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TALES    AND    SKETCHES, 


[JlTRATIXa    TUB 


CHARACTER,  USAGES,  TRADITIONS, 

SPORTS  AND  PASTIMES 

or 

THE   IRISH  PEASANTRY. 


BY  WILLIAM  CARLETON, 

Author  of  "  Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry, 

"  Fardorougha,  the  Miser,"  "Jane  Sinclair, 

"  Valentine  M'Clutchy,"  &c 


DU13L1N : 

PUBLISHED     BY     JAMES     DUFFY, 

7,  WELLINGTON  QUAY. 

1854 


I'xin  o\  Jolly, 

Si-  •  ;.  Pitss  t'rmtzr,  and  SUrzotyi>c  /Yhj/iJ 
1J.  AluWlU  rivet.  DnV.ln. 


CONTENTS. 


MlCtiEY    M'RoREY      THE    IRISH    FlDPLER,         -----  1 

buckramback,  the  codhtry  dancing-master,       -        -        -  15 

Mary  Murray,  the  Irish  Match-Maker,        ....  30 

Bob  Pentland;   or,  The  Gauger  Outwitted,        -  48 

The  Fate  or  Frank. M'Kenna,           ------  60 

The  Rival  Kempers,            -....--.  70 

Frank  Martin  and  the  Fairies, 84 

A  Legend  of  Knockmany,          .......  97 

Rose  Moan,  the  Irish  Midwife, 113 

Talbot  and  Gaynor,  Irish  Pipers,           -----  154 

Frank  Finnegan,  the  Foster-Brother,           ....  164 

Tom  Greissey,  the  Irish  Senachie, 177 

The  Castle  of  Aughentain  ;  on,  A  Legend  of  the  Brown 

Goat  :  Narrated  by  Tom  Gressiey,  the  Irish  Senachie,          -  189 

Barney  M'Haigney,  the  Irish  Prophecy  Man,        ...  206 

Moll  Roe's  Marriage;   or,  The  Podding  Bewitched,           -  221 

Barney  Brady's  Goose  ;   or.  Dark  Doings  at  Slathbeg,      -  238 

CONDY    CULLEN;    OB,    THt    EXCISEMAN   DEFEATED,         ...  275 

A  Record  of  the  Heart  ;  or,  the  Parent's  Trial.      -        -  289 

The  Three  Wishes;   an  Irish  Legend,    -        „        -        -        -  330 

The  Irish  Rake, 358 

Stories  of  Second-Sight  and  Apparition       ....  365 


TALES  AND  STORIES 


THE  IRISH  PEASANTRY. 


MICKEY    M'ROREY, 

THE    IRISH    FIDDLER. 

What  a  host  of  light-hearted  associations  are  revived  by  that 
living  fountain  of  fun  and  frolic,  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  light  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  ebullition 
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  listen  to  his  music  when  he  feels  disposed 
to  play  for  them,  but  it  only  gratifies  their  curiosity,  instead 
of  enlivening  their  hearts — a  fact  sufficiently  evident  from  tho 
u 


2  MICKEY    M'ROREY, 

circumstance  of  their  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,  ol  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  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  slight  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  sti- 
letto notes  surely  would  effect  that  object. 

The  fiddle,  however,  is  the  instrument  of  all  others  most 
essential  to  the  enjoyment  of  an  Irishman.  Dancing  and  love 
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 
tonea  of  it  act  like  a  charm  upon  him,  and  produce  in  his  head 


THE    IRISH    FIDDLER.  S 

such  a  bland  and  delightful  intoxication,  that  he  finds  himself 
making  love  just  as  naturally  as  he  would  eat  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  fertility  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  ought  to  be  our  national  instrument,  as  it 
is  that  which  is  most  closely  and  agreeably  associated  Avith 
the  best  and  happiest  impulses  of  the  Irish  heart.  The  very 
language  of  the  people  themselves  is  a  proof  of  this  ;  for  whilst 
neither  harp  nor  bagpipe  is  ever  introduced  as  illustrating 
peculiarities  of  feeling  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  unfrequently 
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 
bo  many  others  that  promise  what  you  do,  you'd  never  come 
home  to  me  widout  'hangin'up  your  fiddle  behind  the  door;'" 
by  which  she  means  to  charge  him  with  the  probability  of  being 
agreeable  when  abroad,  but  morose  in  his  own  family. 

Having  thus  shown  that  the  fiddle  and  its  music  are  mixed 
np  so  strongly  with  our  language,  feelings3  and  amusernenta-,  k 


MICKEY    MMiOREY, 

is  now  time  to  say  something  of  the  fiddler.  In  Ireland  it  is> 
impossible,  on  looking  through  all  classes  of  society,  to  find  any 
individual  so  perfectly  free  from  care,  or,  in  stronger  word's, 
so  completely  happy,  as  the  fiddler,  especially  if  he  be  blind, 
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  ^est 
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  which  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  he  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 
enatches  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    FIDDLER.  O 

cravings  of  the  human  heart  desire  ?  For  my  part,  I  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  wish  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  tears  from 
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.  Thi3  alternative  is  seldom 
resorted  to,  unless  when  some. poor  child — perhaps  a  favourite 
— is  deprived  of  sight  by  the  terrible  ravages  of  the  small-pox. 
In  life  there  is  scarcely  anything  more  touching  than  to  witness 
in  the  innocent  invalid  the  first  effects,  both  upon  himself  and 
his  parents,  of  this  Avoful  privation.  The  utter  helplessness  of 
the  pitiable  darkling,  and  his  total  dependence  on  those  around 
him — his  unacquaintance  with  the  relative  situation  of  all  the 
places  that  were  familiar  to  him — his  tottering  and  timid  step, 
his  affecting  call  of  "  Mammy,  where  are  you  ?"  joined  to  the 
bitter  consciousness  on  her  part  that  the  light  of  affection  and 
innocence  will  never  sparkle  in  those  beloved  eyes  again — ail 
this  constitutes  a  scene  of  deep  and  bitter  sorrow.  When, 
however,  the  sense  of  his  bereavement  passes  away,  and  the 
cherished  child  grows  up  to  the  proper  age,  a  fiddle  is  procured 
for  him  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  the 
i me  he  is  proficient  enough  to  play  at  them.     Such  is  (ho 


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  lived, 
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,  hoAvever,  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  incog.,  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, 
which  rendered  it  an  easy  matter  to  find  his  whereabouts. 

Mickey  was  bHnd  from  his  infancy,  and,  as  usual,  owed  to 
the  small-pox  the  loss  of  his  sight.  He  was  about  the  middle 
size,  of  rather  a  slender  make,  and  possessed  an  intelligent 
countenance,  on  which  beamed  that  singular  expression  of 
inward  serenity  so  peculiar  to  the  blind.  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,  gray  stockings,  and  black  corduroys.  Poor 
Mickey  !  I  think  I  see  him  before  me,  his  head  erect,  as  the 
heads  of  all  blind  men  are,  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  ex- 
ulting eye  ;  an  honour  of  which  he  will  boast  to  his  compa- 
nions for  many  a  mortal  month  to  come. 

The  first  time  I  ever  heard  Mickey  play  was  also  the  first  J 


THE    IRISH    FIDDLER.  7 

ever  heard  a  fiddle.  Well  and  distinctly  do  I  remember  the 
occasion.  The  season  was  summer — but  summer  was  summer 
then — and  a  new  house  belonging  to  Frank  Thomas  had  been 
finished,  and  was  just  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  in 
which  1  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  him,  or  even  heard  his  fiddle. 
Every  two  minutes  I  was  on  the  top  of  a  little  eminence  looking 
out  for  him,  my  eyes  straining  out  of  their  sockets,  and  my 
head  dizzy  with  the  prophetic  expectation  of  rapture  and 
delight.  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  called  Kilnahushogue,  where 
I  found  him  waiting  for  a  guide.  At  this  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  that  guides  the  bee  to  its  home, 
and  the  bird  for  thousands  of  miles  through  the  air,  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  little  eminence  I  spoke  of,  looking 
eaorerjy  towards  the  spot  we  travelled  from,  and  immediately 
scampering  in  again,  clapping  their  hands  and  shouting  with 
delight.      Instantly  the  whole  village  was  out,  young  and  old, 

-ndini?  fol  n  moment  to  satisfy  themselves    that  the  in- 


8  MICKEY    m'kOUEY, 

telligence  was  correct ;  after  which,  about  a  dozen  of  the 
youngsters  sprang  forward,  with  the  speed  of  so  many  ante- 
lopes, to  meet  us,  whilst  the  elders  returned  with  a  soberor, 
but  not  less  satisfied,  manner  into  the  houses.  Then  com- 
menced the  usual  battle,  as  to  whom  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  near 
us ;  and  never  was  the  Lord  Chancellor's  mace-1— to  which, 
by  the  way,  with  great  respect  for  his  Lordship,  it  bore  a  con- 
siderable resemblance — 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!"  <c  How  is  every 
bone  of  you,  Mickey  ?  Bedad  we  gev  you  up."  "  No,  we 
didn't  give  you  up,  Mickey  ;  never  heed  him  ;  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  his  dinner  first.  Ts  it  off"  an 
empty  stomach  you'd  have  him  to  sing  ?"  "  Mickey,  give 
me  the  fiddle-case,  won't  you  Mickey  ?"  "  No,  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.  Shibby,  my  fiddle,  hasn't  been  well  for  the  last 
day  or  two,  and  can't  bear  to  be  carried  by  any  one  barrm' 
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'a  with-fiddle;  an'  if  that's  true,  boyp; 


THE     IRISH     FIDDLER,  9 

maybe  some  o'  yez  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  fact  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  grow- 
ing larger  ;  for  my  firm  belief  was,  that  in  due  time  it  would 
reach  the  usual  size. 

As  we  went  along,  Mickey,  with  his  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. 

Nothing  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  his  own  importance.  From 
habit,  and  his  position  among  the  people,  his  wit  and 
power  of  repartee  are  necessarily  cultivated  and  sharpened. 
Not  one  of  his  jokes  ever  fails — a  circumstance  which  im- 
proves his  humour  mightily  ;  for  nothing  on  earth  sustains  it 
so  much  as  knowing  that,  whether  good  or  bad,  it  will  be 
laughed  at.  Mickey,  by  the  way,  was  a  bachelor,  and,  though 
blind,  was  able,  as  he  himself  used  to  say,  to  see  through  his 
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  partake* 


10  MICKEY    M'ROREY, 

of,  or  at  least  is  offered,  refreshment,  after  which  cornea  the 
ecstatic  moment  to  the  youngsters :  but  all  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  of  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 
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 , 
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  »a  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- 
humoured  violence,  are  literally  dragged  out,  and  forced  to 
join.  Then  coruo  the  congratulations — "  Ah,  Jack  you  could 
do  it  wan  ?t,"  says  Mickey,  "an  can  still,  you  have  a  kick 
in  you  yet."  "  Why,  Mickey,  1  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  nsed  to  bo  wid  me,  when  1  could  dance  the 
Baltchorum  Jig  on  the  bottom  of  a  ten  gallon  cask.  But  J 
think  a  glass  o'  whiskey  will  do  us  no  harm  after  that. 
Heighho  ! — well,  well — I'm  sure  1  thought  my  dancin'  days 
wor  over.*' 

"  Bedad  an'  you  wor  matched  any    how,**  rejoined    the 

nddler.     "  Molshy  carried  as  light  a  heel  as  ever  you  did ; 

sorra  woman  of  her  years  ever  I  seen  could  cut  the  buckle 

wid  her.     You  would  know  the  tune  on  her  feet  still." 

"Ah,  Mickey,  the  truth  is,''  the  good  woman  would  say;  uwu 


THE     IRISH    FIDDLER.  I  [ 

have  no  sich  dancin'  now  as  there  was  in  my  days.  Thrv 
that  glass," 

"  But  as  good  fiddlers,  Molshy,  eh?  Here's  to  you  both,  and 
long  may  ye  live  to  shake  the  toe !  Whoo !  bedad  that's 
great  stuff.  Come  now  sit  doAvn,  Jack,  till  I  give  you  your 
ould  favourite,  '  Cannie  Soogah.' " 

These  were  happy  moments  and  happy  times,  which  might 
well  be  looked  upon  as  picturing  the  simple  manners  of  country 
life  with  very  little  of  moral  shadow  to  obscure  the  cheerfulness 
which  lit  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  chil« 
dreu  their  favourite  song,  beginning  with 

"  Oh,  grand-mamma,  will  you  squeeze  my  wig?" 

This  he  did  in  such  a  manner,  through  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,"  which  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. 
If,  for  instance,  a  favourite  son  or  daughter  happened  to  be 
removed  by  death,  'the  father  or  mother,  remembering  the 
air  which  was  loved  best  by  the  departed,  would  pause  a 
moment,  and  with  a  voice  full  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' 
eon  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  avour- 
neen  machree — we  will  hear  it  once  more." 

Mickey  always  played  such  tunes  in  his  best  style,  and 
amidst  a  silence  that  was  only  broken  by  sobs,  suppressed 
inoanings,  and  the  other  tokens  of  profound  sorrow.  These 
i  ushes,  however,  of  natural  feeling  soon  passed  away.  In 
a  few  minutes  the  smiles  returned,  the  mirth  broke  out  again, 
and  the  lively  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  intelligence,  a  travel- 
ling 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 
aud  well  trained  is  his  ear,  that  he  can  frequently  name  the 
Young  man  who  dances,  by  the  peculiarity  of  his  step. 

"  Ah  ha !  Paddy  Brien,  you're  there  ?  Sure  I'd  know  the 
sound  of  your  smoothin'-irons  any  where.  Is  it  thrue, 
Paddy,  that  you  wor  sint  for  down  to  Errigle  Keerogue,  to 
loll  the  clocks  for  Dan  M'Mahon  ?  But,  nabuklish  !  Paddy, 
TvLat'U  you  have  ?" 

v-  Is  .that  Grace  Eeilly  on  the  flure  ?     Faix.  avourneenj  you 


THE    HUSH    FIDDLER.  i  3 

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,  without  brakin'  it.  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Grace 
dear,  to  tie  the  knot ;  /'//  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  liberality,  the  vain  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.  No  joke  ever  told 
better  than  that  of  the  broken  string.  Whenever  this  happened 
at  night,  Mickey  would  call  out  to  some  soft  fellow,  "  Blood 
alive,  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  fitlbr'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  mirth  on  such  occasions 
was  convulsive.  Another  similar  joke  was  also  played  off  by 
him  against  such  as  he  knew  to  be  ungenerous  at  the  collection. 

"Paddy  Smith,  I  want  a  word  wid  you.  I'm  goin'  across 
the  countbry  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  clean  plate,  man  alive  !" 

"  Thank  you,  Paddy  ;  throth  you've  the  dacency  in  you  ; 
an'  kind  father  for  you,  Paddy.  Mavbe  I'll  do  as  much  for 
you  some  other  time." 

Mickey  never  spoke  of  this  until  the  trick  was  played  off, 
s.fter  which,  he  published  it  to  the  whole  parish  ;  and  Paddy 
of  course  was  made  the  standing  jest  for  being  so  silly  as  to 


M  MICKEY   M'ltOREY. 

think  that  night  or  day  had  any  difference  to  a  man  whc 
could  not  see. 

Thus  passed  the  life  of  Mickey  M'Rorey,  and  thus  pass  the 
lives  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  their  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  delight,  and  who 
often  danced  with  a  buoyant  and  careless  heart  to  the  plea- 
sant notes  of  his  fiddle.  Mickey  M'Korey,  farewell ! 
Whether  living  or  dead,  peace  be  with  you.* 


*  Mickey,  who  is  still  living,  rrmembrrs  the  writer  of  this  well,  nnd 
felt  very  much  flattered  on  hearing  the  above  notice  of  himself  read.— 
\V.  C,  18*5. 


BUCKKAM-BAOK. 

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  extremely  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, 
aa  we  shall  show.  Dancing,  every  one  must  admit,  although 
a  most  delightful  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  limbs  and  body 
move.  Every  nation,  therefore,  remarkable  for  a  susceptibility 
of  music  is  also  remarkable  for  a  love  of  dancing,  unless  religion 
or  some  other  adequate  obstacle,  arising  from  an  anomalous 
condition  of  society,  interpose  to  prevent  it.  Music  and  dancing 
being  in  fact  as  dependent  the  one  on  the  other  as  cause  and 
effect,  it  requires  little  argument  to  prove  that  the  Irish,  who 
15 


16  BUCKRAM-BA,CK, 

are  so  sensitively  alive  to  the  one,  should  in  a  very  hu»h 
degree  excel  at  the  other ;  and  accordingly  it  is  so. 

Nobody,  unless  one  who  has  seen  and  also  felt  it,  can  con- 
ceive 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,  se- 
lects 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,  Ave  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  o« 
whiskey,  kindness,  pride  of  his  activity,  and  a  wreckless  force 
of  momentary  happiness  that  defies  description.  Now  com- 
mences 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. 

cc  Whoo  I  whoo  !  your  ?owl !  Move  your  elbow,  Mickey 
(this  to  the  fiddler).  Quicker,  quicker,  man  alive,  or  you'll 
lose  eight  of  me.     Whoo  !  Judy,  that's  the  girl,  handle  your 


THE    COUNTRY  DANCI  NG-M  ASTER.  17 

feet,  avourneen ;  that's  it,  acushla  !  ?tand   to  mej      Hurroo 

for  our  side  of  the  house  !" 

And  thus  does  he  proceed  with  vigour,  and  an  agility, 
and  a  truth  of  time,  that  are  incredible,  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  delicate  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  Lheiff,  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  term  it  in  the  country,  the  cut- 
a-long.  I  myself  have  witnessed,  when  very  young,  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  m  pagan 


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  felicitous  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  little  of  the  national 
character  about  him. 

Like  most  persons  of  the  itinerant  professions,  the  old  Iriah 
dancing  master  was  generally  a  bachelor,  having  no  fixed 
residence,  but  living  from  place  to  place  within  his  oivn  walk, 
beyond  which  he  seldom  or  never  went.  The  farmers  were 
his  patrons,  and  his  visits  to  their  houses  always  brought  a 
holiday  spirit  along  with  them.  "When  he  came,  there  was 
sure  to  be  a  dance  in  the  evening  after  the  hours  of  labour, 
he  himself  good-naturedly  supplying  them  with  the  music. 
In  return  for  this  they  would  get  up  a  little  underhand 
collection  for  him,  amounting  probably  to  a  couple  of  shillings 
or  half-a-crown,  which  some  of  them,  under  pretence  of  taking 
the  snuff-box  out  of  his  pocket  to  get  a  pinch,  would  delicately 
and  ingeniously  slip  into  it,  lest  he  might  feel  the  act  as 
bringing  down  the  dancing-master  to  the  level  of  the  mere 
fiddler.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  not  to  be  outdone  in  kindness, 
would,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  little  festivity,  desire  them  to 
laj  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-flat  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.     He  also  made  it  a  point  to  wear  a  castor, 


THE    COUNTRY    DAKCINO-MASTEIl.  19 

or  Caroline  hat,  be  the  same  "  shocking  bad"  or  otherwise, 
but  above  all  things  his  soul  within  him  was  set  upon  a  watch, 
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,  hiccory,  mahogany,  or  some 
rare  desciption  of  cane,  which,  if  possible,  had  a  silver  head 
and  a  silk  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  which  the  genius  of  their  business 
lay,  as  might  indicate  the  extraordinary  lightness  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  accomplished 
teacher. 

The  Irish  dancing-master  was  also  a  great  hand  at  match- 
making, and  indeed  some  of  them  were  known  to  negotiate 
93  much  between  families  as  well  as  individual  lovers,  with 
nil  the  ability  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  passions — to  wit,  blushings,  glances, 
squeezes  of  the  hand,  and  stealthy  whisperings — are  more 
frequent  or  significant,  so  is  it  no  wonder  that  a  sagacious 
looker-on,  such  as  he  generally  was,  knew  how  to  avail  him 
self  of  them,  and  to  become  in  many  instances  a  necessary 
partv  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,  might 


20  bUCKRAM-BACK, 

appear  to  be  a  superfluous  one ;  we  mean,  that  of  fencing, 
or  to  speak  more  correctly,  cudgel-playing.  Fencing-schools 
of  this  class  were  nearly  as  common  in  those  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  contrary,  bore,  in  simplicity  of  man- 
ners, in  habits  of  life,  and  in  the  happy  spirit  which  be  re- 
ceived from,  and  impressed  Upon,  society,  a  distant  but  not 
indistinct  resemblance  to  the  fiddler.  Between  these  two 
however,  no  good  feeling  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 
drudge,  through  whom  those  he  taught  practised  their  ac- 
complishments. This  petty  rivalry  was  very  amusing,  and 
the  "boys,"  to  do  them  justice,  left  nothing  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  which  the  dancing- master  contrived,  when  travel- 
ling, to  carry  his  fiddle  about  him,  so  as  that  it  might  not  be 
seen,  and  he  himself  mistaken  for  nothing  but  a  fiddler. 
This  was  the  sorest  blow  his  vanity  could  receive,  and  a 
eource  of  endless  vexation  to  all  his  tribe.  Our  manners, 
however,  are  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  associations  home  at  once  to  the  heart. 

One  of  the  most  amusing  specimens  of  the  dancing-master 
that  I  ever  met,  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  relish  whatever  for  a  military  life,  as  his 
abandonment  of  it  without  even  the  usual  form  of  a  discharge 
or  furlough,  together  with  a  back  that  had  become  cartilaginous 
from  frequent  flogging,  could  abundantly  testify.  It  was  from 
the  latter  circumstance  that  he  had  received  his  nickname. 

Buckram-Back  was  a  dapper  light  little  fellow,  with  a  rich 
Tipperary  brogue,  crossed  by  a  lofty  strain  of  illegitimate 
English,  which  he  picked  up  whilst  abroad  in  the  army.  His 
habiliments  sat  as  tight  upon  him  as  he  could  readily  wear 
them,  and  were  all  of  the  shabby-genteel  class.  His  crimped 
black  coat  was  a  closely  worn  second-hand,  and  his  crimped  face 
quite  as  much  of  the  second-hand  as  the  coat.  I  think  I  see  his 
little  pumps,  little  white  stockings,  his  coaxed  drab  breeches, 
his  hat,  smart  in  its  cock  but  brushed  to  a  polish,  and  standing 
upon  three  hairs,  together  with  his  tight  questionable-coloured 
gloves,  all  before  me.  Certainly  he  was  the  jauntiest  little  cock 
living — quite  a  blood,  ready  to  fight  any  man,  and  a  great 
defender  of  the  fair  sex,  Avhom  he  never  addressed  except  in 
that  high-flown  bombastic  style  so  agreeable  to  most  of  them, 
called  by  their  flatterers  the  complimentary,  and  by  their 
x'riends  the  fulsome.  He  was  in  fact  a  public  man,  and  up  to 
everything.  You  met  him  at  every  fair,  where  he  only  had 
time  to  give  you  a  wink  as  he  passed,  being  just  then  engaged 
ia  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  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  which, 
at  a  particular  spot,  was  supported  by  a  post  that  stood  upright 


22  buckram-back, 

from  the  foor.  It  was  built  upon  an  elevated  situation,  and 
command  d  a  fine  view  of  the  whole  country  for  miles  about 
it.  A  pleasant  sight  it  was  to  see  the  modest  and  pretty 
girls,  dre  ~e<l  in  t' eir  best  frocks  anl  ribbons,  radiating  in 
little  groups  from  all  directions,  accompanied  by  their  part- 
ners or  lovers,  making  way  through  the  fragrant  summei 
fields,  of  a  calm  cloudless  evening,  to  this  happy  scene  of  in 
nocent  amusement. 

Amd  yet  what  an  epitome  of  general  life,  with  its  passions, 
jealousies,  plots,  calumnies,  and  contentions,  did  this  tiny  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  widei 
stage,  with  half  its  Avealth  and  all  its  temptations  to  draw  forth 
their  prevailing  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  acquir- 
ing 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  diffei-ence  is,  that  they  have  not  equal  room  to  play. 

Buckram-Back's  system,  in  originality  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  nothing 
so  ludicrous  or  uncommon  in  it ;  but  no :  he  was  such  a  stick- 
ler for  example  in  everything,  that  no  other  mode  of  in- 
struction would  satisfy  him.  Dancing  !  why,  it  was-  the  least 
part  of  Avhat  he  taught  or  professed  to  teach. 

In  the  first  place,  he  undertook  to  teach  every  one  oi  us  — 
for    I   had  the  honour   of  being  his  pupil — hew  to  enter  a 


THE  COUNTRY  DANCING-MASTKIl.  23 

drawing-TOom  "  in  the  most  fashionable  manner  alive,"  as 
ho  said  himself. 

Secondly.  He  was  the  only  man,  he  said,  who  could  in 
the  most  agreeable  and  polite  style  teach  a  gintleman  how  to 
salute,  or,  as  he  termed  it,  how  to  shiloote,  a  leedy.  This  he 
taught,  he  said,  with  great  success. 

Thirdly.  He  could  taich  every  leedy  and  gintleman  how 
to  make  the  most  beautiful  bow  or  curchy  on  airth,  by  only 
imitating  himself — one  that  would  cause  a  thousand  people 
if  they  were  all  present,  to  think  that  it  was  particularly 
intended  only  for  aich  o'  themselves  ! 

Fourthly.  He  taught,  the  whole  art  0?  courtship  wid  all 
peliteness  and  success,  accordin'  as  it  was  practised  in  Paris 
durin'  the  last  saison. 

Fifthly.  He  could  taich  them  how  to  write  love-letthers 
and  valentines  accordin'  to  the  Great  Macademy  of  compli- 
ments, which  was  supposed  to  be  invintedby  Bonaparte  when 
he  was  writing  love  letthers  to  both  his  wives. 

Sixthly.  He  was  the  only  person  who  could  taich  the 
famous  dance  called  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly,  or  the  Helter- 
Skelter  Drag,  which  comprehended  widin  itself  all  the  advan- 
tages and  beauties  of  his  Avhole  system — in  which  every 
gintleman  was  at  liberty  to  pull  every  leedy  where  he  plaised, 
and  every  leedy  was  at  Hberty  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- 
lishment was  always  in  a  most  flourishing  condition.  The 
truth  is,  he  had  it  so  contrived  that  every  gentleman  should 
salute  his  lady  as  often  as  possible,  and  for  this  purpose 
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.     Nor  had  i=  male  pupils  all  this  prodigality 


24  BUCKKAM-BACK, 

of  salutation  to  themselves,  for  the  amorous  little  rascal  always 
commenced  first  and  ended  last,  in  order,  he  said,  that  they 
might  cotch  the  manner  from  himself.  "1  do  this,  leedies 
and  gintlemen,  as  your  moral  (model),  and  because  it's  part 
o'  my  system — ahem  I" 

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  polite  particulars,  which  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,  Avhich,  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  no  one  in- 
stance have  we  known  any  case  in  which  a  female  was 
brought  to  unhappiness  or  shame. 

We  shall  now  give  a  brief  sketch  of  Buckrani- Back's 
manner  of  tuition,  begging  our  readers  at  the  same  time  to 
rest  assured  that  any  sketch  we  could  give  would  fall  fa* 
short  of  the  original. 

"Paddy  Corcoran,  walk  out  an' '  inther  your  drawin'-room;' 
an'  let  Miss  Judy  Hanratty  go  out  along  wid  you,  an'  come 
in  as  Mrs.  Corcoran." 

"Faith,  I'm  afeard,  master,    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  compliment,  Paddy  ?  Mr.  Corcoran, 
you  should  ever  an'  always  spaik  to  a  leedy  in  an  alablasther 
tone  ;  for  that's  the  cut."  [Paddy  and  Judy  retire. 

"  Mickey  Scanlan,  come  up  here,  now  that  we're  braithin' 
a  little ;  an'  you  Miss  Grauna  Mulholland,  come  up  along  wid 
him.  Miss  Mulholland,  you  are  masther  of  your  five  positions 
and  your  fifteen  attitudes,  I  believe  ?"  "  Yes,  sir."  "  Very 
well,  Miss.  Mickey  Scanlan — ahem — Misther  Scanlan,  can 
you  perform  the  positions  also,  Mickey  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  but  you  remember  I  stuck- at  the  eleventh  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  try  ;  but  I'm  very  willin' 
to  larn  it.     I'll  do  my  best,  an'  the  best  can  do  no  more." 

"  Very  well— ahem !  Now  merk  me,  Misther  Scanlan ;  you 
approach  your  leedy  in  this  style,  bowin'  politely,  as  I  do. 
Miss  Mulholland,  will  you  allow  me  the  honour  of  a  heavenly 
shiloote  ?  Don't  bow,  ma'am  ;  you  are  to  curchy,  you  know ; 
a  little  lower  eef  you  plaise.  Now  you  say, '  Wid  the  greatest 
pleasure  in  life,  sir,  an'  many  thanks  for  the  feevour.'  (Smack.) 
There,  now,  you  are  to  make  another  curchy  politely,  an'  say, 
'  Thank  you,  kind  sir,  I  owe  you  one.'  Now,  Misther  Scan- 
lan, proceed." 

