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TALES AND SKETCHES,

ILLUSTRATING THE

HARACTBR, USAGES, TllADITIONS,

SPOETS AND PASTIMES

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.

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.

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, .

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30
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71 »

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177

189

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238
27:^

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330
368
305

TALES ANi) STORIES

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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,

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 : —

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

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

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

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."

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.

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

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 ;

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."

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^

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

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

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.

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!'

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.

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 ?"

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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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