
 and clappin' of hands Hke mad. j^ow the minute Jack 
 Rafferty left the chair where he had been carvin' the pudden, 
 ould Harry Connolly comes over and claps himself down in his 
 place, in ordlier to send it round, of coorse ; an' he was scarcely 
 sated, when who should make his appearance but Barney 
 Hartigan, the piper. Barney, by the way, had been sent for 
 early in the day, but bein' from home when the message for 
 him went, he couldn't come any sooner.' 
 
 " ' Begorra,' said Barney, ' you're airly at the work, gintle- 
 men! Oh, blessed Phadrig! — the clargy too! Honam an 
 dioual, what does this mane? But, divle may care, yez shan't 
 want the music while there's a blast in the pipes, any how !' 
 So sayin' he gave them Jig Polthogue, an' after that Kiss 
 my Lady, in liis best style. 
 
 '•' In the meantime the fun went on thick an' threefold, for it 
 must be remimbered that Harry, the ould knave, was at the 
 pudden ; an' maybe he didn't sarve it about in double quick 
 time too. The first he helped was the bride, and, before you 
 could say chopstick, she was at it hard an' fast before the 
 Methodist praicher, who immediately quit Father M'Sorley, 
 and gave a jolly spring before her that threw them into con- 
 
236 MOLL roe's marriage ; or, 
 
 vulsions. Harry liked this, and made up his mind soon to find 
 partners for the rest ; so he accordianly sent the pudden about 
 hke hghtnin' ; an' to make a long story short, barrin' the piper 
 an' himself, there wasn't a pair o' heels in the house but was 
 as busy at the dancin' as if their lives depinded on it.' 
 
 " ' Barney,' says Harry, ' jist taste a morsel o' this pudden, 
 divle the sich a bully of a pudden ever you ett ; here, your 
 sowl ! thry a snig of it — it's beautiful.' 
 
 " 'To be sure I will,' says Barney, 'I'm not the boy to refuse 
 a good thing ; but, Harry, be quick, for you know my hands is 
 engaged; an' it would be a thousand pities not to keep them in 
 music, an' they so well inclined. Thank you, Harry ; begad 
 that is a famous pudden; but blood an' turnips, what's this 
 for !' 
 
 " The word was scarcely out of his mouth when he bounced 
 up, pipes an' all, an' dashed into the middle of them. ' Hurroo, 
 your sowls, let us make a night of it ! The Ballyboulteen boys 
 for ever ! Go it, your reverence — turn your partner — heel an' 
 toe, ministher. Good ! Well done again. — Whish ! Hurroo ! 
 Here's for Ballyboulteen, an' the sky over it !' 
 
 " Bad luck to the sich a set ever was seen together in this 
 world, or will again, I suppose. The worst, however, wasn't 
 come yet, for jist as they were in the very heat an' fury of the 
 dance, what do you think comes hoppin' in among them but 
 another pudden, as nimble an' merry as the first ! That was 
 enough; they all had heard of — the clargy among the rest — an' 
 most o' them had seen the other pudden, and knew that there 
 must be either the divle or a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I 
 said, in it comes to the thick o' them; but the very appearance 
 of it was enough. Off the four clargy danced, and off the whole 
 weddiners danced after them, every one makin' the best of 
 their way home ; but divle a sowl of them able to break out of 
 the step, if they were to be hanged for it. Throth it wouldn't 
 lave a laugh in you to see the priest an' the parson dancin' 
 
THE PUDDING BEWITCHED. 237 
 
 down the road on their way home together, and the ministher 
 and Methodist praicher cuttin' the buckle as they went along 
 in the opposite direction. To make short work of it, they all 
 danced home at last, wid scarce a puff of wind in them ; the 
 bride and bridegroom danced away to bed; an' now, boys, 
 come an' let us dance the Horo Lheig in the barn 'idout. But 
 you see, boys, before we go, an' in ordher that I may make 
 every thing plain, I had as good tell you, that Harry, in 
 crossing the bridge of Ballyboulteen, a couple of miles below 
 Squire Bragshaw's demesne-wall, saw the puddin' floaten down 
 the river — the thruth is he was waitin' for it ; but be this as it 
 may, he took it out, for the wather had made it as clane as a 
 new pin, and tuckin' it up in the tail of his big coat, contrived, 
 as you all guess, I suppose, to change it while Paddy Scanlon 
 an' the wife were examinin' the sky ; an' for the other, he 
 contrived to bewitch it in the same manner, by gettin' a fairy 
 to go into it, for, indeed, it was purty well known that the 
 same Harry was hand an' glove wid the good people. Others 
 will tell you that it was half a pound of quicksilver he put into 
 it ; but that doesn't stand to raison. At any rate, boys, I have 
 tould you the adventures of the Mad Pudden of Ballyboulteen ; 
 but I don't wish to tell you many other things about it that 
 happened— ^or^raic? Pd tell a lie."* 
 
 * This superstition of the dancing or bewitched pudding has not, so far as 
 I have been able to ascertain, ever been given to the public before. The 
 singular tendency to saltation is attributed to two causes, both of which are 
 introduced in the tale. Some will insist that a fairy-man or fairy- woman has 
 the power to be"svitch a pudding by putting a fairy into it ; whilst others 
 maintain that a competent portion of q^uicksilver will make it dance over 
 half the parish. 
 
BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 
 
 Barney Brady was a good-natured, placid man, and never 
 lost his temper, unless, as he said himself, when he got 
 ** privication ;" he was also strict in attending his duty ; a fact 
 which Mrs., or rather, as she was called, Ailey Brady, candidly 
 and justly admitted, and to which the priest himself bore 
 ample testimony. Barney, however, had the misfortune to be 
 married at a time when a mystery was abroad among women. 
 Mysteries, resembling the Elusinian in nothing but the exclu- 
 sion of men, were then prevalent among the matrons in all 
 parts of the country. Of the nature of these secret rites it 
 would be premature now to speak ; in time the secret will be 
 revealed ; suffice it to say, that the mysteries were full of 
 alarm to the husbands, and held by them to be a grievous 
 offence against their welfare and authority. The domestic 
 manners of my beloved countrywomen were certainly in a 
 state of awful and deplorable transition at the time, and many 
 a worthy husband's head ached at a state of things which no 
 viligance on his part could alter or repress. Many a secret 
 consultation was held among the good men of the respective 
 villages throughout the country at large, as to the best mode 
 of checking this disastrous epidemic, which came home to their 
 very beds and bosoms, and many a groan was vainly uttered 
 from hearts that grew heavy in proportion as the evil, which 
 tliey felt but could not see, spread about through all directions 
 of the kingdom. 
 
yocz'i 
 
 
 ^ ^^'Cn:^e 
 
^ 
 
 #- 
 
 « 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 289 
 
 Nay, to such a Jieight did this terrible business rise, that the 
 aggrieved parties had notions of petitioning tlie king to keep 
 their wives virtuous ; but this, upon second consideration, was 
 given up, inasmuch as the king himself, with reverence be it 
 spoken, was at the bottom of the evil, and what was still worse, 
 even the queen was not ashamed to corrupt their wives by her 
 example. How then could things be in a healthy state when 
 the very villany of which the good broken-hearted men com- 
 plained descended from the court to the people ? A warning 
 this to all future sovereigns not without good forethought, and 
 much virtuous consideration, to set a bad precedent to their 
 subjects. What then could the worthy husbands do unless to 
 put their hands dolorously to their heads and bear their griev- 
 ances in silence ; which, however, the reader perceives they did 
 not. After mutually, but with great caution, disclosing their 
 injuries, they certainly condoled with each other ; they planned 
 means of redress, sought out the best modes of detection, and 
 having entered into a general confederacy against their respec- 
 tive wives, each man solemnly promised to become a spy and 
 informer in his own family. To come to this resolution was as 
 much as they could do under such unhappy circumstances, and 
 of course they did it. 
 
 Their wives, on the other hand, were anything but idle. 
 They also sat in secret council upon their own affairs, and 
 discussed their condition with an anxiety and circumspection 
 which set the vigilance of their husbands at complete defiance. 
 And it may be observed here, just to show the untractable 
 obstinacy of women when bent on gratifying their own wills, 
 that not one of them ever returned home to her husband from 
 these closed-door meetings, without having committed the very 
 act of which she was suspected. Not that these cautious good 
 women were, after all, so successful in every instance as to 
 escape detection. Some occasional discoveries were actually 
 made in consequence of the systematic espionage of their hus- 
 
240 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 bands, and one or two of tliem were actually caught, as the 
 law term has it, with the maneri that is, in the very act of 
 offence. Now, contumacy is ever impudent and outrageous, 
 and disposed to carry every thing with a high hand, or, at all 
 events, with a loud tongue. This, the husbands of those who 
 had been detected soon felt ; for, no sooner had they pro- 
 claimed their wrongs to their fellow-sufferers than they were 
 branded by their wives with the vile and trying epithet of 
 " stag,"* and intrepidly charged home with letting themselves 
 sink to the mean-spirited office of informers against the wives 
 of their bosoms. 
 
 Some of the good men now took fire, and demanded an 
 explanation ; others looked at their wives with amazement, 
 and stopped short, as if irresolute how to act ; and other some 
 shrugged their shoulders, took a silent and meditative blast of 
 the pipe upon the hob, and said no more about it. So far, 
 then, there was no great victory either on the one side or the 
 other. Now, the state of human society is never so bad, even 
 in the most depraved times, but that there are always to be 
 found in it many persons uncorrupted by the prevailing con- 
 tamination ; and it was supposed to be so here. Barney Brady 
 as yet hoped in heaven that Alley had escaped the contagion, 
 which operated upon her sex so secretly, yet so surely. For 
 some time past he had held her under strict surveillance ; but 
 with such judgment, that she did not even dream of being 
 suspected. In this manner did matters proceed between them 
 — Barney slyly on the alert, and 'Alley on a shrewd look-out 
 for means and opportunity ; when one Friday he proposed to 
 
 * We need scarcely tell our readers that in Ireland " stag" means a person 
 who hecomes king's evidence against his accomplices, or in some indirect 
 way exposes their crimes. K, for instance, a member of a Ribbon or Orange 
 Lodge betrayed the secrets of the body, he would be termed a " stag ;" and 
 a husband betraying any weakness of his wife, such, for instance, as the 
 fact of her being addicted to liquor, or theft, would be termed a '* stag" by 
 liis offended partner. 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 241 
 
 visit his aunt Madge, up in Carrickmorc, on the next Saturday 
 evening ; and, accordingly, informed Ailey that he would not 
 return until the Monday following. To this Ailey could offer 
 no possible objection ; but, on the contrary, highly applauded 
 him for showing such a mark of respect and affection for his 
 aunt, who, by the way, had been very kind to them both since 
 their marriage. " It's only right," said she, " and your duty 
 besides, to go an' see her, for bewixt you an' me, Barney, she 
 has been the best feadher in our wing. There's thim Finnigans, 
 the dirty, low pack, sure, bekase indeed they're the same re- 
 lations to her that we are, they'd kiss the chrt of her feet, if 
 they thought they could bone a penny by it ; an' they're lavin' 
 no stone unturned to get the soft side of her, hopin', the dirty 
 squad o' cabogues,* to come in for what she has, an' to cut us 
 out from her. So go to her, Barney ; an' if you don't palaver 
 her, the sorrow one o' you's worth a pound o' goats' wool." 
 
 Barney, having then got on a clean shirt and liis holy-day 
 frieze coat, took his shilellah in hand, and set out to visit his 
 aunt Madge Brady, up among the hills of Carrickmore, as a 
 most attached and disinterested nephew, who, as the song says, 
 " loved her for herself alone." He had not gone many yards 
 from the door, however, when he returned. 
 
 " Madge," said he, " I'm jist goin' to mention to you afore I 
 set out, that I'd as soon you'd keep away from the Maguigans ; 
 I mane the women of them. Both their husbands tould me 
 not a month o' Sundays agone, that they suspect them to 
 be not safe. So you see you can learn nothing that's good 
 from them. God's thruth is, I'm afeard that they're tarr'd 
 wid the same stick that has marked the women o' the whole 
 neighbourhood. So now, that you know this, I hope you'll 
 keep your distance from them." 
 
 " Arra, what business, Barney, could I have wid them ? 
 
 • Low person ; a term of contempt. 
 
 R 
 
242 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 The sorra eye I layed on one o' them this fortnight back. I 
 have my own business on these two childre, the crathurs, to 
 take care of." 
 
 " That's a darhn', Madge, give us a smack ; an' now 
 hanaghth lath, till Monday, please goodness. Kiss me, childre. 
 Hadn't you betthur tie a bit of flannin about poor Barney's 
 neck, till that cough laves him ?" 
 
 " Don't you see it dhryin' there, on the stool, before the 
 fire?" 
 
 " That's right. Now, you'll mind my words, Ailey." 
 
 " Arra, bad scran be from me, but you'd — so you would, 
 arra " 
 
 She spoke this with an indignant abruptness ; but the reader 
 will please to observe, that she made no promise whatsoever. 
 
 " I'm off, I'm off. I know you won't. God bless yez all !" 
 
 And so Barney went to see his aunt Madge, up in Carrick- 
 more. \ 
 
 Well ! it is a sad thing to be a mere chronicler of truth, 
 which, indeed, every man who dehneates human nature must 
 be ; because unhappily for him who lives in the world of 
 human nature, there is no fiction at hand. It is only those 
 who Uve out of it that can make fiction available to their pur- 
 poses. This has been forced from us, not by Barney, however, 
 but by his wife. 
 
 He had scarcely been half an hour gone, when Ailey threw 
 a bonnet on her head, a blue cloak about her shoulders, and 
 after having *' made a play" for the children, to keep them 
 quiet, and given them a slice of griddle bread each, she locked 
 the door, rolled the big stone upon the hole that was under it, 
 which the pig had grubbed away, in order to work himself a 
 passage into the house, and immediately proceeded to visit the 
 two tainted wives of the Maguigans ! The act was — but it is 
 not for us to characterize it ; the consequences of it will speak 
 for themselves. The two brothers to whom they were united 
 
DARK DDINGS AT SLATHBEG. 243 
 
 in wedlock, lived next door to each other, or, what is called, 
 under the same roof ; and she, consequently, found both their 
 good women at home. Two or three " shps" of both sexes, 
 who had been amusing themselves in the elder brother's house, 
 where the conference resulting from her visit was about to be 
 held, were immediately desired to play abroad, " an' not be 
 gamestherin' an' rampadghin' through the house that way, 
 makin' a ruction, that people can't hear their own ears wid 
 yez ; go along, an' take the sthreets on your head, and sthretch 
 your limbs, ye pack o' young thieves, yez !" 
 
 The moment they bounded away, Alley's face assumed an 
 air of considerable importance — a circumstance which the 
 others instantly noticed ; for nothing is so observant of symp- 
 toms that indicate its own discovery as a consciousness of 
 error. 
 
 " Alley," said one of them, alarmed, " you've heard some- 
 tliing ? What is it ? Are we found out, clane *?" 
 
 " K you're not found out," replied Alley, in the same low, 
 guarded tone, " you're strongly suspected ; but the devil may 
 care for that. Barney is away up to his ould aunt Madge 
 Brady's, at Carrickmore above, an' won't be back till Monday ; 
 so that the coast's clear till then, any way. All you have to 
 do is to slip up about dusk, for there'll be nobody but ourselves, 
 an' I'll put the childhre to bed, not that they dare tell him 
 any thing they'd see." 
 
 " So, thin, we are suspicted ?" said the other, with much 
 chagrin. 
 
 " It's thruth. Dick an' Harry confessed it to Barney ; an' 
 he tould me." 
 
 " Troth, an' we'll outdo them, if they w^or ten times as 
 sharp," rephed Mrs. Dick Maguigan, or Betty, as she was 
 called. " Indeed, I knew myself that he was for a good while 
 past peepin' and pokin' about, as if he expected to find a 
 leprechaun or a mare's nest ; an' faith, sure enough, he was 
 
244 BARNEY Brady's goose; or, 
 
 wanst widin' an ace of catchin' us ; but, as luck would have it, 
 he didn't search undher the bed." 
 
 "And I suppose that Barney's backin' them in all this," 
 observed Mrs. Harry Maguigan, or, as we shall call her. Bid. 
 
 " Troth, you may swear that," replied his faithful wife ; 
 " an' warned me strongly afore he went to the aunt's to hould 
 away from yez both, for he said ye wor tainted, tarred with 
 the same stick that has marked all the rotten sheep in the 
 country." 
 
 The three audacious conspirators, instead of expressing 
 either regret or repentance at the conduct which had justified 
 the well-founded suspicions of their husbands, burst out, on the 
 contrary, into one united and harmonious chorus of laughter, 
 which lasted at least five minutes ! 
 
 "Well," said Ailey, hastily getting up and throwing the 
 cloak about her, " I can't stop a jiffey, for there's no one at 
 home but the childhre, that I locked in ; and I'm always unaisy 
 when I lave the crathurs that way, for fraid they might go 
 too near the fire, or that that sarra of a pig 'ud work the stone 
 from undher the door an' get in. So as the coast's clear, you'll 
 both slip up about dusk." 
 
 This they promised ; and accordingly, when darkness had 
 completely set in, the door of Barney Brady's house was 
 closed, and bolted inside with all possible security ; and this 
 was necessary, for truly a surprise would have been an aAvful, 
 though perhaps a just, winding up of their iniquities. What 
 peculiar mysteries or rites took place there on that night, it is 
 not our provmce, good reader, to disclose ; but of this you may 
 rest assured, that each fulfilled the old and excellent adage, 
 " that stolen enjoyments are the sweetest." With what feelings 
 Betty and Bid Maguigan faced their husbands, they themselves 
 best know ; but that each was received with suspicion, and 
 severely cross-examined upon the cause of their absence, we 
 can inform the reader. 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 245 
 
 But what clid that avail? The dcUnqucnts, on their way 
 home, had fabricated a story — and they are never good that 
 possess a facihty at fabricating stories, — to which both were 
 determined to adhere with most inflexible pertinacity. " They 
 had jist ran up to see httle Madge Brady, for Ailey had been 
 down to tell them that she was afeard it was takin' the mazles ; 
 but it was nothin' but a small rcisli that came out upon its 
 breast, the crathur, though Bid (her sister-in-law), thought it 
 was the hives ; an' indeed, after all, she didn't know herself 
 but it was. But God send it safe over whatsomever it was, 
 poor thing ! Amin, this night !" 
 
 Now, who would think ? but no matter ; there is still 
 
 worse to come ! The reader will not believe our word, when 
 we assure him that these two women, Betty and Bid Maguigan, 
 did not scruple, though loaded with the just suspicions of their 
 husbands, to kneel down and say their prayers on that very 
 night before they went to bed. 
 
 The next day being Sunday, and their husbands having 
 more leisure, it is scarcely necessary to say that the two good 
 men kept a sharp eye upon their spouses, wdio found them- 
 selves dodged in every motion. Several times they attempted 
 a stolen visit to Ailey Brady's, but were detected just in the 
 act of putting on their cloaks and bonnets. In fact, they were 
 so completely hampered, that they resolved, at length, to 
 brazen it out, having lost temper considerably by seeing that 
 all their designs were fairly contravened, and that whatever 
 must be done as to reaching the scene of their transgression, 
 must be done with honest, open defiance. They once more, 
 therefore, had recourse to the cloaks and bonnets ; and were 
 in the very act of setting out, when their husbands, who sat 
 smoking each a pipe, after having coolly eyed them for some 
 time, calmly inquu^ed 
 
 " Where are yez bound for, good women ?" 
 
 *' Up to Ailey Brady's, to see the child, poor tiling ! 'Deed 
 
246 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 it's a burnin' shame that we didn't call sooner, espishUly as 
 Barney's not at home wid her. She may want something, an' 
 has no one to send out for it." 
 
 " Well," said Dick, addressing his own wife Betty, "gi^antin' 
 all that, isn't one o' ye enough to go ?" 
 
 ** Plenty," replied his sister-in-law Bid; "but I've some 
 notion of goin' up as far as my mother's, while Betty's sittin' 
 wid Ailey Brady." 
 
 " By the tarlin' sweep !" exclaimed Harry, taking the pipe 
 hastily out of his mouth, and casting a keen, indignant glance 
 at the last speaker, — "yez are enough to bate down the 
 patience of a saint. How can you look us in the face, ye 
 schamers o' the devil ? Goin' to see Ailey Brady's child, 
 indeed ! Why, I was up wid Ailey Brady this very mornin', 
 an' there's not a blast o' wind wrong wid either of her childhre, 
 not as much as a hair turned on them ! What have yez to 
 say, now ? An' yit ye came both home last night wid a he in 
 your mouths ; that ' Ailey Brady's child was gettin' the mazles,' 
 says one ; ' it has a rash,'' says the other ; ' but sure God 
 send it safe over whatsomever it has, poor thing !' Be the 
 mortal man, I won't bear this. There now, to show yez 
 I won't." 
 
 As he spoke the last word he took the pipe out of his mouth 
 and shivered it to atoms against the opposite wall. His brother 
 seeing this energetic display, resolved not to be outdone in the 
 vigour of his indignation. 
 
 " Yes, be me sowl, nor I aither," he exclaimed, hurling his 
 dudeen in an opposite direction, and immediately kicking the 
 stool on which he sat to the lower end of the kitchen. 
 
 *' That's to show yez that ye won't have your tongues in 
 your cheeks at uz," he added; "an' be this an' be that for 
 three sthraws I'd not lave a thraneen's worth on the dhrcsser 
 but I'd smash to smithereens. An' I'll tell yez what it is," he 
 proceeded, raising his voice to its highest pitch, and stamping 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATIIBEG. 247 
 
 furiously on the hearth, " I tell ycz what it is, ycz must put 
 an end to this work, wanst for all. Our substance isn't to go 
 this way. We'll have no coUogin' among ycz ; no huggermug- 
 gerin' between you an' the other black sheep o' the neighbour- 
 hood. Don't think but we know what's goin' an, an' what 
 brought you both up to Ailey Brady's last night. Too well 
 we know it ; an' now I tell yez again that yez must avoid that 
 woman ; she's not a safe neighbour, an' her own husband 
 suspects her to be as bad as the worst among them. Ay, an* 
 he'll catch her yet, knowin' as she thinks herself." 
 
 " Be the book, I'll turn another pin in your nose, my lady," 
 said Harry, addressing Bid ; " never fear but I will. I'll make 
 you that you won't have yourself the talk o' the neighbours, 
 an' me, too, that doesn't desarve it. The curse o' Cromwell on 
 me if I don't. Now !" 
 
 " Why thin now," said Bid, calmly turning to Betty, " in 
 the name of all that's beautiful, what are these two dunghill 
 cocks at? are they mad? or is it only dhrunk they are?" 
 
 " No," rephed Betty, " but goin' to bate us I suppose !'^ 
 
 " Ay, very hkely," returned the other ; " any how they may 
 be proud o' themselves, to join* two women as if we wor fit to 
 fight them. Throth I'm glad their own childhre's not to the 
 fore to see their fine manly behaviour. Come, Betty, are you 
 goin' up to Ailey 's? Whether the child's sick or not, the 
 crathur's lonely, as Barney's from home, an' it's a charity to 
 sit a while wid her. Are you comin' ?" 
 
 " No, nor you aither ; the divil a one toe," said her husband. 
 
 " The divil take them that says to the conthrairy ; come, 
 Betty." 
 
 "Ay, if /hke," said he. 
 
 " Ay, whether you like or not, dear ; the sarra wan o' me 
 'ill be stopped by you this day." 
 
 * To fall upon — to attack. 
 
248 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 " You won't ?" 
 
 " I won't, now ?" 
 
 " Never heed her, Harry," said Dick. " Let her go to ould 
 Nick, her own way ; ay, both o' them ; off wid yez ; but you'll 
 see what 'ill come of it at the long run." 
 
 " Where's the Catechiz," said Harry. " I'll take my book 
 oath this minute, that for a month to come, I'll not let you on 
 the one side of the house wid me any how. Will no one tell 
 me where the Catechiz is ?" 
 
 " An' is that to vex me, Harry ; arra, why don't you make it 
 twelve months while your hand's in? It wouldn't be worth your 
 while to switch the primmer for a bare four weeks, man alive !" 
 
 " Be me sowl, it's you ought to be switched instead o' the 
 primmer." 
 
 " Very well," repHed his imperturbable and provoking 
 spouse ; " I suppose the next thing you'll do will be to bate us 
 sure enough — but sure we can't help it, only it'll be a fine 
 story to have to tell the neighbours. You'll look well afther 
 
 it ; you may then hould up your head like a man ! Oh, ye 
 
 but I won't let myself down to scould wid ye. Come, Betty." 
 
 " No," said Betty, '' I wouldn't be squabbhn' wid them about 
 goin'. It's nothin' to uz one way or the other, so we'll sit 
 here. Oh, thin, God he knows but we're the well-watched 
 women at all evints. Sure if we wor the worst that ever riz 
 this day — ay, if we wor so bad that the very dogs wouldn't lap 
 our blood, we couldn't be thrated worse than we are by thim 
 two men." 
 
 " I say again," observed Harry, seeing his wife somewhat 
 irresolute, " that if you go, your breath won't come near me 
 in haste." 
 
 " Oh, hould your tongue, man," replied Bid ; " I seen the 
 day you thought enough about my breath." 
 
 " Faith, an' that was bckasc I didn't know you then as well 
 as I do now." 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATIIBEG. 249 
 
 " That's not what you thought, or what you said aithcr, 
 when I was ill last harvest, and goin' to die. Sure you wor 
 roarin' about the house like a suckin' calf that had lost its 
 mother, wid your two eyes as red as a pair of sunburnt onions." 
 
 " Never heed her," said his brother ; '* you know she'd bate 
 both of us at the tongue ; she's now in her glory." 
 
 " Betty," said Bid, addressing her sister-in-law, in a voice 
 exceedingly calm and quiet ; that is to say, in the voice of a 
 woman whose contempt alone prevented her from continuing 
 the controversy ; "go out, alanna, an' cut me a bit o' greens to 
 put down wid that bacon for the dinner ; after that, we'll clane 
 ourselves up, an' be in time for the twelve o'clock mass." 
 
 " But what if somebody would run away wid us ?" said 
 Betty, laughing. 
 
 " Oh, sure," said the other, " that's all they'd want. They'd 
 thin get shut of the two sich villains as we are. Go, alanna, 
 and never mind them — they're not worth our breath, httle as 
 they think about it." 
 
 " A purty Sunday's mornin' they've made us spind — but no 
 matther — God forgive them for wrongin' us as they're doin' !" 
 
 Their two husbands did not go to mass that day, having in 
 fact devoted it to the pm^pose of ferreting out evidence against 
 their wives. Their exertions, however, were fruitless, although 
 we are bound honestly to state that they left no stone imturned 
 to procure it. The children were taken to task and severely 
 interrogated, but they could prove nothing, except that their 
 mothers were sometimes out for a considerable time, and that 
 they themselves were often sent to play, and that on retm'ning 
 of an odd time sooner than was expected, they found the doors 
 bolted, and heard strange voices within. Of these facts, how- 
 ever, the good men had been apprized before ; so that the sum 
 of all they obtained was nothing more than an accession to 
 their uneasiness, without any addition to their knowledge. 
 Both men, indeed, were unusually snappish the whole day, 
 
250 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 especially after the hour of dinner ; for each of their wives 
 could observe that her husband often put his hand quietly over 
 to the bole of the hob, and finding that the pipe was not there, 
 vented his spleen upon the cat or dog, if either came in his 
 way, and not unfrequently even upon his own children. 
 
 At length Dick got up and was about to go out, when Betty 
 asked, in her turn, " Where he was goin' ?" 
 
 " Not far," he replied. " I'll be back in a quarther of an 
 hour — too soon for you to have an opportunity of bein' at your 
 ould work." 
 
 " If you're afeard o' that," she replied, " hadn't you betther 
 not go at all ?" 
 
 To this he made no reply, but putting his hands over his 
 brows he stalked gloomily out of the house. 
 
 Almost precisely similar was the conduct of his brother, who, 
 after exchanging a random shot or two with Bid, slunk out 
 soon after Dick, but each evidently attempted to conceal from 
 the wife of the other that he had gone out — a circumstance 
 that was clearly proved by Dick declining to pass Harry's 
 door, and Harry Dick's. 
 
 Alas ! and must I say it ? — I must — I must — unhappily the 
 interests of truth compel me to make the disclosure. The two 
 men were no sooner gone, than their irreclaimable wives had 
 an immediate consultation. 
 
 " Where's Dick?" asked Bid. 
 
 " Why, sure, I thought I'd split," replied Betty, "to see him 
 frettin' the heart out of himself after his pipe. The norra be 
 in me, but it was a' most too much for me to look at him 
 searchin' the hob every five minutes for the dudeen he broke 
 upon the wall in his tantrems this mornin'. I know he's away 
 over to Billy Fulton's to buy one." 
 
 " 'Twas the same wid Harry," said Bid ; " he didn't know 
 which end of him he was sittin' on. He's oif too, to the same 
 place; for I watched him through the Avindy; an' now that the 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 251 
 
 coast's clear, let's be off to Ailcy, an' have all over afore our 
 two gintlemen comes back ; or, in troth they'll skiver us clane." 
 " The never a lie in that ; the house wouldn't hould them if 
 they found us out. But wasn't it lucky that they lost tlicir 
 temper and broke their pipes. If they had kept cool, we 
 would now have no opportunity — come." 
 
 And so they proceeded once more to Ailey Brady's; and 
 again the door was locked and bolted; and, as before, the 
 mysteries, whatever they may have been, were re-enacted, and 
 the vigilance and terrors of their husbands became the subject 
 of open ridicule, and much mirth went forward, as might easily 
 be conjectured from the hearty, but somewhat suppressed 
 laughter which an experienced ear might have heard through 
 the door — we say suppressed, for their mirth was expressed, 
 notwithstanding the high spirit of enjoyment wliich ran tlirough 
 it, in that timid and cautious undertone that dreads discovery. 
 As their object now was to reach home before the retmm of 
 their husbands, so was the period of their enjoyments on this 
 evening much more brief than on the preceding. They had 
 very little time to spare, however, for scarcely were the cloaks 
 and bonnets thrown aside, and an air of most decorous and 
 matronly composure assumed, when the good men entered. 
 
 "Musha, but that's a long quarther of an hour you stayed," 
 said Betty ; " where on airth wor you all this time ? " 
 
 " I was upon business," returned Dick, " gettin' somethin' 
 to keep me cool against your behavom\ Hand me a double 
 sthraw out of the bed there, till I light my pipe. "Wor you 
 out since?" 
 
 "Was I out since !" returned his wife, with the look of a 
 deeply offended woman ; " hut, ay, to be sure — Bid an' myself 
 wor up at Ailey Brady's, an' you niver saw such a piece o' fun 
 as we had. Sure, we're only come in this minnit. Why, upon 
 my throth, Dick, you'd vex an angel from heaven. AVas I 
 out! — arra, don't I look verv hke a woman that Avas out?" 
 
252 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 '' Well, well," rejoined her husband, whiffing away rather 
 placidly from his new pipe; "don't be flyin' out at us like Bid; 
 I'm not sayin' you wor out this evenin' ; so hould your whisht 
 about it." 
 
 " No, but to think — the sorra one " 
 
 a Very well, now — that's enough — be done." 
 
 And so the adroit wife grumbled gradually into silence. 
 
 The skirmish between Harry and Bid was of a brisker and 
 more animated description, but we need not say on wliich side 
 the victory settled. The pipe, however, soon produced some- 
 thing like tranquillity, and after a hard bout at a united prayer 
 in the shape of a Rosary between the deceiver and the deceived, 
 both went to bed on very good terms with each other, as indeed 
 after all, did Dick and Betty, not, any more than the others, 
 forgetting their devotions. 
 
 The next morning was that on which our absent friend, 
 Barney Brady, was expected home, and about ten or eleven 
 o'clock, Alley was descanting in conversation with a neighboui' 
 upon the kindness and generosity of Aunt Madge, and the 
 greater warmth of affection wliich, on all occasions, she had 
 manifested towards her and Barney, than ever she had shown 
 to that sleeveen pack of cabogues, the Finnigans, when who 
 should appear but the redoubtable Barney himself, bearing, 
 under his right arm, a fat grey goose, alive and kicking. 
 
 "Musha, Barney, what is this?" exclaimed Alley, as her 
 husband laid the goose down on the floor. 
 
 " Why," he repHed, good humouredly, " dont you see it's 
 a leg o' mutton that Aunt Madge sent for our dinner on Sun- 
 day next ? What's that, indeed !" 
 
 The goose was immediately taken up — handled hke a 
 wonder — balanced, that they might guess its weight — felt that 
 they might know how fat it was, and examined from beak to 
 claw with the most minute inspection. The children approached 
 it with that eager but fearful curiosity for which childhood is 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 253 
 
 remarkable. They touelicd it, retreated with apprehension, 
 took fresh courage, patted it timidly on the back, and after 
 many alternations of terror and delight, the eldest at length 
 ventured to take it up in his arms. This was a disastrous 
 attempt ; for the goose, finding him unable to hold it firmly, 
 naturally fluttered its pinions, and the young hero threw it 
 hastily down, and ran screaming behind his mother, where his 
 little sister joined the chorus. 
 
 Barney and his wife then entertained the neighbour we 
 spoke of with a history of Aunt Madge's wealth, assuring him 
 confidentially, that they themselves were down for every 
 penny and penny's worth belonging to her, pointing to the 
 goose at the same time as a triumphant illustration of their 
 expectations. 
 
 No sooner had their friend left them, than Barney, having 
 given Ailey a faithful account of every thing respecting Aunt 
 Madge, said he hoped she had not forgotten his parting advice 
 on Saturday, that she had kept aloof from the tainted wives 
 of the Maojuigans, and '' neither coshered or harboured with 
 them," in his absence. 
 
 '' Musha, throth, Barney, afore I'd lead tliis life, an' be 
 catechized at every hand's turn, I'd rather go out upon the 
 world, and airn my bread honestly, wid my own two hands, as 
 I did afore I met you. The wives o' the Maguigans ! Why, 
 what 'ud I be doin' wid the wives o' the Maguigans ? or what 
 'ud the wives o' the Maguigans be doin' wid me ? It's Uttle 
 tliim or their consarns throubles me — I have my house an' 
 childhre to look afther, an' that's enough for any one woman, 
 I'm thinkin'." 
 
 " Well, but sure you needn't be angry wid me for puttin' 
 you on your guard." 
 
 " It's not to say that I'm angry wid you — but sure wanst 
 to say a thing ought to be enough — but here you keep knawin' 
 an' aiten at me about the wives o' the Maguigans. Musha, I 
 
254 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 wish to marcy, the same wives o' the Maguigans wor far 
 enough out o' the counthry, for they're the heart-scald to me 
 anyhow." 
 
 " Well, well, Alley ; to the sarra wid them ; but about 
 another thing, — what '11 we do wid this goose? Whether is 
 it betther to roast it or boil it ?" 
 
 " Arra, Barney, what if we'd not kill it at all, but keep it 
 an' rear a flock ourselves. There's plinty o' wather an' grazin' 
 for them about the place." 
 
 " Throth, you're right ; come or go what will, we had 
 betther not kill it, the crathur." 
 
 " Throth we won't ; I don't stand blood well myself ; an' 
 I'd as soon, to tell you the tliruth, you'd not ax me to kill this 
 one now, Barney. I don't think it 'ud sarve me." 
 
 " Very well," said her husband, yielding to her suggestion 
 with singular good humour ; " as it is your wish, the divil 
 resave the drop will lave its carcase this bout — so let it be 
 settled that we'll rear a flock ourselves ; an' as you say. 
 Alley, who knows but the same goose may be sent to us for 
 good luck." 
 