"  I'm  to  imitate  you,  masther,  as  well  as  I  can,  sir,  I  believe  ?'» 
M  Yes,  sir,  you  are  to  imitate  me.  But  hould,  sir  ;  did  you 
see  me  lick  my  lips  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  sthrangle 
the  leedy  ?  Why,  one  would,  think  that  it's  about  to  teek 
laive  of  her  for  ever  you  are.  Gently,  Misther  Scanlan ; 
gently,  Mickey.  There  * — well,  that's  an  improvement.  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  folks?  Go  out,  one  of  you,  for  Misther  an' 
Mrs.  Paddy  Corcoran." 

Corcoran's  face  now  appears  peeping  in  at  the  door,  lit  up 
with  a  comic  expression  of  genuine  fun,  from  whatever  cause 
it  may  have  proceeded. 

"  Aisy,  Misther  Corcoran ;  an'  where's  Mrs.  Corcoran,  sir?" 
"  Are  we  both  to  come  in  together,  masther  ?" 
"Certainly:  turn  out  both  your  toeses — turn  them  out,  I  say." 
"  Faix,  sir,  it's  aisier  said  than  done  wid  some  of  us." 
"I  know  that,   Misther  Corcoran ;  but  practice  is  every 
thing.     The  bow  legs  are  strongly  against  you,  I  grant.   Hut 
tut,  Misther  Corcoran — why,  if  your  toes  wor  where  your 
heels  is,  you'd  be  exactly  in  the  first  position,  Paddy.     Well, 
both  of  you  turn  out  your  toeses ;  look  street  forward ;  clap 
your  caubeen — ahem  ! — your  castor  under  your  ome  (arm), 
an'  walk  into  the  middle  of  the  flure,  wid  your  head  up. 
Stop,  take  care  o'  the  post.     Now,  take  your  caubeen,  castor 
I  mane,  in  your  right  hand  ;  give  it  a  flourish.      Aisy,   Mrs. 
Hanratty — Corcoran  1  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  alive  !  that's  not  a  bow.  Look  at  this  :  there's 
a  bow  for  you.  Why,  instead  of  meeking  a  bow,  you  appear 
as  if  you  wor  goin'  to  sit  down  with  an  embargo  (lumbago)  in 
your  back.  Well,  practice  is  every  thing ;  an'  there's  luck  in 
leisure." 

c<  Dick  Doorish,  will  you  come  up,  and  thry  if  you  can  meek 
any  thing  of  that  treblin'  step.  You're  a  purty  lad,  Dick  ; 
you're  a  purty  lad,  Misther  Doorish,  with  a  pair  o'  left  lege  an 


THE    COUNTRY    DANCING-MASTER.  2< 

you,  to  expect  to  lam  to  dance ;  but  don't  dispeer,  man  alive, 
I'm  not  afeard  but  I'll  make  a  graceful  slip  o'  you  yet.  Can 
you  meek  a  curchy  ?" 

"  Not  right,  sir,  I  doubt." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  know  that ;  but,  Misther  Doorish,  you  ought 
to  know  how  to  meek  both  a  bow  and  a  curchy.  Whin  you 
marry  a  wife,  Misther  Doorish,  it  mightn't  come  wrong  for 
you  to  know  how  to  taich  her  a  curchy.  Have  you  the  gad 
and  suggaun  wid  you  ?"  "  Yes,  sir."  "  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,  sir."  "  Come,  then,  do  as  I  bid  you. 
Rise  upon  suggaun  an'  sink  upon  gad ;  rise  upon  suggaun 

an'  sink  upon  gad  ;  rise  upon Hould,   sir;   you're  sinkin' 

upon  suggaun  an'  risin'  upon  gad,  the  very  thing  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  thing — from  your 
left,  I'd  make  something  of  you  yet,  Dick. 

The  Irish  dancing-masters  were  eternally  at  daggers-drawn 
among  themselves ;  but  as  they  seldom  met,  they  were  forced 
to  abuse  each  other  at  a  distance,  which  they  did  with  a 
virulence  and  scurrility  proportioned  to  the  space  between 
them.  Buckram-Back  had  a  rival  of  this  description,  who 
was  a  sore  thorn  in  his  side.  His  name  Was  Paddy  Fitz- 
patrick,  and  from  having  been  a  horse-jockey,  he  gave  up  the 
turf,  and  took  to  the  calling  of  a  dancing-master.  Buckram- 
Back  sent  a  message  to  him  to  the  effect  that  "if  he  could 
not  dance  Jig  Polthogue  on  the  drum-head,  he  had  better 
hould  his  tongue  for  ever."  To  this  Paddy  replied,  by  asking 
if  "he  was  the  man  to  dance  the  Connaught  Jockey  upon  the 


28  BUCKRAM-BACK, 

saddle  of  a  blood  horse,  and  the  animal  at  a  three-quarter 
gailop. 

At  length  the  friends  on  each  side,  from  a  natural  love  of 
fun,  prevailed  upon  them  to  decide  their  claims  as  follows : 
Each  master  with  twelve  of  his  pupils,  was  to  dance  against 
his  rival  with  twelve  of  his;  the  match  to  come  off  on  the  top 
of  Mallybeny  hill,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  whole 
parish.  I  have  already  mentioned  that  in  Buckram-Back's 
school  there  stood  near  the  middle  of  the  floor  a  post,  which, 
according  to  some  new  manoeuvre  of  his  own,  was  very  con- 
venient as  a  guide  to  the  dancers  when  going  through  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,  which  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 
euch  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  6hips  at  sea  without  rudders  or 
compasses.  Of  course  a  scene  of  ludicrous  confusion  en- 
sued, which  turned  the  laugh  against  poor  Buckram-Back, 
who  stood  likely  to  explode  with  shame  and  venom.  In  fact 
he  was  in  an  agony. 

*'  Gintlemen,  turn  the  post !"  he  shouted,  stamping  upon 
the  ground,  and  clenching  his  little  hands  with  fury ;  "  leedies, 
remimber  the  post !  Oh,  for  the  honour  of  Kilnahushogue 
don't  be  bate.  The  post,  gintlemen  !  leedies,  the  post,  if  you 
love  me      Murdher  alive,  the  post !" 


THE    COUNTRY    DANCING-MASTER.  29 

"  Be  gorra,  masther,  the  jockey  will  distance  us,"  replied 
Bob  Magawly ;  "  it's  likely  to  be  the  winniri-post  to  him, 
any  how." 

"  Any  money,"  shouted  the  little  fellow,  "  any  money  for 
long  Sam  Sallaghan  ;  he'd  do  the  post  to  the  life.  Mind  it, 
boys  dear,  mind  it  or  we're  lost.  Divil  a  bit  they  heed  me : 
it's  a  flock  of  bees  or  sheep  they  are  like.  Sam  Sallaghan, 
where  are  you  ?     The  post,  you  blackguards  !" 

"  Oh,  masther  dear,  if  we  had  even  a  fishin'-rod  or  a  crow- 
bar, or  a  poker,  we  might  do  yet.  But,  anyhow,  we  had 
betther  give  in,  for  it's  only  worse  we're  gettin'." 

At  this  stage  of  the  proceedings,  Paddy  came  over,  and 
making  a  low  bow,  asked  him,  "  Arm,  how  do  you  feel,  Mis- 
ther  Dogherty  ?"  for  such  was  Buckram-Back's  name. 

"  Sir,"  replied  Buckram-Back,  bowing  low,  however,  in  re- 
turn, "  I'll  take  the  shine  out  of  you  yet.  Can  you  shiloote 
a  leedy  wid  me — that's  the  chat !  Come,  gintlemen,  show 
them  what's  betther  than  fifty  posts— shiloote  youi  partners 
like  Irishmen.     Kilnahushogue  for  ever !" 

The  scene  that  ensued  baffles  all  description.  The  fact  is, 
the  little  fellow  had  them  trained,  as  it  were,  to  kiss  in  pla 
toons,  and  the  spectators  were  literally  convulsed  with  laughter 
at  this  most  novel  and  ludicrous  character  that  Buckram-Back 
gave  to  his  defeat,  and  the  ceremony  which  he  introduced. 
The  truth  is,  he  turned  the  laugh  completely  against  his  rival, 
and  swaggered  off  the  ground  in  high  spirits,  exclaiming, 
"  He  know  how  to  shiloote  a  leedy  !  Why  the  poor  spalpeen 
never  kissed  any  woman  but  his  mother,  an'  her  only  when 
she  was  dyin'.     Hurra  for  Kilnahushogue !" 

Such,  reader,  is  a  slight  and  very  imperfect  sketch  of  an 
Irish  dancing- master,  which  if  it  possesses  any  merit  at  all,  is 
to  be  ascribed  to  the  circumstance  that  it  is  drawn  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  under- 
stand 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  indifferent, 
between  their  respective  families,  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  a  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  any  thing  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 
30 


THE    IRISH    MATCH-MA.KER.  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  imagining  that  because  such  a 
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  accompany  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  vultus  ingenui  puer, 
ingenuique  pudoris ;  which  means,  when  translated,  that  in 
looking  for  a  wife  an  Irishman  is  "  a  boy  of  an  easy  face,  and 
remarkable  modesty." 

At  the  head  of  the  matcn-makers,  and  far  above  all  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  which  devolve  upon  her,  as  well  as 
upon  match-makers  in  general,  are  slight  or  easily  discharged. 
To  conduct  a  matter  of  this  kind  ably,  great  tact,  knowledge 
of  character,  and  very  delicate  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- 
tiality, demand  talents  of  no  common  order.  The  amount  of 
fortune  is  often  to  be  regulated — the  good  qualities  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  ov.  n 
invention.   The  mis-er  is  to  be  softened,  the  contemptuous  tone 


32  MARY    MURRAY, 

of  the  purse-proud  bodagh  lowered  without  offence,  the  oraf  ry 
cajoled,  and  sometimes,  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 
politician  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  which  she  noted  all  this  are  as  precep- 
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 
Avhich  she  so  devoutly  wishes. 

Upon  second  thoughts,  however,  we  are  inclined  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 ; 
this  is  the  Cosher er.  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  what  healthful  occu- 
oc.tion  it  gives  her,  actually  affront  her  from  pure  kindness. 


THE    IRISH    MATCH-MAKER.  83 

The  cosherer  is  the  very  impersonation  of  industry.  Unless 
when  asleep,  no  mortal  living  ever  saw  her  hands  idle.  Her 
pnncipal  employment  is  knitting :  whether  she  sits,  stands,  or 
walks,  there  she  is  with  the  end  of  the  stocking  under  her 
arm,  knit,  knit,  knitting.  She  always  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  pincussion  hanging  conspicu- 
ously at  her  side,  a  lump  of  chalk  in  one  hand,  and  a  coil  ol 
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, 
slight  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  Avhich  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  intelligence,  making  and  projecting  matches,  singing  old 
songs  and  telling  old  stories,  which  she  frequently  does  with  a 
feeling  and  unction  not  often  to  be  ^et  with.  She  will  sing 
you  the  different  sets  and  variations  of  the  old  airs,  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  herbalist,  and  is 

c  2 


34  MARY    MURRAY, 

very  skilful  and  lucky  among  children.  In  short,  she  is  a 
perfect  Gentleman's  Magazine  in  her  way — a  regular  reper- 
tory of  traditionary  lore,  a  collector  and  distributor  of  social 
antiquities,  dealing  in  everything  that  is  time-worn  or  old, 
and  handling  it  with  such  a  quiet  and  antique  air  that  one 
would  imagine  her  life  to  be  one  not  of  years  but  of  centu- 
ries, and  that  she  had  passed  the  greater  .portion  of  it,  long 
as  it  was,  in  "  wandering  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  specu- 
lating mother  of  rank,  nor  the  husband-hunting  dowager,  ima- 
gine 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  circumspection  too — by  the  hum- 
blest of  then'  own  sex.  In  these  matters  they  have  not  one 
Avhit  of  superiority  over  the  lowest,  sharpest,  and  raost  frau- 
dulent gossip  of  a  country  village,  where  the  arts  of  women 
are  almost  as  sagaciously  practised,  and  the  small  scandal  as 
ably  detailed,  as  in  the  highest  circles  of  fashion. 


THE    HUSH    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  aa  the  cosherer  is  never  of  the  male  sex,  so  the 
senachie  is  never  of  the  female.  With  respect  to  their  habits 
and  modes  of  life,  the  only  difference  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  foils  naturally  within  the  manoeu- 
vring 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 
thing.  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  profound- 
est  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  light  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  symme- 
trical features  agreed  with  the  dowd  cap  of  white  linen,  with 
a  plain  muslin  border,  which  she  wore.  A  pair  of  blue  stock- 
ings and  sharp-pointed  shoes,  high  in  the  heels,  completed 
her  dress.  Her  features  were  good-natured  and  Irish,  but  over 
the  whole  countenance  there  lay  an  expression  of  quickness 
and  sagacity,  contracted  no  doubt  by  an  habitual  exercise  of 


3G 


MARY    MURRAY, 


penetration  and  circumspection.  At  the  time  I  saw  her  she 
was  very  old,  and  I  believe  had  the  reputation  of  being  tne 
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  re- 
placed 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 
delight,  "  Mother,  mother,  here's  Mary  Murray  comin'  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,  not- 
withstanding the  mellow  tones  of  that  sweet  voice,  why  it  is 
so,  and  also  why  that  youthful  cheek,  in  which  health  and 
beauty  meet,  is  the  colour  of  crimson. 

"  Oh,  Vara,  acushla,  cead  millia  failte ghud?  (Mary, 
darling,  a  hundred  thousand  welcomes  to  you  !)  Och,  musha, 
what  kep'  you  away  so  long,  Mary  ?  Sure  you  won't  lave 
us  this  month  o'  Sundays,  Mary  ?"  are  only  a  few  of  the  cor- 
dial expressions  of  hospitality  and  kindness  with  which  she  is 
received.  But  Kitty,  whose  cheek  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  everything :  won't  you  ?" 

"Throth,  avilish,  I  have  no  bad  news,  any  how — an'  as  to 


THE    IRISH    MATCH- MAKER.  S7 

tellin'  you  all  — Biddy,  Ihig  dumh,  let  me  aloiie.  No,  I  have 
no  bad  news,  God  be  praised,  but  good  news" 

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  lips,  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  opportunity,  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  hig- 
gling proceeds  from  a  spirit  naturally  near  and  sordid,  but  it 
is  not  so.  The  real  secret  of  it  lies  in  the  poverty  and  ne- 
cessity of  the  parties,  and  chiefly  in  the  bitter  experience  of 
their  parents,  who,  having  come  together  in  a  state  of  desti- 
tution, are  anxious,  each  as  much  at  the  expense  of  the  other 
as  possible,  to  prevent  their  children  from  experiencing 
the  6ame  privation  and  misery  which  they  themselves  felt. 
Many  a  time  have  matches  been  suspended,  or  altogethci 


38  MARY    MUKltAY, 

broken  off,  became  one  party  refuses  to  give  his  son  "a  slip 
of  a  pig?  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  but  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  moniin'    to     ould  Jack 
M'Cluskey's  daughter." 

"  Well,  God  grant  them  luck  an'  happiness,  poor  things  ! 
I  do  indeed  remimber  his  father's  wake  an'  funeral  well — 
ould  Risthard  Kelly  of  Tamlaght — a  dacent  corpse  he  made 
for  his  years,  an'  well  he  looked.  But  indeed  I  knetcn 
by  the  colour  that  sted  in  his  cheeks,  and  the  limbs  remaining 
soople  for  the  twenty-four  hours  afther  his  departure,  that 
some  of   the   family    'ud    follow   him   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  ;  an'  God 
knows  it  was  from  the  heart  my  grief  kem  for  her — to  see  the 
poor  han'some  colleen  laid  low  so  soon.  But  whin  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  youi'self  and  the  world 
get  tin'  an  ?" 

"Can't  complain,  dear,  in  such  times.  How  are  yez  all 
at  home,  alanna  ?"  "  Faix  middlin'  well,  Maiy,  thank  God 
an'  you.  You  hard  of  my  grand-uncle's  death,  big  Ned 
M'Coul  ?" 

"I  did,  avick,  God  rest  him.  Sure  it's  well  I  remhnber 
his  weddin',  poor  man,  by  the  same  atoken  that  I  know  one 
that  helped  him  an  wid  it  a  thrifle.  He  was  married  in  a 
blue  coat  an'  buskins,  an'  wore  a  scarlet  waistcoat  that  you'd 
see  three  miles  off.  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.'  '  Thighum,  said  he,  wid  a 
smile,  an'  he  slipped  ten  thirteens  into  my  hand  as  he  spoke. 
I'll  do  it,'  6aid  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' 

•  Suoli  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." 

"  Throth  it's  natural,  achora.  What  can  a  lone  woman  do 
wid  such  a  large  family  on  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  wid  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,  jisttell  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  forget !" 

"  Thank  you,  dear  :  God  mark  you  to  grace,  avourneen  ! 
When  you're  a  little  oulder,  maybe  I'll  be  a  friend  to  you 
yet." 

This  last  intimation  was  given  with  a  kind  of  mysterious 
benevolence,  very  visible  in  the  complacent  shrewdness  of 
her  face,  and  with  a  twinkle  in  the  eye,  full  of  grave  humour 
and  considerable  self-importance,  leaving  the  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  this  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  which 
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  period: 
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  address  her  probably  somewhat  as  follows : — 
"  Arra,  Biddy  Sullivan,  how  are  you,  a-eolleen  ?" 
"Faix,  bravely,  thank  you,  Mary.  How  is  yourself?" 
"  Indeed,  thin'  sorra  a  bit  o'  the  health  we  ean  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  weid.*  I  hope  she's  betther,  poor  woman  ?" 

"  Kut !  bad  scran  to  the  thing  ails  her!  She  has  as  light 
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  lemimber  it,  an' 
how  the  squire  himself  an'  the  ladies  from  the  Big  House  came 
down  to  see  herself  nn'  your  father,  the  bride  and  groom — ac 
A  feverish  cold. 


42  MARY    11  UREAS', 

it  wasn't  on  every  hill  bead  you'd  get  sich  a  couple — dancin' 
the  same  '  Jackson'-  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  %ts,  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  Mends  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  little  for  that  girl ;'  but,  poor  lad,  he's  not  aisy  or 
happy  in  his  mind  in  regard  o'  that.  '  I'm  afeard,1  says  he, 
1  that  she'd  put  scorn  upon  me,  an'  not  think  me  her  aiquals. 
An'  no  more  I  am,'  says  he  again,  '  ibr  where,  afther  all,  would 
you  get  the  likes  o'  Biddy  Sullivan  ?' — Poor  boy  !  throth  my 
heart  aches  for  him  !" 

"  Well,  can't  you  fall  in  love  wid  him  yourself,  Mary, 
whoever  he  is  ?" 

"  Indeed,  an'  if  I  was  at  your  age,  it  would  be  no  shame 
to  me  to  do  so ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  thruth,  the  sorra  often 
ever  the  likes  of  Paul  Heffernan  came  acrass  me." 

"  Paul  Heffernan  !  Why,  Mary,"  replied  Biddy,  smiling 
with  the  assumed  lightness  of  indifference,  "  is  that  your 
beauty  ?     If  it  is,  why,  keep  him,  an'  make  much  of  him.*' 


the  irish  match-maker.  43 

u  Oh,  wurrah !  the  differ  there  is  1  etween  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  believe 
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'  intends  to  be  at  the  dance  on  Friday  next,  iu  Jack 
Gormly's  new  house.  Now,  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  Heffeman  grows. 
Bannaght  lhath  !     My  blessin'  be  wid  you !" 

Thus  would  Mary  depart  just  at  the  critical  moment,  fur 
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 
ultimately  to  ripen,  even  from  its  own  agitation,  into  the 
attachment  she  is  anxious  to  promote. 

The  next  day,  by  a  meeting  similarly  accidental,  she  comes 
in  contact  with  Paul  Heffeman,  who,  honest  lad,  had  .never 
probably  bestowed  a  thought  on  Biddy  Sullivan  in  his  life. 

"  Morrow  ghud,  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  slipped  out  an  her, 
the  point  of  a  rush  'ud  take  a  drop  of  blood  out  o'  her  cheek, 
the  way  she  crimsoned  up.  '  Ah,  Mary,'  says  she,  '  if  ever  I 
know  you  to  braith  it  to  man  or  motual,  my  lips  I'll  never 
open  to  you  to  my  djin'  day.'  Trogs,  when  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  Sullivan." 

"  Biddy  Sullivan !  Is  that  long  Jack's  daughter  of  Carga  ?" 

"  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  bannagth.  lhath,  an*  think 
o'  what  I  bethrayed  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,  everything  fell  out  ex- 
actly 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  be 
very  willing  to  marry  him.  To  the  credit  of  our  fair  country- 
women, however,  be  it  said,  that  in  scarcely  one  instance  out 
of  twenty  does  it  happen,  or  has  it  ever  happened,  that  any 
of  them  ever  fails  to  punish  the  faint  heart  by  bestowing  the 
fair  lady  upon  what  is  called  the  blackfoot  or  spokesman 


THE    IRISH    MATCH-MAKER.  45 

■whom  he  selects  to  make  love  for  him.  In  such  a  case  it  is 
very  naturally  supposed  that  the  latter  will  speak  two  words 
for  himself  and  one  for  his  friend,  and  indeed  the  result  bears 
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  publishes  his  shame  to  the  uttermost  bounds 
of  her  own  little  world,  branding  him  "as  a  poor  pitiful 
creature,  who  had  not  the  courage  to  spaik  up  for  himself, 
or — to  employ  them  that  could."  In  fact,  she  entertains 
much  the  same  feeling  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  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  young  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 
districts  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  English 
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  the  hob,  which  is  the  seat 
of  comfort  and  honour  at  a  farmer's  fireside,  and  there  she 
sat  neat  and  tidy,  detailing  till  the  news  of  the  parish,  telling 
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'nt  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  lie  in  it,  poor  thing.  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  be- 
come unsteady.  Great  deference  was  paid  to  everything  she 
said ;  and  if  not  conceded  to  her,  she  extorted  it  with  a  high 
hand.  Nobody  living  could  drink  a  health  with  half  the 
comic  significance  that  Mary  tnrew  into  her  eyes  when  say- 
ing, "  Well,  young  couple,  here's  everything  as  you  wish  it." 

Mary's  motions  from  place  to  place  usually  were  very  slow, 
and  for  the  best  reason  in  the  world — she  was  frequently  in- 
terrupted. For  instance,  if  she  met  a  young  man  on  her  way, 
ten  to  one  but  he  stood  and  held  a  long  and  earnest  conver- 
sation with  her ;  and  that  it  was  both  important  and  confi- 
dential, might  easily  be  gathered  from  the  fact,  that  when- 
ever 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.  Many  a  time  have  I  seen  them 
retracing  their  steps,  and  probably  walking  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 
ditches,  in  order  to  make  up  for  the  time  she  had  lost  I 


THE    IRISH    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  slightest  aid  ever  afforded 
to  any  one  whose  union  she  had  not  been  herself  instrumental 
in  bringing  about.  As  to  the  when  and  the  hoto  she  got  this 
money,  and  the  great  quantity  of  female  apparel  which  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 — Ave  will  not,  for 
we  dare  not,  say  how  many — into  which  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  execeration  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  credits 
able  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  that  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.  Wo 
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,  bannaght  lhath  ! — my  blessing 


BOB  PENTLAND; 

OR, 
THE    GAUGES    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  gauger  and  his  red-coats.  In  point  of  fact,  the  spot 
we  speak  of  was  from  its  peculiarly  isolated  position  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 
the  moment  you  had  entered  it,  all  possibility  of  its  being 
applied  to  the  purposes  of  distillation  at  once  vanished,  and 
you  consequently  could  not  help  exclaiming,  "  what  a  pity  thai 


THE    GAUGER    OUTWITTED.  40 

so  safe  and  beautiful  a  nook  should  not  have  a  single  spot  on 
which  to  erect  s»  still-house,  or  rather  on  which  to  raise  a 
sufficient  stream  of  water  to  the  elevation  necessary  for  the 
process  of  distilling."  If  a  gauger  actually  came  to  the  little 
chasm,  and  cast  his  scrutinizing  eye  over  it,  he  would  im- 
mediately 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  thick  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  write  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  gauger,  and  little 
George  Stecn,  the  illicit  distiller.  Pentland  was  an  old, 
staunch,  well-trained  fellow,  of  about  fifty  years  or  more, 
steady  and  sure,  and  with  all  the  characteristic  points  of  the  " 
high-bred  gauger  about  him.  He  was  a  tallish  man,  thin  but 
k»thy,  with  a  hooked  nose  that  could  scent  the  tread  of  a 


50  dob  vkntland;  or 

distiller  with  the  keenness  of  a  slew-hound ;  his  dark  eye  was 
deep-set,  circumspect,  and  roguish  in  its  expression,  and  hia 
Bhaggy  brow  seemed  always  to  be  engaged  in  calculating 
whereabouts  his  inveterate  foe,  little  George  Steen,  that 
eternally  blinked  him  when  almost  in  his  very  fangs,  might 
then  be  distilling.  To  be  brief,  Pentland  was  proverbial  for 
his  sagacity  and  adroitness  in  detecting  distillers,  and  little 
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  which  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  gauger  and 
his  myrmidons  was  heard  upon  the  wind,  the  whole  apparatus 
was  immediately  heaved  over  the  mering  to  the  next  townland, 
from  which  the  fine  imposed  by  parliament  was  necessarily 
raised,  whilst  the  crafty  and  offending  district  actually  escaped. 
The  state  of  society  generated  by  such  a  blundering  and 
barbarous  statute  as  thin,  was  dreadful.  In  the  course  of  a 
*<hort  time,  reprisals,  law-suits,  battles,  murders,  and  massacres 
multiplied  to  such  an  extent  throughout  the  whole  country, 
that  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  in/ention,  is  also  the  cause  of  many  an  accidental  discovery 


TU3    (1AUGER    OUTWITTED.  51 

Pentad  had  been  so  frequently  defeated  by  little  George, 
that  he  vowed  never  to  rest  until  he  had  eecured  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  lus  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  to  distillation  with  which 
Pentland  was  not  acquainted.  In  this  state  stood  matters 
between  them,  when  George  fortunately  discovered  at  the  hip 
of  Altnaveenan  hill  the  natural  grotto  we  have  just  sketched 
eo  briefly.  Now,  George  was  a  man,  as  we  have  already 
hinted,  of  great  fertility  of  resources  ;  but  there  existed  in  the 
same  parish  another  distiller  who  outstripped  him  in  that 
far-sighted  cunning  which  is  so  necessary  in  misleading  or 
cir<" am ven ting  such  a  sharp-scented  old  hound  as  Pentland. 
This  was  little  Mickey  M'Quade,  a  short-necked  squat  little 
fellow  with  bow  legs,  who  might  be  said  rather  to  creep  in  his 
motion  than  to  walk.  George  and  Mickey  wrere  intimate 
friends,  independently  of  their  joint  antipathy  against  the 
gauger,  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 
natural  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  Mickey,  who  never  troubled  his  head  about  an 
experiment,  but  only  thought  of  making  a  good  running,  and 
defeating  the  gauger.  The  first  thing  of  course  that  George 
did,  was  to  consult  Mickey,  and  both  accordingly  took  a  walk 


."2  bob  pentland;  or 

rip  to  the  scene  of  their  fixture  operations.  On  examining  it, 
and  fully  perceiving  its  advantages,  it  might  well  be  said  that 
the  look  of  exultation  and  triumph  which  parsed  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  saga- 
ciously over  his  beard,  and  after  a  second  glance  gave  one 
grave  gi'in  which  spoke  volumes.  "  It'll  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  blink,  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  this,  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  6ettin'  to 
work.  Lave  the  other  thing  to  me  ;  an'  if  I  don't  account  for 
the  smoke  without  discoverin'  the  entrance  to  the  still,  I'll 
give  you  lave  to  crop  the  ears  olF  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 

their  out- houses  with  secret  chambers  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  through  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  Avith  Still,  Head,  and  Worm,  set  up  and  in  full  work. 
"  And  now,  Mickey,"  inquired  his  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  puff  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  this  he  had  a  fire  of  turf,  beside  which  sat  a 
little  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  gauger,  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  nferely  from  the  fire  before  him.     In  fact,  the 


S4  bob  pentland;  ok 

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  this  saw  it  during 
the  hottest  process  of  distillation,  and  failed  to  maKe  the  dis- 
covery, although  told  that  the  still-house  was  within  a  circle 
of  three  hundred  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  his  irrepressible  anxiety  to  hear  the 
old  stories  and  legends  with  the  recital  of  which  they  gene- 
rally pass  the  night. 

In  this  way,  well  provided  against  the  gauger — indeed  much 
better  than  our  readers  are  yet  aware  of,  as  they  shall  under-, 
stand  by  and  by — 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  Jirst-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  surprize,  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  hia  appearance, 
attended  by  a  strong  party  of  reluctant  soldiers — for  indeed  v. 