 It was so arranged ; but as a solitary fowl of that species is 
 rather an unusual sight about a countryman's house, they soon 
 procured it a companion, as they had said, after which they 
 went to bed every night anxious to dream that all its eggs 
 might turn out golden ones to them and to their children. 
 
 Now, perhaps, the sagacious reader may have already 
 guessed that the arrival of the goose, whatever it might have 
 been to honest Barney, was an excellent apology for a capital 
 piece of by-play to his wife. The worthy fowl had not in 
 fact, been twenty-four hours at their place, when in came "the 
 two tainted wives of the Maguigans !" This visit was an open 
 one and paid in the evening, a little before the men returned 
 from their daily labour. Great was Barney's astonishment 
 then, when on reaching home, he found Bid and Bettv 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 255 
 
 Maguigan in conference with Ailey ; and wliat appeared to 
 him remarkably strange, if not rather hardy on their part, 
 was the fact that they carried on the conversation without 
 evincing the shghtest consciousness of offence. It is true this 
 had not hitherto been actually proved, but it is needless to 
 say that the suspicion entertained against them was nearly 
 tantamount to proof. Their absences were so difficult to be 
 accounted for, and the situations in which they were found so 
 critical, that it was impossible even for their warmest friends 
 to assert that they were blameless. As Barney entered the 
 house, they addressed him with singular good humour and 
 kindness, but it was easy to infer from his short and mono- 
 syllabic replies that they had in his case a strong prejudice 
 to overcome. 
 
 "Musha, how are you, Barney ?" 
 
 " At the present time not comfortable." 
 
 This was accompanied by a quick suspicious glance from 
 them to his wife. 
 
 " Why, there's nothin' wrong wid you, we hope?" 
 
 " Maybe that's more than I can say." 
 
 " You're not unwell, sure ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Barney," said the wife ; " Bid an' Betty came runnin' up 
 to look at the goose ; an' the sorra one o' them but says it's 
 the greatest bully they seen tliis many a day." 
 
 This was meant as a soother ; — " for Barney himself," to 
 use the words of Ailey, " was as proud as e'er a one o' the 
 childhre out of the same goose." 
 
 His brow cleared a httle at this adroit appeal to his vanity, 
 and he sat down with a look of more sua'sdty. 
 
 " Why, thin, Barney, it's a nice present all out." 
 
 "It's more than the Finnigans would get from Aunt Madge, 
 any way," said x\iley, " for Barney's her favourite." 
 
 " Is that by way of news ?" asked Barney, whose vanity 
 
256 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 was highly tickled, notwithstanding his assumed indifference. 
 " Every fool knows I was always that." 
 
 " It's no secret," observed Betty, who, as well as Bid, knew 
 his weakness here ; "an' its only a proof of her own sinse into 
 the bargain. They're a mane pack, thim Finnigans." 
 
 *' Oh, the scruff o' the airth," exclaimed Bid ; " why would 
 you mintion thim an' a dacent man in the one day ?" 
 
 " Come, Betty," said the other ; " my goodness we haven't 
 a minute now, the good men 'ill swear we're about no good if 
 they find us out when they come home." 
 
 " Hut," said Barney, " sit a while can't yez ? You can do 
 no harm here any how." 
 
 " Nor anywhere else, I hope," said Bid ; " but, indeed, Bar- 
 ney, you don't know the men they are, or you'd hunt us home 
 like bag-foxes." 
 
 " Don't be axin' them to stay, thin," said Alley ; " what they 
 say I believe is thrue enough ; an' for my part, I wouldn't 
 wish to have our little place mintioned one way or other, in 
 any dispute that yez may have, Betty." 
 
 " Throth," said Bid, " I don't b'lieve they'd think us safe 
 in a chapel ; an' God forgive them for it. Come, Betty, if we 
 wish to avoid a battle, we have not a minute to spare. Oh 
 thin. Alley Brady, it's you that has the good-nathur'd sinsible 
 husband, that doesn't keep you night and day in a state of 
 heart-scald. Throth you're a happy woman. May God spare 
 him to you !" 
 
 " Throth, not that he's to the fore himself," rejoined his wife, 
 " I'll say this, that a betther husband never drew breath this 
 day. Divil a word he turns on me wanst in the twelve months." 
 
 " We beUeve it," they replied; '' the dacent man's above it; 
 he wouldn't demane himself by skulkin' about, an' watchin' 
 and pokin' his nose into every hole an' corner, the way our 
 
 mane fellows does be doin', till we can't bless ourselves for 
 
 them." 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 257 
 
 " No, the sorra thing o' the kind he does ; sure I must tell 
 the thruth any way." 
 
 " Well, God be wid yez ; we must be off. Good bye, Barney, 
 sure you can bear witness for us this bout." 
 
 '' That I can, Bid, an' will too ; God bless yez !" 
 
 As they apprehended, their husbands, on returning from 
 their work, were once more in a fume, on finding the good 
 women absent. 
 
 " Soil !" said Dick, " is it a fair question to ax where yez war?" 
 
 " Fair enough," said Bid. 
 
 " You wor at the ould work," observed Harry ; '*but I tell 
 you what, by the holy St. Countryman we won't suffer this 
 much longer — that's one piece o' thruth for yez !" 
 
 " Where war yez, I say ?'* asked his brother, sternly ; "no 
 desate, now ; tell us plump an' at wanst where yez war ?" 
 
 " Why, then, if you want to know," replied Betty, " we wor 
 up seein' Barney Brady's goose." 
 
 " Barney Brady's goose !" exclaimed Harry, with a look as 
 puzzled as ever was visible on a human face. 
 
 " Barney Brady's goose I" repeated Dick, with a face quite 
 as mystified. The two brothers looked at each other for 
 nearly a minute, but neither could read in the other's coun- 
 tenance any tiling hke intelligence. 
 
 " What are they at ?" asked Dick. 
 
 " Why, that they have their tongues in their cheeks at us, 
 to be sure," replied the other. 
 
 " Why, where else would we have them," said Bid ; " it isn't 
 in our pockets you'd have us to carry them ?" 
 
 " I wish to Jamini they wor any where but where they are," 
 returned her husband. " What do you mane ?" 
 
 " Jist what we say, that we wor up takin' a look at Barney 
 Brady's goose." 
 
 " Why, the curse o' the crows upon you, don't you know 
 that Barney Brady never had a goose in his life?" 
 s 
 
258 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 " He has one now then," rephed Bid. 
 
 " Ay," added her sister, " an' as fine a bully of a goose as 
 ever I seen wid my two Hvin' eyes." 
 
 "Sure," said Bid, "if you won't beheve us, can't yez go up 
 an* see?" 
 
 This, after all, was putting the matter to a very fair issue, 
 and the two men resolved to take her at her word, each feeling 
 quite satisfied of the egregious falsehood their wives had 
 attempted to make them swallow. 
 
 " Come, Dick," said Harry, " put on your hat ; the sorra 
 step further we'll let this go till we see it out ; an' all I can say 
 is," he added, addressing the women, " that you had betther 
 not be here before us when we come back, if we find you out 
 in a falsity." 
 
 They had not gone fifty yards from the door when the 
 laughter of the two women was loud and vehement at the 
 scene which had just occurred, especially at the ingenuity with 
 which Bid had sent them abroad, and thus got the coast clear 
 for their purposes. 
 
 " Out wid yezj'childhre, an' play awhile — honom-an-diouaU 
 Is it ever an' always burnin' your shins over the fire yez are ? 
 Away out o' this, an' don't come back till we call yez." 
 
 When the children were gone, they brought in two neigh- 
 bours' wives, who lived immediately beside them, shut and 
 bolted the door, and again did the mysterious rites of which 
 we have so often written, proceed as before. On this occasion, 
 however, there was much caution used, every now and then the 
 door was stealthily opened, and a face might be seen peeping 
 out to prevent a surprise. The conversation was carried on in 
 a tone unusually low, and the laughter, which was frequent, 
 and principally at the expense of their husbands, could scarcely 
 be heard through the door. 
 
 In due time, however, the parties dispersed; and when Dick 
 and Harry returned, they found their wives each industriously 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 259 
 
 engaged in the affairs of the household, which, indeed, they 
 went through with an air of offended dignity, and a tartness of 
 temper that contrasted strongly with the sheepish and some- 
 wha^t crest-fallen demeanour of their spouses. 
 
 " Musha bad luck to you for a dog an' lave my way, you 
 dirty crooked cur, you," exclaimed Bid, to the dog that inno- 
 cently crossed her path ; ''it's purty lives we lead one way or 
 other. We have enough, dear knows, to thry our temper 
 widout you comin' acrass us — ha! you divil's limb! out wid 
 you ! Well," she added, after a short pause, " you see we're 
 here before you for all your big threats ; but I'll tell you what 
 it is, Harry, upon my sowl you must turn a new lafe or I'll 
 lose a fall. If you or Dick have any thing aginst us, why 
 don't you prove it manfully at wanst, and not be snakin' about 
 the bush the way yez do. The sorra aither of us will He 
 andher your low, mane thoughts any longer. I hope you seen 
 Barney Brady's goose on your thravels ? Faugh upon ye ! 
 Throth you ought to be ashamed to rise your head this month 
 to come !" 
 
 " Ay, now you're at it," exclaimed Harry, rising and putting 
 on his hat ; " but for my part I'll lave you to fight the walls 
 till your tongue tu^es. All you want is some one to jaw back 
 to you, just to keep the ball goin'. Bannaght latht for a 
 while !" 
 
 Outside the door he met his brother. 
 
 " I was goin' to sit awhile wid you," said Dick ; "I can't 
 stand that woman's tongue, good or bad." 
 
 " Faith, an' I was jist goin' in to you,'' rephed the other ; 
 Bid's in her glory ; there's no facin' her. Let us go an' sit 
 awhile with Charley Magrath." 
 
 " Bad luck to Barney Brady's goose, any how ; it'll be a 
 long day till we hear the end of it." 
 
 " The curse o' Cromwell on it, but it's the unlucky bird to 
 us this night ; sure enough," re-echoed his brother. " Come 
 
260 ' BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 an' let us have a while's shanahas wid Charley till these 
 women settle." 
 
 They accordingly went, and ere a lapse of many minutes 
 their wives were again together for the purpose of comparing 
 notes, and of indulging in another hearty laugh at their 
 husbands. 
 
 Barney Brady's goose now began to be a goose of some 
 eminence. In short, it was much talked of, and had its 
 character and qualities debated pro and ccni. One thing, 
 however, was very remarkable in this business ; and that thing 
 was, that the male portion of the neighbours hated it with a 
 cordiality which they could not disguise, whilst their wives, on 
 the other hand, defended it most strenuously against all the 
 calumnious attacks of its enemies. The dreaded change, to 
 which we have before alluded, was now going on rapidly, and 
 it somehow happened that scarcely a family feud connected 
 with it took place within a certain circle of Barney Brady's 
 house, in which liis goose was not either chrectly or indirectly 
 concerned. 
 
 Barney liimself, whose suspicions had been for a long time 
 lulled by the interest he took in a bird of his own procuring, at 
 length began to look queer at certain glimpses wliich he caught 
 of what was going forward. 
 
 '' Alley," said he, with a good deal of uneasiness, '' what 
 brings up them wives o' the Maguigans here, that I spoke so 
 much about ?" 
 
 " Why, throth, Barney, I thought there was something 
 wrong wid the poor goose, an' I sent down for them." 
 
 " By the mortual man, I wish," replied Barney, "that I had 
 never brought the dirty drab of a crathur about the place. 
 Why, if all you say about it is true, it never had a day's health 
 since it came to us, an' yet I'll take my oath it's as fat a goose 
 this minute as ever wagged." 
 
 " An' right well you know, Barney, it got delicate afthur it 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 261 
 
 came to us : an' it stands to raison, — the crathur fretted afthur 
 them it left behind it." 
 
 " No, confusion to the fret ; it had no raison in Ufe when it 
 got a comrade to keep it company. Be me sowl it's I that 
 fretted, an' I dunna but I'm the greatest goose o' the two for 
 not wringin' it's head off, an' puttin' a stop to a crew o' women 
 comin' to the place on the head of it. What's wrong wid it 
 now?" 
 
 " Why, throth, I didn't know myself till Bid Maguigan tould 
 me. I thought it was sick, but it's not. Sure the poor thing's 
 goin' to clock, an' I must set the eggs for it to-morrow." 
 
 " I hope you'll keep your word then," said Barney, " for 
 although it would go against me to harm the crathur, still, I 
 tell you, that if the crew I'm spaken of does be comin' about 
 the place undher pretence of it, be the crass I'll be apt to give 
 it a dog's knock sometime; an' take care, Ailey, that more 
 geese than one won't come in for a knock." 
 
 In this instance, however, it so happened that Ailey had 
 truth on her side ; the fact, indeed, was unquestionable, and 
 enabled the good women of the neighbourhood to keep their 
 angry husbands quiet for a considerable time afterwards. 
 With some of the latter the report gained ground very slowly, 
 but on ascertaining that it was a fact, many of them felt consi- 
 derably relieved. 
 
 The reader already sees that Barney Brady's goose was 
 really a goose of importance, whose out-goings and in-comings, 
 whose health or illness, weal or woe, involved the ease and 
 comfort, or the doubt and anxiety of a considerable number of 
 persons in the surrounding district. Barney himself, however, 
 felt that her incubation was rather a matter of discomfort to 
 him than otherwise ; for had she been up and stirring, he knew 
 that she might be liable to all the '' skyey influences" that 
 geese are heirs to. Now, however, Ailey had no apology 
 arising from her to receive visits from the black sheep of the 
 
262 BARNEY Brady's goose ; ok, 
 
 neighbourhood, and yet he often detected them, either in his 
 house or leaving it. This troubled him very much, but still 
 Alley failed not in her excuse, and as he knew she seldom went 
 out, he did not suspect, much less beheve, that his own house 
 would or could be made the scene of those private meetings, 
 held by such women as the Maguigans, or others still farther 
 sunk in the practices which were abroad. 
 
 Things, however, were ripening, for whilst Barney gravely 
 meditated upon the moral prospect that presented itself in the 
 country, the task of incubation was crowned by the birth of a 
 fine brood of goslings, amounting to eleven out of twelve, every 
 one of which appeared to be healthy, and to give promise in 
 due time of arriving at the full proportion of a goodly goose, 
 allowance being made as usual for fate and foxes. 
 
 Our readers are now to suppose two things, first, that the 
 goodly brood is reared ; and, secondly, that the mysterious but 
 predominant vice of the neighbourhood is fast increasing. 
 Barney had promised liimself a handsome return from the sale 
 of the geese, and hoped in a year or two, to be able, from the 
 proceeds, to buy a cow or a heifer, and never, besides, to be 
 without a good fat dinner at Michaelmas. All this was credit- 
 able, and becoming an industrious man. In the meantime he 
 thought that, somehow, the flock appeared lessened in his eye ; 
 that is to say, that they looked as a whole, to be rather 
 diminished in number. The thing had struck him before, but 
 in that feeble and indistinct manner which, in easy minds, 
 leaves not an impression beliind it which ever leads to the fol- 
 lowing up of the suggestion. But on this occasion, great was 
 his dismay and astonishment when, on reckoning them, he 
 found that three were most unaccountably missing. Here was 
 more mystery ; and, unfortunately, this discovery was made at 
 a time when he had every reason to suspect that Aileen had at 
 length been drawn into the prevalent practices. The fixct was, 
 that many secret and guarded movements had been of late 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATIIBEG. 263 
 
 noticed by him, of which, from motives of deep and sagacious 
 poUcy, he had determined to take no open cognizance, being 
 resolved to allow Aileen to lull herself into that kind of false 
 security, wliich is usually produced by indifference or stupidity 
 on the part of the husband. 
 
 Here was a matter, however, that could not be overlooked, 
 and accorcUngly he demanded an explanation; but this in a 
 manner so exceedingly sage and cunning, that we are sure 
 our readers cannot witliliold from him the mark of their 
 approbation. 
 
 " Aileen," said he, without appearing to labour under any 
 suspicion whatsoever, "you had betther look afther them 
 crathurs o' geese this mornin' ; there's three o' them missin'. 
 I can reckon only eight, not countin' the gandlier." 
 
 " Bad cess to your curosity, Barney, you're as bad as a 
 woman, so you are, countin' the geese ! Musha, go to 
 heaven !" 
 
 " IS'o, divil a foot," said her husband, starting up in a pas- 
 sion, " an' be the holy vestment, if you don't tell me on the 
 nail what became o' them, I won't lave a goose o' them ahve in 
 
 twenty minutes. An' more than that, take care an' don't 
 
 take care I say — don't exaggrawate me, I tell you I" 
 
 " Well, throth, Barney, this is good ! afore your own 
 childlier too ! An' now, if you want to know, I did nothin' wrong 
 wid them, in regard that I knew well enough you'd bring me 
 over the coals about it. Ay did I. You gave me two an' six 
 pence to pay my Aisther dues ; an' I met my aunt, an' my 
 sisther an' her bachelor, Charley Cleary, an' I axed them in 
 an' thi'eated them dacently wid your money, an' of coorse I 
 had to sell one o' the geese to make it up." 
 
 '' Then of coorse, too, you ped your dues." 
 
 " The divle send you news whether I did or not. I'll tell 
 you what, Barney, sooner than I'd lead such a life, I'd " 
 
 "You'd what? you'd what? but I'll curb myself. To- 
 
264 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 morrow's market day. Now I tell you out you'll trudge step 
 for step along wid myself; an' be the mortual man, two o' the 
 same geese must go afore you lave the town. At your elbow 
 I'll stay till they're sould ; an' every market day till they're 
 gone, a pair o' them must go." 
 
 " Why, then, you mane-spirited pittioiige, is it to sell geese — 
 arra what'ill you come to at last, you blanket you? Sure if I 
 did wrong, can't you beat me ? So you'll stand at my elbow 
 till I sell my geese ! Be my sowl if you do I'll bring a blush 
 in your face, if there's such a thing in it, which there's not, or 
 you wouldn't make an ould woman — a Molshy — of yourself as 
 you're doin'. Upon my dickens I wondher you didn't sit on 
 the eggs yourself; but, sure, I'll say you did, to-morrow, an' 
 then they'll bring three prices ! Saver above, but I'm leadin' 
 a happy life wid you an' your geese ! Musha bad luck be 
 from them every day they rise, but they have been a bitther 
 pill to me from the beginnin'. Sure yourself an' them's a 
 common by-word. Can either of us go to mass or market that 
 the neighbours doesn't be axin' wid a grin, ' how is Barney 
 Brady's goose?' " 
 
 It would be acting rather unbecoming the dignity of a liis- 
 torian were we to dwell too minutely on the bitter feuds which 
 followed the sale of every goose until the last of the clutch was 
 disposed of The truth is, that Barney, in spite of all liis 
 authority and watclifulness and conscious wisdom to boot, was 
 never able to lay a finger upon a single penny of the proceeds, 
 nor could he with all his acuteness of scent, smell out the 
 purpose to which Aileen applied it. No : we are wrong in tliis. 
 He did find it out, and as we have said, strongly suspect it too ; 
 but he was hitherto able in no instance to detect Aileen so as 
 perfectly to satisfy himself and bring the proof home against her. 
 
 A circumstance, however, now occurred which brought the 
 whole dark secrecy of this proceeding to light. Barney, one 
 day, while searching in some corner for a hatchet, which he 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 265 
 
 wanted, stumbled upon a smooth round vessel with a handle on 
 one side, a pipe on the other, and a close fitting hd on the top. 
 Cruikshank or Brooke would have enjoyed the grin of mahg- 
 nant triumph which played upon his features, as, with one hand 
 stretched under the bed, he lay curiously feeling and examin- 
 ing the vessel in question. Very fortunately for him Aileen 
 was cutting some greens in the garden for their dinner, and 
 was consequently totally ignorant of the discovery. The 
 opportunity was too good to be lost, and Barney, who, although 
 he knew not the use to which the vessel was apphed, having 
 never seen one before, yet suspecting that it was part and 
 parcel of the wicked system which prevailed, resolved, now that 
 the coast was clear, to carry it to those who could determine 
 its use and apphcation. He immediately wliipped it out, took 
 a hasty glance, and, hiding it under his big coat, stole off, 
 unperceived by Aileen, to consult the two Maguigans. Here, 
 however, was no chance of solving the mystery, the Maguigans 
 never having, any more than himself, seen to their knowledge 
 any vessel of the kind before. Long and serious was their 
 deliberation respecting the steps necessary to be taken upon 
 this important occasion ; one suggesting one thing, another 
 another. At length it occurred to them, that their best plan 
 would be to consult Kate Doorish, an old woman who was 
 considered an infalhble authority. Barney, accordingly, once 
 more putting tliis delfic enigma under his coat, set off to Kate's 
 house, with something like a prophetic assurance of success. 
 In this again he was doomed to be disappointed. Kate, in 
 truth, was the very last person from whom, had he known as 
 much as his wife, he would or ought to have expected informa- 
 tion. She it was who had chiefly corrupted the good wives of 
 the village, both by precept and example, and on her head of 
 course did the original sin of the whole neighbourhood he. 
 Barney found her at home, and took it for granted that the 
 difficulty must now be solved without further trouble. 
 
266 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 *' God save you, Kate." 
 
 " God save you kindly, Barney. How is Aileen an' the 
 childher?" 
 
 " All as tight as tuppence, Kate. What's the news ? any 
 births or marriages abroad?" 
 
 " Ay is there, as many as ever ; an' will be, plase God, to 
 the end o' the chapther, man." 
 
 " Why, thin, I believe you're right, Kate. While the sun 
 shines, an' the wind blows, the world will still be goin' ; but 
 Kate, betuxt you an' me, is it thrue that there's a dale o' bad 
 work goin' on among ourselves ?" 
 
 " Faix, I suppose so ; you men wor never good." 
 
 " Don't lift me till I fall, Kate — I mane among the women. 
 I'm tould there's hardly one of them what she ought to be." 
 
 " AVhy, barrin' the grace o' God, that's thrue ; for Barney, 
 where's the man or woman aither that is as they ought to be? 
 glory be to God I" 
 
 " To tell the truth, Kate, I'm afeard my own wife's not much 
 better than the rest." 
 
 " Faith, if she's as good, man, you have no right to complain. 
 Isn't she good enough for you, any how. Is it a lady you 
 want ? Musha, cock you up, indeed I" 
 
 " There's thim eleven geese, they're gone now, and not a 
 farden ever I touched of the price of any one o' them, only two 
 hogs I got to help to buy leather for a pair o' brogues." 
 
 " Well !" 
 
 " But I say, Kate, it's not well. Now where did it go to ? — 
 answer me that. I tell you she's as bad as the Maguigans, an' 
 of the three, worse. I can't keep them asundher, and the lies 
 they tell us is beyant b'lief. An' not only that, but when they 
 get together we're their sport and maygame, an' you know 
 that very well." 
 
 *' No, nor you don't." 
 
 " Don't I ? I tell you I cotch them." 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 267 
 
 '' Cotch tliem! at what ? pulliii' down churches? eh?" 
 
 " Any way I as good as cotch them ; an' here's a piece o' 
 their villany," he added, producing the mystery from under 
 his coat. " Now, Kate, I'll give you share of half a pint if 
 you tell me the right name of this consarn." 
 
 " Why," replied Kate, " did you never see one o' these 
 before ; an' is it possible you don't know the name of it ?" 
 
 " No ; but I suspect." 
 
 " An' so you came here to know the name of it, an' what 
 it's for?" 
 
 '^ Divil a thing else brought me." 
 
 " An' you expect me to turn informer against the dacent 
 woman to satisfy your curosity ! Get out, you mane-spirited 
 blaggard, how dare you come to me on sich a business ? It's 
 a salt herrin' you ought to have tied to your tail, an' be turned 
 out before a drag-hunt, you skulkin' vagabone. Begone out 
 o' this !" 
 
 Discomfited and grieved he returned home, almost despair- 
 ing of ever ascertaining the purpose for which the mysterious 
 and strangely-shapen vessel was employed. 
 
 Now it so happened that the priest of the parish. Father 
 O'Flaherty, held a station that day in the next townland, and 
 thither did honest Barney repair, that he might have his 
 reverence's opinion upon the vessel which he carried under 
 liis coat. He, accordingly, bent his steps in that direction, and 
 arrived just as the priest had concluded the business of the day. 
 
 *' Well, Barney," said the priest, " I hope there's nothing 
 wrong." 
 
 Barney shook his head with a good deal of solemnity, and 
 rephed — 
 
 " It's hard to say, your reverence ; but I'd be glad to have 
 a word or two in private wid you, if it's agreeable." 
 
 The priest brought him into the room where he had been 
 confessing, and inquired what was the matter. 
 
268 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 "But first sit down, Barney," said he; "and how is the 
 wife and children ?" 
 
 " I'm much obhged to you, sir," rephed Barney ; " but it's 
 not jist convanient to me to sit, in regard of what I'm carry in' 
 — the childhre's all well, sir, thank God and your reverence ; 
 an' Aileen too, sir, as far as health is consarned." 
 * " But why don't you sit down, man ?" 
 
 " The divil a one of me can, sir, as I said ; " I've a thing 
 here that I want to ax your reverence's opinion on ; for to tell 
 you the truth, sir, I suspect it to be nothing more or less than 
 a piece of the divil's invention." 
 
 " Where did you get it ?" 
 
 " Why, sir, I was gropin' about to-day looking for a hatchet, 
 an' I stumbled on it by accident." 
 
 As he spoke, he slowly unfolded the skirts of his cothamore, 
 and produced the " mystery of iniquity" to the priest. 
 
 The priest, who was a bit of a humourist in his way, on 
 seeing what Barney carried with such secrecy, laughed heartily 
 and commenced a stave or two of the old song, familiar by the 
 name of — " Oh, Tea-pot, are you there ?" 
 
 Oh for the muse of old Meonides, or that tenth Lady from 
 Helicon who jogged the poetic elbow of our own Mark Bloxam! 
 Oh for — but this is useless — one line of Virgil will paint honest 
 Barney, on ascertaining from the priest that the utensil he 
 bore about with all the apparent importance and caution of an 
 antiquarian, was after all the damnable realization of liis worst 
 terrors, and the confirmation of his unprincipled wife's guilt, 
 an accursed tea-pot : — 
 
 " Obstupuit, steteruntque comse, et vox faucibus haesit." 
 
 Truly his dismay and horror could scarcely be painted ; he 
 started as if he had seen a spirit, his fingers spread, his eye- 
 brows were uplifted, and his eyes protruded almost out of 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 269 
 
 their sockets ; his very hair, as the poet says, stood upright, 
 and speech for nearly a minute was denied him. 
 
 But this paroxysm of Barney's, on discovering what the 
 mystic vase actually was, demands a few words of explanation. 
 We believe it is pretty well known to most of our aged readers 
 (if it so happen that any old lady or gentleman will condescend 
 to peruse us), that about half a century ago, or even later, ere 
 civilization had carried many of its questionable advantages so 
 far into the remote recesses of humble life as it does in the 
 present day, there existed among the lower classes a prejudice 
 against tea-drinking, that was absolutely revolting. It is, to 
 be sure, difficult properly to account for tliis ; but the reader 
 may rest assured that so it was. In the time of which we 
 speak, any woman, especially a married one, suspected of 
 " tay-dhrinkin'," was looked upon as a marked sheep, and if 
 detected in the act, she was considered a disgrace to her sex, 
 and her name a reproach to her connexions. Many circum- 
 stances went to create this not unwholesome prejudice, and we 
 shall mention a few of them. 
 
 It the first place, tea at that time was by no means so cheap 
 a luxury as it is now ; and besides, it brought still more 
 luxuries in its train. They could not use tea without sugar ; 
 and it was found that a loaf of '' white bread" and butter were 
 a decided improvement. Tliis costly indulgence was naturally 
 and justly looked upon as an act of domestic profligacy, alto- 
 gether unjustifiable on the part of the poor and strugghng 
 classes, who must have distressed themselves and wasted their 
 means in striving to procure it. Nor was this all. It was too 
 frequently found that wives and daughters did not scruple to 
 steal, or otherwise improperly make away with the property 
 of their husbands and fathers, rather than live without this 
 fascinating beverage, which had then the zest of novelty to 
 recommend it. Neither did its injm^ious consequences, in a 
 moral point of view, end here. Wives and daughters have 
 
270 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 been known to entail still deeper disgrace upon their families, 
 in order to obtain it. The sons of half-sirs, and of independent 
 farmers, might have been less successful in their gallantries 
 among the females of their father's tenantry, were it not 
 for the silly weakness which often yielded to temptation 
 in this shape. These facts of themselves were sufficient to 
 create an abhorrence against tea among the male portion of 
 the lower classes, and to render it almost infamy for any 
 woman to be known to drink it. Our catalogue of prejudices, 
 however, does not end even here. It was reported — by the 
 husbands, we presume — that tea was every way unlucky about 
 a house, and that no poor family in which it was drunk was 
 ever known to thrive, — and for this reason, that the devil was 
 worshipped in the country from whence it came, and that it 
 was consequently " the devil's plant." But independently of 
 this, did not they all know the wickedness that took place in 
 the high famihes, when men and women, married and single, 
 from the lord-lieutenant to the squire, met in the middle of 
 night, and in the pitch dark, to drink, every two of them — 
 that is man and woman — their raking pot of tea 1 Sure it 
 was well known that the devil was always present, and made 
 the " tay" himself ; and as most of the lords and gentlemen 
 were members of the Hell-fire Club, it stood to reason that 
 the devil and they were all in their glory. 
 
 Now, all this came of "tay dhrinking;" and how, then, could 
 it happen but that the old boy must have had a hard grip of any 
 woman that took to it. Our readers, we trust, can now under- 
 stand not only our friend Barney's horror, on discovering that 
 the vessel he carried about with him was nothing more nor less 
 than an unholy tea-pot, but also the distress, and indignation, 
 and jealous vigilance with which he and the Maguigans kept 
 watch upon the motions of their inoffensive wives. Indeed, much 
 of the simplicity of character which then existed, is now gone ; 
 and we have every reason to regret it, although not more 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG. 271 
 
 than the unhappy people themselves. It was truly amusing 
 to witness the harmless but covert warfare which went on be- 
 tween the husbands and wives of a village, who assailed each 
 other as if from masked batteries, whilst a firm and incor- 
 ruptible esprit dii corps knit the individuals on each side 
 too;ether — thus ioinino- themselves into a most cunnino^ league, 
 for the purpose of circumventing the opposite party. And in 
 later times, when tea was sanctioned at least once a week — 
 to wit, on Sunday morning — it was highly diverting to witness 
 the manoeuATes resorted to by the good wife or her daughters, 
 in order to have a cup of it more frequently. Sometimes they 
 salted the porridge made for breakfast so villanously, that 
 there was nothing for it but the " cup o' tay ;" sometimes the 
 schoolmaster was to breakfast with them, and when the 
 strongest and most fragrant was ready drawn and awaiting 
 him, it was discovered that the whole matter was a hoax, got 
 up by the females of the family, that they might secm'e it to 
 themselves. But alas ! those good innocent days are gone, 
 and we fear for ever ! — But to return — 
 
 " Heaven and earth, your reverence !" exclaimed Barney, 
 when he had recovered himself, " vrhat's to be done ? I'm a 
 ruined man, an' my wife's worse." 
 
 Xow nobody hving understood the nature of Barney's 
 grievance better than the priest, to whom, upon the woful 
 subject of tea-drinking, many a sore complaint, heaven knows, 
 had been carried. 
 
 " Why, Barney," said he, pretending ignorance, " what is 
 wrong ?" 
 
 "Wrong! By the mortual man, your reverence — God 
 pardon me for swearin' in your presence — she's at it hard and 
 fast for the last nine months." 
 
 " jS'ine months! how is that? what do you mean?" 
 
 " That devil's plant, the tay, sir. Aileen, my wife's to the 
 back bone into it. She an' them two rotten sheep, the Magui- 
 
272 BARNEY Brady's goose ; or, 
 
 gans' wives. Ay are they ; an' the truth, the naked truth, is, 
 sir, that they're all roddled wid the same stick — devil a thing 
 but truth I'm telHn' you." 
 
 " Tut ! you're dreaming, Barney. How could your wife 
 afford to drink tea ? Where could she get the money for it ? 
 You have none to spare, I beheve ; and if you had, I don't 
 think you'd allow it to her for such a purpose." 
 
 " It ariz all along out of a damnable — heaven forgive me 
 agin for takin' its name afore you, sir — out of a damnable 
 goose I got from an aunt o' mine ; and may all the plagues 
 of Aygip hght upon her, an' on the dotin' ould goose of a 
 gandher that's along wid her I" 
 
 " Why, what has the goose to do with your wife's tea- 
 drinking ?" 
 
 " Every thing, and be cursed to her — the dirty blackguard 
 fowl made me a laughin'-stock to the neighbours in the begin- 
 nin', and now my wife has made me worse. God only knows 
 what she has made me ; a tay-dliruiker, your reverence knows, 
 will do any thing." 
 
 " But the goose, Barney ? I can't connect the goose with 
 your wife's tea-drinking." 
 
 " Thonom an dioual, sir — the same goose brought us a 
 clackin' of eleven as fine fat birds as ever you tasted in your 
 life ; an' confusion to the one of them but she di^ank in tea, 
 barrin' two shilhngs she gave me to buy leather for a pair o' 
 brogues, when my heels were on the stones." 
 
 "Is it the goose or your wife you're speaking of?" 
 
 " My wife, the thief." 
 
 " You don't mean that it was she brought you the clackin' 
 of " ^ 
 
 " No, sir," rephed Barney with a grin, which he could not 
 suppress ; " nor, be me sowl it wasn't the goose drank the tay 
 aither. But what's to be done, your reverence ?" 
 
 " Is the goose fat now, Barney ?" 
 
 I 
 
DARK DOINGS AT SLATIIBEG. 273 
 
 Faith, sir, Squire Warnock's a skilleton to her ; she'd want 
 an arm chair to be rolled about in." 
 
 " Well, Barney, to get out of trouble, send me the goose and 
 gander, and make your mind easy ; I'll cure the tea-drinking ; 
 or at all events, I'll undertake that your wife won't taste a 
 single cup without your knowing it." 
 
 " You shall have them, sir ; but faith I say it's a bould 
 undertaking. God grant you may succeed in it — hopin' always 
 that it mayn't be too late, so far as Fm consarned ; for they say 
 that a tay-dhrinker has no scruples good or bad. Oh murdher ! 
 God pity the man that has a tay-dlirinkin' wife, an' undher- 
 takes to rear geese ! I'm nothing but a marthyr to them." 
 
 " Barney, I'll tell you what you'll do," said the priest. 
 " Take this same tea-pot back to your own house, and leave 
 it, unknown to your wife, exactly in the spot where you got 
 it. After this, keep singing, ' Tea-pot, are you there ?' during 
 the remainder of the day ; and you may throw out a hint to 
 her that you have lately seen such a tiling ; then watch her 
 well, and in a day or two let me know how she'll act. Come, 
 now, put it under your tail and be off, I have given you 
 proper instructions." 
 
 Barney thanked the priest, rolled it up in the tail of his 
 great-coat as before, and made towards home; but not without 
 a determination first to see and consult with the Maguigans. 
 This, indeed, was a bitter meeting. No sooner had his two 
 neighbours satisfied themselves that it was a bona fide tea-pot, 
 than they solemnly pledged themselves, heart and hand, to 
 support Barney in any plan that might enable them to put an 
 end to tea-drinking for ever. They then separated, having as 
 good as sworn an oath that they would mutually sustain and 
 back one another in this severe and opprobrious trial. 
 
 It was very fortunate for Barney that Aileen had gone to 
 bring in a pitcher of water for the supper, when he reached 
 home, as by that means he had an opportunity of replacing 
 
 T 
 
274 BARNEY Brady's goose. 
 
 the tea-pot without the possibiHty of her seeing him. Great, 
 however, was her astonishment, or rather consternation, when 
 on entering the house she heard Barney singing, " O tea-pot, 
 are you there ?" in a tone so jolly and full of spirits, that she 
 knew not in what light to consider this unusual inchnation to 
 melody — whether as the result of accident or design. 
 
 " Barney, dear," said she, with more affection than usual, 
 " where wor you ?" 
 
 " In several places, Aileen, my honey. I seen many strange 
 sights to-day, Aileen." 
 
 " What wor they, Barney, darling ? Tell us one o' them." 
 
 " Why, I was lookin' about to-day, Aileen, for an article I 
 wanted — a hatchet, it was to mend a gate — and, upon my 
 throth, I found a jinteel tea-pot in any thing but jinteel com- 
 pany. 'O tea-pot, are you there?'" &c., &;c., and he gave 
 her very sturdily a second stave of the same melody. 
 
 This melodious system of bitter jocularity he continued like 
 a man on the rack for two or three days, during which period 
 he observed that several secret conferences took place between 
 Aileen and the tainted wives of her neighbours, as was evident 
 from her occasional absences, and the rapid expresses that passed 
 from time to time between them. The fact was that the finding 
 of the tea-pot turned out to be a very fortunate discovery, and 
 was attended by no less important results than the breaking up 
 of the tea-drinking confederacy that existed in the village. 
 
 We have now solved and explained this great mystery — and 
 like all other mysteries, discovery put an end to it. Aileen 
 made humble and sufficient apologies for having been drawn 
 into the grievous immorahty of tea-drinking. As a token that 
 the wickedness was for ever abandoned, the tea-pot was brought 
 out and smashed with all due ceremony. Father O'Flaherty 
 too was induced to issue from the altar such a severe interdict 
 against the forbidden beverage, as altogether suppressed the 
 practice throughout the parish. 
 
COXDY CULLEN; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE EXCISEMAN DEFEATED. 
 
 Young Condy Cullen was descended from a long line of 
 private distillers, and of course, exliibited in his own person all 
 the practical wit, sagacity, cunning, and fertility of invention, 
 wliich the natural genius of the family, sharpened by long 
 experience, had created from generation to generation, as a 
 standing capital to be handed down from father to son. There 
 was scarcely a trick, evasion, plot, scheme, or manoeuvre that 
 had ever been resorted to by his ancestors, that Condy had 
 not at his finger ends ; and though but a lad of sixteen at the 
 time we present him to the reader, yet be it observed, that he 
 had had his mind even at that age, admirably trained, by four 
 or five years of keen vigorous practice, in all the resources 
 necessary to meet the subtle vigilance, and stealthy circum- 
 vention of that prowling animal — a ganger. In fact, Condy's 
 talents did not merely consist of an acquaintance with the 
 hereditary tricks of liis family. These, of themselves, would 
 prove but a miserable defence, against the ever-varying 
 ingenuity, with which the progressive skill of the still-hunter 
 masks his approaches, and conducts his designs. On the 
 contrary, every new plan of the ganger must be met and 
 defeated, by a counter-plan equally novel, but with this dif- 
 ference in the character of both, that whereas the exciseman's 
 devices are the result of mature dehberation — Paddy's, from 
 the very nature of the circumstances, must be necessarily 
 extemporaneous and rapid. The hostility between the parties, 
 
27G coNDY cullen; or, 
 
 being, 'as it is, carried on through such varied stratagem on 
 both sides, and characterized by such adroit and able dupHcity, 
 by so many quick and unexpected turns of incident — it would 
 be utter fatuity in either, to rely upon obsolete tricks, and 
 stale manoeuvres. Their relative position and occupation do 
 not, therefore, merely exhibit a contest between Law and that 
 mountain nymph, Liberty, or between the Excise Board and 
 the Smuggler — it presents a more interesting point for obser- 
 vation, namely, the struggle between mind and mind — between 
 wit and wit — between roguery and knavery. 
 
 It might be very amusing to detail from time to time, a few 
 of those keen encounters of practical cunning, which take place 
 between the potheen distiller and liis lynx-eyed foe, the ganger. 
 They are curious as thromng light upon the national character 
 of our people, and as evidences of the surprising readiness of 
 wit, fertility of invention, and irresistible humour, which they 
 mix up with almost every actual concern of life, no matter how 
 difficult or critical it may be. Nay, it mostly happens that the 
 character of the peasant in all its fullness, rises in proportion 
 to what he is called upon to encounter, and that the laugh at, 
 or the hoax upon the ganger, keeps pace with the chfficulty 
 that is overcome. But now to our short story. 
 
 Two men in the garb of gentlemen were riding along a 
 remote by-road, one morning in the month of October, about 
 the year 1827, or 28, I am not certain which. The air was 
 remarkably clear, keen, and bracing ; a hoar frost, for the few 
 preceding nights had set in, and then lay upon the fields about 
 them, melting gradually however, as the sun got strength, 
 with the exception of the sides of such hills and vallies as his 
 beams could not reach, until evening chilled their influence too 
 much to absorb the feathery whiteness which covered them. 
 Our equestrians had nearly reached a turn in the way, which 
 we should observe in this place, skirted the brow of a small 
 declivity that lay on the right. In point of fact, it was a 
 
THE EXCISEMAN DEFEATED. U77 
 
 moderately inclined plane or slope rather than a deehvity ; 
 but be this as it may, the flat at its foot was studded over with 
 furze bushes, which grew so close and level, that a person 
 might almost imagine it possible to walk upon their surface. On 
 coming within about two hundred and fifty yards of this angle, 
 the horsemen noticed a lad, not more than sixteen, jogging on 
 towards them, with a keg upon his back. The eye of one of 
 them was immediately ht with that vivacious sparkhng of 
 habitual sagacity, which marks the practiced ganger among 
 ten thousand. For a single moment he drew up liis horse, an 
 action which, however shght in itself, intimated more plainly 
 than he could have wished, the obvious interest which had just 
 been excited in liim. Short as was the pause, it betrayed him , 
 for no sooner had the lad noticed it, than he crossed the ditch 
 and disappeared round the angle we have mentioned, and upon 
 the side of the deehvity. To gallop to the spot, dismount, 
 cross the chtch also, and pursue him, was only the work of a 
 few minutes. 
 
 " We have him," said the ganger, ''we have him — one tiling 
 is clear, that he cannot escape us." 
 
 *' Speak for yourself, Stinton," rephed his companion — as 
 for me, not being an officer of liis Majesty's Excise, I dechne 
 taking any part in the pursuit — it is a fair battle, so fight it 
 out between you — I am with you now only through curiosity." 
 He had scarcely concluded, when they heard a voice singing 
 the following hues, in a spirit of that hearty liilarity which 
 betokens a cheerful contempt of care, and an utter absence of 
 all apprehension : 
 
 " Oh ! Jemmy, she sez, you are my true lover, 
 You are all the riches that I do adore ; 
 I solemnly swear now, I'U ne'er hare anoder, 
 My heart it is fixed to never love more." 
 
 The music then changed to a joyous whistle, and imme- 
 diately they were confronted by a lad, dressed in an old red 
 
278 CONDY CULLEN ; OR, 
 
 coat, patched with grey frieze, who, on seeing them, exhibited 
 in his features a most ingenuous air of natural surprise. He 
 immediately ceased to whistle, and with every mark of respect, 
 putting his hand to his hat, said in a voice, the tones of which 
 spoke of kindness and deference, — 
 
 '' God save ye, gintlemin/* 
 
 " I say, my lad," said the ganger, " where is that customer 
 with the keg on his back? — he crossed over there this 
 moment." 
 
 " When, where, sir ?" said the lad, with a stare of surprise. 
 
 '' Where? when? why this minute, and in this place." 
 
 " And was it a whiskey keg, sir ?" 
 
 " Sir, I am not here to be examined by you," replied 
 Stinton, '' confound me if the conniving young rascal is not 
 sticking me into a cross-examination already — I say, red-coat, 
 where is the boy with the keg ?" 
 
 " As for a boy, I did see a boy, sir; but the never a keg he 
 had — hadn't he a grey frieze coat, sir ?" 
 
 " He had." 
 
 "And wasn't it a dauny bit short about the skirts, plase 
 your honour ?" 
 
 " Again he's at me. Sirra, unless you tell me where he is in 
 half a second, I shall lay my whip to your shoulders !" 
 
 " The sorra a keg I seen, then, sir — the last keg I seen 
 was " 
 
 •'Did you see a boy without the keg, answering to the 
 description I gave you ?" 
 
 ** You gave no description of it, sir — but even if you did — 
 when I didn't see it, how could I tell your honour any thing 
 about it ?" 
 
 " Where is the fellow, you villain," exclaimed the ganger, 
 in a fury — where is he gone to ? You admit you saw him ; as 
 for the keg, it cannot be far from us — but where is he ?" 
 
 ** Dad I saw a boy wid a short frieze coat upon him, crassing 
 
THE EXCISEMAN DEFEATED. 279 
 
 the road there below, and runnin' down the other side of tliat 
 ditch." 
 
 This wa^ too palpable a lie to stand the test even of a glance 
 at the ditch in question ; which was nothing more than a shght 
 mound that ran down a long lea field, on which there was not 
 even the appearance of a shrub. 
 
 The gauger looked at his companion — then turning to the 
 boy — " Come, come, my lad," said he, " you know that lie is 
 rather cool. Don't you feel in your soul that a rat could not 
 have gone in that direction, without our seeing it ?" 
 
 " Bedad an' I saw liim," returned the lad, " wid a grey coat 
 upon him, that was a httle too short in the tail — it's better 
 than half an hour agonc." 
 
 "The boy I speak of, you must have met," said Stinton; 
 " it's not five minutes — no, not more than three, since he came 
 inside the field?" 
 
 " That my feet may grow to the ground then if I seen a boy, 
 in or about this place, widin that time, barrin' myself." 
 
 The gauger eyed him closely for a short space, and pulling 
 out half-a-crown, said — " Harkee, my lad, a word with you in 
 private." 
 
 The fact is, that during the latter part of this dialogue, the 
 worthy exciseman observed the cautious distance at which the 
 boy kept himself from the grasp of him and his companion. A 
 suspicion consequently began to dawn upon him, that in 
 defiance of appearances, the lad liimself might be the actual 
 smuggler. On re-considering the matter, tliis suspicion almost 
 amounted to certainty ; the time was too short to permit even 
 the most ingenious cheat to render himself and his keg invisible 
 in a manner so utterly unaccountable. On the other hand, 
 when he reflected on the open, artless character of the boy's 
 song ; the capricious change to a light-hearted whistle, the 
 surprise so naturally, and the respect so deferentially ex- 
 pressed, joined to the dissimilarity of dress, he was confounded 
 
280 CONDY CULLEN ; OR, 
 
 again, and scarcely knew on which side to determine. Even 
 the lad's reluctance to approach him might proceed from fear 
 of the whip. He felt resolved, however, to ascertain this point, 
 and with the view of getting the lad into his hands, he showed 
 him half-a-crown, and addressed him as already stated. 
 
 The lad, on seeing the money, appeared to be instantly 
 caught by it, and approached him, as if it had been a bait he 
 could not resist; a circumstance which again staggered the 
 ganger. In a moment, however, he seized him. 
 
 " Come, now," said he, unbuttoning his coat, " you will 
 oblige me by stripping ?" 
 
 " And why so ?" said the lad, with a face which might have 
 furnished a painter or sculptor with a perfect notion of curiosity, 
 perplexity, and wonder. 
 
 " Why so ?" replied Stinton — '' we shall see — we shall soon 
 see." 
 
 " Surely you don't think I've hid the keg about me," said 
 the other, his features now relaxing into such an appearance 
 of utter simphcity, as would have certainly made any other 
 man but a ganger give up the examination as hopeless, and 
 exonerate the boy from any participation whatsoever in the 
 transaction. 
 
 " No, no," rephed the ganger, " by no means, you young 
 rascal. See here, Cartwright," he continued, addressing his 
 companion — "the keg, my precious;" again turning to the lad — 
 " Oh ! no, no, it would be cruel to suspect you of any thing 
 but the purest of simplicity." 
 
 " Look here, Cartwright," having stripped the boy of his coat 
 and turned it inside out, "there's a coat — there's thrift — there's 
 economy for you — Come, sir, tuck on, tuck on instantly ; here, I 
 shall assist you — up with your arms — straighten your neck ; it 
 will be both straightened and stretched yet, my cherub. What 
 think you now, Cartwright? Did you ever see a metamor- 
 phosis in your life so quick, complete, and unexpected?" 
 
THE EXCISEMAN DEFEATED. 281 
 
 His companion was certainly astonished in no small degree, 
 on seeing the red coat, when turned, become a comfortable 
 grey frieze ; one precisely such as he who bore the keg had on. 
 Nay, after surveying his person and dress a second time, he 
 instantly recognised him as the same. 
 
 The only interest, we should observe, which this gentleman 
 had in the transaction, arose from the mere gratification which 
 a keen observer of character, gifted with a strong rehsh for 
 humour, might be supposed to feel. The ganger, in sifting the 
 matter, and scenting the trail of the keg, was now in his glory, 
 and certainly when met by so able an opponent as our friend 
 Condy, for it was indeed himself, furnished a very rich treat to 
 his friend. 
 
 " Now," he continued, addressing the boy again — " lose not 
 a moment in letting us know where you've hid the keg." 
 
 " The sorra bit of it I hid — it fell aif o' me, an' I lost it ; 
 sure I'm lookin' afther it myself, so I am ;" and he moved over 
 while speaking, as if pretending to search for it in a tliin hedge, 
 which could by no means conceal it. 
 
 " Cartwright," said the ganger, " did you ever see any thing 
 so perfect as this, so ripe a rascal — you don't understand him 
 now. Here, you simpleton; harkee, sirra, there must be no 
 playing the lapwing with me ; back here to the same point. 
 We may lay it down as a sure tiling that whatever direction 
 he takes from this spot is the wrong one ; so back here, you, 
 sir, till we survey the premises about us for your traces. 
 
 The boy walked sheepishly back, and appeared to look about 
 him for the keg, with a kind of earnest stupidity, which was 
 altoo;ether inimitable. 
 
 " I say, my boy," asked Stinton ironically, " don't you look 
 rather foolish now? can you tell your right handfromyour left?" 
 
 " I can," repHed Condy, holding up liis left, " there's my 
 right hand." 
 
 " And what do you call the other ?" said Cartwright. 
 
282 CONDY CULLEN ; OR, 
 
 '' My left, bedad, any how, an' that's true enough." 
 
 Both gentlemen laughed heartily. 
 
 *■' But it's carrying the thing a little too far,'' said the 
 ganger : " in the meantime let us hear how you prove it ?" 
 
 " Aisy enough, sir," replied Condy, " bekase I am left 
 handed — this," holding up the left, " is the right hand to me, 
 whatever you may say to the conthrary." 
 
 Condy's countenance expanded, after he had spoken, into a 
 grin so broad and full of grotesque sarcasm, that Stinton and 
 his companion both found their faces, in spite of them, get 
 rather blank under its influences. 
 
 " What the deuce !" exclaimed the ganger, " are we to be 
 here all day ? Come, sir, bring us at once to the keg." 
 
 He was here interrupted by a laugh from Cartwright, so 
 vociferous, long, and hearty, that he looked at him with 
 amazement — " Hey, dey," he exclaimed, " what's the matter, 
 what's the matter ; what new joke is this ?" 
 
 For some minutes, however, he could not get a word from 
 the other, whose laughter appeared as if never to end ; he 
 walked to and fro in absolute convulsions, bending his body 
 and clapping his hands together, with a vehemence quite 
 unintelligible. 
 
 " What is it, man ?" said the other, " confound you, what 
 is it?" 
 
 '' Oh!" replied Cartwright, "I am sick, perfectly feeble." 
 
 " You have it to yourself at all events," observed Stinton. 
 
 " And shall keep it to myself," said Cartwright, *' for if 
 your sagacity is over-reached, you must be contented to sit 
 down under defeat. I won't interfere." 
 
 ISTow, in this contest between the ganger and Condy, even 
 so slight a thing as one glance of an eye by the latter, might 
 have given a proper cue to an opponent so sharp as Stinton. 
 Condy, during the whole dialogue, consequently preserved the 
 most vague and undefinable visage imaginable, except in the 
 
THE EXCISEMAN DEFEATED. 283 
 
 matter of his distinction between right and left ; and Stinton, 
 who watched his eye with the shrewdest vigilance, could make 
 nothing of it. Not so was it between him and Cartwright ; for 
 during the closing paroxysms of his mirth, Stinton caught his 
 eye fixed upon a certain mark barely visible upon the hoar 
 frost, which mark extended down to the furze bushes that grew 
 at the foot of the slope where they then stood. 
 
 As a stanch old hound lays his nose to the trail of a hare 
 or fox, so did the ganger pursue the trace of the keg down the 
 httle hill; for the fact was, that Condy, having no other 
 resource, trundled it off towards the furze, into which it 
 settled perfectly to his satisfaction ; and with all the quickness 
 of youth and practice, instantly turned his coat, which had 
 been made purposely for such rencounters. This accomphshed, 
 he had barely time to advance a few yards round the angle of 
 the hedge, and changing his whole manner, as well as his ap- 
 pearance, acquitted himself as the reader has already seen. 
 That he could have carried the keg down to the cover, then 
 conceal it, and return to the spot where they met him, was 
 utterly beyond the reach of human exertion, so that in point 
 of fact they never could have suspected that the whiskey lay 
 in such a place. 
 
 The triumph of the ganger was now complete, and a com- 
 placent sense of his own sagacity sat visibly on his features. 
 Condy's face, on the other hand, became considerably length- 
 ened, and appeared quite as rueful and mortified as the other's 
 was joyous and confident. 
 
 " Who's sharpest now, my knowing one ?" said he, " who is 
 the lauo-h ao-ainst, as matters stand between us ?'* 
 
 " The sorra give you good of it," said Condy, sulkily. 
 
 '^ What is your name ?" inquired Stinton. 
 
 *' Barney Keerigan's my name," replied the other indig- 
 dantly ; " and I'm not ashamed of it — nor afeard to tell it to 
 you or any man." 
 
284 coNDY cullen; or, 
 
 " What, of the Keerigans of Killoghan?" 
 
 " Ay jist, of the Keerigans of Killoghan." 
 
 " I know the family," said Stinton, "they are decent m their 
 <uuay — but come, my lad, don't lose your temper, and answer 
 me another question. Where were you bringing this whiskey ?" 
 
 '' To a betther man than ever stud in your shoes," replied 
 Condy, in a tone of absolute defiance — " to a gintleman any 
 way," with a pecuhar emphasis on the word gintleman. 
 
 " But what's his name ?" 
 
 *' Mr. Stinton's his name — ganger Stinton." 
 
 The shrewd exciseman stood and fixed his keen eye on 
 Condy for upwards of a minute, with a glance of such piercing 
 scrutiny as scarcely any consciousness of imposture could 
 withstand. 
 
 Condy, on the other hand, stood and eyed him with an open, 
 unshrinking, yet angry glance ; never winced, but appeared by 
 the detection of his keg, to have altogether forgotten the hne 
 of cunning policy he had previously adopted, in a mortification 
 which had predominated over duplicity and art. 
 
 He is now speaking truth, thought the ganger ; he has lost 
 his temper, and is completely off liis guard. 
 
 " Well, my lad," he continued, " that is very good so far, 
 but who sent the keg to Stinton ?" 
 
 " Do you think," said Condy, with a look of strong con- 
 tempt at the ganger, for deeming him so utterly silly as to tell 
 him, " Do you think that you can make me turn informer ? 
 There's none of that blood in me, thank goodness." 
 
 "Do you know Stinton?" 
 
 " How could I know the man I never seen ?" rephed Condy, 
 still out of temper ; " but one thing I don't know, gintlemen, 
 and that is, whether you have any right to take my whiskey 
 or not?" 
 
 " As to that, my good lad, make your mind easy — I'm 
 Stinton." 
 
THE EXCISEMAN DEFEATED. 285 
 
 ' You, sir !" said Condy, with well-feigned surprise/ 
 " Yes," replied the other, " I'm the very man you were 
 bringing the keg to. And now I'll tell you what you must do 
 for me ; proceed to my house with as Uttle delay as possible ; 
 ask to see my daughter — ask for Miss Stinton — take this key 
 and desire her to have the keg put into the cellar ; she'll know 
 the key, and let it also be as a token, that she is to give you 
 your breakfast; say I desired that keg to be placed to the right 
 of the five-gallon one I seized on Thursday last, that stands on 
 a little stillion under my blunderbuss." 
 
 " Of coorse, said Condy, who appeared to have misgivings 
 on the matter, " I suppose I must, but somehow — " 
 
 " Why, sirrah, what do you grumble now for ?" 
 
 Condy still eyed him with suspicion — " And, sir," said he, 
 after having once more mounted the keg, "am I to get nothing 
 for sich a weary trudge as I had wid it, but my breakfast ?" 
 
 " Here," said Stinton, throwing liim half-a-crown, " take 
 that along with it, and now be off — or stop. — Cartwright, will 
 you dine with me to-day, and let us broach the keg ? I'll 
 guarantee its excellence, for this is not the first I have got 
 from the same quarter — that's entre nous.'" 
 
 " With all my heart," replied Cartwright, " upon the terms 
 you say, that of the broach." 
 
 " Then, my lad," said Stinton, '' say to my daughter, that 
 a friend, perhaps a friend or two, will dine with me to-day — 
 that is enough." 
 
 They then mounted their horses and were proceeding as 
 before, when Cartwright addi'essed the ganger as follows : — 
 
 " Do you not put this lad, Stinton, in a capacity to over- 
 reach you yet ?" 
 
 " No," rephed the other, " the young rascal spoke the truth 
 after the discovery of the keg, for he lost his temper, and was 
 no longer cool." 
 
 " For my part, hang me if I'd trust him." 
 
286 coNDY cullen; or, 
 
 " I should scruple to do so myself," replied the gauger, 
 " but, as I said, these Keerigans — notorious ilhcit fellows, by 
 the way — send me a keg or two every year, and almost always 
 about this very time. Besides I read him to the heart and he 
 never winced. Yes, decidedly, the whiskey was for me ; of 
 that I have no doubt whatsoever." 
 
 " I most positively would not trust him." 
 
 "Not that perhaps I ought," said Stinton, "on second 
 thought, to place such confidence in a lad who acted so adroitly 
 in the beginning. Let us call him back, and re-examine him 
 at all events." 
 
 Now Condy had, during this conversation, been discussing 
 the very same point with himself. 
 
 " Bad cess for ever attend you, Stinton agra," he exclaimed, 
 "for there's surely something over you — a lucky shot from 
 behind a hedge, or a break-neck fall down a cliff, or something 
 of that kind. If the ould boy hadn't his croubs hard and fast 
 in you, you wouldn't let me walk away wid the whiskey, any 
 how. Bedad it's well I thought o' the Keerigans; for sure 
 enough I did hear Barney say, that he was to send a keg in 
 to him this week, some day — and he didn't think I knew him 
 aither — Faix it's many a long day since I knew the sharp puss 
 of him, wid an eye like a hawk. But what if they folly me, 
 and do up all ? Any way, I'll prevint them from having sus- 
 picion on me, before I go a toe farther, the ugly rips." 
 
 He instantly wheeled about a moment, or two before Stinton 
 and Cartwright had done the same, for the purpose of sifting 
 him still more thoroughly — so that they found liim mectmg 
 them. 
 
 " Gintlemen," said he, " how do I know that aither of yous 
 is Mr. Stinton, or that the house you directed me to is his ? I 
 know that if the whiskey doesn't go to him, I may lave the 
 counthry !" 
 
 " You are cither a deeper rogue, or a more stupid fool than I 
 
THE EXCISEMAN DEFEATED. 287 
 
 took you to be," observed Stinton — " but what security can 
 you give us, that you will leave the keg safely at its 
 destination ?" 
 
 " If I thought you were Mr. Stinton, I'd be very glad to 
 lave you the whiskey where it is, and even do widout my 
 breakfast — Gintlemen, tell me tlii'uth, bekase I'd only be 
 murdliered out of the face." 
 
 " Why, you idiot," said the ganger, losing his temper and 
 suspicions both together, " can't you go to the town and 
 inquire where Mr. Stinton lives ?" 
 
 " Bedad thin, thrue enough, I never thought of that at all 
 at all, but I beg your pardon, gintlemen, an' I hope you won't 
 be angry wid me, in regard that it's kilt and quartered I'd be 
 if I let myself be made a fool of by any body." 
 
 ''Do what I desire you," said the exciseman ; " inquire for 
 Mr. Stinton's house, and you may be sure the whiskey will 
 reach him." 
 
 " Thank you, sir. Bedad I might have thought of that 
 myself." 
 
 This last clause, which was spoken in a soliloquy, would have 
 deceived a saint himself. 
 
 '' jN'ow," said Stinton, after they had recommenced their 
 journey, "are you satisfied?" 
 
 " I am at length," said Cartwright ; " if his intentions had 
 been dishonest, instead of returning to make liimself certain 
 against being deceived, he would have made the best of his 
 way from us — a rogue never wantonly puts himself in the Avay 
 of danger or detection." 
 
 That evening, about five o'clock, Stinton, Cartwi'ight, and 
 two others arrived at the house of the worthy ganger, to 
 partake of his good cheer. A cold frosty evening gave a 
 peculiar zest to the comfort of a warm room, a blazing fire, and 
 a good dinner. !N"o sooner were the viands discussed, the cloth 
 removed, and the glasses ready, than their generous host 
 
288 CONDY CULLEN. 
 
 desired his daughter to assist the servant in broaching the 
 redoubtable keg. 
 
 " That keg, my dear," he proceeded, *' which the country 
 lad, who brought the key of the cellar, left here to-day." 
 
 " A keg !" repeated the daughter, with surprise. 
 
 " Yes, Maggy, my love, a keg ; I said so, I think." 
 
 " But, papa, there came no keg here to-day !" 
 
 The ganger and Cartwright both groaned in unison. 
 
 *' No keg !" said the ganger. 
 
 *' No keg !" echoed Cartwright. 
 
 "No keg, indeed," re-echoed Miss Stinton — "but there 
 came a country boy with the key of the cellar, as a token that 
 he was to get the five gallon — " 
 
 " Oh !" groaned the ganger, " I'm knocked up, outwitted, — 
 oh!" 
 
 " Bought and sold," added Cartwright. 
 
 " Go on," said the ganger, " I must hear it out ?" 
 
 " As a token," proceeded Miss Stinton, " that he was to get 
 the five gallon keg on the little stiUion, under the blunderbuss, 
 for Captain Dalton." 
 
 " And he got it ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, he got it; for I took the key as a sufiicient token." 
 
 "But, Maggy — hell and fury, hear me, child — surely he 
 brought a keg here, and left it ; and of course it's in the 
 cellar?" 
 
 " No, indeed, papa, he brought no keg here ; but he did 
 bring the five gallon one that ivas in the cellar away with him." 
 
 " Stinton," said Cartwright, " send round the bottle." 
 
 "The rascal," ejaculated the ganger, "we shall drink his 
 health." 
 
 And on relating the circumstances, the company drank the 
 sheepish lad's health, that bought and sold the ganger. 
 
A RECORD OF THE HEART ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE parents' trial. 
 
 It may appear to many persons, that the hfe and death of a 
 harmless idiot boy can present very few facts or incidents of 
 sufficient importance to interest readers in general, or to touch 
 those cords wliich are apt to shrink from, rather than respond 
 to, any sympathy with such a subject. I doubt, however, 
 whether there is a single object in the wide dominions of 
 nature, that is not bound by some tie, latent or obvious, to 
 that incomprehensible origin of our happiness and misery, the 
 human heart. So manifold are its changes and transitions, 
 and so endless the variety of the situations in which it is 
 placed, that it becomes impossible for the most successful 
 searcher into its mysteries, to discover the inconceivable 
 gradations of the impulses that guide it, the secret power of 
 its associations, or the new states of fechng into which the 
 mfinite shiftings of external circumstances, added to its uncon- 
 scious experience during the progress of general hfe, may 
 throw it. Would Trenck, when bouyant with the hopes that 
 such a brilliant outset in life promised him, have deemed it 
 possible that any variety of fortune, however strange, could 
 have taught him the sympathy which may subsist between a 
 man and a mouse ? No ; and for my part I candidly admit, 
 that I would look with contempt upon the incUvidual who 
 would avow himself incapable of entertaining sympathy with 
 any human being no matter how degraded. A mortal being 
 u 
 
290 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 absolutely vicious or virtuous has never lived, nor can there 
 be found a character which does not exhibit something either 
 to avoid or imitate, and consequently to sympathize with. — 
 Homo sum, et nihil humani a me alienum puto — is an axiom 
 as full of truth, as it is of affection, and reflects endless honour 
 upon the noble-minded heathen, whose heart conceived a 
 sentiment almost worthy of the humane beauty of Christianity. 
 
 Alexander Wilson was a young man of very respectable 
 character, in the upper ranks of middle hfe ; that is to say, 
 he filled that most important position in society, which lies 
 between the wealthy farmer and the unpretending country 
 gentleman. He kept his car, and drove his gig, but at the same 
 time managed his own property, superintended his workmen, 
 and for the most part bought and sold his own cattle. He was 
 possessed of a small fee-simple estate, worth better that three 
 hundred a year ; but besides this he farmed four hundred 
 acres of excellent land, to which was attached a considerable 
 tract of mountain ; the latter at nearly a nominal rent. Wilson 
 had been designed for the church, and received a collegiate 
 education, but as his disposition became gradually inchned 
 towards the active pursuits and healthy amusements of a 
 country hfe, he ultimately gave up all pretensions to that pro- 
 fession, took the farm I have alluded to, and in a short time 
 had the reputation of being a most promising and intelhgent 
 agriculturist. 
 
 Wilson, when about to determine his pursuit in hfe, was 
 eminently handsome, and certainly became a great favourite 
 in the drawing-room. On his return from college, his man- 
 ners were gentlemanly, and his complexion possessed of that 
 dehcacy which study and protection from the elements both 
 bestowed upon it ; thereby creating that character which 
 young ladies who incessantly read novels, understand by the 
 term " sentimental." In a short time, however, the paleness 
 6f sentiment and study, which after all was httle else than the 
 
 1 
 
THE parents' trial. 291 
 
 absence of sun and wind, began to disappear, and liis features 
 to assume the firm and manly tone of health and exercise. 1 1 is 
 relish for the sports of the field was sufficiently keen for all the 
 purposes of rational amusement, without bringing him to the 
 pitiable condition of those who suffer them to become the 
 business of life, and who appear to consider themselves created 
 for no other purpose than, as FielcUng humourously parodied 
 it — Feras consumer e nati. Many of the fair sentimentahsts — 
 a class who look upon health to be incompatible with their 
 idea of beauty — now began to think that he was getting quite 
 coarse and vulgar, and w^ere frequently heard to exclaim, 
 " Dear me, what a pity it is that so interesting a young man 
 as Wilson should allow himself to sink down into the rustic 
 pursuits of a mere farmer !" 
 
 And unquestionably it wai true, that a very remarkable 
 change did certainly take place, not only in liis appearance 
 and person, as we have said, but also in his general manners 
 and deportment. His dress, though respectable and well made, 
 was not so decidedly fashionable, nor of such exquisite mate- 
 rials as before ; his demeanour and conversation were more 
 frank and open, and a great deal less ambitious of pohsh and 
 sentiment, than while he had the church in view. He no 
 longer spoke to the other sex in that small voice of insinuating 
 softness, which they rehsh so much in young men of decided 
 piety. He had now ceased to be that sweet undertoned appen- 
 dage of the drawing-room, ycleped a divinity student, and, as 
 a natural consequence, he had also ceased to make himself 
 remarkable, by discussing no other topic than a religious one, 
 or to look upon the secular tendency of general conversation 
 in a mixed company, as a proof how much vital godliness was 
 disappearing from the world. Instead of never permitting the 
 muscles of his face to relax beyond such a serious smile as was 
 sufficient to show a well-brushed set of teeth and a horror of 
 profane mirth, he could now laugh out from the heart like a 
 
292 A RECORD OF THE HEART I OR, 
 
 man. He had also given up the practice of discussing with 
 pious old ladies, and their daughters or nieces, the comparative 
 merits of the most popular preachers, and of charitably recom- 
 mending his own sect to the utter condemnation of all others. 
 The white hand, the still whiter cambric handkerchief, and 
 the gilt Bible, well dog-eared, so as to denote the faithful 
 text-hunter, were no longer paraded with that grave air of 
 sincerity, which though often real, is on the other hand too 
 frequently assumed. Under any circumstances, this sober 
 ostentation, of " seriousness" in mixed company is, to say the 
 least of it, offensive to good taste, as well as inimical to the 
 interests of true religion, which never hangs out a black flag 
 to tell the world where she is to be found, as well as the colours 
 she is known by. 
 
 At all events, the change that I have mentioned in Wilson, 
 was quite obvious to all who had known him. He was now a 
 stout, fine-looking young man, with an open and handsome 
 countenance, tinged into the brown hues of robust health, by 
 activity and employment. He also contracted what I may 
 term a courteous bluntness of manner, by which it was easy 
 to see how readily the wealthy farmer and the man of 
 education may meet in the same person, and form a model of 
 gentlemanly ease and independence, which it would be well to 
 see more frequently imitated by the class to which he belonged. 
 
 It was very natural, under these circumstances, that a young 
 man at Wilson's period of life, should begin to feel the incon- 
 venience of not having some person to manage the domestic 
 arrangements of his house, and to bestow that happiness, 
 which can never be participated in by a solitary heart. Added 
 to this, the natural ardour of an affectionate disposition deter- 
 mined him, with as little delay as possible, to marry. Nor 
 was it difficult for a highly educated, handsome young fellow, 
 as he was, and very independent besides in his circumstances, 
 to select a suitable companion from among classes even higher 
 
THE parents' trial. 293 
 
 than that in which he moved. With equal good sense and 
 good fechng, he paid his addresses in a quarter Avhere both 
 prudence and affection justified his choice. Jane Lesmond was 
 a lovely and accomplished girl, somewhat diffident in her 
 manner, as almost every girl possessing tender and profound 
 feeling is. She was not one of those who parade their accom- 
 phshments before society, or who take delight in obtruding 
 them upon the attention of both strangers and friends, until 
 their exhibition becomes not merely common-place, but painful. 
 On the contrary, she might be passed by, as one of those who 
 appear to be born only to fill a place in the crowd, were it not 
 that her beauty was by no means of that description which 
 could be overlooked. To a discriminating eye her silence and 
 modesty, instead of being the result of insipidity, were soon 
 discovered to proceed from observation and reflection. Indeed 
 the shghtest opportunity of conversation chsclosed the reluctant 
 manifestations of a mind far beyond the common order, and a 
 taste equally cultivated and just. She was the only daughter 
 but not the only child, of a Captain Lesmond, who, after a 
 long and not undistinguished life, had retired on full pay and 
 an honourable pension. Some reluctance was certainly mani- 
 fested by liimself and his family against the proposed aUiance, 
 but Wilson's manners, good sense, and circumstances, were 
 really so unobjectionable, that it was deemed more advisable 
 to unite them, than to sacrifice Miss Lesmond' s happiness to 
 that parade and wealth which could neither purchase nor 
 restore it. 
 