THE    GAUGER    OUTW3TTED.  55 

is  due  to  the  military  to  state  that  they  never  took  delight  in 
harassing  the  country  people  at  the  command  of  a  keg-hunter, 
its  they  generally  nicknamed  the  gauger.  It  had  been  ar- 
ranged that  the  vidette  at  the  iron  plate  should  whistle  a 
particular  tune  the  moment  that  the  gauger  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  little  fellow  in  his  highest  key  whistling  up  that  well-known 
and  very  significant  old  Irish  air  called  "  Go  to  the  devil  an' 
shake  yourself" — which  in  this  case  was  applied  to  the  gauger 
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  listened  very  gravely ; 
then  squirting  out  a  tobacco  spittle,  "Take  it  easy,"  said 
he ;  "I have  half  a  dozen  fires  about  the  hills,  any  one  as 
like  this  as  your  right  hand  is  to  your  left.  I  did'nt  spare 
trouble,  for  I  knew  that  if  we'd  get  over  this  day,  we'd  be  out 
of  his  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 
brains  out,  and  get  you  hanged  and  transported  afterwards." 

This  he  said  with  a  thundering  voice,  cocking  a  large  horse 
pistol  at  the  same  time. 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  '*  it's  watchin'  a  6till  I  am :  but 
be  the  hole  o'  my  coat  if  you  tell  upon  me,  it's  broilin'  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  tell  me  that." 

M  Why,  8irra,  didn't  you  say  this  moment  you  were  watching 
Bfltm?" 


56  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  whistle  upon  my  fingers  to  let  the  boy  at  that  fire  on 
the  hill  there  above  know  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,  like  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  ;  anJ  it  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  P" 

"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 
oame  ?" 

•  This  was  a  nickname  given  to  Harry,  who  was  a  cooper,  mid  made  the 
ntcessary  vessels  for  distillers. 


THE  GAUGER   OUTWITTED. 


■'•- 


'*  Only  once,  sir,  yestherday,  I  seen  two  men,  bavin'  an 
empty  sack  or  two,  runnin'  across  the  hill  there  above." 

At  this  moment  the  military  came  up,  for  he  had  himself  ran 
forward  in  advance  of  them,  and  he  repeated  the  substance  of 
his  conversation  with  our  friend  the  vidette.  Upon  examining 
the  stolidity  of  his  countenance,  in  which  there  certainly  was 
a  woful  deficiency  of  meaning,  they  agreed  among  themselves 
that  his  appearance  justified  the  truth  of  the  story  which  he 
told  the  gauger,  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  t'  em,  the  gauger 
himself  resolving  to  make  for  that  which  Darby  Neil  had  in 
his  keeping,  for  he  could  not  help  thinking  that  the  vidette's 
6tory  was  too  natural  to  be  false.  They  wTere  just  in  the  act 
of  separating  themselves  to  pursue  their  different  route*, 
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. 
Bv  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  may  be  hanged  but  if  we  do  not  intercept  them  it  is  I 
mvself  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  retaliation  on  the 
gauger.  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  ',    OP, 

it  {is  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  meantime,  he  was  bound  of  course  to  seize 
the  still,  and  report  the  caption ;  and  as  lie  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. 

Thi3  manoeuvre  of  keeping  in  reserve  an  old  or  second  set 
of  apparatus,  for  the  purpose  of  acting  the  lapwing  and  mis- 
leading the  gauger,  was  afterwards  often  practised  with 
success ;  but  the  first  discoverer  of  it  was  undoubtedly  Mickey 
M'Quade,  although  the  honour  of  the  discovery  was  attributed 
to  his  friend  George  Sleen.  The  matter,  however,  did  not 
actually  end  here,  for  in  a  few  days  afterwards  some  malicious 
wag — in  other  words,  George  himself — had  correct  information 
sent  to  Pentland  touching  the  locality  of  the  cavern  and  the 
secret  of  its  entrance.  On  this  occasion  the  latter  brought 
a  larger  military  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  ehe. 
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  undor 
your  nose,  the  first  day  you  came  to  look  for  us,  and  bottled 


THB    OACOER    OUTWITTED.  59 

for  you  while  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  Fentland 
that  he  could  never  keep  his  temper  il  asked,  "  Mr.  Pentland, 
when  did  vou  see  little  George  Steen?" — a  question  to  which 
he  was  never  known  to  give  a  civil  reply. 


IKISH  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  really  indifferent  to  the 
subject  of  dreams,  fairies,  and  apparitions.  They  are  topics 
that  interest  the  imagination  in  all :  and  the  hoary  head  of  age 
is  inclined  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  belief 
in  ghosts  is  fast  disappearing,  and  that  in  fairies  is  already 
almost  gone ;  but  with  what  new  wonders  they  will  be  replaced, 
it  is  difficult  to  say.  The  physical  and  natural  we  suppose 
will  give  us  enough  of  the  marvellous,  without  having  recourse 
to  the  spiritual  and  supernatural.  Steam  and  gas,  if  Science 
advance  for  another  half  century  at  the  same  rate  as  she  has 
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 
for  miles  in  a  pipe  under  ground  ;  and  this  man  to  our  own 
knowledge  possessed  "the  organ  of  mar  vellousness  to  a  surpris- 
ing degree.  It  is  singular,  too,  that  his  fear  of  ghosts  was  in 
proportion  to  this  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. 

In  our  opinion,  ghosts  and  fairies  will   be  seen   wherever 
they   are  much   talked  of,   and   a   belief  in  their  existence 
60 


'1HE    FATE    OF    FRANK    M'KENNA.  f>  i 

cultivated  and  nourished.  So  long  as  the  powers  of  the 
imagination  are  kept  warm  and  active  by  exercise,  they  will 
create  for  themselves  such  images  as  they  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  that 
is  predominent  in  the  mind.  As  an  illustration  of  this  I  shall 
mention  two  cases  of  apparition  Avhich  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  which  1  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  lived  a  man  named  M'Kenna  at  the  hip  of  one  of  the 
mountainous  hills  which  divide  the  county  of  Tyrone  from 
that  of  Monaghan.  This  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  avoca- 
tions of  labour  would  allow  him.  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  thicker 
and  heavier  at  one  end  than  at  the  other — and  prepared  to  set 
out  on  his  favourite  amusement.  His  father,  seeing  this, 
reproved  him  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  hia 
father's  advice.  The  old  man  during  the  altercation  got  warm  ; 
and  on  finding  that  the  son  obstinately  scorned  his  authority, 


02  IRISH  SUPERSTITIONS. 

he  knelt  down  and  prayed  that  if  the  boy  persisted  in  following 
his  own  will,  he  might  never  return  from  the  mountain  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  whe- 
ther 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  him.  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  an*d  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  afterwards  observed  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  wmdd  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  oe 
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  directly  into  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  and  returned 
to  their  respective  homes. 


THE    FATE    OP    FRANK    aT'KENMA. 


63 


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  6elf-willed  young  man,  who  had 
equally  trampled  on  the  sanctions  of  religion  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  waj 
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  tmd 
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 
wan  the  greater  in  proportion  to  the  uncertainty  occasioned 
by  his  not  having  been  found  either  alive  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, 
tbe  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  ol 

name  I  am  not  certain — who  was  a  herd  or  care-taker  to 


04  IRISH    SUPERSTITION'S. 

Dr.  Porter,  then  Bishop  of  Clogher.  The  situation  of  ihw 
house  was  the  most  lonely  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  01 
dark  moor.  By  this  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 
arc  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  calcu- 
lated to  leave  behind  it  a  deep,  if  not  a  terrible  impression. 
Time  soon  proved  that  it  did  so. 

An  accident  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 
Mullaghtinny,  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  him  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,  which  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 
Degan  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  baffle  rational  investigation.  As  every  man  is  not 


THE    FATE    OF    FRANK    M'KENNA.  65 

a  Hibbert,  or  a  !Nicolai,  so  will  many,  until  such  circumstances 
•xre  tilde  properly  intelligible,  continue  to  yield  credence  tc 
testimony  which  would  not  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,  notAvithstanding  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-light  night. 
The  light  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  appeared  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  familiarised  to  the  spectre  as 
to  venture  to  address  it. 

?'  In  the  name  of  God  !"  she  asked.  "  what  is  troubling  you 


fio  IRISH    SUPERSTITIOUS. 

oc  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  -ac- 
count of  one  of  the  most  ludicrous  missions  that  ever  a  spirit 
was  despatched  upon.  "  I'm  not  allowed,"  said  he,  "  to 
Bpake  to  any  of  my  friends,  for  I  parted  with  them  in  anger  ; 
but  I'm  come  to  tell  you  that  they're  quarrellin'  about  my 
breeches — a  new  pair  that  I  got  made  for  Christmas  day  ;  an' 
as  1  was  comm'  up  to  trace  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  appearin',"  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- 
circurnstances  were  exactly  as  it  had  represented  tl^em.  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  familiar.  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  baek,  and  occasioned  him  yreat 
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  curi- 
osity began  to  visit  the  girl  in  order  to  satisfy  themselves  of  the 
truth  of  what  they  had  heard.  Everything,  however,  was 
corroborated,  and  the  child  herself,  without  any  symptoms  of 
anxiety  or  terror,  artlessly  related  her  conversations  with  the 
spirit.  Hitherto  their  interviews  had  been  all  noctural,  but 
now  that  the  ghost  found  his  footing  made  good,   he  put  a 


THE  FATK    OF    FRANK    M'KENNA.  6? 

hardy  face  on,  and  ventured  to  appear  by  day-light.  The  girl 
also  Tell  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  cer- 
tainly an  excellent  moralist,  and  gave  the  best  of  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 
deai-  to  her  heart,  and  never  was  a  ghost  made  more  of  by  his 
best  friends,  than  she  made  of  him.  The  Avhole  country  was 
in  a  tumult,  and  I  well  remember  the  crowds  tact  flocked  to 
the  lonely  little  cabin  in  the  mountains,  now  the  scene  of  mat- 
ters so  interesting  and  important.  Not  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  individua1  nailed  down  in  the  coffin 
— chilling  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  originating  and  then 
continuing  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  victha 
of  a  diseased  imagination.  Everything  in  fact  that  could  be 
done  ibr  her  was  done.     They  brought  her  to  a  priest  named 


C8  IRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

Donnelly,  who  lived  down  at  Ballynaggart,  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-light 
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  akfirst  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 
feeling  lasted,  she  was  a  subject  of  the  most  intense  curiosity. 
No  matter  Avhere  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  the  ghost — a  live  ghost. 

Now,  here  was  a  young  girl  of  an  excitable  temperament, 
and  large  imagination,  leading  almost  a  solitary  life  amidst 
scenery  of  a  lonely  and  desolate  character,  who  happening  to 
be  strongly  impressed  with  an  image,  of  horror — for  snrely 
such  was  the  body  of  a  dead  man  seen  in  association  with  such 
peculiarly  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 
kind,  that,  is  not  occasioned  by  cerebral  excitement,  or  de- 
rangement of  the  nervous  system,  analogous  to  that  under 


THE    FATE    OF    FRANK    M'KENNA.  69 

which  Daly's  daughter  laboured.  I  saw  her  several  times,  and 
remember  clearly  that  her  pale  face,  dark  eye,  and  very  intel- 
lectual 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  thinking  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  living  in.  Take  her  to 
some  part  of  the  country  where  she  can  have  companions  of 
her  own  class  and  state  of  life  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  solitude.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  days  he  removed  from  it  with  his  family,  and 
came  to  reside  among  the  cheerful  aspect  and  enlivening  in- 
tercourse of  human  We.  The  consequences  were  precisely 
as  the  man  had  told  him.  In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  the 
little  girl  began  to  find  that  the  visits  of  the  spectre  were  like 
ihose  of  angels,  few  and  far  between.  She  was  sent  to  school, 
and  what  Avith  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  biain. 

Now,  there  is  scarcely  one  of  the  people  in  my  native  parish 
v;ho  does  not  believe  that  the  spirit  of  this  man  came  back  to 


70  IRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

the  world,  and  actually  appeared  to  this  little  girl.  The  time, 
.xowever,  is  fast  coming  when  these  empty  bugbears  will  alto- 
gether disappear,  and  we  shall  entertain  more  reverend  and 
becoming  notions  of  God,  than  to  suppose  such  senseless 
pranks  could  be  played  by  the  soul  of  a  departed  being  under 
His  permission.  We  might  as  well  assert  that  the  imaginary 
beings  which  surround  the  couch  of  the  madman  or  hypo- 
chondriac, 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  little  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  which  was  once  a  garden,  and  which  now 
shines  at  a  distance  like  an  emerald,  but  with  no  agreeable  or 
pleasing  associations.  It  is  a  spot  which  no  solitary  school- 
boy will  ever  visit,  nor  indeed  will  the  unflinching  believer 
in  the  popular  nonsense  of  ghosts  wish  to  pass  it  without  a 
companion.  It  is  under  any  circumstances  a  gloomy  and 
barren  place,  but  when  looked  upon  in  connection  with  what 
tre  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  folks,  and  we  ourselves  at  the  time,  looked 
upon  as  a  genuine  instance  of  apparition.     It  appeared  to  tha 


THE    RIVAL    KEMPEIIS.  <  1 

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  motions  of  Provi- 
dence must  Ave  not  entertain  when  we  see  the  order  and  pur 
pose  of  this  divine  will  so  completely  degraded  and  travestied, 
by  the  fact  of  a  human  soul  returning  to  this  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  Ave  see  a  laughable  dispute  about  a  pair  of 
breeches  settled  by  a  personal  revelation  from  another  life,  we 
cannot  help  asking  Avhy  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,  hoAvever,  by  insisting  on  a  principle  so  absurd, 
Avould  place  Providence  in  a  position  so  perfectly  unreasonable 
and  capricious,  that  Ave  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,  hoAvever,  we 
take  our  leave  of  the  girl  and  the  ghost,  and  turn  now  to 
another  case,  which  came  under  our  OAvn  observation,  m  ecn- 
n^sion  with  a  man  named  Frank  Martin  and  the  fairies.  Be- 
fore commencing,  hoAvever,  Ave  shall,  by  Avay  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  cannoc  avoid  regretting  that 
Ave  have  not  by  us  copies  of  two  most  valuable  works  upon  it. 


kl  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  the  Popular  Fictions  ;  two 
works  which  cannot  be  perused  without  delight  at  the  happy 
manner  in  which  so  much  learning  and  amusement,  so  much 
solid  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  Ave  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  nothing  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  dressed  in  green, 
irritable,  enpricious,  and  quite  unsteady  in  its  principles  and 
dealings  with  mankind.  Sometimes  it  exhibits  singular  proofs 
of  ingenuity,  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  f  equently  overreached 
bj  mere  mortal  capacity..     It  is  impossible  to  say,  in   dealing 


THE    RIVAL  KEMPERS.  13 

that  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  malice  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  other  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  families  ; 
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 
thievish,  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  tho 
ripest  apple,  pear,  &c,  all  belong  to  them,  and  are  taken  as 
their  own  exclusive  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  partii  ular  spot 
for  ever  afterwards  is  liable  to  be  struck  down  with  weakner* 
and  hunger,  and  unless  he  can  taste  a  morsel  of  bread  h<j 
neither  will  nor  can  recover.     The  weakness  in  this  instauoo, 


V4  IRISH    SUr^RSTITIONS. 

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  little  circles  is  seldom  more 
than  a  single  step.  The  grass  that  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  little  gentry  are  peculiarly  fond  of  neatness 
and  cleanliness  both  in  dress  and  person.  Bishop  Andrews' 
Lamentation  for  the  Fairies  gives  as  humorous  and  correct  a 
notion  of  their  personal  habits  in  this  way,  and  their  disposi- 
tion to  reward  cleanliness  in  servants,  as  could  be  written. 

We  shall  ourselves  relate  a  short  anecdote  or  two  touching 
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  irritable  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  delicate  beyond  belief,  and  had  no  appetite 
at  all,  so  she  had'nt,  barring  a  little  relish  for  a  mutton-chop, 
or  a  "staik,"  or  a  bit  o'  niait,  anyway  ;  for  sura,    God  he'p 


THE    RIVAL    KEMPEItS.  75 

her !  she  hadn't  the  laist  inclination  for  the  dhry  pratie,  or  the 
dhrop  o*  sour  butthermilk  along  wid  it,  especially  as  she  was 
60  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  throublin'  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  invalid  for  long 
enough,  trying  doctors  and  quacks  of  all  sorts,  sexes,  and 
sizes,  and  all  without  a  farthing'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  little  weeshy  woman,  dressed  in  a  neat  red  cloak, 
comes  in,  and  sitting  down  by  the  hearth,  says  : 

"  Well,  Kitty  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,  aye,"  said  the  other ;  "  in  throth  that's  what  I 
was  this  minnit  thinkin'  ov,  and  a  sorrowful  thought  it  is  to  me." 

"  It's  yer  own  fau't,  thin,"  says  the  little  woman ;  "  an'  indeed, 
for  that  matter,  it's  yer  fau't  that  ever  you  wor  there  at  all." 

"Arra,  how's  that?"  asked  Kitty;  "sure  I  wouldn't  be 
here,  if  I  could  help  it  ?  Do  you  think  it's  a  comfort  or  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  be  sick  and  bedridden  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  "  I  do  not;  but  111  toll  you  the  truth: 
for  the  last  seven  years  you  have  been  annoyin  us.    I  am  one 


<0  IRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

o'  the  good  people  ;  an'  as  I  have  a  regard  for  you,  I'm  conw 
to  let  you  know  the  raison  why  you've  been  sick  so  long  aa 
you  are.  For  all  the  time  you've  been  ill,  if  you'll  take  the 
thrubble  to  remimber,  your  childhre  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 complied  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  life. 

Lanty  M'Cluskey  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  u  ual  on  t!  cse  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  fun  and  hilarity 
were  proceeding  brisk ly,  when  a  noise  was  heard  after  night 


THS    RIVAL  KEMPERS.  *7 

had  net  in,  like  a  crushing  and  straining  of  ribs  and  rafters, 
on  the  top  of  the  house.  The  folks  assembled  all  listened, 
and  without  doubt  there  was  nothing  heard  but  crushing,  and 
heaving,  and  pushing,  and  groaning,  and  panting,  as  if  a 
thousand  little  men  were  engaged  in  pulling  down  the  roof. 

"Come,"  said  a  voice,  which  spoke  in  a  tone  of  command, 
"  work  hard  :  you  know  we  must  have  Lanty's  house  down 
before  midnight." 

This  was  an  unwelcome  piece  of  intelligence  to  Lanty;  who, 
finding  that  his  enemies  were  such  as  he  could  not  cope  with, 
walked  out,  and  addressed  them  as  follows  : — 

"  Gentlemen,  1  humbly  ax  yer  pardon  for  buildin'  on  any 
place  belongin'  to  you  ;  but  if  you'll  have  the  civilitude  to  let 
me  alone  this  night,  I'll  begin  to  pull  down  and  remove  the 
house  to-morrow  morning." 

This  was  followed  by  a  noise  like  the  clapping  of  a  thousand 
tiny  little  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 
kam  *  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  then  simplicity  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 

"  &jm—n  metal  vessel  in  which  the  peasantry  dip  rushlights. 


78  IRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

day-light,  and  on  these  occasions  she  ia  accompanied  by  her 
sweetheart  or  some  male  relation,  who  carries  her  wheel,  and 
conducts  her  safely  across  the  fields  or  along  the  road,  as  the 
case  may  be.  Akempis  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 
agreeable  than  to  hear  at  a  distance,  breaking  the  silence  oi 
morning,  the  light-hearted  voices  of  many  girls  either  in  mirth 
or  song,  the  humming  sound  of  the  busy  wheels — jarred  upon 
a  little,  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.  This  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  workmanlike  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 
be  well-behaved  and  industrious  like  himself.  Here,  however, 
was  where  the  puzzle  lay  on  him  ;  for  instead  of  one  girl  oi 
that  kind,  there  were  in  the  neighbourhood  no  less  than  a 
dozen  of  them — all  equally  fit  and  willing  to  become  hiri  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  Avon  the  kemp, 
for  he  kneAv  right  well,  as  did  all  the  parish,  that  one  of  them 
must.  The  girls  agreed  to  this  very  good-humouredly,  Biddy 
telling  Sally  that  she  (Sally)  would  surely  win  it ;  and  Sally, 
not  to  be  outdone  in  civility,  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  little  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  lively  chat  commenced  between  them. 

"  So,"  said  the  strange  woman,  "  there's  to  be  a  great  kemp 
in  Shaun  Buie  M'  Gave  rail's?" 

"  Indeed  there  is  that,  good  woman,"  replied  Biddy,  smi- 
ling a  little,  and  blushing  to  the  back  of  that  again,  because 
she  knew  her  own  fate  depended  on  it. 

"And,"  continued  the  little  woman,  "  whoever  wins  the 
hemp  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,"  replied  Biddy, 
sighing,  for  fear,  you  may  be  sure,  that  she  herself  might  lose 
him ;  and  indeed  a  young  womam  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  buinnhe  ramwher  (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  behind  it." 

"  Yes,  acushia,  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  refreshed. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  rising  up,  M  you're  a  very  good  girl,  an 
if  you  are  able  to  find  out  my  name  before  Tuesday  morniug, 
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 
the  kemp,  you'll  lose  all,  an'  that  will  leave  you  a  sore  heart, 
for  well  I  know  you  love  Shaun  Buie." 

So  saying,  she  went  away,  and  left  poor  Biddy  quite  cast 
down  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  the  little  woman,  on  which  it  appeared  to  her  so 
much  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  1" 

"  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,"  replied  the  other, 
"  is  this  great  kemp  that's  to  take  place  at  Shaun  Buie 
M'Gaveran's.  They  say  you're  either  to  win  or  lose  him 
then,"  she  added,  lookin"  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.  tf  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  little  staff  in 
hand,  she  bade  Sally  good  bye,  and  went  her  way.  After 
passing  a  little  from  the  house  she  looked  back,  and  could  not 
iielp  speaking  to  herself  as  follows  : — 

e  2 


82  HUSH    SIPEHSTTTIONS. 

"  She's  smooth  and  smart. 
But  she  wants  the  heart ; 
She's  tight  and  neat, 
Bet  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 
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  in  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  blithe  and 
merry  place,  and  many  a  light  laugh  and  sweet  song  rang  out 
from  pretty  Kr>s  that  day.      Biddy  and  Sally,  as  every  one 
expected,  were  far  ahead  of  the  rest,   but  so  even  in  their 
spinning,  that  the  reelers  could  not  for  the  life  of  them  declare 
which  was  best.     It  was  neck-and-ncck  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  oppcrance  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 
that  could  be  done  was  done.  Her  brother,  a  boy  of  about 
fourteen  years  of  age,  happened  to  be  present  when  the  acci- 
dent took  place,  having  been  sent  by  his  father  and  mother  to 
bring  them  word  how  the  match  went  on  between  the  rival 
epinsters.     Johnnv  Corrigan  was  accordingly  despatched  with 


THE    RIVAL    KEMPEHS.  S3 

all  speed  to  Donnel  M'Cusker's,  the  whe:lnght,  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  little  time  as  possible 
he  struck  across  the  country,  passing  through,  or  rathei  clos 
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,"  eaid  the  lad,  "  who's  in  great 
distress,  lor  ^he  1  as  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  her,  a  circumstance  which  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  bagan  to  riee,  and  those  of 
Sally's  party  to   sink,  as  hour  after  hour  she  wag  fast  up- 


£4  JRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

proaching  her  rival,  who  now  spun  if  possible  with  double 
speed  on  finding  Biddy  coming  up  with  her.  At  length  they 
were  agaiD  even,  and  just  at  that  moment  in  came  her  friend 
the  little  red  woman,  and  asked  aloud,  "Is  there  any  one  in  this 
kemp  that  knows  my  name  ?"  This  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  1  have  only  now  to  wish,  kind  reader,  that  you 
and  I  may  live  longer  and  more  happily  still. 


FRANK    MARTIN    AND    THE    FAIRIES. 

When  a  superstition  is  once  impressed  strongly  upon  the  popu- 
lar credulity,  the  fiction  always  assumes  the  shape  and  form 
which  the  peculiar  imagination  of  the  country  is  constituted  to 
body  forth.  This  faculty  depends  so  much  on  climate,  tem- 
perament, religion,  and  occupation,  that  the  notions  entertained 
of  supernatural  beings,  though  generally  based  upon  one  broad 
feature  peculiar  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. 


i 


) 


- 


<%,.,. 


FRANK   MARTIN    AND    THh    FAIRIES.  85 

To  on  inquiring  mind  there  can  be  no  greater  proof  th  at 
this  of  their  being  nothing  but  the  creations  of  our  own  brain, 
and  of  assuming  that  shape  only  which  has  uniformly  been 
impressed  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  reality,  their  appearance  to  man- 
kind would  be  always  uniform,  unchangeable,  and  congruous  ; 
but  they  are  beheld,  so  to  speak,  through  different  prejudice* 
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,  character,  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  too 
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  a  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  slightest  mistake 
either  in  my  medicine  or  regimen  would  have  brought  on  a  re- 
lapse. At  all  events,  thank  God,  my  recovery  advanced  :  bul 


86  IRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

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  eeen,  unless  in  the 
dreams  of  a  feverish  brain  like  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  comeliness 
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  crash  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  mean  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.  AtleDgth  he  made  one  furious  rush  at  me,  as  if  he  meant  to 
pounce  upon  me,  and  in  self-preservation  1  threw  my  right  arm 
to  the  opposite  side,  and,  grasping  the  seraph  by  the  nose,  1 
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.     Iimagined 


FRANK    MARTIN    AND    THB    FAIUIKS.  Sfl 

that  there  was  a  serious  dispute  between  my  right  foot  and  my 
left,  as  to  Avhich  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  diu 
it  honour,  maintained  a  strict  neutrality.  The  truth  was,  I 
imagined  that  all  my  limbs  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 
indulgently  termed  "  drawing  the  long  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  discontent  in  the  big  toe),  Brother,  I  don't  knew 
how  it  is  that  you  have  during  our  whole  lives  always  taken 
the  liberty  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  thing  ? 

Right  foot.  Be  quiet,  my  dear  brother.  We  are  equal  in 
every  thing,  and  why,  therefore,  are  you  discontented  ? 

Left  foot.  Because  you  presume  to  consider  yourself  the 
better  and  more  useful  foot. 


88  HUSH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

Right  foot.  Let  us  not  dispute,  my  dear  brother  :  each  is 
equally  necessary  to  the  other.  What  could  1  do  without  you  ? 
No  thing,  or  at  least  very  little  ;  and  what  could  you  do  with- 
out me  ?     Very  little  indeed.    We  were  not  made  to  quarrel. 

Left  foot  {very  hot).  lam  not  disposed  to  quarrel,  but  I 
trust  you  will  admit  that  I  am  as  good  as  you,  every  way 
your  equal,  and,  bedad,  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 
members,  who  felt  themselves  insulted  through  this  outrage 
offered  to  their  chief  supporter. 

Right  foot.  Since  you  chose  to  insult  me  without  provo- 
cation, 1  must  stand  upon  my  right 

Left  {shoving  off  to  a  distance).  Right  ! — there,  again, 
what  right  have  you  to  be  termed  "  right"  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  cither 
of  you  be  with  a  crutch  or  a  cork  leg,  Avhich  is  only  another 
name  for  a  wooden  shoe  any  day  ?" 

Right  foot.  Since  he  provokes  me,  1  tell  him,  that  ever 
since  the  world  began,  the  prejudice  of  mankind  in  all  nations 
has  been  in  favour  of  the  right  foot  and  the  right  hand. 
(Strong  sensation  among  the  left  members).  Surely  he  ought 
not  to  be  ignorant  of  the  proverb,  Avhich  says,  when  a  man  is 
peculiarly  successful  in  anything  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 ; 
put  it  means  the  foot  which,  from  its  position  under  the  circum- 


FRANK    MARTIN    AND    THE    FAIRIES.  85 

stances,  happens  to  be  the  proper  one.  (Loud  applause  from 
the  left  members.) 

Right  foot.  You  know  you  are  weak  and  feeble  and  awk- 
ward when  compared  to  me,  and  can  do  little  of  yourself. 
(Hurrah  !  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 
nobility  ? 