 Wilson's union with her was indeed a happy one. The 
 residence to which he brought her, was every way suitable 
 both to their taste and education. It was situated on the brow 
 of a small hill, which swept easily down to a very sweet lake, 
 that lay a few hundred perches below it, and whose green 
 smooth margin contrasted beautifully with the summer sheen 
 of its waters. Beliind it rose a semicircular sweep of fine old 
 
294 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 timber, tenanted by a rookery, and in every direction the eye 
 was gratified by a country, rich in cultivation and luxuriant 
 scenery. About a quarter of a mile to the left, from among 
 the beeches in which it was embosomed, rose the tapering spire 
 of the parish church, and a little to the right of that, could be 
 seen, through a natural vista in the trees, the white and modest 
 glebe-house of the clergyman. Directly opposite, a rustic 
 bridge, quite in character with the scenery, spanned a quiet 
 stream, whose waters glistened as the light of the sun fell upon 
 them from different quarters of the heavens. Altogether it 
 would be difficult to find a summer landscape, on which lay a 
 spirit of greater tranquillity and beauty. 
 
 In this sweet spot, with all of rational enjoyment which life 
 can afford to persons of regulated desires, Wilson and his wife 
 passed for a few years a calm and serene existence. Three 
 girls had already blessed their union, and as the children were 
 beautiful, it is almost unnecessary to say, that their fond 
 parents absolutely idolized them. Now, however, commenced 
 that secret yearning of the heart, which under such circum- 
 stances is naturally felt for the absence of a son. Their 
 attachment to each other was in no degree diminished, but on 
 the contrary, softened into a spirit of greater tenderness, by 
 the three beautiful pledges of their love. Notwithstanding all 
 this, their affection, tender as it unquestionably was, gradually 
 became overshadowed by a latent melancholy, which each 
 endeavoured to conceal from the other. Many a secret 
 prayer did they offer up — uttered too in a spirit of pious 
 timidity, that shrank back at the idea of dictating to the 
 Almighty — that if it were consonant to his divine will, their 
 most anxious wishes might be gratified by the birth of a male 
 child. In this beautiful hope of a parent's heart did they both 
 live, until the eve of a fourth still quickened their expectations 
 into an anxiety that became actually painful. It passed, and 
 another daughter was welcomed to thoir heart with an affec- 
 
THE parents' trial. 295 
 
 tion, which for the first time was absorbed in a stronger feehng 
 of disappointment and regret. 
 
 It soon became evident that they were not happy, and that, 
 however blameless their lives, resignation to the will of God in 
 this matter was not among their virtues. They secretly 
 repined, but, as yet, did not venture openly to murmur against 
 the hand that withheld the earnestly besought blessing. A 
 perceptible chill too somewhat cooled that exquisite spirit of 
 endearment, which up to this period characterized their affec- 
 tions. They felt uneasy, restless, discontented, and if, for a 
 moment, a contemplation of the good bestowed upon them, 
 unconsciously ht up their hearts into momentary gratitude and 
 happiness, the quick memory of their w^ant startled them back 
 into anxiety and gloom. 
 
 A fifth event again approached — passed — and add^d another 
 unwelcome innocent to the number of their girls. Its mother 
 wept, and the father, whose naturally fine understanding had 
 become so subservient to the weakness of his heart, as to fall 
 into a superstitious belief in dreams — which but resemble the 
 wishes that create them — experienced, upon this last occasion, 
 such a mortifying revulsion of feeling, that he actually refused 
 to kiss his babe, nor could he for some days be prevailed upon 
 to see either its mother or itself. His good sense, however, 
 and the impulses of a heart naturally generous and compas- 
 sionate, soon occasioned him to feel ashamed of thus visiting 
 upon his helpless infant and innocent wife a displeasure which 
 was both .unmanly and impious. He took them back, however, 
 rather to his pity than his affection ; for his heart began to 
 lose the power of loving with its wonted ardour, and to feel 
 a general disrehsh and a growing apathy towards every thing 
 about him that had once been dear to it. From this period 
 his mind began to darken ; his principles became unfixed, and 
 the providence of God no longer shone before him in its 
 Adsible beauty and order. In short, Wilson was a complete 
 
296 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 illustration of a truth, which has not been sufficiently observed, 
 viz. that our feelings in many circumstances and positions of 
 life modify, or altogether change our principles, much more 
 than the world, or we ourselves are apt to imagine. His mind 
 at once dissatisfied and enfeebled, was now incapable of seeing 
 the moral relations that subsist between God and man, except 
 partially or imperfectly ; for indeed his growing prejudices 
 discoloured every object which he looked on or examined. 
 The result unhappily was, that ere properly aware of it, Wil- 
 son found himself the slave of doubt and scepticism : for true it 
 is, that the power of the judgment soon becomes clouded by 
 the errors of the heart. 
 
 For some months he remained in this painful and gloomy 
 state, seeking throughout all nature, both physical and moral, 
 for arguments to justify the very opinions which constituted 
 his own unhappiness ; and he soon found, that, with charac- 
 teristic consistency, every new objection against truth, whilst it 
 flattered the pride of his intellect, disturbed his soul with an 
 impatient sense of his own condition, as well as of the general 
 disorder which he thought marked the great mass of human 
 opinions ; so that whilst he advanced in his new doctrines, he 
 found that Ms system, instead of soothing his mind into peace 
 and comfort, was only another name for distress and misery. 
 This often induced him to say, that he thought it better to 
 believe a wholesome error, than to fix his faith upon one of 
 those philosophical doctrines, which relax the morals, whilst 
 they raise the mind into a vain and empty pride in its own 
 powers. 
 
 To such a fluctuating and unsettled state of thinking and 
 feeling was Wilson reduced, when his wife had the unspeakable 
 transport of presenting him with a son. 
 
 Few men can say what they are, and still fewer what they 
 will be. — Wilson argued narrowly ; and the consequence was, 
 that substituting feeling for reason, he adopted scepticism, 
 
THE parents' tkial. ' 297 
 
 not because it was truth, but because he had no son. There 
 are thousands who reason on the subject of rehgion in this 
 way, and who, when the feehngs upon which their opinions 
 have been formed, pass away, or happen to be changed by 
 some event which fills the heart with what it wished for, imme- 
 diately fall back into truth — less from conviction than from a 
 complacent impression of gratitude, and are heneforth excellent 
 christians merely in compliment to the goodness of Providence. 
 
 Be this, however, as it may, the birth of a son wrought an 
 instantaneous, and we might say a remorseful, change in 
 Wilson. To him, whose moral conduct had never been 
 depraved by his opinions, nothing remained but to repudiate 
 his speculations. He looked upon the face of his infant son, 
 as an index of truth, a vindication of God's providence in the 
 distribution of good and evil ; but above all things, as a hving 
 argument against the rashness of man, in drawing general 
 inferences from particular states of feeling. It is true, that 
 had not his mind lost much of its force, he might have per- 
 ceived that this mode of reasoning himself back into truth, was 
 very much akin to that by which he had reasoned himself out 
 of it. As few, however, hold their principles from pure reason, 
 man cannot, without much presumption, sit in judgment upon 
 his fellow-creatures, as if he himself were free from the same 
 weakness. It is enough to say, that on the birth of liis son 
 Wilson repented his errors, and deeply regretted the day that 
 he ever dared to murmur against Providence, or to question 
 those truths, wliich, like the stars of heaven, are visible by 
 their own Hght. 
 
 To him and his wife it was truly an event fraught with 
 inexpressible happiness. Their affection now revived into all 
 its original tenderness and warmth. The babe, which was 
 called Alexander after its father — for Mrs. Wilson would allow 
 it no other name — became from the moment of its birth the 
 idol of its parents and its sisters, the theme of every Httle 
 
298 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 tongue, and the topic of incessant admiration and delight with 
 young and old in the family. Whether this inordinate love of 
 its parents was right or wrong, it is not for us to say ; it is 
 sufficient to inform our readers that every day increased it to 
 such a degree, that they had already become the ridicule of 
 all those who had an opportunity of witnessing their extraor- 
 dinary and unprecedented attachment ; an attachment, which 
 resembled rather the irrational impulses of instinct, than the 
 chastened, but elevated affection of rehgion and reason. 
 
 A change of new delight, however, soon came over their 
 spirits in the birth of another son. Wilson's happiness abso- 
 lutely became quite tumultuous, indeed so much so, that both 
 himself and his wife, who, after all, were naturally disposed to 
 be contented, acknowledged they had nothing now to wish for. 
 Between the birth of their two sons there elapsed only the 
 space of twenty months ; so that to their delighted parents they 
 promised to grow up like twins, or, as has been often said, and 
 from its beauty may be often said again, like two cherries 
 upon the same stalk. Their hearts, however, felt that a charm 
 lay upon their first-born, which, in consequence of what they 
 had suffered, gave to their love for him a tenderness that no 
 language could express. He was also his father's name-sake 
 and his image, and none of our readers who are parents, need 
 be told how slight are the circumstances which occasion the 
 affections to incline to one child, even where both or all are 
 much beloved. There never was a family born, in which there 
 has not been a favourite ; nay, the very animals are known to 
 single out a particular object of affection among their young : 
 and, although it is injurious to allow this unaccountable predi- 
 lection to be seen, yet, when we feel that it exists by some 
 mysterious principle of nature, we can do nothing more than 
 regulate it in such a manner as becomes those who know that, 
 however it may exist, it is recognized neither by reason or 
 justice. 
 
THE parents' trial. 299 
 
 In this case the over-fond parents were no exception to the 
 existence of such a feeling towards the first son. Not, heaven 
 knows, that the other was either neglected or unbeloved ; for 
 dearly was he cherished by both. The favouritism, however, 
 was so evident, that their other children, as well as the servants, 
 have been often known to play upon it in a manner, which 
 any one not totally infatuated might have easily seen through. 
 The parents themselves of course were not sensible of this, nor 
 of the ridiculous exhibitions of weakness which the folly of 
 their conduct presented to others. The principal burden of 
 their conversation, ere a year had closed on little Alick, was 
 the number of perfections which already began to bud in 
 him. Many a time have they talked themselves asleep wliilst 
 indulging in all those happy hopes and prophecies, to which 
 the parents' heart loves to turn, whilst looking into the dark- 
 ness of the future for the fate of their offspring. They would 
 send him into the army — for his mother warranted he would 
 be brave hke grand-papa — his father saw, as indeed any body 
 might, by his expansive forehead, that he would possess genius. 
 Or what if he entered the church ? who knew but he might 
 become a bishop ? Here his mamma kissed liis lordship, and 
 then papa should have a kiss too. But there was the army, 
 where he might rise to be a general ? Here the little general 
 was kissed again with as much enthusiasm as if an oracle 
 had foretold it. " But," said his father, " what would you 
 think of the law, my darling ? You would not be sorry to 
 see him a judge, would you ?'■ To the mother again this 
 new point was transport — her eyes sparkled, and once more 
 was the little judge devoured with kisses by the fond but 
 weak parents. 
 
 When the child had reached his second year, his father 
 observed that sometimes for a moment the serene brow of his 
 mother would become shaded, as she contemplated him. This, 
 where he knew the fullness of her happiness to be equal to his 
 
300 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 own, surprised him considerably, and he could only account 
 for it by supposing that it was one of those pauses of the heart, 
 as it were, wliich are occasioned by the excessive outpouring 
 of a mother's love, rendering it necessary for nature itself to 
 demand, as it were, a moment of rest to revive its moral 
 energies. Sometimes he thought that it might be one of those 
 gloomy anticipations, which, in spite of hope and love, will 
 intrude themselves on the parent's imagination in a thousand 
 shapes, and which are anxious in proportion to the force and 
 fervour of affection. Having thus satisfied himself by attributing 
 what he had observed to causes which we must admit were 
 very natural, he felt disposed to pay very Httle attention to 
 them, especially as liis wife in conversation made no allusion 
 whatsoever to her feelings. Week, however, after week, only 
 appeared to increase her discomfort, and to lengthen those 
 unaccountable pauses in her happiness. Sometimes he observed 
 her to get deadly pale after a long and earnest contemplation 
 of her child, and he remarked also that whatever the source 
 of this occasional melancholy might be, she felt extremely 
 anxious to conceal it from him. Of course, as the child was 
 clearly the object of this secret sohcitude, her silence as to its 
 origin only increased his anxiety to know it, — and one day as 
 she pressed it to her heart, and burst into a fit of grief, wliich 
 even his presence could not restrain, he ventured to inquu'O 
 why she wept — " Do not ask me," said she, " indeed I scarcely 
 know. I think — I am sure — that my anxiety is groundless. 
 At all events do not, at least for some time longer, press me 
 upon it. You know, my dear Alick, that there arc a thousand 
 matters to disturb a mother's heart, which will not occur to 
 any one else." 
 
 " But you appear, Jane, to be unhappy." 
 
 " No, no, how can I, having him — but say you will not press 
 me — for some time at least." 
 
 " Certainly not, my dear ; at the same time you must admit 
 
THK parents' trial. 301 
 
 that I cannot but participate in your anxiety, whatever it may 
 proceed from." 
 
 "A httle time, I trust, will wholly remove it — and then, the 
 moment I find myself mistaken, I will let you know what it 
 was that occasioned me to feel as I do." 
 
 Thus ended the conversation ; not at all to the satisfaction of 
 AYilson, who now felt doubly anxious to solve the mystery of 
 her grief. That the child was in some degree, if not solely 
 the cause of it, he had little doubt, and for this purpose he 
 resolved to try, by observing it closely, whether he could not 
 ascertain the cause of her distress. 
 
 Two or three months now elapsed, during which Wilson 
 from time to time felt that his own spirit was beginning to 
 experience intervals of darkness, even deeper than those wliich 
 obscured the joy of the mother. Neither, however, at this 
 period had the slightest anticipation of the terrible discovery 
 which the progress of another year was to make. He now 
 resolved to have a communication with liis wife upon the 
 subject ; at the same time he felt peculiar difficulty in intro- 
 ducing it, in consequence of not knowing exactly in what 
 language to express the novel and unintelligible sensations 
 which depressed him so much. 
 
 '' Jane, my love," said he, one evening as they sat alone, 
 '' I feel that there is something about our darling child which 
 I cannot understand." 
 
 His wife immediately clasped the infant to her breast, 
 whilst a torrent of tears fell down her cheeks — " my cliild, my 
 child," she sobbed, "from the moment of his birth he has never 
 smiled upon his mother I And oh ! Alick, Ahck, why is this 
 so?" 
 
 The husband paused, his lip quivered, and a paleness hke 
 that of death overspread his temples. 
 
 " It is true," said he, " nor on me, his father ; he knows 
 us not." 
 
302 A RECORD or THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 He rose, wrung his hands, and walked in deep distress 
 about the room. 
 
 "What can be the cause of it?" inquired the mother, 
 whilst her streaming eyes were tenderly fixed upon the child. 
 
 " I know not," rephed her husband, " yet how frequently 
 have we seen him laugh." 
 
 " Yes," she returned, " but it always appeared to be at some 
 inward thought, as it were, of his own — his eye is clear and 
 mild enough, but I have never met the expression in it that 
 recognised me." 
 
 " As yet he has recognised nobody," rephed the father, 
 " and perhaps after all we attach more to the circumstance 
 than we ought. The intellect of some children is of slow de- 
 velopment ; indeed this has been the case with many who have 
 become the most brilhant ornaments of society afterwards." 
 
 How easy it is to give hope, or to receive comfort, where 
 affection is sanguine, for the heart is ever willing to beheve in 
 what it wishes. The mother, as she surveyed the baby, 
 appeared to be much relieved by tliis, and Wilson himself di^ew 
 consolation from what he had said. 
 
 " You will see," he added, " that in a httle time the hglit of 
 individual love will begin to beam from these sweet blue eyes 
 of his. Indeed I entertain perhaps greater hopes from him 
 than if he knew us. It is quite clear that he is not a common 
 child, and beheve me, if God Almighty spares liim, the event 
 will prove it — otherwise I have little penetration." 
 
 He then took the sweet and serenely passive boy in his 
 arms, and exclaimed, whilst the mingled fire of hope and 
 affection flashed from his eyes — 
 
 *^ Tncipe, parve puer, risu cognoscere matrem." 
 
 Which having explained to his wife, the conversation termi- 
 nated, much more to their satisfaction than either had 
 apprehended it would have done. 
 
THE parents' trial. 303 
 
 Our readers, from what we have written, will naturally 
 .suppose that these most earnest aspirations of the parents were 
 not to he gratified, and that the smile of recognition was never 
 to light up the innocent countenance of their first-born son. 
 If so, they are mistaken. The fact of having an object always 
 before the eye, will gradually impress such a habit of attach- 
 ment to it, as sooner or later will not fail to manifest itself in 
 many ways. When the little innocent had reached the age of 
 two years and a half, his mother received a visit from a 
 Mrs. St. John, a young cousin of hers, who had been recently 
 married. It was about the middle of September, and her 
 husband was somewhere in the yard, preparing to go out to 
 shoot. Mrs. St. John very naturally took the child in her 
 arms, and was about to caress him, when he turned from her, 
 and stretching his little hands towards his mamma, cried to 
 get to her. The quick eye of the mother perceived it all, and 
 the suddenness of joy caused her to give a short scream, but 
 in a moment she restrained her feelings lest the child might 
 become alarmed. She stretched out her arms, the child 
 stretched out his to meet her, and as he did it, he looked up 
 into her face and smiled. It was too much for her, and this 
 consummation of her hopes came too unexpectedly upon her 
 heart. The next moment she sank upon the sofa, where she 
 had been sitting with the child clasped to her bosom, and for 
 a short time lay insensible, to the utter consternation of her 
 cousin. On recovering, she rallied as well as she could, and 
 having dropped hastily upon her knees, held her boy up, as it 
 were to heaven, — but the fullness of her gratitude was such 
 that language was denied her. She sobbed aloud, however, 
 and wept for many minutes, until she felt that this delicious 
 luxury of tears reheved her. She then rang the bell, and 
 inquired from one of the servants if her master had gone out, 
 who pointed to liim just as he was in the act of passing from 
 the gate that opened into the avenue and lawn. Pen, ink, and 
 
304 
 
 A RECORD OF THE HEART; OR, 
 
 paper, were immediately got, and in a few minutes she des- 
 patched a messenger after him with the following brief but 
 touching communication — 
 
 " May the name of God be praised for ever ! 
 
 "My dear Alick — return immediately — our child's eyes have 
 smiled upon its mother — he knows me — oh, he knows me ! I 
 am too — too — happy — and the tears that blot this are tears of 
 gratitude and delight. " Your own Jane." 
 
 It is unnecessary for us to detail the enraptured father's 
 return, or the scene which immediately took place, inasmuch 
 as our readers, we feel assured, can much better conceive than 
 we could describe it. 
 
 In due course of time the father also was recognized, and 
 subsequently the sisters and his little brother. What a happy 
 family at this period was that of which we write. Not a wish 
 had they ungratified. Without ambition, pride, or the sordid 
 spirit of this vile world, they lived together in peace, and love, 
 and harmony. It is true, Wilson felt a certain degree of good- 
 natured vanity, touching the prophetic penetration he had 
 displayed, with reference to httle Alick : — 
 
 " I told you, love," he would often say to his wife, " that he 
 would in time recognize us all, and that the intellect of many 
 children destined to become eminent is of slow development. 
 You see the first part of my prophecy came true, and take my 
 word for it, so will the last. That child is decreed to be an 
 uncommon child, and will be heard of yet." 
 
 Where are the hearts that can quarrel with such language, 
 when proceeding from the lips of a father ? If there be any 
 such, we do not envy them the coolness of their philosophy, 
 nor that superiority of wisdom which condemns what after all 
 has in it more of virtue than of weakness. In the meantime, 
 month after month followed, until the child had reached the 
 close of his third year. For about three months preceding 
 this, however, the doting parents were occasionally startled by 
 
THE parents' trial. 305 
 
 many vague impressions that were caused by his very singular 
 manner and habits. His character was marked by an apathy, 
 which they could not at all understand. He manifested, for 
 instance, the utmost indifference to the quality of his food, and 
 was often found eating substances which even the instinct of 
 childhood itself at his age would avoid. He could utter also 
 only a few indistinct words, from the enunciation of which, it 
 was quite clear that his organs of speech were either of slow 
 growth, or imperfect in their formation. But he was at the 
 same time so mild, and gentle, and inoffensive, that every one 
 loved him, and his parents neither could nor would receive into 
 their hearts the dreadful surmises wliich some of the servants 
 and many strangers now began to entertain concerning his 
 mind. It could not, however, be long concealed that the stamp 
 of reason was not upon him. Day after day the withering truth 
 became more clear, and although his parents felt many a hope 
 and many a wish, that time would by degrees evolve from his 
 mind those principles of reason which had not yet appeared in 
 their first elements, yet, alas ! time only confirmed the frightful 
 fact — that their mild, and sweet, and harmless child — the 
 principal hope of their Ijouse and of their heart — was an idiot 
 from his birth ! 
 
 What pen, when this fearful discovery was made, could 
 depict the grief and agony of his distracted parents ? For 
 many weeks their sorrow was like that of those who are 
 without hope. Medical advice was immediately procured, and 
 every thing done that could in the remotest degree be supposed 
 capable of rendering the harmless creature any assistance. 
 Even the peasant doctor, with his hst of infallible herbs, and 
 the wise old woman, reported to be equally successful, were all 
 tried, but in vain. The hopes of his at all becoming rational 
 were gone for ever. 
 
 There are circumstances in which many persons hesitate not 
 to consider the death of those who are dear to them as a relief. 
 
306 A RECORD OF THE HEART; OR, 
 
 For some months after the heart-breaking fact was proved, 
 Wilson and his wife imagined that they would rather see their 
 son dead than hve through life a hapless idiot. An attack of 
 measles, however, soon taught them how httle they knew of 
 their own hearts. It was then that the pain he felt, but could 
 not express, drew about him a brooding tenderness, that 
 trembled, or we might rather say, shrank back into agony, at 
 the bare contemplation of his loss. 
 
 " Let him but be spared," said his mother ; "what is it after 
 all but to lead for so many years as God may allot him, a 
 harmless and happy life of childhood. If he is denied the use 
 of reason, he is saved from the responsibihty of sin and crime. 
 Are we not taught that of such as he is the kingdom of 
 heaven ?" 
 
 Indeed, it is very difficult to know the depths to which 
 affection reaches in the human heart. Mrs. Wilson had thought 
 it impossible that any circumstance could have increased that 
 which she felt for her boy, previous to the discovery of his 
 affecting infirmity. The love of a mother, however, becomes 
 strong in proportion to the claims of its object, which, indeed, 
 shows a beautiful economy in the arrangement of our moral 
 feehngs. A child, for instance, is loved with an affection pecu- 
 harly vigilant and cherishing, because its absolute dependence 
 on the parent renders this description of attachment not merely 
 necessary but delightful. In proportion, however, as it grows 
 up into manhood, the attachment which is felt for it, though 
 losing none of its strength, ceases to be characterized by the 
 gushes of tenderness and endearment, which are lavished upon 
 innocence and infancy. So was it with Mrs. Wilson, who now 
 unhappily aware that the helplessness of the poor boy was, as 
 she said, to extend through life, began to feel a new principle 
 of love spring up towards him, which was superinduced by the 
 incurable malady of his mind, and his utter dependence upon 
 her care and affection. 
 
 i 
 
THE parents' trial. 307 
 
 From little Alick's birth, until he was seized by the measles, 
 he never had a day's illness ; but now there was something in 
 the sickness and pain which the poor child felt so inexpressibly 
 touching, that very few could look on his sufferings, or hear 
 liis moans, with an unmoved heart. What, then, must not his 
 parents, whose love for him was such as the reader knows, have 
 felt? The doctor attended him every day; but, as for his 
 mother, she was never from beside his bed, day or night ; and' 
 indeed, if she only absented herself from the room, even for a 
 short time, his mild but languid eye would keep searching about 
 and exploring every corner, with an expression in it so full of 
 sorrow, and an affectionate longing for her appearance, that 
 notliing on earth could present a more affecting object of pity 
 and attachment. 
 
 One day, when he happened to be left accidentally alone by 
 the nurse who had charge of him, his mother stole hghtly to 
 the room door, as she was in the habit of doing, lest, should he 
 be asleep, the noise of her footsteps might awaken him. On 
 looking in, she perceived that there was no one in the room, 
 and paused a moment to ascertain, by the manner of his 
 breathing, if he were asleep. The child neither saw her, nor 
 could he have heard her foot. However, while Hstening, as we 
 have said, the words " Mamma, come — mamma, come," fell 
 faintly on her eai% for the poor tiling was not able, from ill- 
 ness, to utter them above his breath. She immediately went 
 over, and laying her head down beside his, spoke to him 
 tenderly ; he immediately raised his httle feverish hand, and 
 placing it on her neck, said, as if to himself, " now,'' intimating 
 his satisfaction at having her beside him. It is unnecessary to 
 say, that the sluices of the mother's grief were opened, cr that 
 her tears fell in showers upon Ms cheek. 
 
 Another incident, equally affecting, took place after he had 
 been for some days on the recovery. His father, notwith- 
 standing that he had the concerns of his farm to manage, went 
 
308 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 into the nursery several times every day to see him. On one 
 of those occasions, the child expressed, by his feeble gestures, 
 a wish that he would stoop down to him. He did so ; and the 
 poor boy's eyes expressed happiness. When the father, how- 
 ever, was about to withdraw himself, and leave him, the child, 
 looking upon him, uttered one word, which went to the 
 uttermost depths of his heart — " Stay !" 
 
 He stooped again, kissing him, not without tears, at this 
 pathetic instance of attachment, and, in a few minutes, the 
 affectionate innocent was asleep. 
 
 If this illness of the mindless boy made his parents feel what 
 a deep affliction his death would have been to them, his reco- 
 very, on the other hand, filled them with a satisfaction which, 
 in a great measure, reconciled them to his melancholy privation. 
 Henceforth he was watched, and cherished, and caressed by 
 his sisters, as a brother whom they ought to love and tend the 
 more, in consequence of his incapacity to take care of himself. 
 And, to render them their due, it is but just to say, that 
 nothing could surpass the unceasmg attention which they paid 
 him. He was the helpless one of the family — the centre of 
 all their affections — the innocent being whom every one was to 
 please, and none to offend. No matter what accident he might 
 have been the cause of — what little play-thing he broke, or 
 what command he transgressed, one word was sufficient for 
 all — " it was poor Alick." 
 
 His parents felt it as one great comfort, that, in liis idiocy, 
 there was nothing whatsoever that could be termed repulsive 
 or disgusting ; on the contrary, it was marked by a serene and 
 mild spirit, that breathed a melancholy beauty about his sweet 
 and inoffensive character. His face was pale, but his skin clear 
 and indicative of health ; his hair fair, and his blue eyes 
 remarkable for that innocent artlessness which is found often 
 to mark the expression of those unhappy beings who are born 
 with so faint a portion of the light of reason. But, though 
 
THE parents' trial. 309 
 
 healthy, the poor boy was of a slender make, and the feebleness 
 of his physical frame still knit him more closely into the hearts 
 of all those whose affections prompted them to guard him 
 against accident and danger. 
 
 Of all the members of liis family, however, there was none 
 perhaps so beloved by him as his little brother, companion, 
 and playfellow, Willy — nor any, I might add, who loved him 
 so well. They were inseparable — rising and lying down, 
 eating, sleeping, and playing together. Willy, though younger, 
 soon became his guide and his champion ; and an affecting 
 thing it was to see the little fellow resent and punish the 
 injuries rendered by their thoughtless or wicked playfellows 
 to his innocent and peaceful brother. A sense of this gradually 
 wrought itself into the unshaped principle of gratitude, which 
 lay at the sweet boy's heart, and brought out a trait of attach- 
 ment to his Httle brother, wliich, perhaps, was not felt for any 
 other person whatsoever. He therefore learned to depend 
 upon him, for, indeed, without him he could do nothing, and 
 would scarcely venture any where. Many a time have their 
 parents watched them — theu' hearts overflowing with affection 
 towards both, as, with their httle arms wi^eathed round each 
 other's necks, they walked about the lawn — a perfect hving 
 picture of love and affection. 
 
 Indeed, both parents were now, we might say, as much 
 resigned to the condition of their child, as it was possible, 
 under such circumstances, to be. Every httle incident con- 
 nected with the boy, and indeed with both, filled their hearts 
 with that enjoyment wliich love hke that they bore them can 
 extract from such details. If their father, for instance, hap- 
 pened to be absent, even in the fields, the moment they saw 
 him approach the house, both would run to meet him, and, 
 looking up to him with happy faces, each would thrust a httle 
 hand into his, and in this manner all would return to the 
 house, the dehghted parent hstening to their prattle, or 
 
310 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 attempting to answer queries which would often pose philo- 
 sophy herself to solve or unravel. 
 
 Little Alick's utterance had now become so distinct that he 
 could pronounce intelligibly enough, whilst, at the same time, 
 every word was marked by those balbutiae which hang about 
 the accents of childhood, and which also chng so frequently 
 through life to the imperfect enunciation which is found to 
 characterize natural weakness of intellect. This defect is 
 almost always apparent in the language of those who are born 
 without the faculty divine ; but it acts, at the same time, as 
 the exponent of their innocence, reminding those who might 
 thoughtlessly ridicule or harm them, that their hearts are as 
 infantine as their accents. Such as we have attempted to 
 describe was the gentle tenour of his happy life, which 
 resembled in some degree the beautiful strain of wild and 
 melancholy music which one often hears in a dream ; not that 
 it passed without those occurrences that are always magnified 
 by the heart, and which, when death removes those dear ob- 
 jects of our love, come back to the memory with a poignancy 
 that gives such a bitter and abiding character to our sorrow. 
 
 We shall recite a few of those little records of innocence, 
 and if they may appear unimportant to our readers, let them 
 reflect that they were not deemed so by the hearts to whom 
 our mindless boy was dear. And let such as have been bereft 
 of some beloved little one — perhaps the very star of their once 
 happy hearth, whose joyous voice is silent among them for 
 ever — let such we say, ask their teeming memories, whether 
 or not the shghtest incident that ever occurred to the departed 
 one, becomes not a matter of deep and cherished recollection 
 to the bruised heart. 
 
 There is scarcely any thing more likely to induce a belief in 
 the doctrine of Guardian Spirit*, than a consideration of the 
 many almost miraculous escapes wliich may be witnessed in 
 the lives of children. One of those which befel httle Ahck, we 
 
THE parents' trial. 311 
 
 shall mention. The day on which it occurred was warm and 
 sultry, the time being about the middle of June : he and Willy 
 had been out playing from about one to two o'clock, when liis 
 brother brought him home, for both got hungry, and wanted 
 bread and butter. In a short time his manly httle guardian, 
 overcome by heat and exercise, fell asleep, and the poor boy 
 sauntered out to amuse himself in a little sohtary ramble, as 
 he had been in the habit of doing only when any shght indis- 
 position or other cause prevented his brother from accom- 
 panying him. On his way to a pasture-field behind the 
 house, he met one of the serving-women, who wore a red 
 kerchief on her neck ; the boy was struck with it, and pointing 
 up to his own neck, asked her to put it on him. Every 
 member of the household felt a pleasm'e in complying with the 
 harmless wishes of the gentle creature, and she accordingly 
 took it off her own neck, and pinned it around his shoulders, 
 just as she herself had worn it. He immediately felt it with 
 apparent curiosity, and giving her a look indicative of the 
 pride and dehght of a cliild, held out his hand to her, which 
 he never did, unless when highly gratified. 
 
 '' Bessy is good, Willy," said he, and as he spoke he looked 
 about inquiringly, exclaiming, " Where is Willy ? Bessy is 
 good," said he, '' and when she grows big, me ^vill buy her a 
 watch" — a promise which his father was in the habit of making 
 to himself. He hngered about the lawn for some time, ad- 
 miring the gaudy colour of the kerchief, and feehng its textm'e, 
 when, passing through a gate which was accidentally and 
 neghgently left open, he entered an adjoining field, and 
 sauntered along, murmuring to himself, or addi'essing his httle 
 brother, and then starting with surprise on perceiving that he 
 was not with him. 
 
 Now it so happened that Wilson, anxious to improve the 
 breed of his cattle, had a few days before purchased a very 
 fine bull, wliich he ordered to be turned into the field in ques- 
 
312 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 tion. This animal, one known to entertain a tierce antipathy 
 against the colour of red, immediately on seeing the child pass 
 him, began to growl forth those low terrific bellowings which 
 indicate his rage, and to paw the ground, which he also tore 
 up with his thick strong horns ; his furious, but downcast eyes 
 glaring with actual fire, whilst the hot smoke rolled out in blue 
 volumes from his expanded nostrils. The caprices of such 
 innocents as Alick, and indeed of all children with respect to 
 then' play-things, are proverbial. At the very moment when 
 the enraged beast started at full speed for the child's destruc- 
 tion, and when to a spectator his life was absolutely beyond 
 hope or relief, he pulled off the kerchief, and throwing it from 
 him, wallced away without being even aware of his danger. The 
 animal, still attracted by the glare of the hated colour, turned 
 his rage upon the kerchief, which he gored and spurned and 
 trampled on, with a degree of fury that was appalling, when 
 we consider the helpless being, from whom the Providence of 
 God, through the instrumentality of so slight an incident, had 
 averted it. The screams of the female servant, the sole eye- 
 witness of this frightful occurrence, for she had been sent out 
 to seek him, were so loud and long, that the whole family ran 
 with horror to the gate which opened into the field where the 
 animal was kept. She had presence of mind, however, instantly 
 to undeceive them by saying he was safe; and his own appear- 
 ance at the gate, calm and placid as if nothing had happened, 
 gave them full assurance that with him all was well. In half 
 an hour afterwards the animal was shot, and Alick was watched 
 with a vigilance so acute, that out of his father's house he was 
 seldom or never afterwards suffered to be alone. 
 
 There were other instances of what might be termed Provi- 
 dential interposition in his behalf, equally striking, but it is 
 not our intention to dwell upon them as especial arguments 
 from which to draw particular inferences ; for we are well 
 aware that however the hand of God be visible in such occur- 
 
THE parents' trial. 313 
 
 rcnccs, they may by very plausible reasoning be also imputed 
 to the contingencies which arise'out of the innumerable variety 
 of incidents that meet and harmonize together, or clash hke 
 antagonist principles in life. 
 
 The next record, therefore, of the gentle boy, which we shall 
 put down, is one of a chfferent and much more pathetic descrip- 
 tion. His mother's love for him, as the reader abeady knows, 
 was in wakeful watchfulness and glowing tenderness of heart, 
 almost beyond the ordinary love of mothers, sweet and beauti- 
 ful as that most affectionate and divine principle is. She it 
 was, who with her own hands washed her helpless son, and 
 combed down his fair and sillven locks ; and having done this, 
 she looked upon the innocence with which he held up his hps 
 for the kiss which rewarded his patience, as her most dehght- 
 ful recompense. 
 
 It happened, however, that this mother, whom he loved with 
 an affection so wildly fervent and habitual, became ill, and after 
 having struggled for two or three days against a shght attack 
 of fever, was forced to intermit her labour of love, and allow 
 her darling child to be washed and combed by his eldest 
 sister, whom next to mamma and Willy he doated on. He 
 submitted to this, it is true, but it was with a countenance in 
 which could be plainly read the fact, that his gentle spirit 
 missed that tenderness of the mother's hand, which it is in 
 vain to seek for in any other — that mysterious charm which in 
 after life, and when that mother is in dust, comes over memory 
 hke a fragrance, and brings the heart back from present 
 misery, sorrow, and calamity, to those days of innocence and 
 happiness which make a mother's love shine as the only star 
 which can hght us back through the darkness of the past, to 
 those days which the bitter present turns into happiness by 
 the contrast. 
 
 This attack, which confined his mother to her bed for a few 
 days, proved to be one of no serious apprehension, either to 
 
314 A RECORD OF THE HEART; OR, 
 
 the physician who attended her, or to her own friends. Nothing 
 in hfe, however, could present a more affectionate, touching, 
 and melancholy proof of lonehness and sorrow, than the 
 conduct of tliis pitiable child. His daily amusements, his 
 play-things, nay, even his brother, Willy — all — all were for- 
 gotten, and the poor thing went about moping and speaking to 
 himself, and evidently unhappy ; his pale face was shaded with 
 care, and marked by a wild anxiety, which, when the cause 
 was known, scarcely any one could look upon with an insensible 
 heart. No matter to what part of the house he might be 
 brought, he was ere long found either in or near her sick 
 chamber, steahng to her side, or when gently intimidated from 
 entering it, watching about the door, or sitting speaking to 
 himself outside upon the lobby. On one of these occasions, 
 Wilson had gone up after breakfast to inquu*e after her health, 
 and finding her better, was about to depart, when he and his 
 wife heard his quiet and gentle tread coming up the stairs. 
 Having been previously forbidden, however, he feared to enter 
 the sick room, lest he might disturb her, but sat down upon 
 the lobby, and began, as usual, to murmur to himself. The 
 parents hstened, and in a httle time heard from him the fol- 
 lowing words — and what heart, much less that of a parent, 
 could withstand them : — 
 
 " Me would give any ting, any ting — me would give the 
 WHOLE WORLD, if my mamma was well !" 
 
 The mother started up and extended her arms, sobbing out, 
 "Bring him to me — bring him to me." The father did so, 
 and after having pressed him to her heart, and bedewed liis 
 pale face with tears, she exclaimed — 
 
 "My darling child — our helpless one — our delight — our 
 treasure, I am well. Your mamma, my blessed boy, is well." 
 
 " Then, won't you wash and comb me, mamma ?" 
 
 " Yes, darhng, to-morrow I shall be able, I trust." 
 
 " And you will kiss me, mamma, too ?" 
 
THE parents' trial. 315 
 
 " Yes, my heart, yes." 
 
 *' Then, me will go and tell Willy that mamma will wash and 
 kiss me again,'' he exclaimed; and, as he spoke, he passed 
 gently out of the room to seek his brother, and communicate 
 to him the removal of the care which had for the last few days 
 pressed upon his innocent spu'it. 
 
 Many a bitter tear did these words cause that mamma to 
 shed, long after his beloved face and fair sliining head had 
 been removed from among the cu'cle, which his affection had 
 drawn round him. 
 
 It was also on an occasion similar to the last, that is, a 
 transient indisposition of his mamma, that the circumstance we 
 are about to relate occurred. His father, until her conva- 
 lescence, slept in another apartment, and, as a gratification to 
 the two boys, he proposed that they should sleep with him 
 alternately. He also made this concession a privilege, and told 
 them that if either of them did wrong, or were guilty of any 
 impropriety, the offender should be debarred the right of 
 enjoying it. AHck, as the eldest, had liis claim first granted, 
 and a singular dehght it seemed to give the child. He kissed 
 his papa — laughed often — murmm'ed httle words and frag- 
 ments of short sentences, which nobody understood but himself 
 and liis brother ; and finally fell asleep, singing a httle nursery 
 song, which one of his sisters had a few days before taught 
 him. On the following day, he asked his mamma — for during 
 her indisposition he was always either in her room or near it — 
 if she would give liim a penny. 
 
 " What do you intend to do with it, darhng ?" she inquu'ed. 
 
 " It's about papa," he said, nodding with a smile, which 
 seemed to indicate some httle plan or mystery. 
 
 " Well, I will not inquire," added his mother ; " but you 
 shall have it, my hfe." She accordingly rang the bell, and 
 desired a servant to get him the penny, which he could not be 
 prevailed upon to take unless in two halfpence. 
 
316 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 When bed-time arrived, his father was not a httle surprised 
 to see the poor cliild struggHng, with a singular degree of haste, 
 to anticipate his brother in claiming his right of sleeping where 
 he had slept the night before. The father was struck with 
 this, and knowmg that in point of fact the cliild was wrong, he 
 began to reason with him as well as he could. 
 
 " It is not your night, my dear Ahck — this is Willy's night." 
 
 *' No, papa, me bought it — Willy has the two " 
 
 " Two what, my darling ?" 
 
 But ere the father, or his httle brother could speak, he got 
 into bed, and said, " Me bought it, papa, and Willy has them," 
 and he put his little arms about his father's neck. The father 
 was anxious to understand the principles upon which the child 
 acted, and consequently asked his brother if he understood 
 what Alick said, when the Httle fellow replied at once that he 
 did not. 
 
 " Me bought it, papa," said the child, and^ he clasped his 
 father still closer ; " me paid it in Willy's pocket." 
 
 " What did you pay, my darling ?" said the father, without 
 actually knowing the poor boy's meaning. 
 
 " Me paid two httle pennies, papa — not a big penny — into 
 Willy's pocket — he buy powder for his cannon, me sleep with 
 papa." 
 
 Upon examining the pockets of his Httle brother, it was 
 found that the innocent creature thought he had gained his 
 point, by slipping unawares into them what he considered to be 
 an equivalent for the privilege of sleeping with liis father — 
 that is, the two halfpence which he had asked for that especial 
 purpose from his mother. The affecting plea succeeded on that 
 occasion, for his little brother had been taught to make every 
 concession to him, and his father clasped him with a more fer- 
 vent pressure to his heart, in consequence of the artless trick 
 through which the dear child attempted to outdo his brother, 
 by a bargain, which his want of intellect only, rendered incom- 
 
THE parents' trial. 317 
 
 patible with moral truth. It was quite evident that the poor 
 boy, by putting, without liis brother's knowledge, the two 
 halfpence into his pocket, had accomphshed, upon his own 
 harmless and innocent system, the bargain which experience 
 and common sense would manage in a different manner. Such 
 was the reasoning of a disorganized head ; but who could avoid 
 being touched by the motives of the heart ? 
 
 Thus was it that a calamity so distressing as that to which 
 the serene and harmless child was born, by degrees changed its 
 character so much, in consequence of the love his parents, and 
 sisters, and brother bore him, that it almost ceased to be looked 
 upon as such. The quiet inoffensive child was emphatically 
 the pet of the whole family ; and not a day passed that had not 
 its loving records of what he either did or said. In this manner 
 not only did time pass happily, but we may add that the very 
 existence of the boy had now become, from the habits of their 
 strong affection for him, essential to the happiness they felt. 
 We have now arrived, however, at the period, when all the 
 hearts that loved him were to be overshadowed by his loss — 
 when the lengthened cliildhood of their gentle and innocent boy 
 was to close — and his murmuring voice and quiet smile, and 
 flaxen head were all to be seen and heard no more. No more 
 were his Httle plans of love to be effected — or his httle barter- 
 ings with his brother to take place ; and never again was liis 
 timid step to be heard stealing in artless sorrow and sympathy 
 to the sick bed of his mother, whom, in his innocence, he 
 thought liis kiss might cure. 
 
 At the beginning of spring, about liis eighth year, the malady 
 which took him off appeared in the family. This was the 
 scarlatina, or red devil, as it ought more appropriately to be 
 called. At first it came upon aU the cliildren except himself, 
 whom it seemed to spare. This was, however, a treacherous 
 indulgence, and its subsequent attack on their favourite, just 
 when all the others had got over it, was felt with the greater 
 
318 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 severity, in consequence of their previous hope that he had 
 escaped it. His mother at the time was confined to her bed ; 
 but hearing that her boy had caught it, and that he dechned 
 receiving attendance from any hand but hers, she rose up as if 
 she possessed the power of checking or shaking off the com- 
 plaint she laboured under, and from that moment, until her 
 beloved breathed his last, a space of eight days and eight 
 nights, she lay not on a bed, closed not an eye even for one 
 moment, nor ever once complained of, or felt any symptoms of 
 her own illness.* All her sufferings — every thought and feel- 
 ing of her heart were absorbed in the sufferings of her gentle 
 child. Such was, and such is the love of a mother. There she 
 sat, or stood, bending over his bed, assuaging his pain as well 
 as she could, anticipating his wants, administering his medicine, 
 and holding the drink to his feverish lips, — watching, cherish- 
 ing, soothing him — exhausting, in short, all the ingenious 
 devices of affection, and fighting his battle against this most 
 formidable malady. For four days the doctor, a talented and 
 humane man, felt himself justified in affording them hope, but 
 on the fifth, their pale, clear-skinned boy was actually the 
 colour of scarlet. The doctor shook his head — recovery, it is 
 true, if the child's physical strength were greater, might be 
 possible ; but in this case, he feared for the result. Still he 
 would not absolutely give him up ; though at the same time he 
 considered it his duty to bid them, at all events, to hold them- 
 selves prepared for the worst. 
 
 Language could not describe the sorrow and despair which 
 settled upon the whole family, when they heard this unfavour- 
 able opinion of his medical attendant. The fact of the other 
 children having been so slightly affected, prevented his parents, 
 who had never seen the complaint before, from entertaining any 
 serious apprehensions of Ahck. On the contrary, they imagined 
 
 * Let no one doubt this, for it is true. 
 
THE parents' trial. 319 
 
 that, as in the other cases, it would come to a crisis, then abate, 
 and in the course of a few days aUogether disappear — leaving 
 their guarded treasure enfeebled, it is true, and helpless for a 
 time, but still with a constitution not seriously injured by his 
 illness. Nay, they were not without some latent hopes — and 
 how delightful were these hopes ! — that it might be possible for 
 the child's intellect to be developed by that organic change in 
 the brain, which sometimes results from violent and temporary 
 disease, in such a manner as to restore reason, after its exercise 
 had been even for a considerable time suspended. After two 
 days more, it was quite clear that the doctor entertained no 
 hope of liim, and dreadful and terrible did this heart-breaking 
 announcement come upon them all. Not that they absolutely 
 despaired of him, for truly may it be said — as it was felt in 
 this instance, that love will hope when the very quiver of death 
 is trembhng in the heart of those it loves. 
 
 Nothing, however, which we could write, can give the reader 
 such a clear and affecting account of this innocent death-bed, 
 as the short journal, written at his bed-side, by his mother, of 
 his sufferings, and of the affliction into which the certainty that 
 he was to be taken away for ever, plunged them all. This 
 affecting record of the innocent's last moments, commenced on 
 the very day the doctor told them to be prepared for the 
 worst, just forty-eight hours before his death. It is an artless 
 one, and the minuteness of the details will be easily overlooked 
 by those who have lost, or who fear to lose any child that 
 is dear to them, " as the ruddy di^ops that warm their 
 hearts." 
 
 "April 15, ten o'clock, a. m. — The doctor has this day 
 forbidden us to hope, but we know that God of liis infinite 
 mercy can restore our innocent child, if it seem good to him. 
 I have, since the appearance of the complaint among us, heard 
 of children recovering after a more mahgnant attack, and more 
 unfavourable symptoms than his. But lest it should be the 
 
320 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 will of the Almighty to remove him, I am resolved to mark 
 down a register of our darling's pains and sufferings, and of 
 every thing connected with liim, in order that when he is gone, 
 we can bring him back to our memory, during the most affecting 
 period of his brief but happy life. May God support me, and 
 sustain us all ; but surely when we feel that he is about to be 
 withdrawn from us, this grief is natural. The doctor says the 
 worst symptom about the dear one, is the heavy feverish look 
 that is in his eyes. Heavy indeed is the look of my beloved, 
 and loaded with sickness, yet has he moments when he wishes 
 to talk with his brother, and to have him about him. His 
 eldest sister, to whom he was so much attached, is, now that 
 she has heard the doctor's opinion, weeping bitterly in her own 
 room, kissing his Httle coat, and pressing every part of his 
 di'ess to her heart. She told Willy that his brother was going 
 to die, and asked him, whilst she sobbed aloud, what would he 
 do after his little play-fellow? The innocent child replied, 
 that he would not let him die. *Alas, my darhng,' she 
 returned, ' I fear that in spite of papa and mamma and all, 
 death will take him.' 
 
 " ' But I will kill death,' said the manly little child. His 
 sister kissed liim, but only wept the more. 
 
 " Twelve o'clock. — Alick is awake, and seems a httle easier. 
 He is now arranging his little play-things about his pillow, and 
 has two small tops, one his own and the other Willy's, wliich 
 he made a present of to him yesterday. There is also his 
 whip, three halfpence, and a little thin bottle, in which his 
 brother put some sweetmeats, that he might be able to see 
 their variegated colours through the glass — a sight in which 
 he takes great delight. There the beloved child lies arranging 
 them as well as he can ; whilst ever and anon his heavy eye 
 turns round to see that / am with Mm ; he then calls mamma, 
 and when I ask him what he wants, he looks at me and smiles, 
 feebly saying, ' Do not leave me.' 
 
THE parents' trial. 321 
 
 " Oh how will my heart part with him ? How can 1 give 
 him up ! Am not I his mother ? Sustain — sustain me, O 
 God! 
 
 " Two o'clock, p. M. — His brother has come to his bed-side, 
 and he seems pleased to see him. He has given him his httle 
 top, saying, ' Keep my top, Willy.' 
 
 '' ' Sure you wouldn't die and leave me, Alick,' said the 
 innocent child. 'No, Willy,' he replied; but he knows not 
 what either the question or answer means. Oh tliis is almost 
 too much for my heart ! 
 
 " At first, none except his eldest sister was told^that he must 
 die, but her affectionate heart was too full to keep the secret — 
 alas ! I fear it cannot be long one — from the rest. They 
 have all come in one by one to kiss him, and are now weeping 
 bitterly together in the parlom% with the exception of his 
 brother, who is incapable of understanding what is meant by 
 dying. But hush ! I hear his father's cautious step upon the 
 stairs, and oh how I tremble on thinking of the love which 
 that father bore him ; but our sweet one is awake, and is 
 always glad and happy when he sees him. * * * 
 
 " The visit to his child has been paid, and the father's grief 
 appears ungovernable. Alas ! we never lost a child before, 
 and grief is new to us. His father appears to be utterly with- 
 out comfort ; he cannot eat, not attend to the concerns of his 
 farm, nor to any business whatsoever. But I knew it would be 
 thus, for I knew how he loved him. He tried to restrain his 
 grief as much as he could, but it occasionally burst forth in 
 spite of him. The dear child, who never saw him weep before, 
 looked at him with an expression of wonder that showed him 
 to be unconscious of the cause of his father's sorrow — a cu'cum- 
 stance which only increased it the more. It would appear, 
 however, that in some measure the beloved child feels as if his 
 present situation were connected with the affliction of the family, 
 for when asked how he is, he uniformly rephes, ' better.' But 
 
 Y 
 
322 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 indeed the natural gentleness and kindness of his disposition 
 were always remarkable. 
 
 " His father, who thinks of a thousand ways to please him, 
 put into his Httle hands a silver sixpence, fresh and ghttering 
 from the mint ; he gave a faint smile as he looked upon his 
 father, and said in a low and feeble voice, ' Thank you, papa.' 
 He examined it a good while, much pleased, and has it still in 
 his hand. 
 
 " His father, when about to leave the room, turned to me, 
 his countenance beaming for a moment with unexpected hope 
 — ' What,' he exclaimed, ' if he should still live ! I care not if 
 all my worldly substance is taken away, provided that he and 
 they are spared to me. I would rather beg with him' — he 
 could add no more, for he caught the heavy and death-hke 
 expression of the child's eye, and rushed out of the room. 
 The poor child is quiet, as he always was, and gives but httle 
 trouble. 
 
 *•' Nine o'clock at night. — His father has caused a consul- 
 tation to be held, and the opinion is that he will not pass 
 twelve o'clock to-morrow night. I can scarcely keep his 
 sisters from weeping over him, and oppressing him with their 
 kisses. My darling's utterance is so low that he can scarcely 
 be heard, and so infantine that he speaks (when he attempts to 
 speak), as a child of two years old. Life is ebbing fast, and he 
 can do little more than moan lowly, and make signs to express 
 his little wants. When I give him a drink, he turns his eyes 
 up into my face with thankfulness, and then lays down his 
 head so quietly and composedly upon the pillow, that my 
 heart is sorely tried to look upon it. 
 
 " Midnight. — His father has just looked in, for he cannot 
 sleep, and stood over his bed. The child is sleeping! — oh, 
 who can tell what this short sleep may do for him ? Should 
 he, after all, recover ! But this is a hope in which I fear to 
 indulge, because of what we must suffer, should it prove ill 
 
THE PAKENTS* TUIAL. 323 
 
 founded ; still, it looks well, for he has had no sleep for the 
 last three days and nights. God, after all, can prove a safe 
 physician, when all human aid fails. No ! I will not despair — 
 while there is hfe, there is hope. His father joins me in this, 
 and is in much better spirits. I have prevailed upon him to 
 go to bed, on promising to call him, should any change for 
 the worse take place. 
 
 " Two o'clock, A. M. — I have heard an account of a singular 
 circumstance about our beloved from the children. It appears 
 that, a few hours before he was seized with the first symptoms 
 of his illness, he was out in the garden playing with his sisters 
 and brother. The day was calm and bright, and the sky 
 unusually clear. The dear child looked up into the sky, for a 
 minute, during which he mused in silence, and at once ap- 
 peared to forget the play in which he was engaged ; at length 
 he said, addi^essing them, and pointing upwards with his finger, 
 * Isn't there heaven ? ' To wliich they replied in the affirma- 
 tive. ' Then,' said he, ' me wiU get wings, and fly up, and go 
 to heaven, and me will never come down any more.'* In less 
 than two hours after this, my child was obhged to go to bed. 
 Is it possible that God permits, in some cases, an unconscious 
 but prophetic intimation of death to escape from the lips of 
 innocence, in order to prepare the hearts of others for its loss? 
 I cannot tell; but I feel that there is something pecuharly 
 awful and holy, as well as heart-rending and sorrowful, about 
 the death-bed of a child. Children leave behind them no sense 
 or conviction of guilt or crime to check our grief, nor any 
 other remembrance of them in our souls, than such as are 
 associated with purity and innocence : theu* loss, therefore, is 
 never properly appreciated, until we either lose or are about 
 to lose them for ever. One of the most affecting passages in 
 the New Testament is this : ' Suffer little children to come to 
 me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' 
 
 •Fact. 
 
324 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 " Four o'clock. — My child is awake, and, eternal glory be 
 to God ! he is much, very much better ; appears refreshed, 
 and asks for some food. The whole family are asleep, even to 
 the poor nurse, who sits up to prepare the drinks, which he 
 will take from no hand but mine. I will not disturb them ; 
 yet my heart is bursting to communicate to them the good 
 tidings of this change for the better. Oh, if he should still be 
 spared to us ! Thou seest, God of all goodness, that the 
 tears I now shed are those of gratitude for the change which 
 is on my beloved. Is he to live? — oh, the thought is too 
 
 much — I cannot write. 
 
 * ***** 
 
 " Six o'clock, morning. — They are all up. His papa has 
 been in and kissed him, and is in ecstacy. The darling child 
 has never let the little bright silver sixpence out of his hand 
 since he got it. They have all kissed him, and all are in a 
 tumult of joy and hope. My own heart trembles between hope 
 and fear ; but indeed hope is the stronger. Why should he 
 get better now, unless the change was that of a crisis which 
 will bring him, by degrees, out of the danger in which he has 
 been ? He is actually amusing himself once more with his 
 little play-things — has Willy's top in his hand, and asks to see 
 his father. He is now turning the little silver sixpence, and 
 looking upon it with a kind of novel dehght. When our 
 darling speaks, however, we are obliged to put down our 
 ears to his hps, for his voice and enunciation are gone. He 
 wants something, but still looks upon the bright sixpence. 
 ' What is it, my heart's treasure ? ' 
 
 " ' Papa.' 
 
 " ' I have sent for him, sweetest life.' Oh, may God pity 
 that papa, if any thing happens you, my darling love ! 
 
 " His father is bending over him. — ' What is it, my own 
 sweet and darling child ? Did you not wish for papa, my own 
 heart's dehght?' 
 
THE parents' trial. 325 
 
 *' The child held up the little sixpence to him, with some- 
 thing nearer a smile than his illness for the last four days 
 would allow him. He held it up, and spoke, but his father 
 was still obliged to put down his ear to his mouth, in order 
 to hear what he said. It was, as before, glancing from the 
 sixpence to his father. ' Thank you, papa.' * * * 
 Such was the affectionate heart of our beloved ! 
 
 " Twelve o'clock, noon. — All glory be to God ! The doctor 
 has been with him, — says he is decidedly better. Wine, a 
 httle, is ordered — as our darhng's physical constitution, though 
 healthy, has been always weak. He can, however, taste nothing, 
 and will taste nothing, but two-milk whey. His father, on his 
 recovery, has expressed his intention to bestow a large sum for 
 the supjjort of orphans, who, of course, have none but strangers 
 to attend them in their illness. There is something now tells 
 me, however — for say what they will, and think what they 
 may — / see that my beloved's strength is wearing away fast ; 
 but why should I deprive them of a glimpse of happiness ; — 
 but something tells me that the last sands of our beloved are 
 nearly run. 
 
 " Evening, nine o'clock. — Am / also to hope ? Joy is among 
 them all ; but / am with him every moment ; and I fear — yet 
 am not altogether without hope — watching and sorrow may 
 have naturally depressed my spirits more than theirs — 7io I 
 am not without hope. 
 
 " Eleven o'clock. — Oh, God, that has happened which almost, 
 if any thing could reconcile me to his death, would. The child 
 turned round his head, and, observing our Bible — the family 
 Bible — in which the births of all our children are registered — 
 expressed, by signs, a wish to his father that he would bring 
 it to him. Rapturously, and with intense dehght, did he 
 comply with this intimation of the darling boy. The child, on 
 getting it into the bed, signed to us to raise him ; and his 
 father put his arm around him, and kept him easily up. "With 
 
326 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 difficulty he got his feeble hands to the book, but could not, 
 from weakness, open it. His father opened it for him ; and 
 he put his slender finger to the print, and moved it as if he were 
 reading — then tried to turn over a leaf, wliich was instantly- 
 done for him, and he went on still moving his blessed lips, as 
 if reading ; he then turned up his eyes towards heaven, as he 
 had seen us do, and fell back." ***** 
 
 The mother — the patient, but heart-broken mother, could 
 carry her little register of love, in which there is not one 
 allusion to her own suffering, no farther ; but we, who know 
 what happened, must complete it for her. 
 
 Their beloved one fell back, but did not immediately pass 
 away. He attempted many little words, among which were 
 uttered those of Mamma, Papa, and Willy, with great feeble- 
 ness. Every moment, however, brought him nearer and 
 nearer to his close. His mother's arms were about him, and 
 all the family surrounding his bed, when, at one o'clock of " the 
 Resurrection morn," for it was Easter night — the gentle, the 
 loved one, the bright and fair haired, the cherished, the 
 guarded, the innocent, the helj^less — in a word, the dim but 
 ever unclouded star of their hearth, and, what is still more, the 
 idol of his father's heart — and yet stronger, of his mother's — 
 laid back his head, with a gentle motion, as if going to sleep — 
 but one or two gasps that heaved up his httle chest more than 
 usual, passed away, and there was a silence. They waited a 
 time — they raised his head — it fell back ; they felt his pulse — 
 there was none ; they laid him down — they looked upon his 
 motionless and placid face ***** 
 
 " You are — you are his mother ! Watching liim and tend- 
 ing him, and want of rest, have overcome you for a little — 
 you fainted ; but you know he is in heaven. My darling, do 
 not ask it ; you know he cannot speak to you now. Alas ! he 
 knows no mother now — no father — no sister — no brother : all 
 the ties of his life are dissolved for ever." 
 
THE parents' TI{IAL. 327 
 
 At leno'tli her o-rief exhausted itself, and nature, sorrow, the 
 illness she had warded off, together with want of sleep for 
 eight days and eight nights — all overcame her, and she slept 
 soundly for some hours on that melancholy night. 
 
 His father had caused all the family to retire to bed except 
 the servants, and was pacing in utter distraction through the 
 room, when one of them entered, and related the following, 
 with tears in her eyes — for dear indeed was the inoffensive 
 boy to every individual who knew him. 
 
 She said, that at the moment he breathed his last, she and 
 another female servant, together with his eldest daughter, had 
 been in the parlour, where a pair of candles were burning ; 
 the parlour door was open — when, visible to the three persons, 
 a snow-white dove or pigeon flew in, and crossed the room to 
 one of the windows, through which it passed hke a shadow, 
 without let or obstruction, although the window was closed.* 
 Subsequently her fellow-servant on being questioned, cor- 
 roborated the fact, as did his daughter, who solemnly assured 
 him, not only that she saw it most distinctly, but went imme- 
 diately to the window to ascertain whether any part of it were 
 open, and upon examination found that it was shut. This is 
 no fiction, conceived merely for the purpose of giving effect to 
 an imaginary narrative, but a literal fact, which was proved by 
 the collateral evidence of three persons, who witnessed it at the 
 same time, and in the same place. 
 
 Wilson was then plunged in affliction too violent to pause 
 upon a circumstance so singular, except only as it served to 
 increase his grief. HaA-ing ordered the servants to seek rest, 
 he indulged in all the vehemence of sorrow over his child ; but 
 alas, there was no eye then to turn up in affection upon him — 
 no faint smile to move those innocent lips — no little hand to 
 thrust affectionately into his — and no soft sweet voice of joy to 
 
 * An unquestionable fact, and was witnessed as above by the three persons 
 mentioned. We give it TNithout comment. 
 
328 A RECORD OF THE HEART ; OR, 
 
 utter, or to call his name ; and deep and terrible was the grief 
 which stunned his head and shook his heart, as if both it and 
 his brain would burst in pieces. 
 
 ''My son! my son!" he exclaimed, whilst his sobs almost 
 choked him, "for this one night we will sleep together — no 
 artless bribe to your brother is necessary now. Next your 
 papa's heart, and in your papa's bosom, will you rest this 
 night — the last, my angel boy, we can never sleep together." 
 
 It is literally true. The next morning about five o'clock, 
 the servants, and subsequently his wife and daughters, found 
 him asleep with the body of liis lifeless boy in his bosom, their 
 two cheeks reclining against each other as they lay. 
 
 But perhaps the most trying scene of this melancholy little 
 narrative, was that which occurred soon afterwards, when his 
 brother Willy came into the room and saw him — dead. He 
 paused, and started, and got pale ; then went over, and putting 
 his hand upon him said, " Alick, Alick, speak to me !" To 
 those who looked on, the utter silence, the solemn stillness of 
 death which succeeded this heart-rending question, constituted 
 perhaps the bitterest moment of their sorrow. 
 
 " Alick," he said again, and the child's hp began to quiver 
 with emotion, " won't you speak to rae — to your own Willy ?" 
 
 But there, in the calm repose of the dead, lay the serene 
 face of his now unconscious brother and play-fellow. 
 
 The affectionate child could bear no more — and the wail of 
 his grief, as he kissed him, and called loudly upon his name, 
 had in it a desolateness of spirit, which smote the hearts of his 
 parents beyond the power of language to express, and of many 
 hearts to conceive. 
 
 Thus passed and closed the life of a happy, but mindless 
 child ; such too were the last moments of — as was read with 
 bitterness upon his little coffin — Alexander Wilson, aged eight 
 years. 
 
 And what, the gentle reader may inquire, became of the 
 
THE parents' trial. 329 
 
 little sixpence which he always kept in his hand ? Ever since 
 the day on which his body was committed to the darkness of 
 the grave, it has lain next his father's sorrowing heart ; nor 
 could the wealth of the universe purchase this precious relic 
 from him. 
 
 In the neat parish church there is at present to be seen a 
 small white marble monument, on the top of which, as an 
 emblem at once of his unhappy privation, and his innocence, 
 is a sightless dove, underneath which there is nothing but his 
 name and that of his parents. 
 
 About a week after his death, his father observed to a 
 friend, during a conversation, of which the departed child was 
 the subject — " My mind was in a sinful and contumacious state 
 for some time before the dear boy's birth. Well — I am 
 punished. Alas, my friend, the truth I am about to utter I 
 now feel deeply. There can be no greater act of impiety 
 towards God, in a rational mind, than a conditional faith. 
 Such was not Abraham's, whose child was spared to him in 
 consequence of his obedience. As for me," — but here his grief 
 overcame him, and he burst into tears, exclaiming — " Yes — I 
 am punished — Alick's gone!'' 
 
THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 AN IRISH LEGEND. 
 
 In ancient times there lived a man called Billy Duffy, and he 
 was known to be a great rogue. They say he was descended 
 from the family of the Duffys, which was the reason, I suppose, 
 of his carrying their name upon him. 
 
 Billy, in his youthful days, was the best hand at doing 
 nothing in all Europe ; devil a mortal could come next or near 
 him at idleness; and, in consequence of his great practice that 
 way, you may be sure that if any man could make a fortune 
 by it he would have done it. 
 
 Billy was the only son of his father, barring two daughters ; 
 but they have nothing to do with the story I'm telling you. 
 Indeed it was kind father and grandfather for Billy to be 
 handy at the knavery as well as at the idleness ; for it was well 
 known that not one of their blood ever did an honest act, 
 except with a roguish intention. In short, they were altogether 
 a dacent connexion, and a credit to the name. As for Billy, 
 all the villany of the family, both plain and ornamental, came 
 down to liim by way of legacy ; for it so happened that the 
 father, in spite of all his cleverness, had nothing but' his 
 roguery to lave him. 
 
 Billy, to do him justice, improved the fortune he got : every 
 day advanced him farther into dishonesty and poverty, until, 
 at the long run, he was acknowledged on all hands to be the 
 complatest swindler and the poorest vagabond in the whole 
 parish. 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. 331 
 
 Billy's father, in his young days, had often been forced to 
 acknowledge the inconvenience of not having a trade, in con- 
 sequence of some nice point in law, called the " Vagrant Act," 
 that sometimes troubled him. On this account he made up bis 
 mind to give Bill an occupation, and he accordingly bound him 
 to a blacksmith ; but wdiether Bill was to live or die hj forgery 
 was a puzzle to his father, — though the neighbours said that 
 both was most likely. At all events, he was put apprentice to 
 a smith for seven years, and a hard card his master had to 
 play in managing him. He took the proper method, however ; 
 for Bill was so lazy and roguish that it would vex a saint to 
 keep him in order. 
 
 " Bill," says his master to him one day that he had been 
 sunning himself about the ditches, instead of minding his 
 business, " Bill, my boy, I'm vexed to the heart to see you in 
 such a bad state of health. You're very ill with that complaint 
 called an All-overness ; however," says he, " I think I can cure 
 you. Nothing will bring you about but three or four sound 
 doses, every day, of a medicine called 'the oil o' the hazel.' 
 Take the first dose now" says he ; and he immediately banged 
 him with a hazel cudgel until Bill's bones ached for a week 
 afterwards. 
 
 " If you were my son," said his master, " I tell you, that, 
 as long as I could get a piece of advice growing convenient in 
 the hedges, I'd have you a different youth from what you are. 
 If working was a sin. Bill, devil an innocenter boy ever broke 
 bread than you would be. Good people's scarce you think ; 
 but however that may be, I throw it out as a hint, that you 
 must take your medicine till you're cured, whenever you 
 happen to get unwell in the same way." 
 
 From this out he kept Bill's nose to the grinding-stone, and 
 whenever his complaint returned, he never failed to give him 
 a hearty dose for his improvement. 
 
 In the course of time, however, Bill was his own man and 
 
332 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 his own master ; but it would puzzle a saint to know whether 
 the master or the man was the more precious youth in the 
 eyes of the world. 
 
 He immediately married a wife, and devil a doubt of it, but 
 if lie kept her in whiskey and sugar, she kept him in hot 
 water. Bill drank and she drank ; Bill fought and she fought; 
 Bill was idle and she was idle ; Bill whacked her and she 
 whacked Bill. If Bill gave her one black eye, she gave him 
 another ; just to keep herself in countena^ice. Never was there 
 a blessed pair so well met ; and a beautiful sight it was to see 
 them both at breakfast-time bhnking at each other across the 
 potato-basket, Bill with his right eye black, and she with her 
 left. 
 
 In short, they were the talk of the whole town : and to see 
 Bill of a morning staggering home drunk, his shirt-sleeves 
 rolled up on his smutted arms, his breast open, and an old 
 tattered leather apron, with one corner tucked up under his 
 belt, singing one minute, and fighting with his wife the next ; — 
 she, reehng beside him, with a discoloured eye, as aforesaid, a 
 dirty ragged cap on one side of her head, a pair of Bill's old 
 slippers on her feet, a squalUng brat on her arm, — now 
 cuffing and dragging Bill, and again kissing and hugging 
 him ! yes, it was a pleasant picture to see this loving pair in 
 such a state ! 
 
 This might do for a wliile, but it could not last. They were 
 idle, drunken, and ill-conducted ; and it was not to be supposed 
 that they would get a farthing candle on their words. They 
 were of course dhruv to great straits ; and faith, they soon 
 found that their fighting, and drinking, and idleness made 
 them the laughing-sport of the neighbours ; but neither 
 brought food to their childhre, put a coat upon their backs, nor 
 satisfied their landlord when he came to look for his own. 
 Still the never a one of Bill but was a funny fellow with 
 strangers, though, as we said, the greatest rogue unhanged. 
 
AN IKISH LEGEND. 333 
 
 One day he was standing against his own anvil, completely 
 in a brown study, — being brought to his wit's end how to 
 make out a breakfast for the family. The wife was scolding 
 and cursing in the house, and the naked creatures of childhre 
 squalling about her knees for food. Bill was fairly at an 
 amplush, and knew not where or how to turn himself, when a 
 poor withered old beggar came into the forge, tottering on his 
 staff. A long white beard fell from Ms chin, and he looked so 
 thin and hungry that you might blow him, one would think, 
 over the house. Bill at this moment had been brought to his 
 senses by distress, and his heart had a touch of pity towards 
 the old man ; for, on looking at him a second time, he clearly 
 saw starvation and sorrow in his face. 
 " God save you, honest man !" said Bill. 
 The old man gave a sigh, and raising liimself, with great 
 pain, on his staff, he looked at Bill in a very beseeching way. 
 " Musha, God save you kindly!" says he; "maybe you 
 could give a poor, hungry, helpless ould man a mouthful of 
 something to ait ? You see yourself I'm not able to work ; if 
 I was, I'd scorn to be behoulding to any one." 
 
 "Faith, honest man," said Bill, "if you knew who you're 
 speaking to, you'd as soon ask a monkey for a churn-staff as 
 me for either mate or money. There's not a blackguard in the 
 three kingdoms so fairly on the shaughran as I am for both 
 the one and the other. The wife within is sending the curses 
 tliick and heavy on me, and the cliildhre's playing the 'cat's 
 melody to keep her in comfort. Take my word for it, poor 
 man, if I had either mate or money I'd help you, for I know 
 particularly well what it is to want them at the present spak- 
 ing ; an empty sack won't stand, neighbour." 
 
 So far Bill told him truth. The good thought was in liis 
 heart, because he found himself on a footing with the beggar ; 
 and notliing brings down pride, or softens the heart, like feel- 
 ing what it is to want. 
 
334 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 " Why you are in a worse state than I am," said the old 
 man ; " you have a family to provide for, and I have only 
 myself to support." 
 
 " You may kiss the book on that, my old worthy," repUed 
 Bill ; " but come, what I can do for you I will ; plant yourself 
 up here beside the fire, and I'll give it a blast or two of my 
 bellows that will warm the old blood in your body. It's a 
 cold, miserable, snowy day, and a good heat will be of service." 
 
 " Thank you kindly," said the old man ; I am cold, and a 
 warming at your fire will do me good, sure enough. Oh, it is 
 a bitter, bitter day, God bless it I" 
 
 He then sat down, and Bill blew a rousing blast that soon 
 made the stranger edge back from the heat. In a short time 
 he felt quite comfortable, and when the numbness was taken 
 out of his joints, he buttoned himself up and prepared to depart. 
 