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 — aa 
a  mark  of  his  sterling  qualities,  "  his  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.  Weadmit  he  resides  with  you,  butit  ismerelybecause 
you  are  the  weaker  side,  and  require  his  protection.  The  best 
part  of  his  energies  is  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 
hoard  their  respective  arguments,  shook  himself  very  gravely 


90  IRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

and  informed  them  (much  after  the  manner  of  Sir  Roger  !>• 
Ooverley)  that  "  much  might  be  said  on  both  siles.':  "  But 
one  thing,"  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  could  never  have 
taken  place,  were  it  not  for  the  heat  of  feeling  which  is  between 
you.  I  know  that  much  might  and  has  been  said  upon  both 
sides  ;  but  as  for  me,  1  nod  significantly  to  both  parties,  and  say 
nothing.  One  thing,  however,  I  do  say,  and  it  is  this — take 
care,  juu  riy  fit  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,  id 
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  feet  about  the 
right  of  going  foremost.  Nor  was  this  absurdity  all.  I  actually 
believed  for  the  time  that  all  my  limbs  were  endowed  with 
separate  life  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  thingf.  being 


FRANK    MARTIN    AND    THE    FAIRIES.  91 

alike,  produce  the  same  effects.  For  instance,  does  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  lor 
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  naturally  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  his  bed- 
room, and,  uncovering  him,  inflicted  several  heavy  stripes  upon 
his  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  his  flesh.  1  am  inclined  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 
Baw  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  fames,  of  which  I  also  was  myself  an  eye- 
witness. The  man's  name,  I  think,  was  Martin,  and  he  fol- 
lowed the  thoughtful  and  somewhat  melancholy  occupation  of 
a  weaver.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and  wrought  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 
th*  more  superstitious  of  them  maintained  that  he  had  a  Lian- 
fc*»  Shee,  and  saw  them  against  his  will.     The  Lianhan  Shec 


92  IRiSH    SUPEUSTITIONS. 

is  a  malignant  fairy,  which,  by  a  subtle  compact  made 
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  drudge,  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  enter- 
ing into  the  contract  with  it  is  always  certain  by  its  manoeu- 
vres to  break  through  his  engagement,  and  thus  become 
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  light 
auburn,  his  beard  mostly  unshaven,  and  his  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 
everything  else  he  was  as  sensible,  sober,  and  rational  as  any 
other  man  ;  but,  on  the  topic  of  fairies  the  man's  mania  waa 
peculiarly  strong  and  immoveable.  Indeed,  1  remember  that 
the  expression  of  his  eyes  was  singularly  wild  and  hollow, 
and  his  long  narrow  temples  sallow  and  emaciated. 

Now,  this  man  did  not  lead  an  unhappy  life,  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 — which  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,  at  least  on  his  side. 

"  Well,  Frank,  when  did  you  see  the  fairies  ?" 

u  Whist!  there's  two  dozen  of  'em  in  the  shop  (the  weaving 
whop)  this  minute.     There'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  weavin*.  The 
sorrow's  in  them,  but  they  are  the  greatest  little  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  00." 

"  And  why  haven't  they,  Frank  ?" 
"  Becaise  I  was  baptised  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 
Gan't  refuse  it  when  he's  axed — an'  he  did  so.  Begorra,  its 
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  0' 
the  fairies." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?" 

"  Devil  a  lie  in  it.  Sure  you  may  ax  them  an' they'll  tell  yon." 
"  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  Nick.  Nickey 
plays  the  pipes.  Nickey,  give  us  a  tune,  or  I'll  malivogue 
you — come  now,  'Lough  Erne  Shore.'  Whist,  now — listen!" 
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  tha 
yarn  to  keep  the  thread  round  and  even,  and  to  prevent  it  from  being  frayed 
bv  the  friction  of  the  reed. 


94  IRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

But  who  can  tell  whether  that  which  we  look  upon  as  a 
privation  may  not,  after  all,  be  a  fountain  of  increased  happi- 
ness, greater,  perhaps,  than  any  which  we  ourselves  enjoy  ? 
I  forget  who  the  poet  is  who  says : 

'« Mysterious  are  thy  laws ; 
The  vision'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,  Avith  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, 
an'  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  fallback  into  what  we  trust  was  an  innocent  slumber. 
About  this  time  there  was  said  to  have  occurred  a  very  re- 
markable circumstance,  which  gave  poor  Frank  a  vast  deal  of 
importance  among  the  neighbours.  A  man  named  Frank  Tho- 
mas, the  same  in  whose  house  Mickey  M'Rorey  held  the  first 
dance  at  Avhich  I  ever  saw  him,  as  detailed  in  a  former  sketch 
— this  man,  I  say,  had  a  child  sick,  of  what  complaint  I  can- 
not now  remember,  nor  is  it  of  any  importance.  One  of  tht 
gables  of  Thomas's  house  was  built  against,  or  rather  into, 
a  Forth  or  Rath  called  Towny,  or  properly  Tonagh  Forth. 


FRANK    MARTIN    AND    THfc    FAIRIES.  V«» 

It  was  said  to  be  haunted  by  the  fairies,  and  what  gave  it  a 
character  peculiarly  wild  in  my  eyes,  was,  that  there  were  on 
the  southern  side  of  it  two  or  three  little  green  mounds,  which 
were  said  to  be  the  graves  of  unchastened  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  upon  the  Forth.  This  was  considered  rather 
strange,  and  after  a  little  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 
searching  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 
jawing  in  a  little  hollow,  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  below 
them,  which  was  completely  exposed  to  their  vieAv,  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 
in  the  Forth  continued  to  hear  it  in  the  hollow.  On  comparing 
notes,  they  resolved  to  send  down  to  Billy  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.  1  see  them,  busy  crathurs 
they  are." 

"  But  what  are  they  sawing,  Frank  ?" 

"  They  are  makin'  a  child's  coffin,"  he  replied ;  "  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  J 
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  alive  for  several  years.  He  Avas  an 
object  of  considerable  interest  and  curiosity,  and  often  have  I 
neen  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  probability  of  its 
death,  which  he  immediately  associated  with  the  imagery 
and  agents  to  be  found  in  his  unhappy  malady. 


A  LEGEND  OF  KNOCKMANY. 


A  LEGEND  OF  KN0CKMAN7. 


Wh  vr  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  hi3 
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  life 
brought  him  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  off"  the  roots  and  branches,  made  a  walking-stick  of  if, 
and  set  out  on  his  way  to  Oonagh. 

Oonagh,  or  rather  Fin,  lived  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. 
Tnere  was  at  that  time  another  giant  named  Cucullin — some 


98  IRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

Bay  he  was  Irish,  and  some  say  he  was  Scotch  ;  but  whether 
Scotch  or  Irish,  sorrow  doubt  of  it  but  he  was  a  larger.  No 
other  giant  of  the  day  could  stand  before  him ;  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  coincident 
between  my  illustration  of  Cucullin's  strength  and  that  of  the  giant  alluded 
to  by  the  Messrs.  Chambers  : — 

"  The  above  gives  a  good  idea  of  the  strange  hues  which  the  national  hu- 
mour 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  hi 
Macpherson's  Ossian's  Poems.  He  was  probably  a  distinguished  warrior  in 
some  early  stage  of  the  history  of  Ireland  ;  different  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  numerous  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  Burns  as  making  allusion  to  these  two  personages 
at  the  skirmish  in  Glendochart.  Gavin  Douglas,  who  died  in  1522,  intro- 
duces their  names  into  his  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  tha 
above,  entitled  An  Interlude  of  the  Droich's  (Dwarf's)   Part  of  the  Ploy, 
conveys  the  extravagant  popular  notions  of  the  day  respecting  the  vast  8to.. 
ture  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  hah".' 


A    LEGEND    OF    KNOCKMANY.  O'J 

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  shew  to  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  cock 
of  the  walk  on  his  own  dunghill,  had  a  strong  disinclination  to 
meet  a  giant  avIio  could  make  a  young  earthquake,  or  flatten 
a  thunderbolt  when  he  Avas  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  in  that  too.  However,  the  short  and  the  long  of  it 
was,  with  reverence  be  it  spoken,  that  he  heard  Cucullin  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, 

' '  Uf  the  'wife  it  may  be  enough  to  say : 

"  '  For  cauld  she  took  the  fever-tertan,* 
For  all  the  claith  in  France  and  Bert  an  f 
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  were  kept  within  something  comparatively  mode- 
rate as  respects  bulk  and  strength,  at  the  same  time  that  enough  of  the  giant 
is  retained  to  contrast  ludicrously  enough  with  the  moderate  and  natural 
feelings  assigned  to  them,  and  the  motives  and  maxims  on  which  they  and 
their  enemy  Cucullin  are  represented  as  acting." 

*  Tertian  fever.  t  Britain 


1<>0  HUSH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

who  was  delicate  in  her  health,  and  leading,  besides,  a  very 
lonely  uncomfortable  life  of  it  (he  assured  them),  in  his  ab- 
sence. He  accordingly  pulled  up  the  fir-tree,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, and  having  snedded  it  into  a  walking-stick,  set  out  on 
his  affectionate  travels  to  see  his  darling  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,  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 
oetter  spot  for  a  good  prospect  than  the  top  of  Knockmany  ? 
As  for  water,  I  am  sinking  a  pump,|  and,  plase  goodness,  as 
soon  as  the  Causeway's  made,  I  intend  to  finish  it." 

Kow,  tins  was  more  of  Fin's  philosophy,  for  the  real  state  of 
the  case,  was  that  he  pitched  on  the  top  of  Knockmany  in  order 
that  he  might  be  able  to  see  Cucullin  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 
llian — but  no  matter — we  do  not  wish  to  be  too  hard  on  Fin. 

*  A  common  name  tor  tne  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  hears  a  very  strong 
resemblance  to  the  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano.  There  is  also  a  stone,  upon 
which,  I  have  heard  the  Eev.  Sidney  Smith,  F.T.C.,  now  rector  of  the  ad- 
joining parish,  say  that  he  found  Ogham  characters;  and,  if  I  do  not  mis- 
take. I  think  he  tooK  a/ac  *im>U  of  them. 


A    LEGEND   OP    KNOGKMANY.  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  his  honest  face  into  his  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 
bilberry  ?" 

"  Never  a  merrier — as  bouncing  a  grass  widow  a?  ever  there 
was  in  sweet  '  Tyrone  among  the  bushes.' " 

Fin  gave  a  short  good  humoured  cough,  and  laughed  most 
heartily,  to  shew  her  how  much  he  was  delighted  that  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 
Cucullin.  This,  however,  grew  upon  him  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  Cucullin,"  said  he,  "that's  troubling  me.  When 
the  fellow  gets  angry,  and  begins  to  stamp,  he'll  shake  von  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  shew  to  any  one  that  might  misdoubt  it." 

As  he  spoke,  he  clapped  his  thumb  in  his  mouth,  which  he 
always  did  when  he  wanted  to  prophecy,  or  to  know  any  thing 
that  happened  in  his  absence ;  and  the  wife,  who  knew  what 
he  did  it  lor,  said,  very  sweetly, 

"  Fin,  darling,  I  hope  you  don't  bite  your  thumb  at  me, 
dear  ?" 

"  No,"  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  I" 

"  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 
BO." 

"  When  will  he  be  here  ?"  said  she. 

M  To-morrow,  about  two  o'clock,"  replied  Fin,  with  a  groan. 

"  Well,  my  bully,  don't  be  cast  down,"  saidOonagh  ;  "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 
Avas  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  1 
have  mentioned  already,  and  this  Granua  was  quite  as  powerful 
as  herself.     The  beautiful  valley  that  lies  between  them  if,  not 


A    LEGEND    OF    KNOCIOIAN  Y.  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,"  Bold  the  other-,  "  I'm  picking  bilberries  in  Althad- 
hawan"  (Anglice,  the  Devil's  Glen). 

"  Well,"  said  Oonagh,  "get  up  to  the  top  of  Cullamore,  look 
about  you,  and  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  big- 
gest giant  that  ever  was  known,  coming  up  from  Dungannon." 

"  Ay,"  said  Oonagh,  "there's  our  difficulty.  That  giant  is 
the  great  Cucullin  ;  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  yourself  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  obligations  to 
you  for  your  kindness  in  keeping  him  off  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. 

which  might  be  about  the  weight  of  a  couple  dozen  millstones, 
80  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 ;  hut  in  consequence  of  her  anxiety  about 
Fin  and  Cucullin,  she  forgot  to  say  the  charm  that  was  tosend 
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. 

"  Nevermind,"  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.  Y ou  know  you  used  to  be  sharp  and  ready-witted ;  and 
my  opinion,  Oonagh,  is,  that  it  will  go  hard  with  you,  or 
you'll  outdo  Cucullin  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  let  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  in  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  whatsoever. 

"  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  ever  in  the  sight 
of  all  my  tribe,  and  me  the  best  man  among  them  ?  How  am 
I  to  fight  this  man-mcuntain — 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,  never  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  nny  thing  of  importance 
she  went  about.  She  then  platted  them  into  three  plats  with 
three  colours  in  each,  putting  one  to  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  th© 
neighbours  and  borrowed  one-and-twenty  iron  griddles,  which 

f  2 


106  IRISH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

6he  took  and  kneaded  into  the  heart3  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  Cucullin  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  hia  thumb.  Now  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  never  could  have  stood  to  him  were 
it  not  for  the  wit  of  his  wife.  In  this  very  tiling,  moreover,  he 
was  very  much  resembled  by  his  great  foe  Cucullin ;  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  Oonagh  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  lie 
there  snug,  and  say  nothing,  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,  Cueullin 
came  in.  "Grod  save  all  here,"  said  he  ;  "i3  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.  1(7 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  says  he,  sitting  down ;  "  you're  Mrs. 
M'Coul,  I  suppose  ?,: 

"  I  am,"  said  she  ;  "  and  I  have  no  reason,  I  liope,  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  replied  ;  "  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  Cucullin  being  down  at  the 
Causeway  to  look  for  him,  and  so  he  set  out  there  to  try  if  he 
c  uld  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,  "  1  am  Cucullin,  and  I  have  been 
-ceking  him  these  twelvemonths,  but  he  always  kept  clear  of 
Tie  ;  and  I  will  never  rest  night  or  day  till  I  lay  my  hands  on 
him.'' 

At  this  Oonagh  set  up  a  loud  laugh,  of  great  contempt,  by 
the  way,  and  looked  at  him  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  replied  ;  "  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  tell  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-  /  <j<d~t 
self  is  from  home,  maybe  you'd  be  civil  enough  to  turn  the  '  o  I  . 
house,  for  it's  always  what  Fin  does  when  he's  here." 

This  was  a  startler  even  to  Cucullin;  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  obliging  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,  an'  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  Cucullin  down  to  see  the  place,  which 
was  then  all  one  solid  rock  ;  and  after  looking  at.  it  for  some 
time,  he  cracked  his  right  middle  finger  nine  times,  and  stoop- 
ing down,  tore  a  cleft  about  four  hundred  feet  deep,  and  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  long,  which  has  since  been  christened  by 
the  name  of  Lumford's  Glen.  This  feat  nearly  threw  Oonagh 
herself  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,  be  it  known,  was  long 
befcr  the  iuvenvion  of  potatoes.     Cucullin,  who,  by  the  way, 


A    LEGEND    OF    KNOCKMANY.  109 

\vas  a  glutton  as  well  as  a  hero,  put  one  of  the  cakes  in  his 
mouth  to  take  a  huge  whack  out  of  it,  when  both  Fin  and 
Onagh  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  back  teeth  in  my  head  gone  I" 

"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  himself,  and  that  child  in  the  cradle 
there.  I  thought,  however,  that  as  you  were  reported  to  be 
rather  a  stout  little  fellow  of  your  size,  you  might  be  able  to 
manage  it,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  affront  a  man  that  thinks 
himself  able  to  fight  Fin.  Here's  another  cake — maybe  it's 
not  so  hard  as  that." 

Cucullin  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,"  replied  Oonagh,  "if  you're  not  able  to 
eat  the  bread,  say  so  quietly,  and  don't  be  wakening  the  child 
in  the  cradle  here.     There,  now,  he's  awake  upon  me." 

Fin  now  gave  a  skirl  that  startled  the  giant,  as  coming  from 
Buch  a  youngster  as  he  was  represented  to  be.  "Mother," 
said  he,  "I'm  hungry — get  me  something  to  eat."  Oonagh 
went  over,  and  putting  into  his  hand  a  cake  that  had  no  griddle 
in  it,  Fin,  whose  appetite  in  the  mean  time  was  sharpened  by 
what  he  saw  going  forward,  soon  made  it  disappear.  OucuIHl 
was  thunderstruck,  and  secretlv  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  bvea  I 
as  that,  which  even  his  son  that's  but  in  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  man? ge 
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  little  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  Cucullin  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 

Ki-' '     squeeze  water  out  of  that  white  stone?"  he  asked,  putting  one 

into  Cucullin's  hand.     The  latter  squeezed  and  squeezed   th  ? 

stone,  but  to  purpose  :  he  might  pull  the  rocks  of  Lumford's 

Glen  asunder,  and  flatten  a  thunderbolt,  but  to  squeeze  watei 


jVT 


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  tlu 
efforts. 

"  Ah,  you're  a  poor  creature!''  said  Fin.  "  You  a  giant  ! 
Give  me  the  stone  here,  and  when  I'll  shew  what  Fin's  little 
son  can  do,  you  may  then  judge  of  what  my  daddy  himself  is." 

Fin  then  took  the  stone,  and  slyly  exchanging  it  for  the 
curds,  he  squeezed  the  latter  until  the  whey,  as  clear  as  water, 
oozed  out  in  a  little  shower  from  his  hand. 

"  I'll  now  go  in,"  said  he,  "to  my  cradle,  for  I'd  scorn  to 
.ose  my  time  with  any  one  that's  not  able  to  cat  my  daddy  s 


A    LEGEND    OF    KNOCKMANY.  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  catchee 
you,  it's  in  flummery  he'd  have  you  in  two  minutes." 

Cucullin,  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  him 
I  will  avoid  him  as  I  would  the  plague,  and  that  I  will  make 
myself  scarce  in  his  part  of  the  country  while  I  live." 

Fin  in  the  mean  time,  had  gone  into  the  cradle,  where  he 
lay  very  quietly,  his  heart  in  his  mouth  with  delight  that 
Cucullin  Avas  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,  tor  it's  nothing  but  hawk's  meat  he'd  make  of  you." 
"  I  know  that,"  says  Cucullin  ;  "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?' — and 
he  pointed  to  it  as  he  spoke. 

"  With  all  pleasure  in  life,"  said  she,  "only,  as  they're  far 
hack  in  his  head,  you  must  put  your  finger  a  good  way  in." 

Cucullin  was  surprized  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  Avas  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,  throueh  the  wit  and  in\-ention  of  Oonagh, 


112  HUSH    SUPERSTITIONS. 

bin  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  un- 
pleasant scrape,  can  sometimes  succeed  in  getting  u3  out  of 
others  that  are  as  bad.* 

*  Of  the  grey  stone  mentioned  in  this  legend,  there  is  a  very  striking  and 
melancholy  anecdote  to  he  told.  Some  twelve  or  thirteen  years  ago,  a  gentle- 
man in  the  vicinity  of  the  site  of  it  was  huilding  a  house,  and  in  defiance  of  ihe 
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  getting  his  labourers 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  its  mutilation.  Two  men,  however,  undertook- 
to  blast  it ;  but,  somehow,  the  process  of  ignition  being  mismanaged,  it  ex- 
ploded prematurely,  and  one  of  them  was  killed.  This  coincidence  was  held 
as  a  fulfilment  of  the  curse  mentioned  in  the  legend.  I  have  heard  tkat  it. 
remains  in  that  mutilated  state  to  the  present  day,  no  other  person  being 
lound  who  had  the  hardihood  to  touch  it.  This  stone,  before  it  was  defaced, 
exactly  resembled  that  which  the  country  people  term  a  miscaun  of  butter, 
which  is  precisely  the  shape  of  a  complete  prism  ;  a  circumstance  which,  no 
doubt,  in  the  fertile  imagination  of  the  old  Senachies,  gave  rise  to  the  super- 
stition 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.' 
—  Mes$rs.  Chambers. 


ROSE  MOAN, 

THE      IRISH      MIDWIFE. 

Of  the  many  remarkable  characters  that  have  been  formed 
by  the  spirit  and  habits  of  Irish  feeling  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  of  force,  can 
for  a  moment  be  compared  with  the  Midwife.  The  Fiddler, 
for  instance,  lives  a  life  sufficiently  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  individualized  by  the  strong  powei 
of  hereditary  usage,  yet  do  they  stand  dim  and  shadowy, 
when  placed  face  to  face  with  this  great  exponent  of  tho 
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  consciousness  of  her  own 
privileges.  The  Fiddler  might  be  dispensed  with,  and  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  Ave  are 
describing :  and  this  conviction  is  the  very  basis  of  her  power, 
the  secret  source  from  which  she  draws  the  confidence  that 
bears  down  every  rival  claim  upon  the  affections  of  the  people. 


114  ROSE    MOAN, 

Before  we  introduce  Kose  Moan  to  our  kind  tenders,  wo 
shall  briefly  relate  a  few  points  of  character  peculiar  to  the 
Irish  Midwife,  because  they  are  probably  not  in  general 
known  to  a  very  numerous  class  of  our  readers.  This  is  a 
matter  which  we  are  the  more  anxious  to  do,  because  it  is 
undeniable  that  an  acquaintance  with  many  of  the  old  legen- 
dary 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  gene- 
rations 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  Avill  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 
bhall  take  away  the  obligation  of  a  most  solemn  oath,  which 
oound  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    IRISH    MIDWIFE.  I  1  /» 

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  complied  with; 
but  the  midwife  was  solemnly  eworn  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  mid  wives  still, 
yet  it  never  could  be  applied,  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  which  some  of 
the  old  mid  wives  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  this,  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  which  is  to  follow  the  sex  in  consequence  of  the  trans- 
gression of  our  mother  Eve.  Some  of  oui  readers  may 
perhaps  imagine  this  to  be  incredible,  but  we  assure  tnnm  that 
it  is  strictly  true.  Such  a  superstition  did  prevail  in  Ireland 
among  the  humbler  classscs,  and  still  does,  to  an  extent  which 


11  (J  HOSE    MOAN, 

would  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  this  power  is  as  fol- 
lows: — 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  ser- 
vices 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 
transmitted  from  hand  to  hand,  and  on  many  occasions  re- 
sorted 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  in- 
terrogated, were  forced  to  an  assertion  that  was  at  least  equi- 
valent 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  com- 
munication of  some  secret  piece  of  knowledge,  it  was  better 
to  receive  no  payment,  any  other  description  of  remunera- 
tion being  considered  unfortunate. 

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  Ave  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  kuowledge  of  a  certain  herb,  a  decoo 


THE      IRISH    MIDWIFE.  1 17 

tion  of  which  the  parties  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  little  value,  for  the  full  force 
of  its  influence  depended  on  a  charm  which  the  midwife  had 
learned  among  the  fairies.  Whether  it  wras  the  Anacamvsc- 
rotes  of  the  middle  ages  or  not,  is  difficult  to  say  ;  but  one  thing 
is  certain,  that  not  only  have  mid  wives,  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  unlikely  to  suppose 
that  this  great  secret  was,  after  all,  nothing  more  than  a  per- 
verted application  of  the  Waters  of  Jealousy,  mentioned  by 
Moses,  and  that  only  resembled  many  other  charms  prac- 
tised in  this  and  other  countries,  which  are  generally  founded 
upon  certain  passages  of  Scripture.  Indeed,  there  is  little 
doubt  that  the  practice  of  attempting  to  cure  jealously  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  Iago,  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 


j  }g  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  returned,  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  repair  as  secretly  as  might  be,  and  with  much 
mystery,  to  some  lonely  place,  where  she  produced  a  Bible 
and  key,  both  of  which  she  held  in  a  particular  position — that 
w,  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  delibe- 
rately after  her: — 

"  And  Ruth  said,  en'reat  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  parti*  s 
were  not  destined  for  each  other.  Oh,  credulous  love  !  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  the  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  ]19 

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  miscarriag  >s  that  resulted  from 
a  neglect  of  this  condition.  One  is  especially  well  known,  of  ft 
young  woman  who  gave  the  potion  through  the  hands  of  her 
grandmother,  and  the  consequence  was,  that  the  bachelor  im- 
mediately 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  that  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  re- 
mote glen  or  dell  for  i  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  shrewd  and  sapient 
expression  of  her  face,  as  she  sat  solemnly  peering  into  the 
grounds  of  the  tea  for  imaginary  forms  of  rings,  love-letters, 
and  carriages,  which  were  necessary  to  the  happy  purport 
of  her  divination,  for  she  felt  great  reluctance  to  foretel 
calamity.  She  seldom,  however,  had  recourse  to  card- 
cutting,  which  she  looked  upon   as  an  unholy  practice ;  the 


1  20  ROSE    MOAN, 

carls,  as  every  one  knows,  being  the  only  book  on  which  the 
devil  says  his  prayers  night  and  morning.  Who  has  noi 
heard  of  his  prayer-boek  f 

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  diploma,  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  whic  i  is  anony.nous,  or  only 
known  to  the  countiy  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  be  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  Leen  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 
ns  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  convince  I 


THE     IRISH    MIDWIFE.  121 

that  in  the  majority  of  cases  there  is  not  the  slightest  imposture 
intended.  The  operator  is  in  truth  a  dupe  to  a  strong  and 
delusive  enthusiasm. 

When  the  midwife  raises  the  spool  of  the  breast,  the 
operation  is  conducted  without  any  assistance  from  the  super- 
natural. If  a  boy  or  a  girl  diminishes  in  flesh,  is  troubled  with 
want  of  rest  or  of  appetite,  without  being  afflicted  with  any 
particular  disease,  either  acute  or  local,  the  midwife  puts  her 
ringer  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  this  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  little  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  amono-  the 
people,  is  that  by  which  a  mote  is  taken  out  of  the  eye.  The 
manner  of  doing  this  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  her  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  coidd  scarcely 
mention  a  malady  with  -which  the  midwife  of  the  old  school 
was  not  prepared  to  grapple  by  the  aid  of  a  charm.  The 
tooth-ache,   the    cholic,    measles,   child-birth,   all  had  their 

G 


122  ROSE    MOAN, 

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  or  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  ob- 
served 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 
all  by  the  fairies  ;  but  to  no  purpose  :  the  charm  of  the  mid- 
wife 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  re- 
medy 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  wor- 
ship was  once  so  general  in  Ireland. 

Of  these  charms  it  may  be  said  that  they  are  all  of  a  reli- 
gious character,  some  of  them  evidently  tie  production  of 
imposture,  and  other-  apparently  of  those  who  seriously 
believed  in  their  efficacy.  There  is  one  thing  peculiar  about 
them,  which  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    HUSH    MIDWIFE.  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  pro- 
perty, 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 
coincidence  form  a  basis  for  the  superstition ;  just  as  the  fact 
of  three  men  during  one  severe  winter  having  been  found 
drowned,  each  with  two  shirts  on,  generated  an  opinion  which 
has  now  become  fixed  and  general  in  that  parish,  that  it  is 
unlucky  to  wear  two  shirts  at  once.  We  are  not  certain  whe- 
ther the  caul  is  in  general  the  perquisite  of  the  midwife — 
sometimes  we  believe  it  is ;  at  all  events,  her  integrity  occasi- 
onally 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  advntage,  which  she  frequently  does ; 
for  it  is  considered  to  be  the  herald  of  good  fortune  to  those 
who  can  get  it  into  their  possession.  Now,  let  not  our  English 
neighbours  smile  at  us  for  those  things,  until  they  wash  their 
own  hands  clear  of  such  practices.  At  this  day  a  caul  Avill 
bring  a  good  price  in  the  most  civilized  city  in  the  world — to 
wit,  the  good  city  of  London — the  British  metropolis.  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  well  known  that  a  large  price 
will  be  given  for  them  by  that  very  intelligent  class  of  men, 
the  ship  captains  of  England,  who  look  upon  a  caul  as  a  cer- 
tain preservative  against  shipwreck. 


124  ItOSE    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  simplicity  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 
pecnliar  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  has  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  calling,  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,  wo  now  close  this 
"  Essay  on  Midwifery,"  and  beg  to  bring  the  midwife  herselt 
personally  on  the  stage,  that  she  may  speak  and  act  for  herself. 


The  village  of  Ballycomaisy  was  as  pleasant  a  little  place  as 
one  might  wish  to  see  of  a  summer's  day.  To  be  sure,  like  all 
other  Irish  villages  it  was  remarkable  for  a  superfluity  of 
"  pi?3'  Praties,  and  childre,"  which  being  the  stock  in  trade  of 
an  Irish  cabin,  it  is  to  be  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  Avhich  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  was  not  necessary.  There  were  two  or  three 
shops,  a  liberal  sprinkling  of  public  houses,  a  chapel  a  little 
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 
oobwebbed  with  grey  mealy  dust,  stood  about  two  hundred 
yards  out  of  the  town,  to  which  two  straggling  rows  of  houses, 
that  looked  like  an  abortive  street,  led  you.  This  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. Now,  a  little  behind,  or  rather  al~ ,  -  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  was  a  window  opening  on 
hinges  ;  and  on  the  outside,  to  the  right  as  you  entered  the 
house,  there  was  placed  a  large  stone,  about  four  feet  hi^h, 
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  a  pillion  or  crupper. 
as  the  case  happened,  when  called  out  upon  her  usual  avocation. 