 '' Now," says he to Bill, " you hadn't the food to give me, 
 but what you could you did. Ask any three wishes you choose, 
 and be they what they may, take my word for it, they shall 
 be granted." 
 
 Now, the truth is, that Bill, though he believed himself a 
 great man in point of 'cuteness, wanted, after all, a full quarter 
 of being square ; for there is always a great difference between 
 a wise man and a knave. Bill was so much of a rogue that he 
 could not, for the blood of him, ask an honest wish, but stood 
 scratching his head in a puzzle. 
 
 " Three wishes !" said he. " Why, let me see — did you say 
 three r 
 
 " Ay," replied the stranger, " three wishes — that was what 
 I said." 
 
 "Well," said Bill, "here goes, — aha! — let me alone, my 
 old worthy ! — faith I'll over-reach the parish, if what you say 
 is true. I'll cheat them in dozens, rich and poor, old and 
 young; let me alone, man, — I have it here;" and he tapped his 
 forehead with great glee. " FaitJi, you're the sort to meet of 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. . 335 
 
 a frosty morning, when a man wants his breakfast ; and Ini 
 sorry that I have neither money nor credit to get a bottle of 
 whiskey, that we might take our morning together." 
 
 " Well, but let us hear the wishes," said the old man ; ** my 
 time is short, and I cannot stay much longer." 
 
 " Do you see this sledge hammer ?" said Bill ; " I wish, in 
 the first place, that whoever takes it up in their hands may 
 never be able to lay it down till I give them lave ; and that 
 whoever begins to sledge with it may never stop sledging till 
 it's my pleasure to release him." 
 
 '' Secondly — I have an arm-chair, and I wish that whoever 
 sits down in it may never rise out of it till they have my 
 consent." 
 
 " And thirdly — that whatever money I put into my purse 
 nobody may have power to take it out of it but myself!" 
 
 *' You devil's rip !" says the old man in a passion, shaking 
 his staff across Bill's nose, " why did you not ask sometliing 
 that would sarve you both here and hereafter ? Sure it's as 
 common as the market-cross, that there's not a vagabone in 
 his Majesty's dominions stands more in need of both." 
 
 " Oh ! by the elevens," said Bill, '' I forgot that altogether ! 
 Maybe you'd be civil enough to let me change one of them ? 
 The sorra a purtier wish ever was made than I'll make, if 
 you'll give me another chance. 
 
 '' Get out, you reprobate," said the old fellow, still in a 
 passion. " Your day of grace is past. Little you knew who 
 was speaking to you all this time. I'm St. Moroky, you black- 
 guard, and I gave you an opportunity of doing something for 
 yourself and your family ; but you neglected it, and now your 
 fate is cast, you dirty, bog-trotting profligate. Sure it's well 
 known what you are ! Aren't you a byword in every body's 
 mouth, you and your scold of a wife ? By this and by that, 
 if ever you happen to come across me again, I'll send you 
 to where you won't freeze, you villain !" 
 
336 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 He then gave Bill a rap of his cudgel over the head, and 
 laid him at his length beside the bellows, kicked a broken 
 coal-scuttle out of his way, and left the forge in a fury. 
 
 When Billy recovered himself from the effects of the blow, 
 and began to think on what had happened, he could have 
 quartered himself with vexation for not asking great wealth as 
 one of the wishes at least ; but now the die was cast on him, 
 and he could only make the most of the three he pitched upon. 
 
 He now bethought him how he might turn them to the best 
 account, and here his cunning came to his aid. He began by 
 sending for his wealthiest neighbours on pretence of business ; 
 and when he got them under his roof, he offered them the arm- 
 chair to sit down in. He now had them safe, nor could all the 
 art of man reheve them except worthy Bill was willing. Bill's 
 plan was to make the best bargain he could before he released 
 his prisoners ; and let him alone for knowing how to make their 
 purses bleed. There wasn't a wealthy man in the country he ^ 
 did not fleece. The parson of the parish bled heavily ; so did 
 the lawyer ; and a rich attorney, who had retired from practice, j 
 
 swore that the court of Chancery itself was paradise compared | 
 to Bill's chair. 
 
 This was all very good for a time. The fame of his chair, 
 however, soon spread ; so did that of his sledge. In a short j 
 
 time neither man, woman, nor cliild, would darken liis door ; ' 
 
 all avoided him and his fixtures as they would a spring-gun or 
 man-trap. Bill, so long as he fleeced his neighbours, never ^ 
 
 wrought a hand's turn ; so that when his money was out, he 
 found himself as badly off as ever. In addition to all this, his 
 character was fifty times worse than before ; for it was the ■ 
 
 general belief that he had dealings with the devil. Nothing 
 now could exceed his misery, distress, and ill temper. The ; 
 
 wife and he and their children all fought among one another 
 like devils ; every body hated them, cursed them, and avoided 
 them. The people thought they were acquainted with more 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. 337 
 
 than Christian people ought to know; for the family, they said, 
 was very like one that the devil drove. All this, of course, 
 came to Bill's ears, and it vexed him very much. 
 
 One day he was walking about the fields, thinking of how 
 he could raise the wind once more ; the day was dark, and he 
 found himself, before he stopped, in the bottom of a lonely 
 glen covered by great bushes that grew on each side. " Well," 
 thought he, when every other means of raising money failed 
 him, " it's reported that I'm in league with the devil, and as 
 it's a folly to have the name of the connexion without the 
 profit, I'm ready to make a bargain with him any day ; — so," 
 said he, raising his voice, " Nick, you sinner, if you be con- 
 vanient and wilhng, why stand out here; show your best 
 leg, — here's your man." 
 
 The words were hardly out of his mouth, when a dark 
 sober-looking old gentleman, not unlike a lawyer, walked up 
 to him. Bill looked at the foot and saw the hoof. 
 
 ''Morrow, Nick," says Bill, 
 
 " Morrow, Bill," says Nick. " Well, Bill, what's the news ?" 
 
 " Devil a much myself hears of late," says Bill, " is there 
 any iMingfiesh below ?" 
 
 " I can't exactly say. Bill ; I spend little of my time down 
 now ; the Whigs are in office, and my hands are consequently 
 too full of business here to pay much attention to any thing 
 else." 
 
 " A fine place this, sir," says Bill, " to take a constitutional 
 walk in ; when I want an appetite I often come this way 
 myself, — hem ! High feeding is very bad without exercise." 
 
 " High feeding ! Come, come. Bill, you know you didn't 
 taste a morsel these four-and-twenty hours." 
 
 " You know that's a bounce, Nick. I eat a breakfast this 
 morning that would put a stone of flesh on you, if you only 
 smelt at it." 
 
 '' No matter ; this is not to the purpose. What's that you 
 z 
 
338 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 were muttering to yourself awhile ago ? If you want to come 
 to the brunt, here I'm for you." 
 
 '' Nick," said Bill, *' you're complate ; you want nothing 
 barring a pair of Brian O'Lynn's breeches." 
 
 Bill, in fact, was bent on making his companion open the 
 bargain, because he had often heard, that in that case, with 
 proper care on his own part, he might defeat him in the long 
 run. The other, however, was his match. 
 
 " What was the nature of Brian's garment," inquired Nick. 
 
 '( Why, you know the song," said Bill — 
 
 " Brian O'Lynn had no breeches to wear, 
 So he got a sheep's skin for to make him a pair ; "; 
 
 With the flesliy side out, and the woolly side in, 
 They'll be pleasant and cool, says Brian O'Lynn. 
 
 A cool pare would sarve you, Nick." 
 
 " You're mighty waggish to-day, misther Duffy." 
 " And good right I have," said Bill ; " I'm a man snug and 
 well to do in the world ; have lots of money, plenty of good 
 eating and drinking, and what more need a man wish for ?" 
 
 " True," said the other ; '' in the meantime it's rather odd 
 that so respectable a man should not have six inches of 
 unbroken cloth in his apparel. You are as naked a tatter- 
 demallion as I ever laid my eyes on ; in full dress for a party 
 of scare-crows, Wilham." 
 
 " That's my own fancy, Nick ; I don't work at my trade 
 hke a gentleman. This is my forge dress, you know." 
 
 " Well, but what did you summon me here for ?" said the 
 other ; "you may as well speak out I tell you ; for, my good 
 friend, unless you do / shan't. Smell that." 
 
 " I smell more than that," said Bill ; " and by the way, I'll 
 thank you to give me the windy side of you — curse all sulphur 
 I say. There, that's what I call an improvement in my 
 condition. But as you are so stiff," says Bill, " why, the short 
 and the long of it is — that — hem — you see I'm — tut — sure you 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. 339 
 
 know I have a tliiiving trade of my own, and that if I hke I 
 needn't be at a loss ; but in the manetime I'm rather in a 
 kind of a so — so — don't you take ?'' 
 
 And Bill winked knowingly, hoping to trick him into the 
 first proposal. 
 
 *' You must speak above-board, my friend," says the other ; 
 " I'm a man of few words, blunt and honest. If you have any 
 thing to say, be j)lain. Don't think I can be losing my time 
 with such a pitiful rascal as you are." 
 
 *' Well," says Bill, '' I want money, then, and am ready to 
 come into terms. What have you to say to that, Nick ?" 
 
 **Let me see — let me look at you," says his companion, 
 turning him about. " Now, Bill, in the first place, are you 
 not as finished a scare-crow as ever stood upon two legs ?" 
 
 " I play second fiddle to you there again," says Bill. 
 
 " There you stand with the blackguard's coat of arms 
 quartered under your eye, and — " 
 
 "Don't make little of 6^acfcguards," said Bill," nor spake 
 disparagingly of your own crest." 
 
 " Why, what would you bring, you brazen rascal, if you 
 were fau'ly put up at auction '?" 
 
 " Faith, I'd bring more bidders that you would," said Bill, 
 " if you were to go off at auction to-morrow. I tell you they 
 should bid downwards to come to your value, Nicholas. We 
 have no coin small enough to purchase you." 
 
 " Well, no matter," said Nick, " if you are wilhng to be mine 
 at the expiration of seven years, I will give you more money 
 than ever the rascally breed of you was worth." 
 
 "Done!" said Bill; "but no disparagement to my family, 
 in the meantime ; so down with the hard cash, and don't be 
 a nager.^^ 
 
 The money was accordingly paid down ; but as nobody was 
 present, except the giver and receiver, the amount of what 
 Bill got was never known. 
 
340 ^ THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 '•' Won't you give me a luck-penny ?" said the old gentleman, 
 "Tut," said Billy, "so prosperous an old fellow as you 
 cannot want it ; however the devil's luck to you, with all my 
 heart ! and it's rubbing grease to a fat pig to say so. Be off 
 now, or I'll commit suicide on you. Your absence is a cordial 
 to most people, you infernal old profligate. You have injured 
 my morals even for the short time you have been with me ; for 
 I don't find myself so virtuous as I was." 
 " Is that your gratitude, Billy ?" 
 
 " Is it gratitude you speak of, man ? I wonder you don't 
 blush when you name it. However, when you come again, if 
 you bring a third eye in your head, you will see what I mane, 
 Nicholas, ahagur." 
 
 The old gentleman, as Bill spoke, hopped across the ditch, 
 on his way to Downing-^ivQQi, where of late 'tis thought he 
 possesses much influence. 
 
 Bill now began by degrees to show off ; but still wrought a 
 
 little at his trade to blindfold the neighbours. In a very short 
 
 time, however, he became a great man. So long indeed as he 
 
 was a poor rascal, no decent person would speak to him ; even 
 
 the proud serving-men at the " Big House" would turn up their 
 
 noses at him. And he well deserved to be made little of by 
 
 others, because he was mean enough to make little of himself. 
 
 But when it was seen and known that he had oceans of money, 
 
 it was wonderful to think, although he was now a greater 
 
 blackguard than ever, how those who despised him before, 
 
 began to come round him and court his company. Bill, 
 
 however, had neither sense nor spirit to make those sunshiny 
 
 friends know their distance ; not he — instead of that he was 
 
 proud to be seen in decent company, and so long as the money 
 
 lasted, it was, "hail fellow well met," between himself and 
 
 every fair-faced spunger who had a horse under him, a decent 
 
 ' coat to his back, and a good appetite to eat his dinners. 
 
 With riches and all. Bill was the same man still ; but, somehow 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. 341 
 
 or other, there is a great diiference between a rich profligate 
 and a poor one, and Bill found it so to his cost in both cases. 
 
 Before half the seven years was passed. Bill had his carriage, 
 and his equipages ; was hand and glove with my Lord This, and 
 my Lord That ; kept hounds and hunters ; was the first 
 sportsman at the Curragh ; patronized every boxing ruffian he 
 could pick up ; and betted night and day on cards, dice, and 
 horses. Bill, in short, should be a blood, and except he did all 
 this, he could not presume to mingle with the fashionable 
 bloods of his time. 
 
 It's an old proverb, however, that " what is got over the 
 devil's back is sure to go off under it ;" and in Bill's case this 
 proved true. In short, the devil himself could not supply him 
 with money so fast as he made it fly ; it was " come easy, go 
 easy," with Bill, and so sign was on it, before he came within 
 two years of his time he found his purse empty. 
 
 And now came the value of his summer friends to be known. 
 When it was discovered that the cash was no longer flush with 
 him — that stud, and carriage, and hounds were going to the 
 hammer — whish ! off they went, friends, relations, pot-com- 
 panions, dinner-eaters, black-legs and all, like a flock of crows 
 that had smelt gunpowder. Down Bill soon went, week after 
 week, and day after day, until at last, he was obhged to put on 
 the leather apron, and take to the hammer again ; and not only 
 that, for as no experience could make him wise, he once more 
 began his tap-room brawls, his quarrels with Judy, and took 
 to his "high feeding" at the di^y potatoes and salt. Now, too, 
 came the cutting tongues of all who knew him, like razors upon 
 him. Those that he scorned because they were poor and him- 
 self rich, now paid him back his own with interest ; and those 
 that he measured himself with, because they were rich, and 
 who only countenanced him in consequence of his wealth, gave 
 him the hardest word in their cheeks. The devil mend him I 
 He deserved it all, and more if he had got it. 
 
342 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 Bill, however, who was a hardened sinner, never fretted 
 himself down an ounce of flesh by what was said to him, or of 
 him. Not he ; he cursed, and fought, and swore, and schemed 
 away as usual, taking in every one he could ; and surely none 
 could match him at villany of all sorts and sizes. 
 
 At last the seven years became expired, and Bill was one 
 morning sitting in his forge, sober and hungry, the wife 
 cursing him, and the childlire squalling, as before ; he was 
 thinking how he might defraud some honest neighbour out of 
 a breakfast to stop their mouths and his own too, when who 
 walks in to him but old Nick, to demand his bargain. 
 
 " Morrow, Bill ! " says he with a sneer. 
 
 "The devil welcome you!" says Bill; ''but you have a 
 fresh memory." 
 
 " A bargain's a bargain between two honest men, any day," 
 says Satan ; " when I speak of honest men, I mean yourself 
 and me, Bill ; " and he put his tongue in his cheek to make 
 game of the unfortunate rogue he had come for. 
 
 " Nick, my worthy fellow," said Bill, '' have bowels ; you 
 wouldn't do a shabby thing ; you wouldn't disgrace your own 
 character by putting more weight upon a falhng man. You 
 know what it is to get a come down yourself, my worthy ; so 
 just keep your toe in your pump, and walk off with yourself 
 somewhere else. A cool walk will sarve you better than my 
 company, Nicholas." 
 
 " Bill, it's no use in shirking ; " said his friend, '' your 
 swindling tricks may enable you to cheat others, but you won't 
 cheat me, I guess. You want nothing to make you perfect in 
 your way but to travel ; and travel you shall under my guid- 
 ance, Billy. No, no — Fm not to be swindled, my good felloAV. 
 I have rather a — a — better opinion of myself, Mr. D. than to 
 think that you could outwit one Nicholas Clutie, Esq. — ehem!" 
 
 '* You may sneer, you sinner," replied Bill ; " but I tell you 
 for your comfort, that I have outwitted men who could buy 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. 343 
 
 and sell you to your face. Despair, you villain, ^vhcn I tell 
 you that no attorney could stand before me." 
 
 Satan's countenance got blank when he heard this ; he 
 wriggled and lidgetted about, and appeared to be not quite 
 comfortable. 
 
 " In that case, then," says he, "the sooner I deceive you the 
 better ; so turn out for the Loiu Countries." 
 
 " Is it come to that in earnest ?" said Bill, " and are you 
 going to act the rascal at the long run ?" 
 
 " Ton honour, Bill." 
 
 " Have patience, then, you sinner, till I finish tliis horse- 
 shoe — it's the last of a set I'm finishing for one of your friend 
 the attorney's horses. And here, jS'ick, I hate idleness, you 
 know it's the mother of mischief, take this sledge-hammer, and 
 give a dozen strokes or so, till I get it out of hands, and then 
 here's with you, since it must be so." 
 
 He then gave the bellows a puff that blew half a peck of 
 dust in Club-foot's face, whipped out the red-hot iron, and set 
 Satan sledging away for the bare life. 
 
 " Faith," says Bill to him, when the shoe was finished, " it's 
 a thousand pities ever the sledge should be out of your hand ; 
 the great Parra Goto was a child to you at sledging, you're 
 such an able tyke. Now just exercise yourself till I bid the 
 wife and childlire good-bye, and then I'm off." 
 
 Out went Bill, of course without the shghtest notion of 
 coming back ; no more than Nick had that he could not give 
 up the sledging, and indeed neither could he, but was forced to 
 work away as if he was sledging for a wager. This was just 
 what Bill wanted. He was now compelled to sledge on until it 
 was Bill's pleasure to release liim ; and so we leave him very 
 industriously employed, wliile we look after the worthy who 
 outwitted him. 
 
 In the meantime. Bill broke cover, and took to the country 
 at large ; wrought a little journey-work wherever he could get 
 
344 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 it, and in this way went from one place to another, till in the 
 course of a month, he walked back very coolly into his own 
 forge, to see how things went on in his absence. There he 
 found Satan in a rage, the perspiration pouring from him in 
 torrents, hammering with might and main upon the naked 
 anvil. Bill calmly leaned his back against the wall, placed his 
 hat upon the side of his head, put his hands into his breeches 
 pockets, and began to whistle Shaun Goiv's hornpipe. At 
 length he says in a very quiet and good-humoured way — 
 
 *^ Morrow, Nick!" 
 
 "Oh!" says Nick, still hammering away — "Oh! you 
 double-distilled villain (hech ! ), may the most refined, orna- 
 mental (hech ! ), double-rectified, super-extra, and original 
 (hech ! ) collection of curses that ever was gathered (hech ! ) 
 into a single nosegay of ill fortune (hech ! ), shine in the 
 button-hole of your conscience (hech ! ) while your name is 
 Bill Duffy ! I denounce you (hech ! ) as a double-milled villain, 
 a finished, hot-pressed knave (hech ! ), in comparison of whom 
 all the other knaves I ever knew (hech !), attorneys included, 
 are honest men. I brand you (hech ! ) as the pearl of cheats, 
 a tip-top take-in (hech ! ) I denounce you, I say again, for the 
 villanous treatment (hech ! ) I have received at your hands in 
 this most untoward [(hech ! ) and unfortunate transaction be- 
 tween us ; for (hech ! ) unfortunate, in every sense, is he that 
 has any thing to do with (hech ! ) such a prime and finished 
 impostor." 
 
 " You're very warm, Nicky," says Bill ; " what puts you 
 into a passion, you old sinner ? Sure if it's your own will and 
 pleasure to take exercise at my anvil, I'm not to be abused 
 for it. Upon my credit, Nicky, you ought to blush for using 
 such blackguard language, so unbecoming your grave character. 
 You cannot say that it was I set you a hammering at the empty 
 anvil, you profligate. However, as you are so industrious, I 
 simply say it would be a thousand pities to take you from it. 
 
AN IRIRH LEGEND. 345 
 
 Nick, I love industry in my heart, and I always encourage 
 it; so, work away; it's not often you spend your time so 
 creditably. I'm afraid if you w^eren't at that you'd be worse 
 employed." 
 
 " Bill, have bowels," said the operative ; '' you wouldn't go 
 to lay more weight on a falling man, you know ; you wouldn't 
 disgrace your character by such a piece of iniquity as keeping 
 an inoffensive gentleman, advanced in years, at such an unbe- 
 coming and rascally job as this. Generosity 's your top virtue, 
 Bill ; not but that you have many other excellent ones, as well 
 as that, among which, as you say yourself, 1 reckon industry ; 
 but still it is in generosity you shine. Come, Bill, honour 
 bright, and release me." 
 
 ** Name the terms, you profligate." 
 
 " You're above terms, WiUiam ; a generous fellow hke you 
 never thinks of terms." 
 
 "Goodbye, old gentleman!" said Bill, very coolly; "I'll 
 drop in to see you once a month." 
 
 "No, no. Bill, you infern — a — a — you excellent, worthy, 
 dehghtful fellow, not so fast ; not so fast. Come, name your 
 terms, you sland — my dear Bill, name your terms." 
 
 " Seven years more." 
 
 " I agree ; but " 
 
 " And the same supply of cash as before, down on the nail 
 here." 
 
 " Very good ; very good. You're rather simple, Bill ; rather 
 soft, I must confess. Well, no matter. I shall yet tm^n the 
 tab — a — hem? You are an exceedingly simple fellow, Bill; 
 stiU there will come a day, my dear Bill — there will come " 
 
 " Do you grumble, you vagrant ? Another word, and I 
 double the terms." 
 
 "Mum, WilHam — mum; tace is Latin for a candle." 
 
 " Seven years more of grace, and the same measure of the 
 needful that I got before. Ay or no ?" 
 
346 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 " Of grace, Bill ! Ay ! ay ! ay ! There's the cash. I 
 accept the terms. Oh blood ! the rascal — of grace ! ! Bill !" 
 
 " Well, now drop the hammer, and vanish," says Billy ; 
 ''but what would you think to take this sledge, while you 
 
 stay, and give me a eh ! why in such a hurry ?" he added, 
 
 seeing that Satan withdrew in double quick time. 
 
 '' Hollo ! Nicholas !" he shouted, " come back ; you forgot 
 something !" and when the old gentleman looked behind him, 
 Billy shook the hammer at him, on which he vanished 
 altogether. 
 
 Billy now got into his old courses ; and what shows the kind 
 of people the world is made of, he also took up with his old 
 company. When they saw that he had the money once more, 
 and was sowing it about him in all directions, they immediately 
 began to find excuses for liis former extravagance. 
 
 '' Say what you will," said one, " Bill Duffy's a spirited 
 fellow, and bleeds like a prince." 
 
 " He's as hospitable a man in his own house, or out of it, 
 as ever lived," said another. 
 
 " His only fault is," observed a third, " that he is, if any 
 thing, too generous, and doesn't know the value of money ; 
 his fault 's on the right side, however." 
 
 " He has the spunk in him," said a fourth ; " keeps a capital 
 table, prime wines, and a standing welcome for his friends." 
 
 " Why," said a fifth, " if he doesn't enjoy his money wliile 
 he lives, he won't when he 's dead; so more power to him, and 
 a wider throat to his purse." 
 
 Indeed, the very persons who were cramming themselves at 
 his expense despised him at heart. They knew very well, 
 however, how to take him on the weak side. Praise his gene- 
 rosity, and he would do any thing ; call him a man of spirit, 
 and you might fleece him to his face. Sometimes he would 
 toss a purse of guineas to this knave, another to that flatterer, 
 a third to a bully, and a fourth to some broken down rake — 
 
AN lUISH LEGEND. 347 
 
 and all to convince them that lie was a sterhng friend — a man 
 of mettle and liberality. But never was he known to help a 
 virtuous and struggling family — to assist the widow or the 
 fatherless, or to do any other act that was truly useful. It is 
 to be supposed the reason of this was, that as he spent it, as 
 most of the world do, in the service of the devil, by whose aid 
 he got it, he was prevented from turning it to a good account. 
 Between you and me, dear reader, there are more persons 
 acting after Bill's fashion in the same world than you dream 
 about. 
 
 When liis money was out again, liis friends played him the 
 same rascally game once more, l^o sooner did liis poverty 
 become plain, than the knaves began to be troubled with small 
 fits of modesty, such as an unwillingness to come to his place 
 when there was no longer any thing to be got there. A kind 
 of vu'gin bashfulness prevented them from speaking to him 
 when they saw him getting out on the wrong side of his clothes. 
 Many of them would turn away from him in the prettiest and 
 most dehcate manner when they thought he wanted to borrow 
 money from them — all for fear of putting him to the blush by 
 asking it. Others again, when they saw him coming towards 
 their houses about dinner hour, would become so confused, from 
 mere gratitude, as to think themselves in another place ; and 
 their servants, seized as it were, with the same feeling, would 
 tell Bill that their masters were " not at home." 
 
 At length, after travelling the same villanous round as 
 before, Bill was compelled to betake himself, as the last remedy, 
 to the forge ; in other words, he found that there is, after all, 
 notliing in this world that a man can rely on so firmly and 
 surely as his own industry. Bill, however, wanted the organ 
 of common sense ; for his experience — and it was sharp enough 
 to leave an impression — run off him Hke water off a duck. 
 
 He took to his employment sorely against liis grain ; but he 
 had now no choice. He must either work or starve, and 
 
348 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 starvation is like a great doctor, nobody tries it till every other 
 remedy fails them. Bill had been twice rich ; twice a gentle- 
 man among blackguards, but always a blackguard among 
 gentlemen ;* for no wealth or acquaintance with decent society 
 could rub the rust of his native vulgarity off him. He was now 
 a common bhnking sot in his forge ; a drunken bully in the 
 tap-room, cursing and brow-beating every one as well as his 
 wife ; boasting of how much money he had spent in his day ; 
 swaggering about the high doings he carried on; telling stories 
 about himself and Lord This at the Curragh ; the dinners he 
 gave — how much they cost him, and attempting to extort 
 credit upon the strength of his former wealth. He was too 
 ignorant, however, to know that he was publishing his own 
 disgrace, and that it was a mean-spirited thing to be proud of 
 what ought to make him blush through a deal board nine 
 inches thick. 
 
 He was one morning industriously engaged in a quarrel with 
 his wife, who, with a three-legged stool in her hand, appeared 
 to mistake his head for his own anvil ; he, in the meantime, 
 paid his addresses to her with his leather apron, when who 
 steps in to jog his memory about the little agreement that was 
 between them, but old Nick. The wife, it seems, in spite of 
 all her exertions to the contrary, was getting the worst of it ; 
 and Sir Nicholas, wilhng to appear a gentleman of great gal- 
 lantry, thought he could not do less than take up the lady's 
 quarrel, particularly as Bill had laid her in a sleeping posture. 
 Now Satan thought this too bad ; and as he felt himself under 
 many obligations to the sex, he determined to defend one of 
 them on the present occasion ; so as Judy rose, he turned upon 
 the husband, and floored him by a clever facer. 
 
 " You unmanly villain," said he, " is this the way you treat 
 you wife ? 'Pon honour, Bill, I'll chastise you on the spot. I 
 
 • It is almost unnecessary for us to acknowledge the little theft manifest 
 in the albove travestic. 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. 349 
 
 could not stand by a spectator of such ungcntlemanly conduct 
 without giving up all claim to gallant " 
 
 Whack ! the word was divided in his mouth by the blow of 
 a churn-staff from Judy, who no sooner saw Bill struck, than 
 she nailed Satan, who '' fell" once more. 
 
 "What, you villain! that's for striking my husband hke a 
 murderer behind his back," said Judy, and she suited the 
 action to the word, " that 's for interfering between man and 
 wife. Would you murder the poor man before my face ? eh ? 
 If he bates me, you shabby dog you, who has a better right ? 
 I'm sure its nothing out of your pocket. Must you have your 
 finger in every pie ?" 
 
 This was any tiling but idle talk ; for at every word she 
 gave liim a remembrance, hot and heavy. Nicholas backed, 
 danced, and hopped ; she advanced, still drubbing him with 
 great perseverance, till at length he fell into the redoubtable 
 arm chair, which stood exactly behind him. Bill, who had been 
 putting in two blows for Judy's one, seeing that his enemy 
 was safe, now got between the devil and his wife, a situation 
 thatfeiv will he disposed to envy him. 
 
 " Tenderness, Judy," said the husband, '' I hate cruelty. 
 Go put the tongs in the fire, and make them red hot. 
 Nicholas, you have a nose," said he. 
 
 Satan began to rise, but was rather surprised to find that 
 he could not budge. 
 
 " Nicholas," says Bill, " how is your pulse ? you don't look 
 well ; that is to say, you look worse than usual." 
 
 The other attempted to rise, but found it a mistake. 
 
 " I'll thank you to come along," said Bill, " I have a fancy 
 to travel under your guidance, and we'll take the Loiv Countries 
 in our way, won't we ? Get to your legs, you sinner ; you 
 know a bargain's a bargain between two honest men, Nicholas ; 
 meaning yourself sind me. Judy, are the tongs hot ?" 
 
 Satan's face was worth looking at, as he turned his eyes 
 
350 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 from the husband to the wife, and then fastened them on the 
 tongs, now nearly at a furnace heat in the fire, conscious at the 
 same time that he could not move out of the chair. 
 
 " Billy," said he, " you won't forget that I rewarded your 
 generosity the last time I saw you, in the way of business." 
 
 " Faith, JN'icholas, it fails me to remember any generosity I 
 ever. showed you. Don't be womanish. I simply want to see 
 what kind of stuff your nose is made of, and whether it will 
 stretch like a rogue's conscience. If it does, we will flatter it 
 up the chimly with the red hot tongs, and when tliis old hat is 
 fixed on the top of it, let us alone for a weather-cock." 
 
 " Have a fellow-feeling, Mr. Duffy ; you know we ought 
 not to dispute. Drop the matter, and I give you the next 
 seven years." 
 
 " We know all that," says Billy opening the red hot tongs 
 very coolly." 
 
 " Mr. Duffy," said Satan, " if you cannot remember my 
 friendship to yourself, don't forget how often I stood your 
 father's friend, your grandfather's friend, and the friend of all 
 your relations up to the tenth generation. I intended, also, to 
 stand by your children after you, so long as the name of Duffy, 
 and a respectable one it is, might last." 
 
 " Don't be blushing, Nick," says Bill, " you are too modest ; 
 that was ever your faihng ; hould up your head, there's money 
 bid for you, I'll give you such a nose, my good friend, that 
 you will have to keep an outrider before you, to carry the end 
 of it on his shoulder." 
 
 "Mr. Duffy, I pledge my honour to raise your cliildren in 
 the world as high as they can go ; no matter whether they 
 desire it or not." 
 
 " That's very kind of you," says the other, " and I'll do as 
 much for your nose." 
 
 He gripped it as he spoke, and the old boy immediately 
 sung out ; Bill pulled, and the nose went with him like a piece 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. 351 
 
 of warm wax. He then transferred the tongs to Judy, got a 
 ladder, resumed the tongs, ascended the chimney, and tugged 
 stoutly at the nose until he got it five feet above the roof. — 
 He then fixed the hat upon the top of it, and came down. 
 
 " There's a weather-cock," said Billy ; *' I defy Ireland to 
 show such a beauty. Faith, Nick, it would make the purtiest 
 steeple for a church, in all Europe, and the old hat fits it to a 
 shaving." 
 
 In tliis state, with his nose twisted up the chimney, Satan 
 sat for some time, experiencing the novelty of what might be 
 termed a peculiar sensation. At last the worthy husband and 
 wife began to relent : 
 
 " I think," said Bill, " that we have made the most of the 
 nose, as well as the joke ; I beheve, Judy, it's long enough." 
 
 '' What is ?" says Judy. 
 
 '' AYhy, the joke," said the husband. 
 
 " Faith, and I think so is the nose," said Judy. 
 
 " What do you say yourself, Satan ?" said Bill. 
 
 '' Nothing at all, WiUiam," said the other ; " but that — ha ! 
 ha! — it's a good joke — an excellent joke, and a goodly nose, 
 too, as it stands. You were always a gentlemanly man, Bill, 
 and did thuigs with a grace ; still, if I might give an opinion 
 on such a trifle — " 
 
 " It's no trifle at all," says Bill, " if you spake of the nose." 
 
 " Very well, it is not," says the other ; " still, I am decidedly 
 of opinion, that if you could shorten both the joke and the 
 nose vrithout further violence, you would lay me under very 
 heavy obligations, which I shall be ready to acknowledge and 
 repay as I ought." 
 
 " Come," said Bill, " shell out once more, and be off for 
 seven years. As much as you came down with the last time, 
 and vanish." 
 
 The words were scarcely spoken, when the money was at 
 his feet, and Satan invisible. Nothing could surpass the 
 
352 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 mirth of Bill and his wife, at the result of this adventure. 
 They laughed till they fell down on the floor. 
 
 It is useless to go over the same ground again. Bill was 
 still incorrigible. The money went as the devil's money always 
 goes. Bill caroused and squandered, but could never turn a 
 penny of it to a good purpose. In this way, year after year 
 went, tni the seventh was closed, and Bill's hour come. He 
 was now, and had been for some time past, as miserable a 
 knave as ever. JSTot a shilling had he, nor a shilHng's worth, 
 with the exception of his forge, his cabin, and a few articles of 
 crazy furniture. In this state he was standing in his forge as 
 before, straining his ingenuity how to make out a breakfast, 
 when Satan came to look after him. 
 
 The old gentleman was sorely puzzled how to get at him. 
 He kept skulking and sneaking about the forge for some time, 
 till he saw that Bill hadn't a cross to bless himself with. He 
 immediately changed himself into a guinea, and lay in an open 
 place where he knew Bill would see him. 
 
 " If," said he, " 1 get once into his possession, I can manage 
 him." 
 
 The honest smith took the bait, for it was well gilded, he 
 clutched the guinea, put it into his purse, and closed it up. 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! " shouted the devil out of the purse, " you're 
 caught. Bill ; I've secured you at last, you knave you. Why 
 don't you despair, you villain, when you think of what's before 
 you." 
 
 " Why you unlucky ould dog," said Bill, '' is it there you 
 are ? will you always drive your head into every loop-hole 
 that's set for you ? Faith, Nick achora, I never had you 
 bagged till now." 
 
 Satan then began to swell and tug and struggle with 
 a view of getting out of the purse, but in vain. He found 
 himself fast, and perceived that he was once more in Bill's 
 power. 
 
AN imSII LEGEND. 353 
 
 " Mr. Duffy," said lie, " wc understand each other. Til give 
 the seven years additional, and the cash on the nail." 
 
 " Be aisey, Nicholas. You know the weight of the hammer, 
 that 's enough. It 's not a whipping with feathers you're going 
 to get, anyhow. Just be aisey." 
 
 " Mr. Duffy, I grant I'm not your match. Release me, and 
 I double the cash. I was merely trying your temper when I 
 took the shape of a guinea." 
 
 " Faith and I'll try vour's before you lave it, I've a notion." 
 
 He immediately commenced with the sledge, and Satan sang 
 out with a considerable want of firmness. 
 
 " x\m I heavy enough ?" said Bill. 
 
 " Lighter, hghter, William, if you love me. I haven't been 
 well, latterly, Mr. Duffy — I have been dehcate — my health, in 
 short, is in a very precarious state, Mr. Duffy." 
 
 " I can beheve that,'' said Bill, "and it will be more so before 
 I have done with you. Am I doing it right ?" 
 
 " Beautifully, Wilham ; but a little of the heaviest ; strike 
 m.e light. Bill, my head's tender. — Oh !" 
 
 " Heads or tails, my old boy," exclaimed the other ; " I don't 
 care which ; it's all the same to me what side of you is up — but 
 here goes to help the impression — hach !" 
 
 " Bill," said Nicholas, " is this gentlemanly treatment in 
 your own respectable shop ? Do you think, if you dropped 
 into my Httle place, that I'd act this rascally part towards you? 
 Have you no compunction ?" 
 
 ''I know," replied Bill, sledging away with vehemence, 
 "that you're notorious for giving your friends a luarm wel- 
 come. Di^il an ould youth more so ; but you must be dahng 
 in bad coin, must you ? However, good or bad, you're in for 
 a sweat now, you sinner. Am I doin' it purty ?" 
 
 " Lovely, William — but, if possible, a little more dehcate." 
 
 " Oh, how dehcate you are ! Maybe a cup o' tay would 
 sarve you, or a little small gruel to compose your stomach." 
 2 a 
 
354 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 " Mr. Duffy," said the gentleman in the purse, " hold your 
 hand, and let us understand one another. I have a proposal 
 to make." 
 
 " Hear the sinner, anyhow," said the wife. 
 
 " Name your own sum," said Satan, " only set me free." 
 
 " No, the sorra may take the toe you'll budge till you let 
 Bill off," said the wife ; " hould him hard, Bill, barrin' he sets 
 you clear of your engagement." 
 
 " There it is, my posey," said Bill ; " that's the condition. 
 If you don't give me up, here's at you once more — and you 
 must double the cash you gave the last time, too. So, if you're 
 of that opinion, say ay — leave the cash, and be off." 
 
 " Oh, murder ;" groaned the old one, " am I to be done by 
 an Irish spalpeen ! I who was never done before." 
 
 " Keep a mannerly tongue in your head, Nick," said Bill ; 
 " if you're not done by this time you must be the divil's tough 
 morsel, for I'm sure you're long enough at the fire, you villain. 
 Do you agree to the terms ?" 
 
 " Ay, ay," replied the other, " let me out — and I hope I 
 have done with you." 
 
 The money again immediately appeared in a glittering heap 
 before Bill, upon which he exclaimed — 
 
 " The ay has it, you dog. Take to your pumps now, and 
 fair weather after you, you vagrant ; but Nicholas — Nick — 
 here — here — " 
 
 The other looked back, and saw Bill, with a broad grin 
 upon him, shaking the purse at him — " Nicholas, come back," 
 said he, " I'm short a guinea." 
 
 The other shook his fist in return, and shouted out, looking 
 over his shoulder as he spoke, but not stopping — 
 
 " Oh, you superlative villain, keep from me — I wish to have 
 done with you — and all I hope is, that I'll never meet you 
 either here or hereafter." So saying, he disappeared. 
 
 It would be useless to stop now, merely to inform our readers 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. 355 
 
 that Billl was beyond improvement. In short, he onco more 
 took to his old habits, and hved on exactly in the same manner 
 as before. He had two sons — one as great a blackguard as 
 himself, and who was also named after him ; the other was a 
 well-conducted, virtuous young man, called James, who left his 
 father, and having rehed upon his own industry and honest 
 perseverance in hfe, arrived afterwards to great wealth, and 
 built the town called Bally James Duff, which is so called from 
 its founder until this day. 
 
 Bill, at length, in spite of all liis wealth, was obhged, as he 
 himself said, " to travel," — in other words, he fell asleep one 
 day, and forgot to awaken ; or, in still plainer terms, he died. 
 
 Now, it is usual, when a man dies, to close the history of liis 
 life and adventures at once ; but with our hero this cannot be 
 the case. The moment Bill departed, he very naturally bent 
 his steps towards the residence of St. Moroky, as being, in his 
 opinion, likely to lead him towards the snuggest berth he could 
 readily make out. On arriving he gave a very humble kind 
 of a knock, and St. Moroky appeared. 
 
 " God save your Reverence !" said Bill, very submissively. 
 
 "Be off: there's no admittance here for so pui'e a youth as 
 you are," said St. Moroky. 
 
 He was now so cold and fatigued that he cared little where 
 he went, provided only, as he said liimself, *' he could rest his 
 bones, and get an air of the fire." Accordingly, after arriv- 
 ing at a large black gate, he knocked, as before, and was told 
 he would get instant admittance the moment he gave his name, 
 in order that they might find out his berth from the registry, 
 taking it for granted that he had been booked for them, as 
 is usual in such cases. 
 
 *' I think your master is acquainted with me," said Billy. 
 
 "If he were not, you'd not come here," said the porter; 
 " there are no friendly visits made to us. AYliat's your name?" 
 
 " Billy Duffy," he replied. 
 
356 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 The porter and several of his companions gave a yell of 
 terror, such as Bill had never heard before, and immediately 
 every bolt was bolted, every chain drawn tight across the gate, 
 and every available weight and bar placed against it, as if 
 those who were inside dreaded a siege. 
 
 " Off, instantly," said the porter, *' and let his Majesty know 
 that the rascal he dreads so much is here at the gate." 
 
 In fact, such a racket and tumult were never heard as the 
 very mention of Billy Duffy created among them. 
 
 *' Oh," said Bill, with his eye to the bars of the gate, " I 
 doubt I have got a bad name," and he shook his head like an 
 innocent man who did not deserve it. 
 
 In the meantime, his old acquaintance came running towards 
 the gate with such haste and consternation, that liis tail was 
 several times nearly tripping up his heels. 
 
 " Don't admit that rascal," he shouted ; " bar the gate — 
 make every chain, and lock, and bolt, fast — I won't be safe — 
 none of us will be safe — and I won't stay here, nor none of us 
 need stay here, if he gets in — ^my bones are sore yet after him. 
 No, no — begone you villain — you'll get no entrance here — I 
 know you too well." 
 
 Bill could not help giving a broad, malicious grin at Satan, 
 and, putting his nose through the bars, he exclaimed — 
 
 ** Ha ! you ould dog, I have you afraid of me at last, 
 have I?" 
 
 He had scarcely uttered the words, when his foe, who stood 
 inside, instantly tweaked him by the nose, and Bill felt as if 
 he had been gripped by the same red-hot tongs with wliich he 
 himself had formerly tweaked the nose of Nicholas. 
 
 " Well," said he, " that's not the way / treated you once 
 upon a time. Throth you're ondecent — but you know what it 
 is to get tinker's reckoning — to be paid in advance— so I owe 
 you nothing for that, Nicholas." 
 
 Bill then departed, but soon found that in consequence of 
 
AN IRISH LEGEND. 357 
 
 the inflammable materials which strong drink had thrown into 
 his nose, that organ immediately took fire, and, indeed, to tell 
 the truth, kept burning night and day, winter and summer, 
 without ever once going out, from that hour to this. 
 
 Such was the sad fate of Billy Duffy, who has been walking 
 without stop or stay, from place to place ever since ; and in 
 consequence of the flame on his nose, and his beard being 
 tangled like a wisp of hay, he has been christened by the 
 country folk Will-o'-the-Wisp, while, as it were, to show the 
 mischief of his disposition, the cu'culating knave, knowing that 
 he must seek the coldest bogs and quagmires in order to cool 
 his nose, seizes upon that opportunity of misleading the 
 imthinking and tipsy night travellers from their way, just 
 that he may have the satisfaction of still taking in as many as 
 possible. 
 
 \ 
 
THE IRISH RAKE. 
 
 The character of an Irish Rake is one which has not, to my 
 knowledge at least, ever been yet properly described, — a 
 circumstance which can only be accounted for by the difficulty 
 probably of blending so many antithetical traits of temper, and 
 modes of life, into one harmonious picture. The Irish Rake 
 may, indeed, be said to contain within liimself the various 
 eccentricities which the wide field of society presents for ob- 
 servation. Many a single point of character, for instance, exists 
 in other individuals sufficiently marked and predominant in its 
 own nature to constitute their moral and social individuaUty ; 
 but of these single traits, collected as it were from a vast 
 number of eccentric men, sufficient as each of them is to make 
 but one person, the whole being of the rake is composed. In 
 plainer words, all that makes other men remarkable meets in 
 him. He is a kind of Proteus, whose facihty of changing his 
 shape constitutes his uniformity. Go where you will, he is sure 
 to be there before you in a new aspect. Like the air, he is 
 every where ; and among the young of both sexes there is no 
 breathing without him. Every one knows him, and he knows 
 every one. He can tell you, as if by intuition, the name of the 
 farmer's wife in the parish who was last confined, and whether 
 her little one was a boy or a girl. No earthly fun or frohc 
 can go on properly unless he conducts it. The fellow appears 
 to possess the power of multiplying his person, and of being, 
 for the good of his fellow-creatures, in several places at the 
 same time. If two fairs occur in neighbouring parishes, he 
 
THE IRISH RAKE. 359 
 
 will certainly be present at both. He is, in fact, a kind of 
 wandering Jew upon a small scale ; for although you find him 
 in every possible direction you turn, yet no one knows how or 
 when he conveys himself from place to place. At christening, 
 wake, wedding, funeral — at fair, at market — in the faction and 
 party fight — at mass, at patterns, at places of pilgrimage — at 
 cock-fights — bull-baitings, when they existed — cudgel-matches, 
 harvests' home — at the bi^ooish* ; in short, never did such an 
 ubiquitarian exist as the Irish rake, who, as the fellow says in 
 the play, is a perfect here-and-thereian, a stranger no where. 
 
 Of the rake's parentage and means of hving no one can tell. 
 Perhaps, indeed, once in seven years a grey-headed beggar 
 will inform you that he remembers his father and mother, who 
 Hved in a distant county ; that they have been long dead, and 
 that he had a brother hanged in the time of the throiible. The 
 hoary senachie will, probably, go on to say that he also 
 remembers the rake's marriage, when he was not more than 
 sixteen, to a pretty creature not older than himself, that he 
 took away from her parents, up in such a place. 
 
 '' She is still ahve," he will say ; '' but the marriage didn't 
 turn out well, for they hved but a short time together." 
 
 The rake is always well dressed, and sets the fashion to all 
 the districts through which he passes. He is, in fact, a Beau 
 Brummel in his way — a wit, a wag, and the most accomplished 
 man in all rural sports and pastimes. Nor is he ever without 
 money ; for no man is more willing to stand his treat, as the 
 phrase is, than he : nay, he will often lend to others. But liis 
 system always is, to borrow thrice the sum from the person he 
 obhged, and never to repay it. Tliis, however, is not all his 
 means of support ; for, with shame and sorrow I say it, both 
 on his account and theirs, he contrives, m a sense any thing 
 but metaphorical, to constitute himself a heavy debtor to the 
 
 * Wliat the Scotch call the In/are— I e. the hauUng home of a \vife. 
 
360 THE IRISH RAKE. 
 
 softer sex. In all love affairs, his first principles are swayed 
 by the cup-board ; but he contrives to take care that they 
 shall not end there. Like consumption, of which he is a 
 healthy representative, he eats his way into their hearts ; and 
 what can be expected afterwards but that wliich usually 
 follows ? He is the only man that can borrow money from 
 servant maids with a grace ; but it has never been known that 
 he consented to call a meeting of his creditors, which probably 
 arose from the consciousness of the utter improbability that 
 they could agree. 
 
 No one has ever seen him carrying a bundle of any kind, 
 such as might contain a change of linen, yet has it been 
 observed that Ms sliirt is at all times well washed, neatly 
 made up, and remarkable for its whiteness. This, however, is 
 another mystery between himself and the other sex, which it 
 is not within my power to fathom. 
 
 As a gamester, he stands unrivalled, no man being a match 
 for him at spoil-five or five-and-ten, which games he good 
 naturedly teaches to all " the slips of boys" in the parish, each 
 of whom feels great pride in boasting of his instructor. 
 
 In addition to all this, the rake finds it necessary^^to be 
 accomphshed, and he accordingly whistles hke a flute ; and 
 often, of a winter's night or summer's evening, the young 
 country folk find him a tolerably good substitute for a fiddler. 
 He also performs on a pair of trumps, i. e. Jews'-harps, with 
 both fingers — and plays with great skill on an ivy-leaf, — a 
 comb, — or a weaver's reed, through which he blows in a man- 
 ner wonderfully melodious. He is also the terror of dancing- 
 masters, whom he never fails to challenge and overcome in the 
 presence of their own scholars ; and were it not that to suffer 
 defeat by a performer of such consummate skill can scarcely 
 be termed disgraceful — it being possible for many grades of 
 excellence to exist beneath his, — they would feel it necessary 
 to remove out of his range, if such a thing were practicable. 
 
THE IRISH RAKE. 3G3 
 
 The rake frequently expresses strong intentions to comply 
 with the solicitations of his admirers, and set up a dancing- 
 school for himself. This, however, he ultimately declines, 
 knowing, from his habits of transition and locomotion, that 
 such an active employment would necessarily keep him much 
 too stationary. 
 
 The rake is also a devoted ribbonman ; and this, indeed, of 
 all his accomplishments, is the worst, and most subversive of 
 the peace of the country. Did he not become a propagator of 
 that bad system, his foibles and vices, all considered, could 
 amount, after all, to notliing more than the foibles and vices of 
 a private, low-bred vagabond. But here he absolutely becomes 
 a pubUc character, gifted with the evil power of corrupting the 
 subjects of his sovereign, and of seducing them into the guilty 
 secrets of ribbonism, by their participation in which they not 
 only tie up the hands and diminish the efforts of those who 
 would serve them, but they are, in hundreds of instances, 
 goaded or entrapped into crimes of the blackest die ; and are 
 thus led, step by step, and by the cruel tyranny of the system, 
 to an ignominious death, with the bitter reflection, that, instead 
 of having served either their church or their country, they 
 have, in addition to their own punishment, brought sorrow, and 
 ruin, and misery, and shame upon their own families. As a 
 cunning and selfish propagator, therefore, of principles every 
 way so pernicious, the Irish rake is not only a curse to the 
 hundreds whom he corrupts, but a pubhc curse to the country. 
 No human being knows the cut of a constable better than 
 he does ; for in consequence of his tendency to fighting, that 
 worthy, and many of his class, are seldom, if ever, without 
 having in their possession a certain document for his especial 
 use, regularly sworn before a neighbouring magistrate by a 
 man having his head bound up in a red spotted cotton hand- 
 kerchief, the property of his wife. Connected with tliis, the 
 rake is found to be very useful in fairs and markets for beat- 
 
362 THE IRISH RAKE. 
 
 ing or waylaying individuals, who may happen to be obnoxious 
 to his friends, and by whom their persons would be known, if 
 they undertook the task which the rake kindly performs. To 
 give him a treat is all that is necessary ; for of the rake it is but 
 just to say, that in such matters, he is by no means mercenary. 
 
 The constable, however, is not the only person by whom he 
 is anxious to be met. The truth is, he seldom remains long in 
 a neighbourhood or parish, until some disconsolate young 
 woman, with a child in her arms, comes to seek liim out. It 
 always happens, however, that he has left the place about two 
 days before her arrival, and no one can tell to what part of 
 the country he went. She then relates to some honest farmer, 
 or farmer's wife, a doleful story of how her httle hoard of 
 money was first lent to the rake, and of the ungrateful return 
 she received for her kindness, winding up all by a sorrowful 
 picture of her present destitution. She then looks with a 
 breaking heart upon her babe, bursts into a fit of weeping, and, 
 after having satisfied her hunger through the kindness of the 
 good woman, departs — a miserable and care-worn picture of 
 foolish credulity and trust betrayed. 
 
 The rake is also a kind of doctor in his way, and knows the 
 use of cut-finger, robin-run-the-hedge, buglass, ground-ivy, and 
 house-leek, better than any old woman in the country. Nor 
 is he ever without a certain cure for the tooth-ache, or cholic ; 
 nay, he can not only tell when " the spool o' the breast is 
 down," — a common complaint, it is said, among young girls in 
 the country, — but he can also raise it by a httle burnt spirits, 
 a tumbler, and half-a-crown judiciously placed upon the seat of 
 the disease ; so as by the miraculous power of the tumbler and 
 spirits absolutely to raise the heart of the sufferer. 
 
 There is alwa^^s one person, in whatsoever parish he may 
 reside for the time, with whom he never wishes to come on 
 speaking terms — and that is the priest, between whom and 
 himself there is at all times a standing enmity. So many 
 
THE IRISH HAKE. 363 
 
 complaints again^^t liim are usually laid belbre the pastor, that 
 his reverence feels it to be his duty to put his parishioners on 
 their guard agamst liis arts. Such, however, is the indomitable 
 fund of spirits by which the rake is characterized, and so easy 
 and good-humoured is his swagger, that his countenance, 
 beaming, as it usually does, with mirth and frohc, renders it 
 impossible for any one to carry the good Father's censure into 
 execution. 
 
 The people, in fact, cannot look upon any thing the rake 
 either says or does in a serious hght; and as he is liimself quite 
 sensible of this, so do his powers of humour and his natural 
 wit increase and appear to the best advantage, by the 
 confidence that there is no possibiHty of liis failing, and that 
 whatever he intends to be considered as humoui% whether in 
 word or action, >vill be laughed at, whether it may possess that 
 quality or not. 
 
 Another quality for which this character is remarkable, we 
 cannot pass over in silence. There never, probably, has been 
 an instance known of the rake exhibiting any degree, however 
 shght, of parental attachment to his offspring, whether legiti- 
 mate or otherwise ; he pays them no more attention than if 
 they were not his. 'Tis true, he will speak to them with as 
 hght a heart and as pleasant a famiharity as he would to the 
 children of his neighbours ; but this comprises all the sohcitude 
 he ever feels about them. ^Xeither advice nor aid do they ex- 
 perience, even under the most pressing difficulty, at his hands ; 
 but on the contrary, if any of them should happen to get 
 together, by their industry and labom% a few shillings, or it 
 may be pounds, the rake never ceases until he wheedles it out 
 of their hands, and leaves them to struggle on in new difficul- 
 ties, whilst he, as usual, rolicks and roves it away through hfe ; 
 his laugh as loud and his joke as ready at these froUcsome 
 frauds upon his own children, as if he had practised them upon 
 strangers, or rendered them a service. 
 
364 THE IRISH RAKE. 
 
 The rake*s end is also in complete keeping with the life of a 
 man of whom every body speaks much, and after all knows 
 little. He is always secretive, and feels no inclination, unless 
 you should hear it from another channel, to let you or any 
 one else know where he was born, who was his father, and 
 stoutly denies that his brother was hanged ; for the rake, be it 
 known, wishes to pass himself off as a man of consequence 
 among the females. This causes liim to affect mystery, which 
 more or less cleaves to him wherever he goes ; as, indeed, is 
 but natural in the case of one who, like him, Hves at the same 
 time every where and no where. In accordance with this, it 
 is found that, although the rake may disappear, he is never 
 known to die, even by his most intimate acquaintances. A 
 rake's death, in fact, is as rare an event as a dead ass, or a 
 tinker's funeral. A space of time elapses longer than that in 
 which he has been accustomed to re-appear — he is expected by 
 the unthinking for a while, but he comes not again ; and thus 
 does he pass away, few knowing how, when, or where he died, 
 or in what part of the world the bones of this rustic but 
 humourous profligate he interred. 
 
STORIES 
 
 OP 
 SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 
 
 I BEG to assure my readers that I am neither superstitious nor 
 visionary on the subject of di^eams or apparitions, but on the 
 contrary, httle disposed to place rehance on them, if not well 
 authenticated. The difficulty certainly rests in the means of 
 proof; but I would no more reject one history of a genuine 
 apparition, because ninety-nine tales of dehberate imposture 
 have been foisted upon human creduhty, than I would refuse 
 to give charity, upon the heartless principle that out of one 
 hundred miserable mendicants, ninety-nine of them may be 
 impostors. I would look with scorn upon the man who could 
 refuse to assist even an impostor, when in a state of destitution 
 and distress. With nearly a similar feehng would I contem- 
 plate your pompous pliilosophical rascals, who have neither the 
 grace nor imagination to put faith in a good ghost story, 
 whether it be authenticated or not. Such men, be assured of 
 it, are infidels in more points than ghost-ship. I myself, as I 
 have already said, am not superstitious, except where I have 
 good grounds for being so ; but, nevertheless, I never will be 
 the man who would keep faith with such heretics on any sub- 
 ject. They are for reducing every kind of spu'its to proof, and 
 if you offer them a glass of weak whiskey punch, the fellows 
 refuse to swallow it, until it be rendered perfectly pliilosopliical 
 by the addition of another glass, to give it, what they have 
 not — consistency. They will hear of apparition after appa- 
 rition, and drink tumbler after tumbler ; but I could never 
 
366 STORIES or 
 
 observe that a round dozen of either one or t'other made any 
 impression on their brain. In these cases they usually have 
 the assurance to walk home sober and unconvinced. Such 
 fellows are great sticklers for mechanics, and love all kinds of 
 machinery but the supernatural. They never read poetry — 
 or if they do, it is only to see where the logic lies, like the 
 worthy man who, after perusing Virgil with great attention, 
 sapiently closed the book and exclaimed — " All very well, 
 language grammatical and accurate enough ; but what does it 
 prove?'' These men make excellent Fellows of Colleges, and 
 are remarkable for bearing especially choice matter-of-fact 
 faces. Let one of them hear of a patent mvention for opening 
 oysters or darning stockings, and he immediately boasts the 
 advantages of mechanical science. They have excellent appe- 
 tites, too, for every thing but that which is supernatural; love 
 Monsieur Ude, and the^ transcendental philosophy, and are 
 deeply devoted to more tables than the logarithmal. Some of 
 them will undertake to resolve you the miracles of the Bible by 
 the aid of German philosophy, concluding that because they 
 cannot understand the philosophy, they ought not to beheve 
 the miracles. You might as well pull one of them by the nose 
 as mention witchcraft seriously in liis presence — indeed, better ; 
 for they bear the pull with much more patience than they do 
 the witchcraft. They conclude, too, that because they are no 
 conjurers themselves, there never must have been such persons 
 in the world. In fact, they have usually a great deal of the 
 sheep in them, especially after dinner; and any man who has 
 had an opportunity of seeing them grapple with a leg of mutton, 
 will easily believe me. One of this class reminds me of a turtle ; 
 being slow, fat, heavy, and contented under the shell of igno- 
 rance and unbelief which covers him ; and, truly, I have seen 
 them, when dressed and cut up, afford a very rich repast at 
 several tables of my acquaintances. In Braccbridgc-hall, the 
 fat-headed gentleman who, like a slow-hound, eternally pursued 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. SO? 
 
 the same joke against Master Simon, was one of these ungodly 
 Saducees, differing widely from the thin-faced, Hvcly little 
 gentleman so fond of the supernatural, and whose head on one 
 side had a delapidated look, like the haunted wing of an old 
 mansion long abandoned by the family. Oh, what a luxury to 
 sit on the haunted side of the little fellow's head, and come 
 down with a history of the murderer who was discovered by the 
 spirit of his sweetheart, and prosecuted by her, after seven 
 years, in a court of justice. " It was one murky night, in the 
 middle of December, the tempest howled along the sky, like a 
 Wliig cabinet leaving office; the thunder, sir, was of the 
 choicest description, and the lightning peculiarly brilliant — " 
 Tut ! Excuse me, gentle reader — I was about to disclose the 
 murder to the httle fellow, who, I am certain, is dreadfully dis- 
 appointed. I have seen men, however, who were of far stronger 
 faith in the supernatural than he. Poor Shamus Ewh ! 
 Commend me, after all, to a man who, Hke him, was haunted 
 on both sides of his head. Nay, for the matter of that, his 
 head was the sepulchral monument of half the parish ; his eye, 
 by the mere dint of faith in his own stories, had become cold 
 and rayless ; his face was worn away into the hue and hardness 
 of a tombstone, that apparently wanted only the inscription ; 
 and as for his voice, nothing could be more decidedly appari- 
 tional. He was also afflicted with what is called a church-yard 
 cough — but that made an excellent accompaniment to his 
 narratives. Indeed Shamus, owing to the force of his own 
 imagination, and the fact of his having had a leg and tliigli 
 buried in the grave of his predecessors, was frequently at a loss 
 to know whether he should class liimself with the hving or the 
 dead. Sometimes, it is said, he used to identify himself with 
 his own ghost for the time being, and mentioned himself and 
 the hero of his story by the epithet lue. 
 
 They may talk about the invisibility of spirits ; but I deny 
 that doctrine, and bring forward Shamus to disprove it. The 
 
368 STORIES OF 
 
 truth is, no ghost could escape him : if there was one at all 
 any where secreted in the neighbourhood, Shamus detected it, 
 and immediately informed the whole parish. As sure as you 
 became acquainted with him, so certain was he to see your 
 fetch in a fortnight. Shamus, in fact, had not only the gift of 
 second-sight, but of third sight, or fourth sight, if I may say 
 so. Fairies, fetches, banshees, hanhanshees, will-o'-the-wisps, 
 death-watches, white women, black men, and all the variety of 
 the genuine supernatural, were famihar to him. No man hving 
 was so well acquainted with the other world, and with good 
 reason ; for he spent as much, and more of his time in it than 
 he did in this. Some young wags in the village wanted Shamus 
 to get a tombstone placed over his leg and thigh, to the expense 
 of wliich they offered to contribute. For some time he refused 
 to embrace the proposal, but at length he was pressed into 
 comphance. The tombstone was got, and the following epitaph 
 furnished to Shamus by an imp of a schoolboy who owed him 
 many supernatural obligations : — 
 
 Underneatti this marble stone, 
 
 [ J%e villain! it was common limestone.'] 
 Lies Shamus Ewh, ochone ! ochone ! 
 Except a single leg and thigh, 
 And all the rest of his body. 
 
 Poor Shamus ! he appears before me this moment ; but 
 whether living or dead is a point as doubtful to me as it often 
 was to himself. God bless your coffin-face, Shamus ! It is 
 longer I think than usual, and I very much fear that you have 
 hopped to the grave, where you became a more perfect man 
 than you had been for many a long year out of it. If you he 
 dead, Shamus, I take it as an unfriendly thing in you, who 
 were my old senachie, not to have come and informed me of 
 the time and manner of your death. Tliat at least was due 
 to me. 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 369 
 
 There are men, indeed, whom it would be a species of small 
 infidelity to doubt on any subject. I allude especially to your 
 adroit and imperturbable liars; yet it is amazing to think with 
 what irreverence they are treated by the dull portion of society. 
 I would rather, for my own part, smell my dinner through the 
 bars of a tavern railing, in company with an able, fluent har, 
 than eat venison and drink champagne with a plodding villain, 
 who speaks as solemnly as if he were giving evidence on a caso 
 of hfe and death in a court of justice. If there be a purga- 
 torial settlement on this earth, it is to be planted at the elbow 
 of such a person. Like the eel mentioned by the naturalists, 
 he torpedizes those whom he touches ; for he is not only dull 
 himself, but the fruitful cause of dulness in others. A glance 
 from his bullet, doltish eye, comes about you with something 
 like the comfort of a wet blanket in December. Enter into a 
 contest with him, and in five minutes you will not know on 
 what side of the question you are disputing ; neither will he. 
 All the embellishments of conversation, which I hold to be pure 
 lying, he is wicked enough to lop off". The man has no more 
 poetry in him than a black-pudding ; is a most disagreeable 
 companion, and only fit for death-bed conversations, or sifting 
 evidence at a coroner's inquest. Yet, notwithstanding the 
 power he possesses of communicating his torpor to others, I am 
 bound to state that I never knew him to succeed in quashing, 
 or in the slightest degree affecting, by his dulness, the genuine 
 and oily Har. No : that respectable character always rises 
 above all opposition, and indeed thrives in fiction the better 
 for it. The original lie is always outstripped by that which 
 he tells to defend it. Your thorough liar, be it understood, is 
 never malio-nant — never slanders or defames. On the con- 
 trary, he is benevolent, and sometimes, by the dint of lying, 
 succeeds in reconciling enemies who would otherwise never 
 meet each other with good temper or kindness. Then his lies 
 are always of such a description that they cannot be contra- 
 2b 
 
370 STORIES OF 
 
 dieted even by those who feel that every word is invention. 
 These men are ornaments to convivial society, and possess a 
 power analogous to that which is ascribed to fairies. Where 
 a story from a common man appears nothing but a rude and 
 ragged cave or a barren rock — they, by anointing your eyes 
 with the oil of fiction, present it to you as a lordly palace, 
 bedecked with light, beauty, and magnificence. 
 
 The most inimitable of this class that I ever had the luxury 
 of meeting, was the late George M — ds, Esq. George was the 
 Walter Scott of the convivial table. In fact, I never knew 
 a man who could he with such grace, ease, and dignity. He, 
 too, never told a lie to injure mortal. George could give you 
 a romance in the style of Ivanhoe, in which he himself always 
 bore a leading part ; or relate a fashionable novel of the New 
 Burlington-street school, with surpassing effect. The liistory 
 of his hunting feats, and an enumeration of the immense sums 
 he won at play, are the best things of their kind extant. If 
 he won a thousand pounds, for instance, it was certain to be a 
 thousand pounds, thirteen and five-pence three farthings ; thus 
 always introducing the broken money in order to preserve the 
 keeping, and to show you that the circumstances must have 
 happened. How else could he have remembered them so 
 minutely ? The man, however, who wished to hear George in 
 all his glory, should have been present when he began to give 
 his account of the Irish rebellion of '98, which he was well 
 acquainted with from personal knowledge. Never have I 
 heard any thing in the way of historical narrative, either on 
 or oif paper, at all to be compared to it in brilliancy and power. 
 One inference, too, might have been clearly and justly drawn 
 from it by the audience, which was, that the government 
 must have treated him badly, shamefully, and with base 
 ingratitude ; because, in point of fact, had it not been for 
 George, the whole fortune of the campaign in that sad busi- 
 ness would have gone against the loyalists. Then George's 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPAKITION. 371 
 
 manner of relating his adventures was always equal, if not 
 superior, to the matter. Materiem superahat opus. There ho 
 sat, his thread-bare face and lively dark eyes beaming with 
 sometliing between an expression of complacency and a positive 
 smile, both probably produced by the novelty of his facts and 
 imagery, wliich, though described as having come within his 
 personal knowledge, had, on the contrary, all been created at 
 the moment. No fiction ever flowed on more freely or unob- 
 structed. There was no putting him out of story or out of 
 countenance. Indeed so much had his narratives the air and 
 consistency of truth, that I have known men, who prided 
 themselves very much on their penetration, to have often been 
 taken in by them. Not the worst thing about George was his 
 readiness to charge several of liis friends with invention. One 
 in particular he nicknamed " lying Alick," but upon perfectly 
 fair grounds. 'Tis true, Ahck was what a punster is to a wit, 
 when compared with George himself. He was happy at a 
 short monosyllabic he, could invent a single fact at one flight ; 
 but his wing soon tired, and down he came, until he gathered 
 himself again, and concocted another small incident, in which 
 no earthly being, except the narrator, could feel any concern. 
 If you met Ahck, for instance, he would teU you that he had 
 
 just lunched with my Lord O'N , and was asked to dine 
 
 wdth him to-morrow. Tliis was a he. 
 
 Poor George was, notwithstanding his happiness at fiction, 
 an inoffensive, honest man, who in the intercourse of life, but 
 especially in the practical transactions of business, was strictly 
 bound by truth. To be sure, he had one faihng, but that was 
 more than overbalanced by his talent at lying : — he gave 
 cursedly bad suppers. Of this I am myself a hving proof ; 
 and never will the man who gives bad suppers receive indul- 
 gence at my hands : — but what was worse, a good glass of 
 whiskey punch I never drank at his table. 'Tis true, I might 
 overlook the indifferent supper, but the bad punch — never. On 
 
372 
 
 STORIES OF 
 
 both these subjects, I often remonstrated with him, in a manner 
 so earnest, that it must have showed him the deep interest I 
 took in his reformation. George's standing supper was cockles, 
 of which he was barefaced enough to serve up five courses ! 
 Now, I ask, who could stand that ? Cockles, I grant, are 
 verj? good in their place ; but on George's table no such thing 
 as a decent cockle ever made its appearance. The fact was, 
 that the children and servants always picked out the cocks 
 below stairs ; and when you sat down, it soon became evident 
 that you were digging in vain among a magnificent pile of 
 empty shells. This was monstrous and deserved exposure. 
 To a man hke me, who am no conchologist, and love a good 
 supper, it was altogether a bitter disappointment. George, 
 when about forty-five, joined a debating society that had been 
 got up by a set of young fellows who were anxious to improve 
 themselves in oratory. He was, of course, admitted by accla- 
 mation, having been well known to most of them. The first 
 night on which he spoke, I was present by his express invita- 
 tion. They voted him into the chair; after which he arose 
 and said — '' In rising up. Mister Chairman, to express without 
 
 fear, favour, or affection " Having proceeded thus far, he 
 
 was greeted with a " hear, hear," by some one in the corner 
 of the room. George turned hastily about, and shouted, with 
 something of alarm, where, where ? In a moment all present 
 were in convulsions, and George resumed his speech, still 
 addressing Mr. Chairman, as if he himself had not presided. 
 It was, however, a vile effort — that is the truth. Indeed he 
 felt it to be such ; for after pursuing his own meaning through 
 a multiphcity of empty words, as if he had been hunting a 
 stray cockle through a dish of unprofitable shells, he exclaimed 
 — '' Gentlemen, eloquence is ousted — but no matter — I'll sit 
 down, and give you the rebelhon." He accordingly took his 
 seat ; and from the moment he got on his regimentals until he 
 overthrew the rebels, his audience were bound as if by the 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 373 
 
 spell of an enchanter. Poor George ! He died after a surfeit 
 of cockles, eaten in town whilst his family were out at his 
 country residence, Cockle Lodge. He made lying Alick his 
 executor. In a little church-yard beside the "Lodge," he now 
 lies buried ; and what is not inappropriate, considering his 
 character, an old sun-dial stands beside his grave, which, to 
 tell the truth, is as great a liar as he was, for it never points to 
 the right hour. A friend of mine was requested to write his 
 epitaph, who, thinking it a pity that such talents should pass 
 into obscurity, suggested a simple motto as a hint to his sur- 
 vivors — De mortuis nil nisi verum. This hint was taken ; 
 but the motto was rather a stumbhng-block to the illiterate, 
 although I myself am of opinion that all epitaphs ought to be 
 written in a dead language. The following was added about 
 a year after his death : — 
 
 Here lies 
 GEORGE M DS, 
 
 (no common dust, ) 
 
 of whom, 
 
 Although he died of a cockle-surfeit, 
 
 It is but just to state, 
 
 For the benefit of those who may come after him, 
 
 That he was unrivalled at 
 
 INVENTING TRUTH. 
 
 This, to be sure, was rather disguising his talents than 
 
 openly rescuing them from obhv Hilloa, our fancy ! Easy 
 
 gentle reader ; what is all this twaddle about ? I set out with 
 something relative to ghosts, and here I find myself describing 
 men who were talented at conversational fiction. The two 
 subjects have certainly no connexion, as I will prove, if you 
 can muster patience enough to hear me. Away then, levity ; I 
 give you to the winds. Hush ! hush ! let me compose myself. 
 I am now returnmg to a subject which hes on my heart in spite 
 of the world, unfeeling as it is, with a solemn tenderness that 
 
374 STORIES OF 
 
 touches it at once into happiness and sorrow. I go back to 
 the scenes of my youth, to my native hills and glens, to the 
 mountains and the lakes, and the precipices, which turn my 
 memory into one dreamy landscape, chequered by the clouds 
 and sunshine of joy and tears. Why is it that the heart melts 
 and the eye fills, when we think of our early home ? Why 
 is it that every dell, and shaw, and streamlet, how inconsider- 
 able soever they may be in reahty, draw back our hearts to 
 them with a power so delightful and so melancholy ? Simply 
 because they possessed our first affections. They were the 
 earliest objects on which our young spirits poured themselves 
 forth. Our hearts grew into them, and the soul mourns for 
 that which was dear to her. A friend, a brother, a sister, may 
 assume a new character calculated to sever hearts that had 
 been knit, one would think, never to be disunited. The moun- 
 tains, however, of our native place cannot change, the river 
 that wimples through the hazel glen cannot offend us ; the 
 broomy knoll is guiltless of a crime against the boy who 
 sported and was joyful on it. We naturally love that which 
 has made us happy, whether it be a man or a mountain, and 
 we love that best which first won us to enjoyment. 
 