126  KOSE    MOAN, 

Rose  was  what  might  be  called  ajtahoolagk,  or  portiy  wo- 
man, 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  twinkling  eyes, 
with  a  mellow  expression  that  betokened  good  nature,  and  a 
peculiar  description  of  knowing  professional  humour  that  is 
never  to  be  met  with  in  any  but  a  midwife.  Rose  was  dressed 
in  a  red  flannel  petticoat,  a  warm  cotton  sack  or  wrapper,  which 
pinned  easily  over  a  large  bust,  and  a  comfortable  woollen 
shawl.  She  always  wore  a  long-bordered  morning  cap,  over 
which,  while  travelling,  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  pro- 
cess as  that  of  Raper  or  Mackintosh  was  necessary  to  keep 
the  liege  subjects  of  these  realms  warm  and  waterproof,  nor 
that  two  systems  should  exist  in  Ireland  so  strongly  antithe- 
tical 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  lived  in  a 
distant  part  of  the  parish.  Keho,  was  a  comfortable  fellow,  full 
of  o-ood  nature  and  credulity  ;  but  his  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 
toneue,  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  religion?,  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  Corney  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,  en- 
tered 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  Phil  or  Barny  for  Rose  Moan,  an'  I  hope 
I  wont  have  to  ax  it  again — ahem  !" 

Dandy  Keho — for  so  Corny  was  called  as  being  remarkable 
for  slovenliness — started  up  hastily,  and  having  taken  the  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth,  was  about  to  place  it  on  the  hob  ;  but  reflect- 
ing that  the  whiff  could  not  much  retard  him  in  the  delivery 
of  his  orders,  he  sallied  out  to  the  barn,  and  knocked. 

**  Who's  there  ?" 

"  Lave  that,  wid  you,  unless  you  wish  to  be  shotted."  Thi? 
was  followed  by  a  loud  laugh  from  within. 

"  Boys,  get  up  wid  all  haste:  it's  the  misthress.  Phil,  saddle 
Hollowback  and  fly — (puff) — fly  in  a  jiffy  for  Rose  Moan  ;  an' 
do  you,  Barny,  clap  a  black  sugaun — (puff) — an  Sobersides, 
an'  be  aff  for  the  misthress's  mother — (puff)." 

Both  were  dressing  themselves  before  he  had  concluded,  and 
m  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  goDe 
tor  a  much  more  important,  character,  we  beg  our  readers  to 


1  28  ROSE    MO/.N, 

return  with  us  to  the  cabin  of  Rose  Moan,  who  is  now  fast 
asleep — for  it  is  twelve  o'clock  of  a  beautiful  moonlight  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  f*  The  words  in  italics  were 
added,  lest  the  message  should  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  dozen  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 
forrid,  avick." 

"  Never  fear,  Mrs.  Moan.  If  it's  in  Hollowback,  bedad  I'm 
the  babe  that  will  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,  Pose,  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  vou  to  grace  for  sayin'  so.      At  a 


THE     IRISH    MIDWIFE.  129 

time  like  this  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.  Phil,  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  beyant,  like 
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  lift  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  oi 
every  hair  on  your  head." 

"  Be  me  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  Ballycomaisy,  the  ktter  would  not  have  felt  his 

g  2 


130  HOSE    MOAN, 

fears  so  strong  upon  him.  The  road,  however,  along  which 
ihey  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 
graphically  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  like 
stalks  o'  barley,  upon  your  head,  if  vou  heard  all  I  could 
mintion." 

Phil  instinctively  put  his  hand  up  and  pressed  down  his 
hat,  as  if  it  had  been  disposed  to  fly  from  off  his  head." 

"  Hem  !  ahem !  Why,  I'm  tould  it's  wondherful.  But  is  it 
thrue,  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,  1  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" 

"  Aisy,  Mrs.  Moan  !  God  presarve  us !  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  :  bedad  I  thought  it  was  get  tin'  taller 
an'  taller.     Ay, — hut !  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  could'nt  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  wondhered  to  hear  him 
speak  of  the  multitudes  o'  thim  that  he  seen  in  all  directions. 
Well,  my  dear,  he  kept  never  sayin'  anything  to  them,  until 
one  day,  when  he  was  in  the  fair  of  Ballycomaisy,  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  little  felljw  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  believe  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?'  'Becase  1 
see  you  all,'  says  the  other.  '  An'  which  eye  do  you  see  us 
all  wid  ?'  says  he  again.  '  Why,  wid  the  left,'  says  the  boy. 
Wid  that  he  gave  a  short  whiff  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— 1  named 
nobody." 

"An',  Mrs.  Moan,  is  it  thrue  that  you  can  put  the dughaughs 
upon  them  that  trate  their  wives  badly  ?" 

"  Whist,  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  BOSK    MOAN, 

"  Push  an,  avick,  push  an;  for  who  knows  how  some  of  us 
is  wanted  ?  You  have  a  good  masther,  I  believe,  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  believed  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,  ye:  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,  Avasn'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  be- 
tune  them?" 

"  No,  bedad,"  replied  Phil,  "  I  never  did;  an'  that's  no 
wondin  r,  for  it  was  a  thing  they  never  liked  to  spake  of." 

"  Troth,  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  tougue.  Sure  they're  happy, 
now,  1  -ay,  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, 
tlroth  I'm  tould  she's  nothing  else  " 


THE    IRISH    MIDWIFE.  133 

cc  Faix,  but  niiddliii'  itself.  As  I  tould  you,  she  often  has 
us  as  empty  as  a  paper  lanthern,  wid  the  devil  a  thing  but  the 
light  of  a  good  conscience  insi  le  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  dowmight  thruth,  an'  no  misteke.  Why,  the 
stirabout  she  makes  would  run  nine  miles  along  a  dale  bourd, 
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  1  tuck  time  to  wait  for." 

"  Well,  afther  all,  it's  not  ngh  to  et  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  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'  tneni,  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  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 
Bay  that  if  ever  mother  an'  child  owended  their  lives  to  ano- 
ther, she  didher's  and  the  babby's  to  you." 

This  term  in  Ireland  means  "  handsome"— "  good-lookme," 


134  ROSK    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  everything  depends  on  the  Man  above. 
She  should  call  in  one  o'  these  new-fangled  women  that  take 
out  their  Dispatches  from  the  Lying-in-College  in  Dublin 
below  ;  for  you  see,  Phil,  there  is  sich  a  place  there — an'  it 
stans  to  raison  that  there  should  be  a  Fondlin'  Hospital  beside 
it,  which  there  is  too,  they  say  ;  but,  honey,  what  are  these 
poor  ignorant  creatures  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 
Rich  a  power.  But  how  does  it  happen,  ma'am,  that  the 
Moriartys  does  be  spakin'  but  middlin  of  you  ?" 

"Of  me,  avick?" 

■'  Ay,  iaix;  I'm  touid  they  spread  the  mouth  at  you  some- 
times, espishily  whin  the  people  does  be  talkin*  about  all  the 
quare  things  you  can  do." 

"  Well,  well,  dear,  let  them  nave  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  daughter,  Mrs. 
Moan,  an'  a  purty  penny  he  can  give  her,  by  all  accounts. 
The  nerra  one  o'  myself  but  'ud  be  glad  to  put  my  commedher 
on  her,  if  I  knew  how.  I  hope  you  find  yourself  aisy  on  your 
sn te,  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  daughter?" 

"Ay,  every  chance  an'  sartinty  too.  if  some  one  that  I  know 


THE    IRISH    MIDWIFE. 


135 


an'  that  every  one  that  knows  her  respects,  would  only  give 
me  a  lift.  There's  no  use  in  comin'  about  the  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 — sayin',  indeed, 
an'  galivantin'  to  the  world  that  you  know  no  more  than  an- 
other woman,  an'  that  ould  Pol  Doolin  of  Ballymagowan 
knows  oceans  more  than  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  Mo- 
riarty's  daughter.  He  knew  full  well  that  she  would  not,  un- 
less strongly  influenced,  lend  herself  to  anything  of  the  kind 
between  two  persons  whose  circumstances  in  life  differed  so 
widely  as  those  of  a  respectable  farmer's  daughter  with  a  good 
portion,  and  a  penniless  labouring  boy.  With  great  adroit- 
ness, 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  ot 
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  undertaking  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  think  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  knowing  a  "  boy"  as  you  might  wish 
to  become  acquainted  with.  In  Rose,  however,  he  had  a  wo- 
man of  no  ordinary  shrewdness  to  encounter ;  and  the  con- 
sequence was,  that  each,  after  a  little  more  chat,  began  to  un- 
derstand the  other  n  little  too  well  to  render  the  topic  of  the 


1 3b  KOSB    MOAN, 

Meriartys,  to  which  Phil  again  reverted,  so  interesting  as  it 
had  been.  Rose  soon  *aw  that  Phil  was  only  a  plasthey,  or 
sweetener,  and  only  "  soothered"  her  for  his  own  purposes; 
and  Phil  perceived  that  Rose  understood  his  tactics  too  well 
to  render  any  further  tampering  with  her  vanity,  either  safe 
or  successful. 

At  length  they  arrived  at  Dandy  Keho'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  iD  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  cou- 
rage, to  know  you're  near  her. 

"  How  are  we,  Dandy  ?  how  are  we,  avick  ?" 

"  Oh,  bedad,  middlin',  wishin'  very  much  ibr  you  ot  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  withdrew  to  the  barn,  where  the  male 
portion  of  the  family  were  staying  until  the  idtimatum  should 
be  known.  A  good  bottle  of  potteen,  however,  was  circulating 
among  them,  ibr  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  and  us  when  it  shines. 

New  moon,*  true  moon,  God  bless  me, 

God  bless  this  house  an'  this  family. 

Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John, 

God  bless  the  bud  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  tune  with  our  best  wishes. 

In  the  barn,  the  company  were  very  merry,  Dandy  himself 
being  as  pleasant  as  any  of  them,  unless  when  his  brow  be- 
came shaded  by  the  very  natural  anxiety  for  the  welfare  of 
nis  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  little  fun,  some  of  it  at  the  expense  of  the 
Dandy  himself,  who  laughed  at  and  took  it  all  in  good  part. 
An  occasional  bulletin  came  out  through  a  servant  maid,  that 
matters  were  just  in  the  same  way ;  a  piece  of  intelligence 
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  like  danger,  Rose  ?" 

"  Not  at  aU,  honey ;  but  the  truth  is,  we  want  a  seventh 
eon  who  isn't  left-handed." 

"  A  seventh  son  !     Why,  what  do  you  want  him  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 

*  If  it  did  not  happen  to  bo  new  moon,  the  words  wpre  "  good  moon,"  &c 


lt>8  ROSE    MOAN, 

of  the  Broad  Bog's  a  seventh  son,  an'  he's  not  two  gunshots 
from  this." 

"  A  Veil,  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  Barney  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  believed  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  his  arms,  qbu 
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  wife,  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  whole  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  Ergot  of  Rye 

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 gintleman  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,  lie  tbund  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 
willin' ;  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  solitary  tear  on  its  cheek. 

"  Arra,  go  an'Jdss  your  wife,  man  alive,  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  feeling  excited  by  the  child,  "  it  would  be  too  bad 
if  I'd  grudge  her  a  smack."  He  accordingly  stooped.,  and 
kissed  her;  but,  in  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,  Til  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  aiquils  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  true. 
You  may  take  with  him,  you  may  own  to  him  any  where 
Arra,  look  at  that !  My  sowl  to  happiness,  if  one  egg\*  hker 
another !     Eh,   my   poesy  !      Where  was  it,  alanna  ?      Ay, 


140  ROSE    MOAH, 

Vou're  there,  my  duck  o'  diamonds  !  Troth,  you'll  be  the 
flower  o'  the  flock,  so1  you  will.  An'  now,  Mrs.  Keho,  honey, 
we'll  lave  you  to  yourself  awhile,  till  we  thrate  these  poor 
cratures  of  sarvints  ;  the  likes  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  heart//,*  in  consequence  of  Dandy's  gratefu 
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,  an'  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  after  sunset ;  an'  when  Father  Molloy  is  goin'  to 
christen  it,  let  Corney  tell  him  not  to  forget  to  christen  it 
r  gainst  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'  banaght  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- 
in^,  her  presence  was  considered  indispensable.     There  is, 
•  Tipay, 


THE    IRISH    MIDWIFE.  141 

besides,  something  m  the  appearance  and  bearing  of  a  midwife 
upon  those  occasions  which  diffuses  a  spirit  of  light-heartedness 
not  only  through  the  immediate  family,  but  al«o  through  all 
who  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 
oonfidence  to  his  patient,  as,  independently  of  any  prescription, 
is  felt  to  be  a  manifest  relief.  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  wofully  short  of  that  con- 
ventional dress  with  which  we  cover  nudity  of  expression.  No 
doubt  many  of  her  very  choicest  stock  jokes,  to  carry  on  the 
metaphor,  are  a  little  too  fashionably  dressed  to  pass  current 
out  of  the  sphere  in  which  they  are  uced  ;  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  of- 
fended, 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  apothegms 
a  passing  touch  of  fancy — a  quick  but  terse  vivacity  of  insi- 
nuation, at  once  so  full  of  fun  and  sprightliness,  and  that  truth 
which  all  know  but  few  like  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  spirits , 
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  Iri;h  call  "  full  an' plinty" — "  lashins 
an'  lavins" — 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-IrisL  heart — so  sharp  in  hei 
temper  and  so  penurious  in  soul,  that  one  would  imagine  he* 
veins  were  filled  with  vinegar  instead  of  blood. 


142 


ROSE    MOAN, 


"  Banaght  Dhea  in  shoh"  (the  blessing  of  God  be  here  . 
Rose  exclaimed  on  entering. 

"Banaght  Dhea  agus  Murra  ghuid"  (the  blessing  of  God 
and  the  Virgin  on  you),  replied  Corny,  "  an' you're  welcome, 
Rose,  ahagur.'' 

"I  know  that,  Corny.  Well,  how  are  we? — how  is  my 
son  ?" 

"  Begarraj  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'  ec 
will  her  mother.  But,  Rose,  dear,  will  you  take  the  ordherin' 
of  the  aitin'  an'  dhrinkin'  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 
<;he  may  give  you — you  know  she's  a  little  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 — f*  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 
gettirf  an :  that's  always  my  first  start ;  bekase  you  know, 
Corny,  honey,  that  their  health  goes  afore  every  thing. 

Having  thus  undertaken  the  task  required  of  her,  she  passed 
into  the  bed-room  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,  ycumust :  but  in  the  name  of 


THE    IRISH    MIDWIFE.  143 

goodness  1  wash  my  hands  out  of  the  business  teetotally. 
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 
stretchin'  an  thrivin'  an,  my  son !  O,  thin,  wurra,  Mrs.  Keho, 
but  it's  you  that  ought  to  ax  God's  pardon  for  goinr  to  do  what 
might  lave  that  darlin'  o'  the  world  an  orphan,  may  be. 
Axra  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  inner  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,  well  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  little  barrow  ? 
Ay,  I  have  it. — Wait,  ma'am,  if  you  plaise,  till  I  get  the  child 
dressed,  an'  I'll  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  was  somethiri  over  them — 
«iy,  over  them  that  took  their  own  way  as  you're  doinYr 

' '  But  if  I  don't  get  up" — — 

"  Oh,  by  all  manes,  ma  am — by  all  manes.  I  suppose  you 
nave  a  laise  of  your  life,  that's  all.  It's  what  I  wish  I  could  get." 

f'  An'  must  I  stay  here  in  bed  all  day,  an'  be  able  to  rise, 
an'  eich  wilful  waste  as  will  go  an  too?" 


144  KOSi;    MOAN, 

"Remember  jour  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  po.^er  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  tAvo  hands  undher  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  his  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.  Co:ne 
alanna,  come  an  now,  till  I  shew  you  to  your  father  an*  them 
all.  Wurra,  thin,  Mrs.  Keho,  dariin',"  (this  was  said  in  a  low 
confidential  whisper,  and  in  a  low  wheedling  tone  which  baf- 
fles all  description),  "wurra,  thin,  Mrs.  Keho,  dariin',  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 
nis  friends,  he  says,  an'  thin  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.  1 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  potteen 
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  which  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, 
who  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  be^an  to  assemble.  The  gossips,  or 
sponsors,  were  four  in  number  ;  two  of  them  wealthy  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  cleavcens,  to  the  amount  of  sixteen 
or  eighteen  persons,  men,  women,  and  children,  all  dressed  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  sunti 


1  16  IIOSE    MOAN, 

occasions  carried  turf  and  water  in  quantities  that  indicated  the. 
supernatural  strength  of  a  Scotch  brownie  rati  erthan  that  of 
a  human  being.  Bob's  qualities,  however,  were  well  propor- 
tioned to  each  other,  for,  truth  to  say,  his  appetite  was  equal 
to  his  strength,  and  his  cunning  to  either. 

Corny  and  Mrs.  Moan  were  in  great  spirits,  and  indeed  wp 
might  predicate  as  much  for  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  thic ;  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,  "  Ave  must  drink  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  ther  entered. 
"  Look  at  this  swaddy,  Mrs.  M'Cann  ;  my  soul  to  happiness, 
but  he's  fit  to  be  the  son  of  a  lord.  Eh,  a  pet?  Where  was 
my  darlin'  ?  Corny,  let  me  dip  my  finger  in  the  whiskey  til 
I  rub  his  gums  wid  it.  That's  my  bully  !  Oh,  the  heavens 
love  it-  see  how  it  puts  the  little  mouth  about  lookin'  for  it 
agin.  Throth  you'll  have  the  spunk  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  !" 

"  VTc}],  Corny,"  said  one  of  the  gossips,  "  here's  a  speedy 


THF     IRISH    MIDWIFE.  147 

uprise  an'  a  sudden  recovery  to  the  good  woman,  an'  the  little 
sthranger's  health,  an'  God  bless  the  baker  that  gives  thir- 
teen to  the  dozen,  any  how  !" 

"  Ay,  ay,  Paddy  Eafferty,  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  1  help  you  there,  avick?  Aisy,  childre;  you'll 
smother  my  son  if  you  crush  about  him  that  way."  This 
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  him,  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 
their  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,  childre :  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  Mrs.  Keho  ;  I  never  come 
but  I  bring  a  purty  little  babby  along  wid  me — nor  the  dacent 
boy,  dear,  that's  soon  to  be  your  lovin'  husband  ?  Arra,  take 
your  glass,  acushla  ;  the  sorra  harm  it'll  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  ?  No,  bad 
scran  to  me  if  I  could — faix,  a  glass  'ud  be  too  many  for  mc. 


H8  ROSE    MOAN, 

' '  It's  not  more  than  half  filled,  dear  ;  but  there's  sense  in 
what  the  girl  says,  so  don't  press  it  an  her." 

In  the  brief  space  allotted  to  us  we  could  not  possibly  give 
anything  like  a  full  and  correct  picture  of  the  happiness  and 
hilarity  that  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  : 

"  Now,  Dandy,  when  you  see  the  priest,  tell  him  that  it  is 
your  wish,  above  al'  things,  that  he  should  christen  it  against 
the  fairies.  If  you  say  that,  it's  enough.  An'  Peggy,  achora, 
come  here.  You're  not  carryin'  that  child  right,  alanna ;  but 
you'll  know  betther  yet,  plaise  goodness.  No,  avilish,  don't 
keep  Its  little  head  so  closely  covered  wid  your  cloak ;  the 
clay's  a  burnin'  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  it's  head  out  farther, 
and  jist  shade  it's  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  undher  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  and  mother's  hearts  would  break.  Glory  be  to  God  ! 
Mrs.  Duggan,  if  the  child  gets  cross,  dear,  or  misses  anything, 
act  the  mother  by  him,  the  little  man.  Eh,  alanna  !  Avhere  was 
it?  Where  was  my  duck  o'  diamords — my  little  Con  Eoe  ? 
My  own  sweety  little  ace  o'  hearts — eh,  alanna!  Well,  God 
keep  it  till  1  see  it  again,  the  jewel." 

Well,  the  child  was  baptised  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.  149 

convivial,  and  ten  times  more  vociferous,  than  the  breakfast, 
cheerful  as  that  meal  was.  At  dinner  they  had  a  dish,  which 
we  believe  is,  like  the  Boxty,  peculiarly  Irish  in  its  composition : 
we  mean  what  is  called  stkilk.  This  consists  of  potatoes  and 
beans,  pounded  up  together  in  such  a  manner  that  the  beans 
are  not  broken,  and  on  this  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  sthilh.  This  practice  of  many  persons  eating  out  of 
the  same  dish,  though  Irish,  and  not  cleanly,  is  of  very  old 
antiquity.  Christ  himself  mentions  it  at  the  last  supper.  Let 
us  hope,  however,  that,  like  the  old  custom  which  once  pre- 
vailed in  Ireland,  of  several  persons  drinking  at  meals  out  of 
the  same  mether,  the  usage  we  speak  of  will  soon  be  replaced 
by  one  of  more  cleanliness  and  individual  comfort. 

After  dinner  the  whiskey  began  to  go  round,  for  in  these 
days  punch  was  a  luxury  almost  unknown  to  the  class  we  are 
writing  of.  In  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 
t!  ose  visits  which  she  continues  to  pay  during  the  coma. 
Ji-  eence  of  her  patients. 


150  LOSIS    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  dhrop 
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  o'  being  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  ?" 

M  Wait,  avick,  till  I  make  a  dhrop  o'  wan-grace*  for  the  mis- 
thress,  poor  thing ;  an',  Corny,  I'll  jist  throuble  you  lor  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  dhrop  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  carraways,  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,  1  was  one  night  at  home 

•  A  wan-grace  io  a  kind  of  small  gruel  or  meal-tea  sweetened  with  sugar. 


THE    IRISH    MIDWIFE.  151 

an'  asleep,  an'  I  hears  a  horse's  fut  gallopin'  for  the  bare  life, 
up  to  the  door.  I  immediately  put  my  head  out,  an'  the 
horseman  says,  '  Are  you  Mrs.  Moan  ?" 

"  That's  the  name  that's  an  me,  your  honour,'  sis  myself. 

"Dress  yourself,  thin,'  sis  he,  'for  you're  sadly  wanted; 
dress  yours.elf,  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  his  face  in  sich  a  way  that  1  couldn't  catch  a  glimpse 
of  it.  Well,  my  dear,  we  didn't  let  the  grass  grow  undherour 
feet  for  about  a  mile  or  so.  '  Now,'  sis  he,  '  you  must  allow 
yourself  to  be  blindfoulded,  an'  it's  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,'  sis  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  burst  in  pieces.  Well, 
my  dears,  what  could  I  do  in  the  hands  of  a  man  that  was 
strong  and  desperate  ?  So,  sis  I,  '  Cover  my  eyes  an'  wel- 
come ;  only,  for  the  lady's  sake,  make  no  delay.'  Wid  that 
he  dashed  his  spurs  into  the  poor  horse,  an'  he  foamin'  an 
smokin'  like  a  lime-kiln  already.  Any  way,  in  about  half  an 
hour  I  found  myself  in  a  grand  bed-room ;  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, 
after  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  of  pistols.  Whin  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,'  sis 
he,  '  so  far  you've  acted  well,  but  there's  more  to  be  done  yet. 
Take  your  choice  of  these  two,'  sis  he,  '  this  purse,  or  the 
contents  of  one  of  these  pistols,  as  your  reward.  You  must 
murdher  the  child  on  the  spot.'  '  In  the  name  of  God  an'  his 
Mother,  be  you  man  or  devil,  I  defy  you,'  sis  I ;  '  an  innocent 


152  TtOSE    MOAN, 

blood  '11  never  be  shed  by  these  hands.'  *  I'll  give  you  ten 
minutes,'  sis  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  gave  me  great  strinth,  an'  I  spoke  stoutly 
'  Whin  the  king  of  Jerusalem,'  sis  I, — '  an'  he  was  a  greater 
man  than  ever  you'll  be — whin  the  king  of  Jerusalem  ordhered 
the  midwives  of  Aigyp  to  put  Moses  to  death,  they  wouldn't 
do  it,  an'  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.' 
1  The  time  is  out,'  sis  he,  puttin'  the  pistol  to  my  ear,  '  but 
I'll  give  you  a  minute  more.'  '  Let  me  go  to  my  knees  first,' 
eis  I ;  '  an'  now  may  God  have  mercy  on  my  sowl,  for,  bad  as 
I  am,  I'm  willing  to  die  sooner  than  commit  murdher  an  the 
innocent.'  He  gave  a  start  as  I  spoke,  and  threw  the  pistol 
down.  '  Ay,'  sis  he,  '  an  the  innocent — an  the  innocent — 
that  is  thrue.  But  you  are  an  extraordinary  woman :  you 
have  saved  the  child's  life,  and  previnted  me  from  committing 
two  great  crimes,  for  it  was  my  intintion  to  murder  you  afther 
you  had  murdhered  it.'  I  thin,  by  his  ordhers,  brought  the 
poor  child  to  its  mother,  and  whin  I  kem  back  to  the  room, 
'  Take  that  purse,'  says  he,  '  an'  keep  it  as  a  reward  for  your 
honesty.'  '  Wid  the  help  o'  God,'  says  I,  v  a  penny  of  it  '11 
never  come  into  my  company,  so  it's  no  use  to  ax  me.'  '  Well,' 
sis  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  mintioned  it  or  not, 
eo  bein' 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  betther  o' 
the  start  it  tuck  out  o'  me  for  as  good  as  six  weeks  afther.' 


THB    IRISH    MIDWIFE.  lf»1 

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  dwellings 
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  smiling 
face  she  gave  the  following  toast : —  "  Health  to  the  pai-ent 
stock  !  So  long  as  it  thrives,  there  will  always  be  branches. 
Corny  Keho,  long  life  an'  good  health  to  you  an5  yours  !  May 
vour  son  Jive  to  see  himself  as  happy  as  his  father  !  Young- 
iters,  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 !  ha !  ha  !  ha  J  What's  the  world  without  a  joke  ?  I 
must  see  the  good  woman  an'  my  little  6on  afore  I  go  ;  but 
us  I  won't  follow  yez  to  the  barn,  I'll  bid  yez  good  night, 
neighbours,  an'  the  blessing  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  bu- 
siness 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  eo 
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 
producing  an  impression  which  is  agreeable  in  proportion  to 
its  novelty. 

Of  course  it  is  but  natural  that  there  should  exist  a  striking 
resemblance  between  the  respective  habits  and  modes  of  life 
that  characterize  the  fiddler  and  the  piper ;  and  of  the  latter, 
as  Avell  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  nobility,  yet  it 
is  a  melancholy  but  beautiful  trait  of  "  the  old  feeling"  which 
prompts  him  always  to  speak  of  them  with  respect  and  defe- 
rence. He  will  admit,  indeed,  that  there  is  a  degeneration; 
154 


THE    HUSH    PIPEHS.  10C> 

that ' '  the  good  ould  stock  is  gone ;"  and  that  "  the  big  house 
is  not  what  it  used  to  be,  whin  the  square's  father  would  bring 
lrim  into  the  parlour  before  all  the  quality,  an'  make  him  play 
his  two  favourite  tunes  of  the  Fox-Huntker's  Jig  and  the 
Hair  in  the  Corn.  Instead  of  that,  the  sorra  ha'porth  now 
will  sarve  them  but  a  kind  of  musical  coffin,  that  they  call  a 
piana  thirty,  or  forty,  or  something  that  way,  that  to  hear  it 
'ud  make  a  dog  sthrike  his  father,  if  he  didn't  behave  him- 
self." 

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  his  hearers  that 
"  as  he  passed  the  big  house,  the  young  square  brought  him 
in — an'  it's  himself  that  knows  what  the  good  ould  smack  of 
the  pipes  is,  an'  more  betoken,  so  he  ought — an'  kind  father 
for  him  to  do  so — it's  the  ould  square  himself  that  had  the 
true  Irish  relish  for  them.  I  played  him  all  his  father's 
favourites,  both  in  the  light  way  and  in  the  sorrowful.  Whin 
I  was  done,  he  slipped  five  shillings  into  my  hand.  «  Take  this,' 
sis  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 
counthrv — the  only  ones  that  go  to  the  heart — are  now  so 
little  known  and  thought  of,  that  a  fashionable  lady  of  the 
present  day  would  feel  ashamed  to  acknoAvledge  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  ana 
shrewd.  His  little  jealousies  and  heart-burnings — and  he  has 
his  share — form  the  serious  evil  of  his  life;  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 
nigh  and  doughty  spirit  of  competition  by  which  they  are 
an:  mated,  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  established  on  his  beat, 
that  moment  commences  his  misery.  Those  from  the  neigh- 
bouring beats  assail  him  by  challenges,  that  contain  any  thin^ 
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  likely  to  redound  to  their 
credit,  they  slink  off  without  allowing  any  one,  unless  some 
particular  confidant,  to  become  cognisant  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  pei*sons  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  which  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"  prefixed  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   1IUSH  ni'ims.  lM 

Reillaghan  offered  to  play  against  him  while  drunk — Sullivan 
to  remain  sober. 

Sullivan,  thrown  off  his  guard,  and  anxious  under  uny 
circumstance  to  be  able  to  boast  of  a  victory  over  such  an 
antagonist,  agreed,  and  was  consequently  overcome ;  the  truth 
being,  that  his  opponent,  like  Carolan,  when  composing  on  the 
harp,  was  never  able  properly  to  distinguish  himself  as  a 
performer  unices  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  night. 

There  was,  some  years  ago,  playing  in  the  taverns  of  Dublin, 
a  blind  piper  named  Talbot,  whose  performance  was  singularly 
powerful  and  beautiful.  This  man,  though  blind  from  his 
infancy,  possessed  mechanical  genius  of  a  higher  order,  and 
surprisingly  delicate  and  exact  manipulation,  not  merely  as  a 
musician  but  as  a  mechanic.  He  used  to  perform  in  Ladly'6 
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  was  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  mon^y,  but  to  please  my  self." 


li>8  TALBOT    AND    GATNOR, 

"  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  he  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 
delicacy  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  laced, 
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  badagh*  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  complicated  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  churl,  and  was  originally  applied  as  a  word  of  offence 
to  the  English  settlers.  The  often:  ive  -Leaning,  however,  is  not  now  alwayt 
attached  to  it,  although  it  often  is. 


THE    IRISH    PIPERS.  iOO 

Like  every  Irish  performer  of  talent  that  Ave  have  met  with,  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  life  ia 
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 — ha* 
neither  wife  nor  child,  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  filling 
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  his  peculiar  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,  wras  a  blind  man  known  by  the  name  of  "Piper 
Gaynor."  His  beat  extended  through  the  county  of  Louth, 
and  occasionally  through  those  of  Meath  and  Monaghan. 
Gaynor  was  precisely  such  a  man  as  I  have  just  described, 
both  as  to  dress,  a  knowledge  of  English  and  Irish,  and  a 
thorough  feeling  of  all  those  mellow  old  tints,  which  an  incipient 


I  GO  TALBOT    AND    GAYNOR, 

change  in  the  spirit  of  Irish  society  threatened  even  then  U\ 
obliterate.  I  have  said  he  was  blind,  but,  unlike  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 
most  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  mira- 
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  markeo  by  the  stains  and  dinges 
which  indicate  an  indulgence  in  the  habits  of  convivial  life. 

Many  a  distinguished  piper  have  we  heard,  but  never  at  all 
any  whom  we  could  thmk  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  his 
music,  and  any  body  who  looked  upon  his  pale  and  intellectual 
countenance,  could  perceive  the  shadows  and  lights  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 
willing  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    P1PEUS.  1  f'  1 

a  common  dance  ;  and  his  reasons,  which  I  have  often  heard 
him  urge,  were  such  as  exhibit  the  spirit  and  intellect  of  the 
man.  "  My  music"  said  he,  "isn't  for  the  feet  or  the  floor, 
but  for  the  ear  an'  the  heart ;  you'll  get  plinty  of  foot  pipers 
but  I'm  none  of  thim." 

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,  surrounde  1  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  him, 
their  family  of  sons  and  daughters  in  a  Avide  circle  at  a  due 
distance,  whilst  behind,  on  the  settles,  were  the  servant  men 
and  maids,  with  several  of  the  neighbours,  young  and  old,  some 
sitting  on  chairs,  and  others  leaning  against  the  dresser,  the 
tables,  and  the  meal-chests.  Within  the  chimney-brace  de- 
pended large  sides  and  flitches  of  fat  bacon,  and  dark  smoke- 
dried  junks  of  hung  beef,  presenting  altogether  that :  greeable 
manifestation  of  abundance  which  gives  such  a  cheerful  sense 
of  solid  comfort  to  the  interior  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  tht-n 
sat  a  while  in  silence — for  such  was  his  habit — and  having 
"  sucked  his  dooden"  as  they  say,  he  began  to  blow  his  bellows, 
and  played  Scots  wha  hae.  When  he  had  finishe  1  it,  "  Well,' 
I  observed,  "  what  a  fine  piece  of  martial  music  that  is !" 

"  No,  no,'' he  replied,  shaking  his  head,  "there's more  tears 
than  blood  in  it.  It's  too  sorrowful  for  war  :  play  it  as  you 
will,  it's  not  the  thing  to  rise  the  heart  but  to  sink  it." 


162 


TALBOT    AND    GAYNOn, 


"  But  what  do  you  think,  Gaynor,  of  the  Scotch  music  in 
general  ?" 

"  Would  you  have  me  to  spake  ill  of  my  own  ?"  lie  replied 
with  a  smile  ;  "  sure  they  had  it  fromuz." 

"  Well,  even  so  ;  they've  not  made  a  bad  use  of  it." 

"  God  knows  they  haven't,"  he;  replied  ;  "  the  Scotch  aire 
— 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  ad- 
dressed himself  with  great  naivete  to  the  youngsters,  who  be- 
gan 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.  "lis  the  ear,  'tis  the  ear,"  continued  he  with 
apparent  emotion  ;"  that's  what  will  never  desave  you.  1J. 
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  kneivn  them  that  could  sing  like  angels,  and,  to  all  appear- 
ance, were  merry  enough  too,  an  God  forgive  them,  there  was 
little  but  bittherness  in  them  after  all ;  Dut  it's  the  everyday 
voice.  ai»y  and  natural ;  if  there's  sweetness  in  that,  you  may 
depiud  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,  in- 
deed, 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, 
ami  afther  that  I'll  play  all  your  favourites.  So  now,  trim 
your  heels  for  a  dance.  What's  the  Avorld  good  for,  if  wo 
don't  take  it  aisy  ?" 


TUB    IE1SH    riPBKS.  1C3 

• 

After  playing  the  old  bard's  exquisite  air,  the  youngsters, 
rayself  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 
qualities,  possessed  in  a  high  degree  the  free  and  fluent 
powers  peculiar  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  strik- 
ing fact,  that,  in  the  criminal  statistics  of  the  country,  the 
name  of  an  Irish  piper  or  fiddler,  &c.,  has  scarcely,  if  evers 
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  be  to  a  certain  extent  mutual,  is  nevertheless 
very  seldom  known  to  be  equal  in  strength  between  the  parties. 
Experience  has  sufficiently  proved  to  us,  that  whilst  instances 
of  equality  in  feeling  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 
•infrequently  triumphed  over  death  itself.  It  is  certainly 
impossible  to  impute  this  wild  but  indomitable  attachment  to 
the  force  of  domestic  feeling,  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 
164 


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  Ave  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  to  such  only  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  metropolis,  which 
certainly  paid  a  parish  tax  for  their  maintenance,  they  were 
principally  supported  by  a  very  moral  act  of  parliament,  which, 
by  the  wise  provision  of  a  large  grant,  held  out  a  very  liberal 
bounty  to  profligacy.  At  all  events,  the  opprobious  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  feelings  of  our  humble  people  !  it  has  been 
proved,   by  the    incontestible   authority   of    a  Commission 


\r,G 


PRANK    FINNEGAH, 


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  bestowed  upon  their  own  children.  Even 
when  removed  from  these  nurses  to  situations  of  incompara- 
bly 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  in- 
dulgence 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  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  that  preceded  them,  and  we  could  not,  injustice 
to  circumstances  so  beautiful  and  striking,  much  less  injustice 
to  the  people  themselves,  pass  them  over  in  silence. 


THE    FOSTER   BROTHER.  1  b"7 

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 
(he  incidents  we  are  about  to  mention  took  place.  A  gentleman 
named  Moore  had  a  daughter  remarkable  for  her  beauty  and 
accomplishments.  Indeed,  so  celebi-ated  had  she  become,  that 
hor  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  assidious  attentions  to  her,  and  an  intense 
r.nxiety  to  secure  her  affections.  Henry  Irwin  was  a  high 
loyalist,  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 
m  point  of  fact  had  already  secured  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  a  republican,  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 
peculiar  bond  of  affection  which  subsisted  between  them.  C  *f 
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  his  daughter.  This  interdiction,  how- 
ever, came  too  late  for  the  purposes  of  prudence.  Ere  it  was 
k  ?d,  Hewson  and  his  daughter  had  exchanged  vows  of  mutual 
affection :  but  the  national  outbreak  which  immediately  ensued, 
by  forcing  Hewson  to  assume  his  place  as  an  insurgent  leader, 


1GR  fRANK    FINNEGAN, 

appeared  to  have  placed  a  barrier  between  him  and  her,  which 
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 
son-in-law.  They  acted  together  ;  and  so  vigorous  were  the 
measures  of  the  young  loyalist,  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,  ana  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  his,  were  it  not 
for  the  influence  of  Hewson  with  the  rebels.  Twice  did  the 
latter  succeed,  and  on  each  occasion  with  great  difficulty,  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 
enterprise  of  those  who  were  opposed  to  him.  Indeed,  hit 
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.  I  G9 

sion,  and  the  lives  of  those  who  were  in  it,  exposed  and 
defenceless. 

On  one  of  these  excursions  it  was  that  he  chanced,  to  capture 
a  small  body  of  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 
retaliating  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  beon  successful  on  that  account  only.  Now, 
however,  the  plan  of  attack  was  laid  without  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  mighi. 
defeat  their  sanguinary  purpose.  These  arrangements  having 
been  made,  matters  were  allowed  to  remain  quiet  for  a  little, 
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  ^hich  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- 


^70  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  public  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  attock,  felt  anxious  that  she  should  not  be  present  on  the 
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  his  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  .Uoorc  and  Irwin,  and  all  those 
who  were  active  on  the  part  of  the  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 
suition.  Now,  it  so  happened  that  this  girl,  whose  name  wTas 
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  shew  itself  in  a  case  of  danger 
it.  is  good  for  nothing.     We  need  scarcely  say  that  Peggy 


TUB    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  surprized,  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  about  to  be  perpetrated  without  his  knowledge.  Fin- 
negan then  left  him,  but  ere  he  reached  home  the  darkness 
had  set  in,  and  on  arriving,  he  sought  the  kitchen  and  it  3 
comforts,  ignorant,  as  were  indeed  most  of  the  servants,  that 
the  upper  rooms  and  out-houses  were  literally  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  all  possible  secrecy,  to  Moore's  house,  for 
the  purpose  not  only  of  apprising  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  awai-e. 
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  too  of  them  were  shot,  and  most  of  the 


172  TRANK    F1KNEOAN, 

rest,  among  whom  Avcre  Hewson,  taken  prisoners  on  the  spot. 
Those  who  escaped  communicated  to  the  other  insurgents  an 
account  of  the  strength  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,  his  rival  in  love  and  his  foe  in  politics,  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  hie 
companions. 

Hewson  maintained  a  dignified  silence  ;  and  upon  seeing  h's 
friends  guarded  from  the  hall  where  they  were  now  assembled, 
into  a  large  barn,  he  desired  to  be  placed  along  with  them. 

"  No,"  said  Moore  ;  "if  you  are  a  rebel  ten  times  over,  you 
are  a  gentleman,  and  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  unusually 
high,  we  shall  lodge  you,  out  of  which  if  you  escape,  we  will 
pay  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  his  door,  men,  for  you 
shall  De  held  responsible  for  his  appearance  in  the  morning.'' 
The  men,  in  obedience  to  these  orders,  escorted  him  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  ac- 
cents 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  had  wings 
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  will  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  refreshment,  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'm  here  too  long,  and  these  fellows  might 
begin  to  suspect  something.  Be  prepared  when  I  come.  Good 
bye,  Mr.  Hewson,"  he  said  aloud,  as  he  opened  the  door  :  "in 
troth  and  conscience  I'm  sorry  to  see  you  here ;  but  that's  the 
consequence  of  turnin'  rebel  against  King  George,  an'  glory  to 
him — soon  an'  sudden,"  he  added  in  an  under  tone.  "  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  is  like  eels,  an'  will  slip  as  easily  through  your  fingers 
—an'  the  devil's  bitther  one  yez  have  in  there ;"  and  as  he 
ppoke,  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  ye  for  stairs,  an'  hell 
presume  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  they  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  all  your  lives.  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.  Behind  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  easy.  God  forgive  me  for  pullin'  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  m  with  a  bloody  nose,"  he  proceeded,  giving 
that  of  Iiewson  a  fresh  pull,  "you  know  you  must  go  out  with 
one.  An'  now  God's  blessin'  be  about  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  ivas  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  military 
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.  17.') 

he,  "I  will  get  yon  off,  if  you  tell  us  where  Hewson  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  replied,  "  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  live." 

"  Mr.  Moore,"  said  he,  with  a  decision  and  energy  which 
startled  them  all,  "I  am  his  foster  brother." 

This  was  felt  to  be  sufficient ;  he  stood  at  the  appointed 
place,  calm  and  unshrinking,  and  at  the  first  di?charge  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  lives,  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  solicitations  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  his  will,  much  to  the  mortification  of  many  of  his 
relatives,  that  he  had  left  the  bulk  of  his  property  to  Mrs. 
Hewson,  who  had  always  been  his  favourite  child,  and  whose 
attachment  to  Hewson  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    FIXNEOAN. 

some  fifteen  years  afterwards,  there  occurs  the  following  pa- 
ragraph : — 

"Affair  of  Honour — Fatal  Duel. — Yesterday  mor- 
ning, at  the  early  hour  of  five  o'clock,  a  duel  was  fought  be- 
tween A.  Irwin,  Esq.  and  J.  Hewson,  E?q.  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  nol 
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 : — 

garret!  to  t§c  fftemorg  of 
FRANCIS  FINNEGAN, 

Whose  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  wire  whose  more  unworthy  life,  he  nobly  sacrificed  his  owt. 


TOM  GKESSIEY, 

THE       IRISH       SENACHil!. 

The  state  of  Irish  society  has  changed  so  rapidly  within  thf 
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  empanelled  upon  the  ancient  manners  of  our  country, 
now  hang  like  tattered  scutcheons  over  the  tooms  of  custom? 
and  usages  which  sleep  beneath  them  ;  and,  unless  rescued 
from  the  obliterating  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  tho^e 
principles  which  follow  in  the  train  of  knowledge  and  civiliza- 
tion. But  at  the  same  time  it  is  undeniable  that  the  simplicity 
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  individuals  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  shootout 
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  dresser — loved,  did  we  say  ?  ay,  and  ever  pre- 
i  2  177 


ITS  TOM    GKESSIEY, 

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  and  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  wrho  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  his  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,  feeling 
himself  gifted  with  a  strong  memory  for  genealogical  history, 
old  family  anecdotes,  and  legendary  lore  in  general,  passes  a 
happy  life  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  delight  to 
the  youngsters  of  the  house  he  visits,  and  filling  the  sedate 
oars  of  the  old  with  tales  and  legends,  in  which,  perhaps, 
individuals  of  their  own  name  and  blood  have  in  former  ages 
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.  17(J 

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  be  naturally  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 
nothing  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  religious 
institutions,  each  invested  with  some  local  or  national  interest — 
it  is  not  surprising,  we  say,  that  such  a  man  should  be  welcomed, 
and  listened  to,  and  honoured,  with  a  feeling  far  surpassing 
that  which  Avas  awakened  by  the  idle  jingle  of  a  Provencal 
Troubadour,  or  the  gorgeous  dreams  begotten  by  Arabian 
fiction.  Neither  the  transition  state  of  society,  however,  nor 
the  scanty  diffusion  of  knowledge  among  the  Irish,  allowed  the 
Senachie  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  living,  and  as  such  only  do  we  intend  to 
present  him  to  our  readers. 

The  most  accomplished  Senachie  of  this  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  lively  eyes,  that  scintillated  with 


180  TOM    GRESSIliY, 

strong  twinklings  of  humour.  His  voice  was  loud,  hi* 
enunciation  rapid,  but  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,  Avith  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  him  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  writer  o* 
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.  Hi« 
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 illiterate,  yet  he  could  repeat  every  word  of  Gallaher'i 
Irish  Sermons,  Donlevy's  Catechism,  Think  Well  On't,  the 
Seven  Champions  of  Christendom,  and  the  substance  of 
Postorini'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. 
( ialluher's  Sermons  out  of  the  skirt  of  his  big-coat ;  a  feat 
Lich  was  looked  upon  with  twice  the  -.\  onder  it  would  have 


THE    IRISH    SENACHIE.  181 

produced  had  he  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, 
i(  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  mas*?, 
which  must  always  be  done  in  Latin.  Certain  it  was  that  ha 
could  repeat  the  De  profundis  and  the  Dies  Irce,  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  ranns,  or 
spiritual  songs,  together  with  the  De  profundis  or  Dies  Ira, 
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  Rosary 
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  talcs 
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  this,  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  farce  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  controversialist, 
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  English  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    SENACH1E.  183 

songs  of  our  country  with  singular  pathos  and  effect.  He  sang 
Peggy  Slevin,  the  Red-haired  Man's  Wife,  and  SheelaNaGuira 
with  a  feeling  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  mournful,  and  that  the  hearts  of  many,  in  spite  of  new  sys- 
tems of  education  and  incarcerating  poor-houses,  will  yearn 
after  the  homely  but  touching  traits  Avhich  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  pathetic 
songs  of  sorrow,  nor  feel  our  hearts  softened  at  the  ideal  mi- 
series of  tale  or  legend,  as  they  proceed  in  mournful  reci- 
tative from  his  lips.  Alas !  alas  !  knowledge  may  be  power, 
but  it  is  not  happiness. 

Such  is,  we  fear,  an  imperfect  outline  of  Tom's  life.  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  delight  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  light  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  ambitionj  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  little  boon  was  all  thou  didst  ask 
of  life,  and  it  Avas  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  wake  or  dance  within  two  or  three  miles 
of  us  that  we  did  not  attend  ;  and,  God  forgive  us !  when  old 
Poll  Doolin  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  wt 
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 
profundis  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  with  butther  in  your 
mouth,  an'  that's  what  makes  your  orations  to  the  fair  sect  be 
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    SEN'ACHIU.  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  the  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  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  mountains.  In  one  of  the  lonely  glens  he  met  a 
herd-caudy,  who  spent  his  time  in  eulogizin'  his  masther's 
cattle,  accordin'  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  thing  was  at  rest,  barring  the  little  river  before  him, 
an'  indeed  one  would  think  it  flowed  on  wid  more  decency  an 
betther  behavour  than  upon  other  sympathizing  occasions, 
The  birds,  to  be  sure,  were  singin',  but  it  was  easy  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  little  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.  *  No,'  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  watch- 
ing the  cows  and  sheep.' 


I8f«  TOM    GltKSSIE?, 

"  St.  Patrick  sleeked  down  his  head  wid  great  dereliction, 
an'  said,  '  Well,  acushla,  you  do  be  operatin'  kings'  crowns, 
but  I  tell  you  you're  born  to  wear  a  greater  one  nor  a  king's, 
an'  that  is  crown  of  glory.     Come  along  wid  me.' 

"  <  I  can't  lave  my  cattle,'  said  the  other,  '  for  fraid  they 
might  go  astray.' 

"  '  Right  enough,'  said  St.  Patrick,  'but  I'll  let  you  see  that 
they  won't.'  Now,  any  how,  St.  Patrick  understood  cattle 
irresistible  himself,  havin'  been  a  herd-oaudy  [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  and 
fictitious,'  says  he,  addressin'  them,  '  till  this  boy  comes  back, 
an'  don't  go  beyant  your  owner's  property  ;  or  if  you  do,  It'll 
be  worse  for  ycz.  If  you  regard  your  health  durin'  the  av> 
proximatin'  season,  mind  an'  attend  to  my  words.  The  rot 
this  year's  likely  to  be  rife  I  can  tell  yez. 

M  Now,  you  see,  every  sheep,  while  he  was  spakin',  lifted  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  gentility.  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  obliged  to  you.' 

"  *  Do  so,'  said  the  saint  ; '  an'  as  it's  rather  long,  throw  the 
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    SENACII1E,  187 

"  '  Do  you  see  that  house  ?'  said  St.  Patrick. 

"  « I  do,'  said  the  other ;  '  it  has  no  chimney  on  it.1 

"  '  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,  whin  he  thought  of  the  goodness  of  Christ  in  saving 
oue  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  like  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  my  servent  St.  Kieran,  an  he's  welcome  to  the  house  of 
God.'  St.  Patrick  then  took  him  an'  instructed  him  in  the 
various  edifications  of  the  larned  languages,  imtil  he  became 
one  of  the  greatest  saints  that  ever  Ireland  saw  with  the  ex- 
ception and  liquidation  of  St.  Patrick  himself.' 

Such  is  a  faint  outline  of  the  tone  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  little  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  susquepedalian  ex- 
pressions as  he  could  crowd  into  his  language,  without  any 
regard  whatsoever  as  to  their  propriety. 

Immediately  after  the  relaxation  of  this  legend,  he  passed  at 
once  into  a  different  spirit.  He  and  Prank  Magavran  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  Connaughtinan 


138  TOM    GRKSSIEY. 

w as  followed  by  the  "Standing  Brogue"  and  the  "Sitting 
B rogue,"  two  other  sports  practised  only  at  wakes.  And 
here  we  may  remark  generally,  that  the  amusements  resorted 
to  on  such  occasions  are  never  to  be  found  elsewhere,  but  are 
exclusively  peculiar  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  follows  : — "Jack  Gordon,  do  you  know  the  his- 
tory of  your  own  name,  and  its  original  fluency  ?" 

"  Indeed  no,  Tom,  I  cannot  say  I  do." 

"  Well,  boys,  if  yez  derogate  your  noiso  a  little,  I'll  tell 
y-?z  the  origin  of  the  name  of  Gordon  ;*  it's  only  about  ould 
Oliver  Crummle,  whose  tongue  is  on  the  look  out  for  a  drop 
of  wather  ever  since  he  went  to  the  lower  story." 

*  fr<ee  the  following  li'geu-4. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  AUGHENTAIN; 

OR, 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  BROWN  GOAT. 

NARRATED    BY    TOM   OBESSIEY,    THE    IRISH    8ENACHIE. 

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  touching  a  small  lawsuit  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.  "  Whist  wid  yez,  ye  pair  of 
devil's  limbs,  an'  Tom  goin'  to  tell  us  a  stor)  .  Jemsy,  your 
jbowI's  as  crooked  as  your  lame  leg,  you  sinner  ;  an'  as  for  blind 
George,  if  roguery  'ud  save  a  man,  he'll  escape  the  devil  yet. 
Tarenation  to  yez,  an  be  quiet  till  we  hear  the  story." 

"  Ay,"  said  Tom,  "  Scriptur  says  that  when  the  blind  leads 
the  blind,  both  '11  fall  into  the  ditch ;  but  God  help  the  lame 
that  have  blind  George  to  lead  them ;  we  may  easily  guess 
where  he'd  guide  them  to,  especially  such  a  poor  innocent  as 
Jemsy  there.''  This  banter,  as  it  was  not  intended  to  give 
offence,  so  was  it  received  by  the  parties  to  whom  it  was 
addressed,  with  laughter  and  good  humour. 

"  Silence,  boys,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I'll  jist  take  a  dhraw  of  the 
pipe  till  I  put  my  mind  in  a  proper  state  of  transmigration 
for  what  I  was  goin'  to  narrate." 

189 


190  THE    CASTLE    OP    AUGHENTAIN  ;    OR, 

He  then  smoked  on  for  a  few  minutes,  his  eyes  complacently 
(mt  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  hi3  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,  huvin'  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  wid  a 
parcel  of  breekiess  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  learned  transfigurations  that  Nolly  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  shew  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  afther  that.  Well  an'  good  :  it  so 
happened  that  a  squadron  of  his  psalm-singers  were  despatched 
by  him  from  Enniskillen,  where  he  stopped,  to  rendher  assist- 
ance to  a  party  of  his  army  that  O'Neill  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  lead 
this  same  squadron  but  the  Hog  of  Cupar.  '  JBalgruntie,  go  off 
wid  you,'  said  Crummle,  when  administering  his  instructions 
to  him  ;  '  but  be  sure  that  whenever  you  meet  a  fat  royalist  on 
the  way,  to  pay  your  respects  to  him  as  a  Christian  ought, 
says  he  ;  '  an',  above  all  things,  my  dear  brother  Balgruntie, 
do/it  neglect  your  devotions,  otherwise  our  arms  can't  prosper, 
and  be  sure,'  says  he,  with  a  pious  smile,  '  that  if  they  pro- 
mulgate opposition,  you  will  make  them  bleed  anyhow, 
either  in  purse  or  person ;  or  if  they  provoke  the  grace  of 
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  his  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  sisterly  affection  an'  brotherly  love  : 
an'  what  shewed  more  taciturnity  than  anything  else  was, 
that  while  this  same  Sandy  had  the  persuasion  to  make  every 
one  believe  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  English  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  him  with  a  leaden  hankerchy,  mainin'  that 
he  could  blow  it  off  his  face  wid  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  royalist,  named  Graham  or  Grimes, 


192  THE     CASTLE    OF    AHGHENTAIN  ;    OR, 

as  they  are  often  denominated,  who  had  but  one  child,  a 
daughter,  whose  be'auty  an'  perfections  wor  mellifluous  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 
sirallied  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  and  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 
vords,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  sack  the  castle,  carry  off  the 
daughter  an'  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  chaps,  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  and  the 
Common  wealth.  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  hudn't  fought  three  duels,  and  killed  at  least 
one  man ;  and  in  ordher  to  show  that,  they  regarded  neither 
God  nor  hell,  they  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  see,  then,  that  Graham  was  not  likely  to 
quail  before  a  handful  of  the  very  men  he  hated  wid  all  the  vo- 
ciferation in  his  power,  an'  he  accordingly  put  his  head  out 
of  the  windy,  an'  axed  them  their  tergiversation  for  being 
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.'  Bedad  he  did,  plump 
to  them,  out  of  the  windy. 

"  When  Crummle's  men  returned  to  Balgruntie  in  the  mill, 
they  related  what  had  tuck  place,  and  he  said  that  aft  her 
prayers  he'd  sind  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,  Balgruntie  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  licked  their  lips  on  hearin'  of  such  glad 
tidins.  Graham  was  a  h  ^-headed  man,  without  much  ambi- 
dexterity or  deliberation,  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  wrote  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,  after 
readin'  it,  threw  the  letter  back  to  the  messengers,  wid  a  certain 
recommendation  to  Balgruntie  regarding  it ;  but  whether  the 


1Q4  THE    CAS     IE    OF    AUGHENTA1N  ;    OK. 

same  recommendation  was  followed  up  and  acted  on  so  soon 
as  he  wished,  historical  retaliations  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  aisily  take  it  by  violence,  he  determined,  as  they 
say,  to  starve  the  garrison  leisurely  and  by  degrees.  But, 
first  an'  foremost,  a  thought  struck  him,  an'  he  immediately 
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,'  sis  he,  <  are  you  in  a  state  of  justification  to-day  ?' 

" '  Towai-ds  noon,'  replied  Sandy,  'I  had  some  strong  wrest- 
lings with  the  enemy  ;  but  1  am  able,  under  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,  and  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  be- 
fongeth  to  the  Perdition  Club  ;  an'  indeed,  Sandy,  until  he  is 
somehow  removed,  I  think  there  is  little  hope  of  plucking 
her  like  a  brand  from  the  burning.' 

"  He  serenaded  Sandy  in  the  face  as  he  spoke,  an'  thin  cast 
an  extemporary  glance  at  the  musket,  that  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  Or  sportsman  'ud  pat  the  neck  of  his  horse  or  dog,  wid  re- 
verence for  comparin'  the  villain  to  either  one  or  the  other. 

"  «  If  it  was  known,  Sandy,'  said  Balgruntie,  '  it  would  har 
den  her  heart  against  me  ;  an'  as  he  is  hopeless  at  all  events,  j 
bein'  a  member  of  that  Perdition  Club"  


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    BROWN    GO.  T.  195 

'* '  True,'  said  Sandy,  c  but  you  lave  the  miller's  daughter 
to  me  ?' 

"  «  I  said  so.' 

"  « Well,  if  his  removal  will  give  you  any  consolidation  in 
the  matther,  you  may  say  no  more.' 

"  '  I  could  not,  Sandy,  justify  it  to  myself  to  take  him  away 
by  men  violence,,  for  you  know  that  I  bear  a  conscience  if  any 
thing  too  tendher  an'  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  consarned  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  himself  killed  rather  significantly  in  a  duel.' 

"  '  Very  well,'  sis  Sandy ;  <  I  would  myself  feel  scruples  ; 
but  as  both  our  consciences  is  touched  in  the  business,  I  think 
1  am  justified.  Indeed,  captain,  it  is  very  likely  aftlier  all 
that  we  are  but  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,  whin  a  rascal's  bent  on  wickedness,  it 
is  aisy  to  find  cogitations  enough  to  back  him  in  his  villany. 
And  so  was  it  wid  Sandy  Saveall  and  Balgruntie. 