 The httly story I am now about to relate, concerning second- 
 sight, is connected with the scenes of my early boyhood. The 
 facts were precisely as I shall detail them, and I beg that the 
 reader will do me the favour to dismiss all scepticism touching 
 the truth of an occurrence which I am able to explain by no 
 other theory than that of second-sight. It occurred in the 
 month of April. I, my brother, and seven or eight of our 
 young acquaintances, were playing at the game of Wide- 
 windows, which being one of pursuit, requires fleetness of foot. 
 The field in which we played was part of a large sheep-walk 
 belonging to a respectable farmer named M'Crea. It was ono 
 of those level holmes that usually stretch along the margin of 
 a river, as this in fact did. Around us swelled the smooth 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 375 
 
 hills, lying in the fresh verdure of spring, covered here and 
 there by flocks of sheep whose lambs frisked and gamboled in 
 wanton mirth — now running in flighty circles around their 
 dams, then starting off in mad httle excursions, performed at 
 the top of their speed, and instantly returning again, their 
 swiftness increasing as they approached the mamma, tliinking 
 that they had actually performed something for the world to 
 wonder at : the poor, foohsh, old sheep, too, who was evidently 
 of the same opinion, blessing her stars, all the while, that there 
 was not such another lamb in the universe ; but mothers are 
 mostly fools in this respect. The evening was an evening 
 which I have never seen equalled from that day to this. In 
 fact how it strayed to our climate I know not ; it certainly did 
 not belong to this country. A man should travel to Italy or 
 the south of France to get a ghmpse of such an evening, and it 
 would be well worth his wliile to trudge it every step, for the 
 express purpose. I myself have been through Italy, France, 
 Spain, resided at Constantinople for three years, supped on 
 Mount Lebanon, came round with a sweep to Bagdat, where 
 I challeno-ed and killed three Cadis for abusing Dan O'Connell 
 behind his back ; escaped from that, and shpped over to Mecca, 
 where I — but there is no use in going on any farther. At all 
 events, I have been in every country under the sky, where any 
 tiling at all in the shape of a good evening could be come at, yet 
 I am bound to declare, as an honest man and an Irishman, that 
 I would match that Irish evening against any foreign evening in 
 or out of Europe. The sky was one cloudless expanse of blue, 
 from the western rim of which that pleasant fellow, the sun, 
 who was in excellent good humour at the time, shot liis rays 
 slantingly, and in a very handsome manner indeed, upon the 
 earth. It w^as certainly as genteel sunshine as a man could 
 wish, and the whole thing did him infinite credit. It was not, 
 on the other hand, a flaring, vulgar evenmg. No ; there was 
 a freshness and dehcacv of light minghng in quiet radiance 
 
376 STORIES OF 
 
 with the still beauty of nature, as it gradually developed itself 
 in buds and blossoms and flowers, under the balmy influence 
 of spring. Like a bottle of champagne, or what is better still, 
 a good tumbler of whiskey punch, it was calculated to make a 
 man's heart rejoice within him. The golden beams, resembhng 
 the light of a young beauty's eyes, fell upon the still earth 
 with that trembling lustre to which modesty gives a character 
 at once tender and exquisite. There they lay, earth and sky, 
 like two young fools, silent and blushing, peeping at each 
 other, whilst their hearts gushed with love, both apparently 
 on the eve of a declaration. How still, how beautiful, how 
 soft, how full of pathos to a blue-stocking, was that celebrated 
 evening ! 
 
 *' The forest seem'd to listen for the rustling of its leaves, 
 And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves." 
 
 Down to the left, the river ran between two hanging hills, 
 whose sides were covered with furze, now in full flower and 
 fragrance. Up to our right, immediately on the banks of that 
 blessed stream, stood the beautiful and sequestered homestead 
 of Roger M'Faudeen, its white walls shining from among the 
 trees, and its chimney sending up a straight column of blue 
 smoke, undisturbed in its symmetry by a single breath of air. 
 Give me, after all, the sweet, secluded spot of unpretending 
 beauty, which, clothed with the charm of early love, the heart 
 can take in at a glance. Let the eye lose itself upon the awful 
 magnificence of the Alps, and the imagination be stunned by 
 the grandeur of the Pyrenees — let any man who chooses, admire 
 the voluptuous beauty of an Italian landscape, as he would the 
 charms of a lovely woman without modesty — for me, I prefer 
 the soft retreat that lies between the hills, every spot of which 
 is bound to the spirit by some early incident or association, — 
 in the same manner that I would a modest female with whose 
 virtues I am acquainted. There are women, as there are 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 377 
 
 landscapes, that do not strike the eye or lieart, at a first glance, 
 but who, upon a longer intimacy, gradually disclose virtue after 
 virtue, and charm after charm, until, before we arc conscious 
 of it, we find them irrevocably fixed in our afi'ections, and 
 wonder why we did not at first perceive their lovehness. In 
 both cases the object holds its influence with more endurinty 
 tenderness over our hearts, and indeed generally lasts until they 
 perish together. How sweet were the glimpses of the river, as 
 it wended through the meadows that lay between the holme 
 whereon we played, and Roger's house ! How calmly did it 
 flow between the banks from which the oziers dipped gently 
 into its stream ! 
 
 * ' Ah happy hills ! ah pleasing shade ! 
 Ah fields beloved in vain, 
 Where once my careless childhood strayed, 
 A stranger yet to pain. 
 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 
 A momentary bUss bestow, 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
 And redolent of joy and youth, 
 To breathe a second spring." 
 
 God bless you, Gray ! you are worthy, if only for having 
 written the elegy in a country church-yard, to be called 
 " Twilight Gray," wliile the world lasts. 
 
 As we were engaged at play on the evening I have described, 
 light-hearted and innocent as the lambs about us, each and all 
 intent upon our pastimes, I at once felt such an elevation of soul, 
 such serenity of mind, such a sense of intense happiness, as I 
 have never since, even in a comparatively faint degree, expe- 
 rienced. I thought my physical gravity had been dissolved into 
 nothing, and that I could absolutely tread upon air. Emotions, 
 at first uncUrected to any object, but balmy, dehghtful, and 
 ethereal, crowded upon me. I instantly abandoned my position 
 in the game, the range of which I considered to be too hmited 
 
378 STORIES OF 
 
 for my powers. I bounded with shoutings of rapture and 
 exultation over the fields, threw myself into a thousand antic 
 attitudes, leaped, caprioled, and gamboled like a young puppy, 
 and, in fact, felt precisely the same class of sensations described 
 by Sir Humphrey Davy, after having inhaled oxalic gas, — inef- 
 fable rapture and happiness, together with an inconceivably 
 vivid reproduction in my memory of all the circumstances that 
 had affected me with pleasure during the preceding two or three 
 years. External objects I did not notice, nor had they any 
 influence over me. I was actually inspired; borne away by an 
 afflatus so transporting, that description fails in giving even a 
 feeble notion of it. At length I stood still near my companions, 
 wlio having observed my countenance to change, instantly sur- 
 rounded me ; but I saw them not. They asked me why I got 
 pale, and why my eyes were fixed. To this I could make no 
 reply ; my physical senses had abandoned me ; I could neither 
 see, speak, nor hear, for some minutes. Their power, however, 
 seemed to have withdrawn from outward things, only to give 
 a more piercing and intense perception to my imagination, for 
 they evidently merged into it, until it became almost superna- 
 tural. In this state I remained for a few minutes, my face pale 
 as ashes, and my eyes wild and fixed, but vague, sharp, and 
 gleaming. A chasm ensued in my recollection, occasioned by 
 my having lapsed into insensibility. On recovering, I found 
 myself exhausted, full of wonder, and quite drenched with 
 perspiration. 
 
 '' John," said I, to my brother, " come home ; our sister 
 Mary is there before us." She was a favourite sister. 
 
 *' No such thing," he replied, " we did not expect her. Did 
 you hear she was to come ?" 
 
 " No — but I know she is at home. I saw her this moment." 
 
 " You saw her ! Where ?" 
 
 I then described to him the vision I had seen during my 
 ecstacy, which was precisely what I now relate. It appeared 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 379 
 
 to me that I saw my sister, then only about three months mar- 
 ried, coming doAvn the road which led to our house, and what 
 is singular, I felt not surprise at this, although I knew, or 
 ought to have remembered, that the road was invisible from 
 the holme where I stood. At first I observed in my mind's eye 
 only a female figure, which presently became more defmcd in 
 outline as it advanced. The dress, however, was new to mo 
 and I did not for a moment suspect it to be my sister. By and 
 bye the features began to develop themselves, until they wero 
 impressed clearly upon my vision as hers. Henceforward my 
 eye followed her for about eighty perches — she went down the 
 village street — shook hands with a Mrs. Thomas — gave an 
 apple to a neighbour's cliild that she met near our door, then 
 entered our house — kissed my mother and youngest sister, who 
 were the only two of the family at home, and having laid aside 
 her cloak and bonnet, she sat at the right-hand side of the 
 hearth. 
 
 When I related this to my brother, I asked him to come 
 home, as we had not seen her for a month. 
 
 He only laughed at me, however, and dechned leaving his 
 play-fellows. 
 
 I replied that what I had said Avas true, that I had seen her, 
 and that I would go home whether he accompanied me or not. 
 On my own mind the impression was so strong as to leave no 
 doubt whatsoever of its truth. 
 
 I remember that on separating from my companions, I heai'd 
 my brother say — " Something ails liun ; I see it by his wild 
 looks." 
 
 The boys assented to this, and one of them called after me 
 to know why I cried, or if any of them had accidentally hurt 
 me ; for I should have told the reader, that after having reco- 
 vered from the state of excitement in which I saw the vision, 
 the tears flowed in torrents from my eyes. 'Tis true they were 
 not accompanied by sorrow, but were evidently produced by 
 
380 STORIES OF 
 
 hysteria, as they came involuntarily, and much to my relief. 
 Altogether I felt, when this singular affection had passed away, 
 that no consideration could induce me to undergo it again. The 
 impression it left behind, notwithstanding the ecstatic trans- 
 ports with which it came upon me, were decidedly painful, if 
 not agonizing. I immediately proceeded home, accompanied by 
 my brother, who, fearing that I was really ill, overtook me. 
 On entering the house, judge of what I must have felt, when I 
 found my sister on the very seat, and in the very dress I beheld 
 in the vision — a dress, too, which I had never seen on her 
 before. I instantly asked her if she had spoken to, and shaken 
 hands with, Mrs. Thomas ? — She had. Had she given an apple 
 to httle James Delany? — She had. Every thing, in fact, 
 occurred literally as I had seen it ! 
 
 Now before I speak to the philosophers about this, let me 
 inform them for their comfort that it is emphatically no fiction, 
 that all the circumstances are accurately given, and that I 
 could depose to its truth. I next beg to ask the infidels how 
 they would explain or account for it. Let the scientific men 
 attack it; let the physicians, surgeons, apothecaries, barbers, 
 and resurrectionists, on the one hand, all have at it. Let the 
 fellows of college try it, the doctors and bachelors of divinity, 
 parsons, curates, parish clerks, and sextons, on the other hand, 
 all grapple with it. Any man within the extremities of his 
 profession, from the state physician and surgeon-general, to the 
 aforesaid resurrectionist — any man from a bishop to a grave- 
 digger, who will undertake to solve it by any other theory than 
 second-sight, is welcome to send in his solution before the 
 eighth day of next month, and if it be written in any thing like 
 decent sufferable grammar, and contain one idea not already 
 worn to tatters, I hereby pledge myself that Mr. Poplar will 
 give it insertion. 
 
 I now proceed to another circumstance equally authentic, 
 quorum pars fid. In the town of C w, lived a man, whose 
 
 I 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 381 
 
 name was F r, a watchmaker, who, in consequence of having 
 
 lost his sight, was compelled to retire from business. I had 
 lodged in his house for some months before what I shall relate 
 occurred. His sight did not fail him in early life, so that ho 
 was, at the period I speak of, about seventy years of age. One 
 Saturday evening, in the month of June, he and I were sitting 
 in his own garden after the sun had gone down, where he told 
 me that he intended, in a month or so, to go to Dublin, for the 
 purpose of having an operation performed on his eyes. I 
 never saw him in better spirits, and as he dwelt with manifest 
 satisfaction upon the pleasure he contemplated by the restora- 
 tion of his vision, I ventured to observe, that in case the 
 operation succeeded, he himself would be a living witness of 
 the reahty of second sight. He smiled benevolently, and 
 replied, that he hoped he would Uve to settle that difficult 
 question. We then separated, each to liis repose. The next 
 morning, about six o'clock, I had just shaved, and was pro- 
 ceeding to wash, when I heard a shriek from F r's wife, 
 
 and immediately, in a loud cry, she called upon their daughter. 
 "Your father," said she, "has fainted; come up, for God's 
 sake." I slept on the same floor with tliis amiable and respect- 
 able old couple, so that there was nothing but a lobby between 
 us. On hearing the cry, I hastily wiped my hands and ran 
 to their bed-room. As I entered, the husband, half di'essed, 
 was lying on the carpet, his head and shoulders supported by 
 his wife ; he gave one deep sigh, then his under-jaw fell, and I 
 saw that all was over. 
 
 When the daughter arrived, we attempted to recover him, 
 but in vain ; a few minutes convinced us that, whatever medical 
 skill might do, we could do nothing. They then begged me to 
 run up and acquaint his son with what had happened. I did 
 so. Two or three minutes brought me to his house. On rap- 
 ping at the hall-door, I found by the delay in opening it, that 
 the family had not yet risen. It was then about twenty minutes 
 
382 
 
 STORIES OF 
 
 past six of a Sunday ..orning. After waiting and rappin. 
 
 SoZSr ' '---' -' -^*'- - ado .Wd 
 
 tlJinlr ~^'" '-'' '' " '•-* ^-^^'^ '« ^P-k to hi. on 
 
 Ere .he had time to reply, her mistress entered the vn 
 e-xhibi :ng an unusual degree of agitation. ""' 
 
 "Oil, Mr. W /'saidshe, "heisdeadtl,^- .i j ,„ 
 
 «he immediately burst into tea^s. " ^'"'^ ' ''"'^ 
 
 "Dead!" said I, feigning astonishment-" who is dead^" 
 dead?" ""' "°* ~^' '*'" ^^^ -P'-^' "Mr f!!!:,. , 
 
 i« de!d.' ; istot ^r'' • '"* "-' '^*'^^--'-= I ^^-w he 
 
 Th; 1, . r ™""*'* *'"«'' '^e was with me " 
 
 ■Ihe husband now enterprl +],„ i 
 
 ^«era.^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 fathe Tr '' ""^ "' '^^ ^"^"^-^ ^ " ^- -y t'^i-g happened my 
 
 po;:!:;:t;gr^^'-''-'^^^^^--'^ieadyoutosup- 
 
 She related th^^' ^' ',' ^'* "' ''""'^ ^'^^ circumstances ?" 
 one 1 elated them precisely as follows •— 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPAlllTION. 383 
 
 " ' Margaret, tell Joe to get up and go down to his mother. 
 She and Margaret (this was his own daughter) have none to 
 take care of them oioiv ; they are alone.' Having said this," 
 she continued, "he stooped down and kissed me, adding — 
 ' God bless you, my dear, you were ever kind to me.' I could 
 not understand such a scene," said the daughter-in-law ; " it 
 was so odd and strange. I looked up with an intention of 
 asking what he meant, but I discovered that it was only then 
 that I had awoke, and on opening my eyes, and rubbing them, 
 I found that he was gone. I awoke my husband immccUatcly, 
 and in truth we were actually discussing this extraordinary 
 circumstance when your knock alarmed us. I felt that it was 
 a message to inform us of his death. Now, tell us truly is he 
 dead?" 
 
 * " It is very strange," said I ; " but I fear he is dead. Let 
 us, however, get medical aid immediately." 
 
 " Yes," she replied, bursting again into tears, " he is dead !" 
 
 We procured medical assistance, but her dream was verified ; 
 he had gone to his rest. Now, I was an actor in this melan- 
 choly drama, myself, and I protest as solemnly as man can 
 protest, that it is a truth, without one atom of exaggeration. 
 
 Come on, ye Saddusaical rogues ! here I take my stand. 
 Resolve me this, if you are able ; but I know you are not able, 
 ye miserable creatures. I defy you in squadrons, and with my 
 single arm I will undertake to crush you in platoons. Xo ; I 
 eat my words. I will be assisted by a splendid array of genius. 
 I range myself with Greece and Rome — with Herodotus and 
 Livy ; and if that does not satisfy you, then you must face the 
 oriental Mollahs and Brahmins. But that is not all ; hero 
 come Albertus Magnus, Cardan, Paracelsus, Franciscus Picus 
 Mirandola, Olaus Magnus, and Pontopopidan. Tremble again. 
 Here come Bodinus, Debrio, Remigius, Gaifarel, De Loger, De 
 Lanore. Then come Luther, Melancthon, Camerarius, Perkins, 
 Mathers, Glanville, Scott, Hopkins, Baxter, and Henry More 
 
384 STORIES OF 
 
 the Platonist. Are you satisfied? No. I annihilate you by 
 the names of Dr. Sam Johnson, John Wesley, and Adam 
 Clarke ; but there is no use in exhausting my learning upon 
 you. I might quote Cornelius Agrippa, Mestinel, Delaeampus, 
 Julianus, Delampus, IVIelanthusus, Prisculus, Trobantus, Mella- 
 grinus, and a whole host of others, every man of whom could 
 not only beat you on the supernatural, but show you, that on 
 any other subject connected with extensive learning, ye are 
 little less than the very title pages of reading — so far at least 
 as honest and substantial spirits are concerned. 
 
 I next proceed to my second and concluding history of 
 authentic apparitions, for I do not look upon the case of my 
 own seer-ship as one that comes under the character of a ghost 
 story. In a certain part, then, of Ireland, which, for good 
 reasons, I shall not mention, lived a man named Walker. A-s 
 a farmer, his circumstances in life were respectable, as were his 
 connexions, his character, and education. He was one of those 
 silent men who pass through the world blameless, and without 
 offence. His disposition was mild, but marked by a firmness of 
 character amounting occasionally to inflexibility. To unim- 
 peachable honesty he united a stern placidity of manner, that 
 caused him to be respected almost at a first glance ; and 
 although peaceable, he possessed courage, both moral and 
 physical, in a high degree. One observation more is essential 
 to the completion of his outline ; he looked upon all accounts of 
 apparitions and supernatural appearances with the most pro- 
 found contempt ; but he lived to change his opinions. Such a 
 person, in consequence of his integrity and intelligence, is 
 always useful at assizes, as a juror. In fact, ever since the 
 thirtieth year of his age, he had served in that capacity, with 
 the reputation of being a shrewd, honest, and humane man, 
 who permitted nothing to sway him from the direct line of his 
 duty. In a word, he was respected and esteemed by all 
 classes. 
 
 hi 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. .385 
 
 Walker had been about five years a juror, ^vlion a very 
 delicate and distressing case of infanticide came on at the M — 
 assizes. The persons charged with the crime were two females 
 of rather respectable station in society. They were sisters ; 
 one of them principal, the other her accomplice. The trial, 
 which excited deep interest, lasted a whole day. Walker was 
 foreman, and displayed during its progress much discrimination 
 and knowledge of character. The elder sister, who was tho 
 mother and murderess of the child, paid the heavy penalty of 
 her crime ; but the younger, though she received the same 
 sentence, did not share the same fate. There were strong 
 circumstances of mitigation in her case, for her guilt arose 
 principally from the affection she bore to her unhappy sister, 
 and the sway the other had over her. She was young, beau- 
 tiful, innocent, and, from the impulse of her own heart, utterly 
 incapable of lending herself to the perpetration of such a crime. 
 The jury, of whom, as I said. Walker was foreman, strongly, 
 and with tears in their eyes, recommended her to mercy. Tho 
 judge said he would back the recommendation with all his 
 influence, but that he must, in the meantime, pass the sentence 
 of the law upon both. JN'ever, probably, was a scene so afflicting 
 witnessed in a court of justice. Every face was convulsed, and 
 every check drenched with tears. The judge was compelled 
 to pause several times while he addressed them, and on coming 
 to the specific terms of their sentence, his voice utterly failed 
 him. When it was pronounced, among the sobs and groans of 
 a weeping court, the younger folded her sister in an agonizing 
 embrace : " Emily," she exclaimed, '■' I will die with you." 
 
 " No," replied her sister with calmness, " the innocent must 
 not suffer with the guilty. My Lord, take compassion on her 
 youth and inexperience. She is guilty of no crime, but too 
 much affection for a sister who did not deserve it." 
 
 Walker, the next day, accompanied by the friends of these 
 unhappy females, set out for Dublin to lay the case of the 
 c2 
 
386 STORIES OF 
 
 younger sister before the Lord Lieutenant. Their relations 
 pressed him, as foreman of the jury, to plead for both ; but 
 this, with probably too strict a sense of justice, he absolutely 
 declined to do. " Where there is guilt so enormous," he 
 replied, " there ought to be adequate punishment." He had 
 little difficulty in procuring a pardon for Lucy. 
 
 In due time Emily was executed ; but Lucy's heart was 
 broken by the ignominious death and shame of her beloved 
 but criminal sister. She fell into dechne, and ere the ex- 
 piration of a year, she withered away hke an early flower. 
 Her beauty, and her sorrows, and her shame, passed from 
 the earth, and were seen no more. 
 
 Fifteen years elapsed after the mournful fate of these beau- 
 tiful but unfortunate sisters ; their brief and painful history 
 was now forgotten, or only remembered with that callous 
 indifference which time gives to our recollections of guilt and 
 suffering. Walker maintained the same excellent and respect- 
 able character with which he had set out in hfe. By industry 
 and skill he had become wealthy. Some property, to wliich^he 
 was entitled by the death of a relation, had, however, led him 
 into the mazes of litigation, and he found it necessary to make 
 a journey to Dublin. About six miles from his house passed the 
 Grand Canal, by which, for convenience sake, he determined 
 to travel. He knew the hour when it was to pass the next 
 station-house, and went to bed, resolved to be up in time to 
 meet it. On awaking, he feared that he had overslept himself, 
 as he concluded from the light that glinted in through the 
 shutters of his bed-room window. In a few minutes he was 
 dressed, and as he had sent his luggage to the station-house 
 on the preceding day, he walked briskly forward with a good 
 staff in his hand. It appeared in a short time, that he had 
 anticipated the progress of the night, and that what he sup- 
 posed to be the dawn of day, was only the light of the moon. 
 The mistake, however, being on the safe side, he felt no 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND AI'PAKITION. 387 
 
 anxiety, but proceeded leisurely along, uninfluenced Ijy appre- 
 hension, and least of all by the dread of any thing supernatural. 
 The night was calm and frosty ; the moon, thougli rather 
 on the wane, shone with peculiar lustre, and shot down her 
 silvery light upon the sleeping earth, which now lay veiled in 
 her dim, cold radiance, like a dead beauty in her virgin shroud. 
 The whole starry host glowed afar in the blue concave of 
 heaven, the arch of which presented not a single cloud. Over 
 
 to his left rose the grey smokeless towers of B , surrounded 
 
 by its noble beeches, whose branches, glistening feebly in the 
 distance, reposed in utter stillness. The lonely beauty of the 
 hour lay on every object about him. The fields, as he crossed 
 them, were crisp under his feet ; the faint sparkles on the 
 grass shone hke new silver, and the voice of the streams and 
 rivulets, as they murmured under the already formed ice, bor- 
 rowed sweetness from the solitude and silence. On arriving 
 
 near the ruined Abbey of H , he could not help pausing to 
 
 look at it. There it stood, mantled by the wing of old romance, 
 its mullioned windows shorn of the oriel tint of past magnifi- 
 cence, its tracery partially defaced, and its architraves broken 
 or overrun with ivy, that melancholy plant of ruin. What a 
 finely tempered mass of light and shade did it present ! How 
 admirably contrasted was the wing of its gloomy aisle, reposing 
 in the deep shadow, with the southern window, through wliich 
 streamed a gush of clear and lonely light ! There, too, were 
 the old ancestral tombs, ghttering in the grey churchyard, 
 monuments at least of pardonable vanity, beneath which the 
 haughty noble dissolves as fast into dust as the humble peasant 
 who sleeps in the lowly grave beside him. There certainly is 
 something grand and solemn in the memory of feudal times, 
 when the pomp of the hall was rude but lordly, and the 
 imposing splendour of rehgion swept before the imagination in 
 the gorgeous array of temporal pride. AYalker could not help 
 standing to contemplate the monumental effigies where husband 
 
388 STORIES OF 
 
 and wife appeared to sleep before hiin on the old grev slab, 
 like persons bound by enchantment- — 
 
 " Outstretch'd together were express'd 
 He and my ladye fair, 
 With hands uplifted on the breast 
 
 In attitude of prayer ; 
 Long yisag'd, clad in armour, he ; 
 With ruffled arms and boddice, she." 
 
 Perhaps there is nothing on which the eye can rest, that fills 
 lis with so solemn an impression of the vanity of hfe, as these 
 rude figures of lord and dame, that lie on our old tomb-stones. 
 I do not mean to say, however, that they represent the 
 shadowy side of existence only. On the contrary, they touch 
 our spirits with sweetness even on the brink of the grave. 
 Who can look on the husband and wife, stretched out in the 
 decent composure of christian hope, their hands clasped in 
 affection, or raised in prayer, without feehng a crowd of sensa- 
 tions that knit him to his kind ? Imagination, too, wings her 
 way back into the gloom of centuries ; re-animates the time- 
 worn effigies that he before us ; hovers in the dream of a 
 moment over the chequered path of their existence ; witnesses 
 their loves and sorrows ; sees them pace with stately tread 
 upon the terrace of their baronial castle, or attended by their 
 sons and daughters, sweeping proudly along their halls and 
 galleries. On, on, they go, through all the stages of being, 
 engaged in the bustle of existence, until age and decay lay 
 their bodies side by side in their ancestral vault, and filial 
 affection places their rude effigies upon the slab that covers 
 them. For my part, I think that all these fine old feudal con- 
 ceptions are not only full of nature and feeling, but actually 
 constitute the very romance of death. 
 
 Having once more looked upon the dark ivy-covered porches 
 and shafted windows, and probably thought of the times when 
 mitred abbot, and priest, and monk, filled its now solitary and 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 389 
 
 deserted walls with those pageantries which fascinate tlie 
 imagination whilst they encumber religion, he passed on, and 
 in a few minutes came out on the public road, which in this 
 place ran parallel with the canal, until it entered the village 
 where he intended to meet the packet. Finding himself on 
 the hard level way, he advanced at a tolerable pace, not a 
 sound falling on his ear, except that of his own steps, nor any 
 thing possessing motion visible, except the rapid train of a 
 meteor as it shot in a line along the sky. When within about 
 a mile and a half of the station-house, he began to calculate 
 the exact progress of the night, and to consider whether it 
 might not be nearer the packet hour than he imagined. At 
 this moment a circumstance occurred which led him to conclude 
 that the approach of morning could not be far distant : — this 
 was the appearance of two shadows of females, which, altliough 
 they followed him at a short distance, yet from the position of 
 the moon, necessarily extended in a slanting manner past him, 
 just as his own moved rather in front of himself, but sloping a 
 little to the left. 
 
 " I perceive," said he, " that it cannot be far from the hour, 
 for here are others on their way to the station-house as well 
 as myself." 
 
 Good manners prevented him from looking back, especially 
 as those who followed him were women, who probably might 
 prefer avoiding a solitary stranger under such circumstances. 
 He, accordingly, went on at a quicker step, but felt some sur- 
 prise on seeing, by their motion, that their step quickened in 
 proportion to his. He then slackened his pace : perhaps, 
 thought he, they are anxious to have my company and pro- 
 tection into the village. This, however, could not have been 
 their motive, for they also slackened their pace. 
 
 " How is this ?" said he : " I can hear my own tread, but 
 I cannot hear theirs." He then stood, with an intention of 
 accosting them when they should come up. They also stood. 
 
390 STORIES OF 
 
 and exliibited a stillness of attitude resembling rather the fixed 
 shadow of statues than of human beings. Walker now turned 
 round to observe them more closely, but his astonishment may 
 be easily conceived, when he found no person of either sex 
 near him, or within sight of him. The circumstance startled 
 him, but nevertheless he felt little, if any thing, of what could 
 be termed fear. 
 
 " This is strange," said he ; "want of sleep must have dimmed 
 my eyes, or clouded my brain. Perhaps it was my own shadow 
 I have been looking at all this time." A single glance soon 
 convinced him of his error. There projected his, and there 
 appeared the other two, distinct from it, just as plain as before. 
 He turned again, and traced both the figures up to a particular 
 spot on the road ; but substance, most certainly there was none 
 visible. He rubbed his eyes, and examined the place about him 
 with a scrutiny that convinced him there was not a living per- 
 son present, from whom the shadows could proceed. The road, 
 before and behind him for a considerable distance, was without 
 shrub, hedge, or ditch. Nothing, in short, could be concealed 
 from his observation. 
 
 Fear now came upon him; his hair stood, and his limbs 
 shook. " God protect me," said he, " this is nothing natural. 
 I will proceed to the station-house as fast as I can." 
 
 On resuming his journey at a rapid walk, he observed that 
 his shadowy companions were determined not to lose him. 
 Hitherto they had kept at the same distance from him, quick- 
 ening or slackening their pace according as he himself did ; but 
 now he saw that they approached him more nearly than before. 
 His fear was then terrible, though far from being at its height, 
 for, as he kept his eye upon them, he perceived the taller and 
 more robust of the two using angry gestures that betokened 
 an intention to injure him. The slender shadow, on the other 
 hand, pushed her back, and attempted by interposing to divert 
 her from her purpose. Walker stood ; his strength was gone ; 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 391 
 
 to proceed was therefore impossible. A struggle that was 
 enough to turn his heart into jelly, took place between them. 
 The fury of the more robust appeared to be boundless ; gleamy 
 fire, barely perceptible, flashed from her eyes, and her breath, 
 he thought, passed from her mouth like something between 
 flame and smoke. The persons and features of both assumed 
 a very remarkable distinctness; and by a flash of recollection 
 he recognizee! theu' colourless features, although he could not 
 tell how, as those of the unfortunate but beautiful sisters whose 
 unhappy history the reader has perused. No human passion — 
 no instance of mortal resentment, could parallel the rage and 
 thirst of vengeance that appeared to burn in the breast of the 
 elder sister ; nor could any tiling human, on the other hand, 
 approach in beauty the calm, but melancholy energy, with 
 which the younger attempted to protect the man who was 
 the object of her sister's hate. The struggles of the one were 
 fearful, intense, and satanic ; those of the other firm, soothing, 
 and sorrowful. The malignant shadow frequently twisted the 
 latter about like a slender willow, and after havmg removed 
 her from between herself and the object of her revenge, rushed 
 towards him, as if she possessed the strength of a tempest ; but 
 before she could reach his person, there was the benign being 
 again, calmly and meekly before her. For twenty minutes 
 this supernatui'al contest lasted, dm^ing which Walker observed 
 that the distance between liimself and them was becoming 
 gradually shorter. Nevertheless, he could not stir, no more 
 than if he been rooted into the earth. 
 
 It was now, that, for the first time, he felt as if he were 
 actually withered by a slmek of rage and disappointment that 
 burst from the shadow of the murderess. She stood stUl, as if 
 rendered for a moment impotent by the terrific force of her 
 ovm resentment ; and while standing, her hands clenched, and 
 her arms raised, she poured forth shriek after shriek, so wild 
 and keen, that the waters of the canal curled beneath the thin 
 
892 STORIES OF 
 
 ice, by their power. These shrieks were rendered, if possible, 
 more horrible by the echoes which gave them back as thickly 
 as she uttered them, with that exaggerating character, too, 
 which softens sweet sounds, and deepens those which are un- 
 pleasant. It appeared to Walker, as if there had been at that 
 minute the shadow of the murderess shrieking on every hill 
 and in every valley about him. 
 
 While the elder was thus fixed by her own fury, the younger 
 knelt down, and, looking at Walker, pointed to the sky. He 
 considered this as an injunction to pray, and in compliance with 
 it, he dropped on his knees, and besought the protection of God 
 in silence, for his tongue was powerless. From this forward 
 the strength of the murderess seemed to decline, her exertions 
 to injure him grew still more feeble, till at length they alto- 
 gether ceased. The gracious form, however, even then stood 
 between her and him. The rage of the other appeared to 
 have taken the character of anguish, for with a look that indi- 
 cated torture, she gazed on him, placed her hand on her heart, 
 and exclaimed ; 
 
 " I burn, I burn !" 
 
 Having uttered these words, she melted from his sight, but 
 although he could not any longer see her airy outlines, he 
 could hear a melancholy wail streaming across the fields, and 
 becoming fainter and fainter, until it mingled with, and was 
 lost, in silence. 
 
 The benign being then looked upon him with an expression 
 so mild and happy, that he felt both his strength and confi- 
 dence return. She pointed again towards heaven, and said : — 
 
 " Be merciful. There was pardon on earth for my sister, 
 but you refused to seek it in her behalf. She died without 
 repentance, for she despaired. Time would have brought 
 her repentance, and hope would have brought her to God. Be 
 merciful." 
 
 Walker could not reply, and on looking about him, he found 
 
 I 
 
SECOND-SIGHT AND APPARITION. 393 
 
 she had disappeared, and that he was alone. With feeble steps 
 and a beating heart he proceeded towards the station-house, 
 entertaining rather strong suspicions that he was scarcely safe 
 even with his own shadow. On his arrival, the first tinner he 
 called for was a tumbler of punch, which he swallowed at a 
 draught ; after tliis he got another, which went the way of 
 the first ; but it was not until he had despatched a third, that 
 he felt himself able to account for the terror which was ex- 
 pressed on his countenance. Even then, he only admitted that 
 he had been attacked on the way by two women, one of whom 
 he said was very near handling him roughly. IS'ow, as Walker's 
 courage was known, this version did not gain credit, and 
 accordingly an authentic account of the whole affair appeared 
 in the next provincial journal to the following effect : — 
 
 " On Thursday night last, about the hour of four o'clock in 
 
 the morning, as Mr. Walker of was proceeding on liis way 
 
 to meet the canal packet, he was attacked by two fellows 
 dressed in female apparel, who robbed, stripped, and then 
 threw him, after a sound threshing, into the canal, from which 
 he got out only because he was an expert swimmer. They 
 left him, it is true, an old frieze jock, and a pair of indifferent 
 trowsers, di^essed in which he reached the station-house in a 
 very draggled, disconsolate, and ludicrous condition. The 
 pohce, we are happy to say, have a sharp look out for these 
 viragos." 
 
 jS'ow, Sadducees, perhaps you will not believe this story. 
 If you don't, I can tell you there is one who does, and that is 
 myself. I had it from Walker's son, who is a good Methodist, 
 and. when a Methodist tells a ghost story, I don't know by 
 what loo-ic a man can refuse to beheve him. The man is 
 always sincere on such occasions, and sincerity is a virtue 
 which we ought all to encourage. 
 
 THE END. 
 
EREATUM. 
 Page 101, second line from bottom, for " and " read "he". 
 
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