"That  evenin'  ouldGraham  was  shot  through  the  head  stand- 
in'  in  the  windy  of  his  own  castle,  an'  to  extenuate  the  suspicion 
of  such  an  act  from  Crummle's  men,  Balgruntie  himself  went 
up  the  next  day,  beggin'  very  politely  to  have  a  friendly  ex- 
planation wid  Squire  Graham,  sayin'  that  he  had  harsh  orders, 
but  that  if  the  castle  was  peaceably  delivered  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  5    OR, 

hut  to  place  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  Crumwellians 
in  the  neighbourhood  struck  such  terror  into  the  people,  thai 
the  country,  which  was  then  only  very  thinly  inhabited, 
became  quite  desarted,  an'  for  miles  about  the  face  of  a  human 
bein'  couldn't  be  seen,  barrin'  their  own,  sich  as  they  were. 
Crummle's  thrack  was  always  a  bloody  one,  an  the  people 
knew  that  they  were  wise  in  putting  the  hills  and  mountain 
passes  between  him  and  them.  The  miller  and  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,  and  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,  an'  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  counthry. 
Nolly  approved  of  this,  an'  ordhered  him  to  proceed,  but  was 
sorry  that  he  could  send  him  no  assistance  at  present ;  '  how- 
ever,' said  he,  '  wid  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  every 
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,  was  only  guilty  of  a  profound  swagger  when 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  BHOWN  GOAT.  197 

he  reported  the  strength  of  the  castle  and  the  state  of  the  pro- 
visions to  Balgruntie  an'  his  crew.  But  above  all  things,  that 
which  eclipsed  their  distresses  was  the  want  of  wather.  There 
was  none  in  the  castle,  an'  although  there  is  a  beautiful  Avell 
beside  it,  yet,  fare er  g air,  it  was  of  small  responsibility  to  thim. 
Here,  thin,  was  the  poor  young  lady  placed  at  the  marcy  of 
her  lather's  murdherer  ;  for  however  she  might  have  doubted 
in  the  beginnin'  that  he  was  shot  by  the  Crumwellians,  yet 
the  death  of  nearly  all  the  servants  of  the  house  in  the  same 
way  was  a  sufficient  proof  that  it  was  like  masther  like  man 
in  this  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  his  distress  in 
ordher  that  he  might  suck  his  own  perspiration,  and  a  little 
orphan  boy  that  she  tuck  undher  her  purtection.  It  was  a 
hard  case,  an'  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  iar  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  ok 
four  of  Graham's  friends,  who  undher  one  pretence  or  other 
were  seen  skulkin'  about  the  castle,  an'  none  of  their  relations 
dar  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  drink  ;  she  had  ferreted 
out  as  well  as  she  could  a  drop  of  moisture  here  and  there  in 
the  damp  corners  of  the  castle,  but  now  all  that  was  gone :  the 
fat  cook  had  sucked  himself  to  death,  an'  the  little  orphan  bov 
died  calmly  away  a  few  hours  afther  him,  lavin'  the  helpless 
lady  with  a  tongue  swelled  and  furred,  an'  a  mouth  parched 
an'  burned,  for  want  of  drink.  Still  the  blood  of  the  Grahams 


198  THE     CASTLF    OF    AUGHENTAIN  ;    OR, 

■was  in  her,  an'  yield  she  would  not  to  the  villain  that  left  her 
as  she  was.  Sich  then  was  the  transparency  of  her  situation, 
whin,  happenin'  to  be  on  the  battlements,  to  catch,  if  possible, 
a  little  of  the  dew  of  heaven,  she  was  surprised  to  see  something 
flung  up,  that  rolled  down  towards  her  feet:  she  lifted  it,  an' 
on  exanrinin'  the  contents,  found  it  to  be  a  stone  covered  wid 
a  piece  of  brown  paper,  inside  of  which  was  a  slip  of  white,  con- 
tainin'  the  words,  '  Endure — relief  is  near  you.'  But,  poor 
young  lady,  of  what  restrospection  could  these  tidinsbeto  one 
in  her  situation  ? — she  could  hardly  see  to  read  them  ;*  her 
brain  was  dizzy,  her  mouth  like  a  cinder,  her  tongue  swelled 
an'  black,  an'  her  breath  felt  as  hot  as  a  furnace.  She  could 
barely  braithe,  an'  was  in  the  very  act  of  ly in'  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  which  her  lover,  a  gentleman 
named  Simpson,  had,  when  it  was  a  kid,  made  her  a  present  of, 
remained  in  the  castle  about  the  stable  durin'  the  whole  siege. 
She  instantly  made  her  way  slowly  down  stairs,  got  a  boAvl, 
and  havin'  milked  the  goat,  she  tuk  a  little  of  the  milk,  which 
I  need  not  asseverate  at  once  relieved  her.  By  this  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  ;  an*  this  same  Suil  Gair  was  servant  an'  foster  brother 
to  Simpson,  the  intended  husband  of  Miss  Graham.  Simpson, 
who  lived  some  miles  off,  on  hearin'  the  condition  of  the  cas- 
tle, gathered  together  all  the  royalist3  iar  an'  near ;  and  as 
Crummle  was  honestly  hated  by  both  Romans  an'  Prodestans, 
faith,  you  see,  Maguire  himself  promised  to  send  a  few  of  his 
followers  to  the  rescue.     In  the  meantime  Suil  Gair  dressed 


A    LKGKND    OF    THE    BROWN    GOAT.  liJ'J 

himself  up  like  a  fool  or  idiot,  an'  undhcr  the  purtection  of  the 
miller's  daughter,  who  blarneyed  Saveall  in  great  style,  Was 
allowed  to  wandher  about  and  joke  wid  the  sogers;  but 
especially  he  took  a  fancy  to  Sandy,  and  challenged  him  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  Avhen  he  saw  that 
Suil  Gair  could  at  least  put  in  every  fifth  stone,  and  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  whin  he  undhertook  to  go  to 
the  castle,  he  gev  up  his  life  as  lost ;  but  he  didn't  care  for 
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  bro- 
ther 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  discoorses 
twice  a  day  from  the  mill-hopper,  an'  sang  psalms  for  grace  to 
be  directed  in  his  righteous  intentions  ;  but  as  yet  he  derived 
no  particular  predilection  from  either.  Sandy  appeared  to 
have  got  a  more  bountiful  modelum  of  grace  nor  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  noAV  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  ev«ry 
clay  to  get  relief  from  her  friends.  Balgruntie,  now  seein'  that 


200  THE     CASTLE    OF    AUGHENTAIN  J    OR, 

the  miller's  daughter  was  becomin'  more  serious  undher  the 
taiehin'  of  Saveall,  formed  a  plan  that  he  thought  might  enable 
him  to  penethrate  the  castle,  an'  bear  off  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, an'  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.  Batween  her  friends  an'  her  enemies  it 
was  clear  the  poor  lady  had  little  chance ;  an'  it  was  Bal- 
gruntie's  intention,  the  moment  he  had  sequestrated  her  an' 
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  country — .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/  sis  she,  '  for  it  looks  like  thrachery, 
espishilly  as  my  father  has  left  the  neighbourhood,  and  1  don't 
know  where  he  is  gone  to ;  an'  you  know  thrachery's  ondacent 
in  either  man  or  woman.    Still,   Sandy,  it  goes  hard  forme  to 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    BROWN     GOAT.  201 

refuse  one  that  I — I well,  I  wish  I  knew  where  my  fathei 

is — 1  would  like  to  know  what  he'd  think  of  it.' 

"  •  Hut,'  said  Sandy,  '  AVhere'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  warning  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  Avill  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.' 

"  This  delighted  Saveall's  heart,  whonow  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  terrestial  when  put 
in  comparishment  wid  an  earthly  one.  He  also  made  collusiun 
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, 

k  2 


202  THE    CASTLE    OP    AUGHENTAIM  ;    OR, 

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  live  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  relieved  poor  Nannie 
from  her  difficulty,  for  Saveall,  now  finding  himself  first  in 
command,  determined  not  to  lose  a  moment  in  tolerating  his 
plan  upon  the  castle. 

"  '  You  see,'  said  he,  '  tnat  a  way  is  opened  for  us  that  wc 
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  inquiry,  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  sicn  a  frightful  accident,' 
replied  Nannie  :  f  an'  I  want  to  get  a  few  minutes'  quiet  before 
we  engage  upon  our  undhertakinY 

"  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  him  meditatin'  upon  his  own 
righteous  approximations,  till  we  folly  Suil  Gair  Maguire,  or 
fool  Paddy,  as  they  called  him,  who  practicated  all  that  wa3 
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':*, 
as  he  knew  it  could  be  depended  on.  c  But  I  hope  you  won't 
shed  any  blood  if  you  can  avoid  it,'  said  she;  *  that  I  don't 
like.'  '  Tut,'  replied  Suil  Gair,  makin'  evasion  to  the  question, 
1  it's  good  to  have  it  abcut  me  for  my  own  defence.' 

"  He  could  often  have  shot  either  Balgruntie  or  Saveall  in 
daylight,  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  relief  was  expected.  Now, 
however,  that  relief  was  so  near — for  Simpson  with  a  party  of 
royalists  an'  Maguire's  men  must  be  within  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  slippin'  his  gun  to  Suil  Gair,  who  was  the 
Dest  shot  of  the  day  in  that  or  any  other  part  of  the  country 
and  it  was  in  consequence  of  this  that  he  was  called  Suir  Gair, 
or  Sharp  Eye.  But,  indeed,  all  the  Maguires  were  famous 
shots ;  an'  I'm  tould  there's  one  of  them  now  in  Dublin  that 
could  hit  a  pigeon's  egg,  or  a  silver  sixpence  at  the  distance  of 
a  hundred  yards.*  Suil  Gair  did  not  merely  raise  the  sluice 
when  he  set  the  mill  a-goin',  but  he  whipped  it  out  altogether 
an'  threw  it  into  the  dam,  so  that  the  possibility  of  saving  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 
6ome  period,  thinkin'  over  many  ruminations,  before  he  lit  his 
cutty  pipe,  as  he  called  it. 

•  The  celebrated  Brian  Maguire,  the  first  shot  of  his  dr,y,  tvas  at  this  time 
living  hi  Dublin. 


204  THE     CASTLE    OF    AUOHKNTAIN  J    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  he  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,  sirSj 
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  eins.  Balgruntie  wasna  that' Whatever  he  in- 
tended to  say  further,  cannot  be  analogized  by  man,  for,  just 
as  he  had  uttered  the  last  word,  which  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  tiuer  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  day  break  the  next  mornin',  Simpson  came  to  the  reliet 
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  spirit  could  be,  but  all  to  no  purpose.    There, 


A    LEGEND    OF    THX    BROWN    flOAT.  '^^ 

however,  is  the  truth  for  yez ;  the  spirit  that  shrieks  in  the 
hopper  is  Balgruntie'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  lived  long  an' 
happy,  I  wish  we  may  all  live  ten  times  longer  an  happier  ; 
an'  so  we  will,  but  in  a  betther  world  than  this,  plaise  God.5* 

"  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  forget  tin'  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  dhun,  or  a  brown  goat,  that  all  their  posterity  might 
know  the  great  obligations  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  Crummies  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  Mullin,  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  contrtv- 
dict  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      PROTHECY      MAN. 

The  individual  to  whom  the  heading  of  this  article  is  uni- 
formly applied,  stands,  among  the  lower  clas-c  s  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  little  to  society  beyond  the  mere  accessories  that 
are  appended  to  the  general  modes  of  life  and  manners,  and 
consequently,  receive  themselves  as  strong  an  impulse  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  life  he  has  little 
sympathy.  The  amusements  of  the  people  are  to  him  little 
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 
206 


THE    IRISH    PROPHECY    MAN.  207 

man  has  not  to  do  with  feelings  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  monarchies,  or  the  rise  and 
prostration  of  principalities  and  powers.  How  can  a  mind 
thus  engaged  descend  to  those  petty  subjects  of  ordinary  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  intelligence  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  little,"  replied  the  other  :  "  what  kind  of 
weather  have  you  above  ?"  Well,  indeed,  might  the  Prophecy 
Man  ask  what  news  is  there  below,  for  his  mind  seldom  leaves 
those  aerial  heights  from  which  it  watches  the  fate  of  Europe, 
and  the  shadowing  forth  of  future  changes. 

The  Prophecy  Man — that  is,  he  who  solely  devotes  himself 
to  an  anxious  observation  of  those  political  occurrences  which 
mark  the  signs  of  the  times,  as  they  bear  upon  the  future,  the 
principal  business  of  whose  life  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'HAIONEY, 

other  itinerant  characters,  had,  when  compared  with  him,  a 
very  limited  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  ot 
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  ot  this  class 
was  the  downfal  and  death  of  Buonaparte — especially  the  lat- 
ter. .  There  are  still  living,  however,  those  who  can  get  over 
ihis  difficulty,  and  who  will  not  hesitate  to  assure  you,  with  a 
look  of  much  mystery,  that  the  real  "  Bonyparty"  is  alive  and 
well,  and  will  make  his  due  appearance  token  the  time  comes  ; 
he  who  surrendered  himself  to  the  English  being  but  an 
accomplice  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  nom  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    PnoPHECY    MAN.  209 

naturally  anxious  to  see  the  truth  of  his  own  prognostications 
verified.  The  failure  of  this,  which  was  their  great  modern 
standard,  has  nearly  demolished  the  political  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, 
Ave  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 
wa3  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  tall  man,  by  no  means  meanly  dressed  ;  and 
it  is  unnecessary  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  sojourn.  He 
had  nothing  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  thinking,  as  might 
be  expected,  were  quiet  and  meditative ;  his  personal  motion* 
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  this  easy  rate,  however,  he  traversed 

the  whole  kingdom  several  times ;  nor  was  there  probably  a 


210  BARNEY    M'HAIGNEY, 

local  prophecy  of  any  importance  in  the  country  with  Avhich 
he  was  not  acquainted.  He  took  much  delight  in  the  greater 
and  lesser  prophets  of  the  Old  Testament ;  but  his  heart  and 
soul  lay,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  in  the  Kevelations  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  pillow,  his 
.yes  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 
insight  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  Traynor,  although  I  say  it  that  should 
not  say  it,  there's  truth  in  that,  at  all  evints.  The  same 
knowledge  has  cost  me  many  a  weary  blisther  an'  sore  heel  in 
huntin'  it  up  an'  down,  through  mountain  an'  glen,  in  Ulsther, 


THE    IRISH    PROPHECY    MAN.  211 

Munsther,  Leinsther,  an'  Connaught  not  forgettin'  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland,  where  there's  what  they  call  the  '  short 
prophecy?  or  second  sight,  but  wherein  there's  afther  all  but 
little  of  the  Irish  or  long  prophecy,  that  regards  what's  to 
befall  the  Aviuged  woman  that  flewn  into  the  winderness.  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  little.  Many  a  time  our  own  Irish  drames  are 
aiqual  to  it;  an',  indeed  I  have  it  from  a  knowledgeable 
man,  that  the  gift  they  boaslfof  has  four  parents — an  empty 
6tomach,  thin  air,  a  weak  head,  an'  strong  whiskey — an'  that 
a  man  must  have  all  these,  espeshilly  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- 
white  hind  an'  the  bloody  panther,  an'  a  forebodin'  of  the 
slaughter  there's  to  be  in  the  Valley  of  the  Black  Pig,  as  fore- 
touldby  Beal  Derg,  or  the  prophet  with  the  red  mouth,  who 
never  was  known  to  speak  but  when  he  prophesied,  or  to  pro- 
phesy but  when  he  spoke." 

"  The  Lord  bless  and  keep  us  ! — an  why  was  he  called  the 
Man  wid  the  Ked  Mouth,  Barney?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  that.  First  bekase  ne  aiways  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  wonderful  all  out.  Well, 
well !" 

"  Ay,  an' Beal  Derg,  or  the  Red  Mouth,  is  still  livin'." 

'«  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'HAIGNEV, 

thousand  years  since  he  made  the  prophecy.  The  case  you 
eee  is  this  :  he  an'  the  ten  thousand  witnesses  are  lyin'  in  an 
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.  B  -al  Derg  an' 
his  men  are  then  to  waken  up,*an'  by  their  aid  the  Valley  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,  well,  Barney ;  but  prophecy  is'  a  strange  thing  to 
sure !  Only  think  of  men  livin'  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  replies, 
'  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  livin',  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 
guijer  was  as  sound  in  his  trance  as  before." 


THE    IRISH    PROPHECY    MAN.  213 

"  An',  Barney,  what  did  the  soger  mane  whin  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,  whin  put  into  proper  explanation, 
the  right  side  ;  that  is,  the  true  cause.  Lamed  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  his  wings  clipped  by  one  of  his  own  breed, 
before  the  struggle  comes.'  Before  that  time,  too,  we're  to 
have  the  Black  Militia,  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  Militia,  Barney,  who  are  they?" 

"  I  have  gone  far  an'  near,  through  north  an'  through 
south,  up  an'  down,  by  hill  an'  hollow,  till  my  toes  were 
corned,  an'  my  heels  in  griskins,  but  could  find  no  one  able 
to  resolve  that,  or  bring  it  clear  out  of  the  prophecy.  They 
are  to  be  sogers  in  Black,  an'  all  their  arms  an'  coutrements 
is  to  be  the  same  colour ;  an'  farther  than  that  is  not  known 
c*  yet." 

"  It's  a  wondher  you  don't  know  it,  Barney,  foi  there's 
little  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  aigle  comes  and  tears 
the  two  ravens  to  pieces,  and  the  dove  recovers. 

"  There's  to  be  two  cries  in  the  kingdom ;  one  of  them  is 
to  rech  from  the  Giants'  CauseAvay  to  the  centre  house  of  the 
town  of  Sligo ;  the  other  is  to  rech  from  the  Falls  of  Beleek 


214  BARNEY    M'HAIGNEY, 

to  the  Mill  of  Louth,  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  his  right  hand  happens  to  be  the 
miller." 

"  Who's  to  give  the  sign  of  freedom  to  Ireland?'' 

' '  The  little  boy  wid  the  red  coat  that's  born  a  dwarf,  lives 
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  servants  Gog  and  Magog." 

"  Who  are  they,  Barney  ?" 

"They  are  the  sons  of  Hegog  an'  S  hegog,  or  in  other 
words,  of  Death  an'  Damnation,  and  cousin-jarmans  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  on  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  prophet  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  undher  wather  once  more. 
A  well  is  to  open  at  Cork  that  will  cover  the  whole  island  from 
the  Giant's  Causeway  to  Cape  Clear.  In  them  days  St.  Patrick 
will  be  despised,  an'  will  stand  over  the  pleasant  houses  wid 
his  pastoral  crook  in  his  hand,  crying  out  Cead  mille  failtha 
in  vain  !  Woe,  woe,  woe,'  says  Bardolphus,  <  for  in  them  days 
there  will  be  a  great  confusion  of  colours  among  the  people ; 
there  Avill  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 
light  heads  or  shaking  hands  among  Irishmen  !  Woe,  woe, 
woe,  men,  women,  and  children  will  then  die,  an'  their  only 
complaint,  like  all  those  who  perished  in  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  prophecy  them.  In  those 
times  men  will  be  shod  in  liquid  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'  it  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  liquid  fire,  by  eating  liquid  fire,  an'  all  because 
they  do  not  dhrink  liquid  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 
•aith  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  delight  in  amusing  themselves  and  others 
at  the  expense  of  his  inordinate  love  for  prophecy. 

"  But,  Barney,  touchin'  the  Mill  of  Louth,  of  the  two  wi 
dows  grindin'  there,  whether  will  the  one  that  is  taken  or  the 
one  that's  left  be  the  best  off  ?" 

"  The  prophecy  doesn't  say,"  replied  Barney;  "an'  that's  a 
matther  that  larned  men  are  very  much  divided  about.  My 
own  opinion  is,  that  the  ope  that's  taken  will  be  the  best  off 
for  St.  Bridget  says,  '  that  betune  wars  an'  pestilences,  an' 
famine,  the  men  will  be  so  scarce  that  several  of  them  will  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 
particular  families  in  Ireland  ?' 

"  Ay,  several :  and  I'll  tell  you  one  of  them  about  a 
femily  that's  not  far  from  us  this  minute.  You  all  know  the 
hangin'  wall  of  the  ould  Church  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  manetime  ?" 

"  Why,  that  it's  never  to  fall  till  it  comes  down  upon  and 
takes  the  life  of  a  M'Mahon." 

"  Bight  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,  maybe  next  to 
Patrick  himself,  one  of  the  greatest  saints  in  Ireland,  but  at  any 


THE    IRISH    PROPHECY    JUAN.  217 

rate  we  may  put  him  next  to  St.  Columkill.  Now,  you  see 
when  he  was  building  the  Church  of  Bally  nasaggart,  it  came 
to  pass  that  there  arose  a  great  famine  in  the  land,  and  the 
saint  found  it  hard  to  feed  the  workmen  where  there  was  no 
Tittles.  What  to  do  he  knew  not,  an'  by  coorse  he  was  at  a 
sad  amplush,  no  doubt  of  it.  At  length  sis  he,  '  Boys,  we're 
all  hard  set  at  present,  an'  widout  food  bedad  Ave  can't  work  ; 
but  if  you  obsarve  my  directions,  we'll  conthrive  to  have  a  bit 
o'  mate  in  the  manetime,  an'  among  ourselves  it  was  seldom 
more  wanted,  for,  to  tell  you  the  thruth,  I  never  thought  my 
back  an'  belly  would  become  so  Avell  acquainted.  For  the  last 
three  days  they  haven't  been  asundher,  an'  I  find  they  are 
perfectly  willing  to  part  as  soon  as  possible,  an'  would  be 
glad  of  anything  that  'ud  put  betune  them.' 

"  Now,  the  fact  was,  that,  for  drawin'  timber  an'  stone,  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  him.  He  accordingly  slaughtered 
him  wid  his  own  hands  ;  '  but,'  sis  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  thin  tuk  all  the  flesh  off  the  bones,  but  not  till  he  had 
biled  them,  of  coorse ;  afther  which  he  sewed  them  up  again 
in  the  skin,  an'  put  thim  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  life !  Betther  fed  workmen  you 
couldn'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, 

mute,  took  a  fancy  to  have  a  lick  at  the  marrow,  &.n'  accord- 
ingly, in  spite  of  ajl'the  saint  said,  be  broke  one  of  the  legs,  an' 
racked  the  marrow  out  of  it.  But  behold  you  ! — the  next  day 
wjien  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'Mahoii,'  said  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  hangin1,  widout  any  visible  support  in  life,  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  of  the  strongest  horses  in  the  king- 
dom wouldn't  drag  one  of 'em  widin  half  a  mile  of  it.  There, 
now,  is  the  prophecy  that  belongs  to  the  hangin'  wall  of  Bal- 
Iynasaggart  church.' 

"  But,  Barney,  didnt  you  say  something  about  the  winged 
woman  that  fiewn  to  the  wilderness  ?" 

"  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 
whin  he  wa.<  to  make  his  appearance,  it  was  said  to  be  time  for 
thim  that  might  be  alive  thin  to  go  to  their  padareens." 

"  What  does  the  seven  heads  an'  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  Haray  the  Eighth,  who  was   married  tojive 


THE    IRISH    PROPHECY    MAN.  219 

wives,  an'  by  all  accounts  they  strengthened  an'  ornamented 
hhn  sore  agen  his  will.  Now,  set  in  case  that  aich  of  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 
wings  is  the  church,  an'  she  flew  into  the  wilderness  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  three 
hundred  an'  fifty  years,  an'  afther  that  there's  to  be  no  more 
Prodestans." 

"  Faith  that's  great ! 

"  Sure  Columkill  prophesied  that  until  HSMElAM 
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  OC  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  ral  her  drowsy,  an' 
if  you  have  no  objection,  I'll  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,  tliey  say,  betune 
Columkill  and  St.  Bridget;  an'  it  is  this,  that  the  triumph  of 
the  counthry  will  never  be  at  hand  till  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,  did  he 
thus  trudge,  never  in  a  hurry,  but  always  steady  ;.nd  constant 
in  his  motions.     He  might  be  not  inaptly  termed  the  Old 


220  BARNEY    M'HAIGNEV. 

M  irtality  of  traditionary  prophecy,  which  he  often  chiselled 
anew,  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 
published  it  in  connexion  with  his  established  text ;  but  if  it 
did  not,  he  never  opened  his  lips  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,  lived  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  reality  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  fulness  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  feelings, 
can  scarcely  bring  themselves  to  believe  in  their  existence.  I 
have  said  that  in  Ireland  the  house  of  death  is  without  doubt 
the  house  of  mourning ;  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  rathei  startling  assertion,  but  it  is 
quite  true. 

And  now  many  of  my  sagacious  readers  will  at  once  set 
about  accounting  for  such  a  singular  combination  of  mad  mirth 
and  profound  sorrow.     Let  them,  howsver,  spare  their  meta- 
221 


222  moll  roe's  marriage  ;  OR, 

physic  for  I  will  save  them  a  long  process  of  reasoning  on  tho 
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  be  or  she  lies  dead,  is  simply  that  the  sense  of 
the  bereavement  may  be  mitigated  by  the  light-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,  midst  her  desolate  orphans,  so  completely 
borne  away  by  the  irresistible  fun  of  some  antic  wag,  who  acted 
as  Master  of  the  Bevels,  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  "  Serew-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  tlat,  on  the  contray,  they  are 
wttinc  in  the  chimney-corner,  at  an  Irish  wake,  and  that  some 


THE  PUDDING  BEWITCHED.  223 

droll  Senachie,  Ins  face  lit  up  into  an   expression  of  broad 
farcical  humour,  is  proceeding  somewhat  as  follows : 

"Moll  Roe  Rafferty  was  the  son — daughter  I  mane — of  ould 
Jack  Rafferty,  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  everybody  knew  that  Avas  acquainted 
Avid  them.  It  was  said  of  them — but  whether  it  was  thrue  or 
not  I  won't  undhertake  to  say,  for  'fraid  I'd  tell  a  lie — that 
whenever  they  didn't  Avear  shoes  or  boots,  they  always  Avent 
barefooted ;  but  I  hard  aftherwards  that  this  Avas  disputed,  so 
rather  than  say  anything  to  injure  their  caracther,  I'll  let  that 
pass.  Noav,  ould  Jack  Rafferty  had  two  sons,  Paddy  and 
Molly — hut !  what  are  you  all  laughing  at  ? — I  mane  a  son 
and  daughter,  and  it  Avas  generally  believed  among  the  neigh- 
bours, that  they  were  brother  and  sisther,  Avhich  you  know 
might  be  thrue  or  it  might  not ;  but  that's  a  thing  that,  wid 
the  help  o'  goodness,  Ave  have  nothing  to  say  to.  Throth  there 
was  many  ugly  things  put  out  on  them  that  I  don't  wish  to 
repate,  such  as  that  neither  Jack  nor  his  son  Paddy  ever 
walked  a  perch  Avidout  puttin'  one  foot  afore  the  other,  like  a 
salmon ;  an'  I  knoAv  that  it  was  whispered  about,  that  Avhenever 
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 
Avas  her  own  ;  for  sure  Ave  all  knoAV  that  Avhen  one  comes  to 
shut  their  eyes  they  can't  see  as  far  before  them  as  another. 

"  Moll  Roe  Avas  a  fine  young  bouncin'  girl,  large  and  lavish, 
wid  a  purty  head  o'  hair  on  her  like  scarlet,  that  lx;in'  one  of 
the  raisons  Avhy  she  Avas  called  Roe  or  Red ;  her  arms  an' 
cheeks  were  much  the  colour  of  the  hair,  an'  her  saddle  nose 
Avas  the  purtiest  thing  of  its  kind  that  ever  Avas  on  a  face.  Her 
fists — for,  thank  goodness,  she  Avas  well  sarved  wid  them  too — 
had  a  strong  simularity  to  tAvo  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  ivann-heai'ted.  Howandiver,  it  appears  that 
God  gives  nothing  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,  takim 
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  a3  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 
families  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  spaikin 
about ;  but  at  any  rate  one  of  them  was  a  poser,  an'  as  Gusty 
knew  his  man,  he  soon  came  to  his  senses.  Accordingly  every- 
thing was  deranged  for  their  marriage,  and  it  was  appointed 
that  they  ehould  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  xnouth  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  such  a  fellow,  he  fought  bittherly 
aginst  he  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  Kafferty's,  where  the  priest,  Father 
M'Sorley,  was  to  slip  up  afther  mass,  to  take  his  dinner  wid 
them,  and  to  keep  Misther  M' Shuttle,  who  was  to  marry 
them,  company.  Nobody  remained  at  home  but  ould  Jack 
KafFerty  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  his  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 — splice  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  yez  here  for  ?' 

"  '  Arra  why,  Harry  ?     Why  avick?' 

"  <  Why,  the  sun's  in  the  suds  and  the  moon  in  the  high 
Horicks ;  there's  a  clipstick  comin'  an,  an'  there  you're  both 
as  unconsarned  as  if  it  wras  about  to  rain  mether.  Go  out  and 
cross  yourselves  three  times  in  the  name  o'  the  four  Mandro- 
marvins,  ibr  as  prophecy  says  :  Fill  the  pot,  Eddy  super- 
naculum— a  blazing  star's  a  rare  spectaculum.  Go  out  both 
of  you  and  look  at  the  sun,  I  say,  an'  yell  see  the  condition 
he's  in — off!' 

l  2 


226  moll  roes  marriage;  or, 

"  Begad,  sure  enough,  Jack  gave  a  bounce  to  the  door,  an' 
his  wife  leaped  nkeva  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  tht 
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  and  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  san  is  willin'  to  show  his  face 
upon  it.' 

"  '  As  to  that,'  says  the  wife,  winkin'  wid  both  her  eyes, '  if 
Gusty's  satisfied  with  Moll,  it's  enough.  I  know  who'll  carry 
the  Avhip  hand,  any  how ;  but  in  the  mane  time  let  us  ax 
Harry  'ithin  what  ails  the  sun.' 

"  Well,  they  accordingly  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,  screwin'  his  mouth  with  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  weddiii'  than  you 
think,  that's  all ;'  and  bavin'  said  this  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
left  the  house. 

"  Now  Harry's  answer  relieved  them  very  much,  and  so, 
afther  calling  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. 

"  In  this  way  things  went  on  well  enough  for  a  while,  Jack 
emokin'  away,  an'  the  wife  cookin'  an'  dhressin'  at  the  rate  of 
ft  hunt.     At  last  Jack,  while  sitting  as  I  said,  contentedly  at 


THE    PUDDING    BEWl'iCHED.  227 

the  fire,  thought  he  could  persave  an  odd  dancin'  kind  ot 
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  took  it  into  its  head  to 
dance  a  jig,  and  this  did.  Thunder  and  sparables,  look 
at  it !' 

"Begad,  it  was  true  enough;  there  was  the  pot  bobbii/ 
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  some- 
thing alive  in  it,  or  it  would  never  cut  such  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,  ofT  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  Evangils,' 
said  he,  '  keep  your  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 
pudden  was  hoppin'  and  jiggen  it  round  her,  as  if  it  was 
amused  at  her  distress. 

"  'If  I  could  get  the  pitchfork,'  said  Jack,  'I'd dale  wid 
it— by  goxty  I'd  thry  its  mettle.' 

"  '  No,  no,'  shouted  Katty,  thinkin  there  was  a  fairy  in  it 


228  MOLL    ROE'S    MARRIAGE;    OH, 

« 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,  like  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  fur  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  1 
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  Avas  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  Kafferty,  what  is  it  ?  Katty,  ahagur,  will  you  tell 
us  what  it  manrs  ?' 

"  '  Why,  replied   Katty,  « be  the  vestments,  it's  my  big 


THE    PUDDING    BEWITCHED.  229 

pudden   that's  bewitched,  an'  it's  now  hot-foot  pursnin' , 

here  she  stopped,  not  wishin'  to  mention  her  brother's  name, — 
1  some  one  or  other  that  surely  put  pistrogues  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  wan't  our  own  to  dress  the 
rest  o'  the  dinner  ;  and  Paddy  himself  will  lend  me  a  pitchfork, 
for  divle  resave  the  morsel  of  the  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.  Catholics,  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  slice  at  it  on  the  other  side,  got  the  prod 
instead  of  the  pudden.  Big  Frank  Farrell,  the  miller  of 
Ballyboulteen,  got  a  prod  backwards  that  brought  a  hullabaloo 
out  ol'  him  you  might  hear  at  the  other  end  of  the  parish. 
One  got  a  slice  of  a  sythe,  another  a  whack  of  a  flail, 
a  third  a  rap  of  a  spade  that  made  him  look  nine  ways  at 
wanst. 

"  '  Where  is  it  goin'  ?'  asked  one. 

"  '  It's  goin  to  mass,'  replied  a   second.      '  Then   it's    a 

Catholic  pudden,'  exclaimed  a  third — *  down  wid  it.'      '  No, 

said  a  fourth,  '  it's  above  superstition  ;  my  life  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,  slice  it  into  pan- 
cakes :  we'll  have  no  Prodestan  puddens  here.' 

"  Begad,  by  this  time  the  people  were  on  the  point  of 
beginnin'  to  have  a  regular  fight  about  it,  when,  very  fortu- 
nately, it  took  a  short  turn  down  a  little  bye-lane  that  led 
towards  the  Methodist  praichin' -house,  an'  in  an  instant  all 
parties  were  in  an  uproar  against  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  divlepurshue  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,  bedad  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  Ja;k  Kafferty  an'  his  wife  been  willin'  to  let  out 
the  opinion  they  held  about  Harry  Connolly  bewitchin'  it, 
there  is  no  doubt  but  poor  Harry  might  be  badly  trated 
by  the  crowd  when  their  blood  Avas  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  savin'  the 
pudden  was  of  their  side,  another  party  denyin'  it,  an*  insist- 
in'  it  belonged  to  them,  an'  so  on. 


THE    PUDDING    BEWITCHED.  4 3  I 

li  In  the  mane  time,  Katty  llafferty,  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  Scanlan'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  slice  of  a  good 
pudden  as  well  as  e'er  a  pair  of  gintlemen  in  Europe. 

"  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'  were  saunterin'  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  through  the  whole  parish. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  dinner-time  was  dhrawin'  near,  and 
Paddy  Scanlan  was  sittin'  comfortably  wid  his  wife  at  the  tire, 
the  pudden  boilen  before  their  eyes,  when  in  walks  Harry 
Connolly,  in  a  flutter,  shoutin' — '  Blood  and  blunderbushes, 
what  are  yez  here  for  ?' 

"  '  Arra,  Avhy,  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  olipstick  comin'  an,  an'  there 
you  sit  as  unconsarned  as  if  it  was  about  to  rain  mether  !  Go 
out  an'  cross  yourselves  three  times  in  the  name  of  the  four 
Mandromarvins,  for,  as  the  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  condition  he's  in — off!' 

"  '  Ay,  but,  Harry,  what's  that  rowled  up  in  the  tail  of 
your  cotamore  (big  coai)  ?' 

"'Out  wid  yez,'  said  Harry;  'cross  yourselves  three 
tunes  in  the  name  of  the  four  Mandromarvins,  an  pray  aginst 
the  dipstick — the  sky's  fallen'.' 


2:*2  moll  roe's  marriage;  or, 

"  Begad  it  was  hard  to  say  whether  Paddy  or  the  wife  got 
out  first,  they  were  bo  much  alarmed  by  Harry's  wild  thin 
tace,  an'  piercin'  eyes ;  so  out  they  went  to  see  what  was 
wondherf "ul  in  the  sky,  an'  kep'  lookin'  an'  lookin'  in  every 
direction,  but  divle  a  thing  was  to  be  seen,  barrin'  the  sun 
shinin'  down  with  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 .'     I  hey  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,  i  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  like  a  man  that  carried 
something  a  great  deal  hotter  than  he  wished,  as  any  one 
might  see  by  the  liveliness  of  his  motions,  and  the  quare 
faces  he  was  forced  to  make  as  he  Avent  along. 

"  '  What  the  dickens  is  he  carryin'  in  the  skirts  of  his  big 
coat,'  asked  Paddy. 

"  '  My  sowl  to  happiness,  but  maybe  he  has  stole  the  pud- 
den,'  said  Bridget,  'for  its  known  that  many  a  sthrange  thirg 
he  does.' 

1,1  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  carryin'  about  wid 
him  in  the  manner  he  did.  But  little  they  knew  what  he  had 
dune  while  they  were  sky  g.iziu'. 


THE  PUDDING  BEWITCHED.  233 

uWell,  ar.yhow,  the  day  passed  and  the  dinner  was  ready, 
an'  no  doubt  but  a  fine  gatherin'  there  was  to  partake  of*  it. 
The  priest  and  the  Prosbytarian  ministher  had  met  the 
Methodist  praieher — a  divilish  stretch  of  an  appetite  he  had, 
in  troth — on  their  way  to  Jack  Rafferty's,  an'  as  they  knew 
they  could  take  the  liberty,  why  they  insisted  on  his  dinm' 
wid  them ;  for  afther  all,  begad,  in  thim  times  the  clargy  of 
all  descriptions  lived  on  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  took  to  its  travels  to-day,  but  a  good  solid  fellow  that 
she  med  since.' 

"  '  To  be  sure  we  won't,'  replied  the  priest ;  '  so,  Jack,  put 
a  thrifie  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   praieher, 

'  where  pace  is .'     He  had  time  to  go  no  farther,  however, 

for,  much  to  his  amazement,  the  piiest  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  Avas  his 
tenant — '  what  the  dickens  does  all  this  mane?'  says  he;  '  I'm 
amazed !' 

"  '  The  divie  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' ;  lor 
sure  if  you  wouldn't,  who  would  ?' 

"  *  Well,'  says  he,  'to  gratify  them  I  will ;  so  just  a  morsel.' 
But,  Jack,  this  bates  Banagher,'  says  he  again,  puttin'  the 
spoonful  o'  pudden  into  his  mouth,  'has  there  been  din-ink  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  took  it  elsewhere,  I  can  make  nothins 
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  impossible  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  this  early  hour !'  '  Thundher  an' 
ounze,  what's  over  them  at  all?'  says  others  ;  '  why,  one  would 
think  they're  bewitched.     Holy  Mo3es,  look  at  the  caper  the 


THE    l'UDDING    BEWITCHED.  235 

Methodist  cuts!  An'  Father  M'Sorley  !  Honam  an  dioualJ 
who  would  think  he  could  handle  his  feet  at  such  a  rate !  Be 
this  an'  be  that,  he  cuts  the  buckle,  and  does  the  treblin  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,  an'  footin  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  clappiu'  of  hands  like  mad.  Now  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  ordher  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  his  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    ROES  MARRIAGE:    OR, 


vulsions.  Harry  liked  this,  and  made  up  his  mind  soon  to  find 
partners  for  the  rest ;  so  he  accordingly  sent  the  pudden  about 
like  lightnin' ;  an'  to  make  along  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  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  and  fury  of  the 
dance,  what  do  you  think  comes  hoppin'  in  among  them  but 
another  pudden,  as  nimble  an'  as  merry  as  the  first!  That  was 
enough;  they  all  had  heard  of — the  clergy  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  ivay  home ;  but  divle  a  sowl  of  them  able  to  break  out  of 
rhe  step,  if  they  were  to  be  hanged  for  it.  Throth  it  wouldn't 
live  a  laugh  in  you  to  see  the  priest  an'  the  parson  dancio 


THE    PUDDING    BEWITCHED.  237 

down  the  road  on  their  way  home  together,  and  the  ministhcr 
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  Ball)' boul teen,  a  couple  of  miles  below 
Squire  Bragshaw's  demesne- wall,  saw  the  puddin  floatin  doAvn 
the  river — the  truth  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  Scanlan 
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  doe3'nt  stand  to  raison.  At  any  rate,  boys,  I  have 
tould  you  the  adventures  of  the  Mad  Pudden  of  Bally  boulteen ; 
but  I  don't  wish  to  tell  you  many  other  things  about  it  that 
happened — -for  f raid  I'd  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  sin- 
gular tendency  to  saltation  is  attributed  to  two  causes,  both  of  which  are  in- 
troduced in  the  tale.  Some  will  insist  that  a  fairy-man  or  fairy-woman  has  the 
power  to  bewitch  a  pudding  by  putting  a  fairy  into  it ;  whilst  others  maintain 
that  a  competent  portion  of  quicksilver  will  make  it  dance  over  half  the  parish. 


BAB.NEY  BKADY'S   aOOSE; 


DARK  DOINGS  AT  SLATUP.EG. 

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  me  when  a  mystery  was  abroad  among  women  - 
Mysteries,  resembling  the  Elusinian  in  nothing  but  the  ex- 
clusion 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  then.'  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 
vigilance  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 
;hcir  very  beds  and  bosoms,  and  many  a  groan  was  vainly 
uttered  from  hearts  that  grew  heavy  in  proportion  as  the  evil, 
which  they  frit  but  could  not  see,  spread  about  through  all 
directions  of  the  kingdom. 
238 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATHBEG.  239 

Nay  to  such  a  height  did  this  terrible  business  rise,  that  tho 
aggrieved  parties  had  notions  of  petitioning  the  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  Avorse, 
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  ver 
act  of  which  she  was  suspected.     Not  that  these  cautious  goa 
women  were,  after  all,  so  successful  in  every  instance  as  to 
escape  detection.     Some  occasional  discoveries  were  actuall 
made  in  consequence  of  the  systematic  espionage  of  their  hua- 


240  BARNEY    BRADV  S    GOOSE  ;    OR, 

band'?,  and  one  or  two  of  them  were  actually  caught,  as  the 
law  term  has  it,  with  the  maner,  that  is,  in  the  very  act  of 
offence.  Now,  contumacy  is  ever  impudent  and  outrageous, 
and  disposed  to  carry  everything  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  bad  they  pro- 
claimed their  wrongs  to  their  fellow  sufferers  than  the.y  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  gainst  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  fir, 
then,  there  was  no  great  victory  either  on  the  one  side  or  th 
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  Ailey  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  slily  on  the  alert,  and  Ailey  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  becomes  king's  evidence  against  his  aecomplic.es,  or  in  seme  indirect 
way  exposes  their  crimes.  If,  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.  \»->uld  be  termed  a  "stag"  by  his 
offended  partner. 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATHBEG.  241 

visit  his  aunt  Madge,  up  in  Carrickmore,  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  betwixt  you  an'  me,  Barney,  she 
has  been  the  best  feather  in  our  wing.  There's  thim  Finnigans, 
the  dirty  low  pack,  sure,  bekase  indeed  they're  the  same  rela- 
tions to  her  that  we  are,  they'd  kiss  the  dirt  of  her  feet,  if 
they  thought  they  cud  bone  a  penny  by  it,  an'  they're  lavin' 
no  stone  unturned  to  get  the  soft  side  of  her,  hopin',  the  dirty 
equad  o'  cabogucs,*  to  cum  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  sorra  one  o'  you's  worth  a  pound  o'  goat's  wool." 

Barney,  having  then  got  on  a  clean  shirt  and  his  holiday 
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,  ss  the  song 
says,  "  loved  her  for  herself  alone."  lie  had  not  gone  many 
yards  from  the  door,  however,  when  he  returned. 

"  Madge,"  said  he,  "  I'm  jist  goin'  to  mintion  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  tarred 
wid  the  same  stick  that  has  marked  the  women  o'  the  whole 
neighbourhood.  So  now,  that  you  know  this,  I  hope  you'il 
keep  your  distance  from  them." 

Ci  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  darlm',  Madge,  give  us  a  smack ;  an'  now 
banaght  lath  till  Monday,  please  goodness.  Kiss  me,  childhre. 
Hadn't  you  betther  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 
tire?" 

11  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  truths 
which,  indeed,  every  man  who  delineates  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  live  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  aot  was — but  it  is 
not  for  us  to  characterize  it ;  the  consequence  of  it  will  speak 
for  themselves.     The  two  brothers  to  whom  they  were  united 


DARK   DOINGS   AT   SLA.THBEG.  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  "  slips''  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  stretch 
your  limbs,  ye  pack  o'  young  thieves,  yez  1" 

The  moment  they  bounded  away,  Ailey'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. 

"  Ailey,"  said  one  of  them,  alarmed,  "  you've  heard  some- 
thing ?  What  is  it  ?  Are  we  found  out,  clane  ?" 

"  If  you're  not  found  out,"  replied  Ailey,  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  truth.  Dick  an'  Harry  confessed  it  to  Barney;  an' 
he  tould  me." 

"  Troth,  an'  we'll  outdo  them,  if  they  wor  ten  times  as 
sharp,"  replied  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  next ;  an'  faith  sure  enough,  he  was 


241  barney  br^dy'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. 

"  Throth,  you  may  swear  that,"  replied  his  faithful  wife ; 
"an'  warned  me  strongly  afore  he  went  to  the  aunt's  to  hould 
■i  way  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 
hiughter,  which  lasted  at  least  five  minutes  I 

"  Well,"  said  Ailey,  hastily  getting  up  and  throwing  the 
cloak  about  her,  *•  I  can't  6top  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  awful, 
though  perhaps  a  just,  winding  up  of  their  iniquities.  What 
peculiar  mysteries  or  rites  took  place  there,  on  that  night,  it  is 
not  our  province,  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  infoi-m  the  reader. 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATHBEQ.  245 

But  what  did  that  avail  ?  The  delinquents  on  their  way 
home,  had  fabricated  a  story — and  they  are  never  good  that 
possess  a  facility  at  fabricating  stories, — to  which  both  were 
determined  to  adhere  with  most  inflexible  pertinacity.  "  They 
had  ji.st  ran  up  to  see  little  Madge  Brady,  for  Ailey  had  been 
down  to  tell  them  that  she  was  afeard  it  was  takin  the  mazles ; 
but  it  was  no  thin'  but  a  small  rash  that  came  out  upon  its 
breast,  the  cratb.ur,  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  1  The  reader  will  nol  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,  who  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  Avere 
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  inquired 

"  Where  are  yez  bound  for,  good  women  ?" 

"  Up  to  Ailey  Brady's,  to  sec  the  child,  poor  thing  !  Deed, 


2 16  barney  brady's  goose  ;  or, 

it's  a  burnin'  shame  that  we  didn't  call  booner,  espishilly  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,  "grantin 
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  lie  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  shew  yez  that  ye  won't  have  your  tongues  in 
your  cheeks  at  uz,"  he  added ;  "an'  be  this  an'  be  that,  for 
three  straws  I'd  not  lave  a  thraneen's  worth  on  the  dhresser 
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   SLATHBEG.  247 

furiously  on  the  hearth,  "  I  tell  yez  what  it  is,  yez  must  put 
an  end  to  this  work,  wanst  for  all.  Our  substance  isn't  to  go 
this  way.  We'll  have  no  collogin'  among  yez ;  no  huggermug- 
gerin'  between  you  an'  the  other  black  sheep  o'  the  neighbour- 
hood. Don't  think  but  we  know  what's  goin'  on,  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  11  catch  her  y  jt,  known  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.  Til  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,"  replied  Betty,  "  but  goin'  to  bate  us  I  suppose  !" 

"  Ay,  very  likely,"  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  aAvhile  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  conthrary ;  come, 
Betty." 

"  Ay  if /like,"  said  he. 

"  Ay,  whether  you  like  or  not,  dear ;  the  sarra  wan  o'  me 
'ill  be  stopped  by  you  this  day." 

•  To  fad  upou— to  attack. 


248  BARNEY    ERADY'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  you  now ;  but 
you'll  see  what  '11  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  primer  for  a  bare  four  weeks,  man  alive  ?" 

"Be  me  sov.l,  it's  you  ought  to  be  switched  instead  o'  the 
primer." 

M  Very  well,"  replied  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  will  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  scouldwid  ye.  Come,  Betty." 

"No,"  said  Betty,  "  I  wouldn't  be  squabblin'  wid  them  about 
goin'.  It's  nothin'  to  uz  one  way  01  the  other,  so  we'll  sit 
here.  Oh,  thin,  God  he  knows  but  we're  the  well-matched 
women  at  ail  evints.  Sure  ifAvewor  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,"  repied  Bid,  "  I  seen  the 
day  you  thought  enough  about  my  breath." 

"  Faith,  an'  that  was  becase  I  didn't  koow  you  then  as  well 
as  I  do  now." 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATHBEG.  249 

"  That's  not  what  you  thought,  or  what  you  said  aither, 
when  I  was  ill  last  harvest,  and  goin'  to  die.  Sure  you  wor 
roarin'  about  the  house  like  a  suckin'  calf  that  has  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  sieh  villains  as  we  are.  Go,  alanna, 
and  never  mind  them — they're  not  worth  our  breath,  little 
as  they  think  about  it." 

"  A  purty  Sunday  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  purpose  of  ferreting  out  evidence  against 
their  wives.  Their  exertions,  however,  were  fruitless,  although 
we  are  bound  honestly  to  state  that  they  left  no  stone  unturned 
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  returning 
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  apprised  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  J    OR, 

especially  niter  the  hour  of  dinner ;  for  each  of  their  wives 
could  observe  that  her  husband  often  put  his  hand  quietly  over 
to  the  hole  of  the  hob,  and  finding  that  his  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  I  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  dudecn  he  broke 
upon  the  wall  in  his  tantrems  this  mornin'.  I  know  he's  away 
over  to  Billy  Fulton's  to  buy  one." 

11  Twas  the  same  wid  Harry,"  said  Bid;  "  he  didn't  know 
which  end  of  him  he  was  sittin'  on.  He's  off,  too,  to  the  same 
place  ,  for  I  watched  him  through  the  windy  ;  an'  now  that  the 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATHBEG.  251 

coasf  s  clear,  let's  be  off  to  Ailey,  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  houldthem  if 
they  found  us  out.  But  wasn't  it  lucky  that  they  lost  their 
temper  and  broke  their  pipes  ?  If  they  had  kept  cool,  we 
would  have  now  no  opportunity — come." 

And  so  they  proceeded  once  more  to  Ailey  Brady's ;  and 
again  the  door  waa  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  whichran  through 
it,  in  that  timid  and  cautious  undertone  that  dreads  discovery. 

As  their  object  was  now  to  reach  home  before  the  return  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  the  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,  "  gcttin'  somethin' 
to  keep  me  cool  against  your  behaviour.  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.  Was  1 
out ! — arra,  don't  I  look  very  like  a  Avoman  that  was  out  ?  " 


252  BARNEY    BRADY  S    GOOSE;    OR, 

"  Well,  well,"  rejoined  her  husband,  whiffing  away  rather 
placidly  from  his  new  pipe,  "  don't  be  fly  in'  out  at  us  like 
Bid  ;  I'm  not  savin'  you  wor  out  this  evenin' ;  so  hould  your 
whisht  about  it.'' 

"No,  but  to  think — the  sorra  one- " 

"  Very  well — 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  which  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  which,  on  all  occasions,  she  had 
manifested  towards  her  and  Barney,  than  ever  she  had  shewn 
to  that  skeveen  pack  of  cabogues,  the  Finnegans,  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  Ailey,  as  her 
husband  laid  the  goose  down  on  the  floor. 

"  Why,"  he  replied  good  humouredly,  "  don't  you  see  it's 
a  leg  o'  mutton  that  Aunt  Madge  sent  for  our  dinner  on  Sun 
day  next.     What's  that,  indeed  I" 

The  goose  was  immediately  taken  up — handled  like  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  touched  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  Maguigans,  and  "  neither  coshered  or  harboured  with 
them,"  in  his  absence. 

"  Musha,  throth,  Barney,  afore  I'd  lead  this  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  little 
thim  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  ?a}T  a  thing  ought  to  be  enough — but  here  you  keep  gnawin 
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,  Ailey ;  to  the  sarra  wid  them ;  but  about 
another  thing, —  what'll  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  plintv  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  thruth,  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  divii 
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  £0  arranged  ;  but  as  a  solitary  fowl  of  that  species  is 
rather  an  unusual  sight  about  a  countrvman'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  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  Betty 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATHBEO.  25Tl 

Maguigan  in  conference  -with  Ailey ;  and  what  appeared  to 
him  remarkably  strange,  if  not  rather  hardy  on  their  part, 
was  the  fact  that  they  carried  on  the  conversation  without 
evincing  the  slightest  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  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  nothm'  wrong  wid  you,  Ave  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  this  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  little  at  this  adroit  appeal  to  his  vanity, 
and  he  sat  down  with  a  look  of  more  sauvity. 

"  Why,  thin,  Barney,  it's  a  nice  present  all  out." 

"  It's  more  than  the  Finnigans  would  get  from  Aunt  Madge, 
any  way,"  said  Ailey,  "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  T  was  always  that." 

"  It's  no  secret,"  observed  Betty,  who,  as  well  as  Bid,  knew 
hi  sweakness  here  ;  "  an'  it's  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, 
Barney,  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  Ailey  ;  "  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 
ether,  in  any  dispute  that  yez  may  have,  Betty." 

"  Troth,"  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,  Ailey  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  believe  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  fel  ows  does  be  doin',  till  we  can't bless 

ourselves  for  them." 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATI1BEG.  257 

"  No,  the  sorra  thing  o'  the  kind  he  does  ;  sure  I  must  tell 
the  truth  any  way." 

"  Well,  God  be  wid  yez  ;  we  must  be  off.  Goodbye,  Barney, 
sure  you  can  bear  witness  for  us  this  bout." 

ie  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. 

"  Soh  !"  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'  truth  for  yez  1" 

"  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!"  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  thing  like  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  is'nt 
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  ?" 


258  BARNEY    BRADY'S  GOOSE  J  OR, 

"  He  has  one  now  then,"  replied  Bid. 

"  Ay,"  added  her  sister,  "  an'  as  fine  a  bully  of  a  goose  as 
ever  I  seen  Mid  my  two  livin'  eyes." 

"  Sure,"  said  Bid,  "  if  you  won't  believe  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  yez  childre,  and  play  awhile — honom-an-dioual I 
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  rights  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,  whioh,  indeed,  they 
Avent  through  with  an  air  of  offended  dignity,  and  a  tartness  ot 
temper  that  contrasted  strongly  with  the  sheepish  and  some- 
what crest-fallen  demeanour  of  their  spouses. 

"  JYIusha  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  leaf  or  I'll 
lose  a  fall.  If  you  or  Dick  have  any  thing  against  us,  why 
don't  you  prove  it  manfully  at  wanst,  and  not  be  snakin'  about 
the  bush  the  way  yez  do.  The  sorra  ait-her  of  us  will  lie 
undher  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  3  our  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  tires.  All  you  want  is  some  one  to  jaw  back 
to  you,  just  to  keep  the  ball  goin'.  Bannaght  latht  for  a 
while  I" 

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"  replied  the  other  , 
"  Bid's  in  her  glory  ;  there's  no  facin'  her.  Let  us  go  an'  sit 
awhile  wid  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  its  the  unlucky  bird  to 
us  this  night*  sure  enough,"  re-echoed  his  brother.      "  Come 


20'0  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  together  again  for  the  purpose  of  comparing 
notes,  and  of  indulging  in  another  hearty  laugh  at  their 
husbands. 

Barney  Brady's  goose  now  began  to  he  a  goose  of  some 
eminence.  In  short,  .it  was  much  talked  of,  and  had  its 
character  and  qualities  debated  pro  and  con.  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  his  goose  was  not  either  directly  or  indirectly 
concerned. 

Barney  himself,  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  which  he 
caught  of  what  was  going  forward. 

"  Ailey,"  said  he,  with  a  good  deal  of  uneasiness,  "  what 
brings  up  them  w"vcs  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  mortial  man,  I  wish,"  replied  Barney,  "  that  I  had 
never  brought  the  dirty  drab  of  a  crathur  about  the  ptace. 
Why,  if  all  you  say  about  it  is  true,  it  never  had  a  day's  heali  !i 
since  it  came  to  u?,  an'  yet  I'll  take  my  oath  it's  as  fat  a  goose 
this  minute  as  ever  wagged." 

"  An'  right  well  youknow,  Barney,  it  got  delicate  afthur  it 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATIIDEG.  961 

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  life  when 
it  got  a  comrade  to  keep  it  company.  Be  me  sowl  it's  I  that 
retted,  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  con- 
siderably 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  ;    OR 


neighbourhoood,  and  yet  he  often  detected  them,  cither  in  his 
house  or  leaving  it.v  This  troubled  him  very  much,  but  still 
Ailey  failed  not  in  her  excuse,  and  as  he  knew  she  seldom  went 
out,  he  did  not  suspect,  much  less  believe,  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  goslins,  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  himself  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  in  which,  in  easy  minds, 
leaves  not  an  impression  behind  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  fact  was, 
that  many  secret  and  guarded  movements  had  been  of  late 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATHBEG.  263 

noticed  by  him.  of  Avhich,  from  motives  of  deep  and  sagacious 
policy,  he  had  determined  to  take  no  open  cognizance,  being 
resolved  to  allow  Aileen  to  lull  herself  into  that  kind  of  false 
security  which  is  usually  produced  by  indifference  or  stupid- 
ity on  the  part  of  the  husband. 

Here  was  a  matter,  however,  that  could  not  be  overlooked, 
and  accordingly  he  demanded  an  explanation  ;  but  this  in  a 
manner  so  exceedingly  sage  and  cunning,  that  we  are  sure 
our  readers  cannot  withhold  from  him  the  mark  of  their  ap- 
probation. 

"  Aileen,"  said  he,  without  appearing  to  labour  under  any 
suspicion  Avhatsoever,  "  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  gandher." 

"  Bad  cess  to  your  curiosity,  Barney,  you're  as  bad  as  a 
woman,  so  you  are,  countin'  the  geese !  Musha  go  to 
heaven  I" 

"  No,  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  bekem  of  them,  I  won't  lave  a  goose  o'  them  alive 
in  twinty  minnits.  An'  more  than  that,  take  care  an'  don't— 
take  care  I  say — don't  exaggrawate  me,  I  tell  you." 

"  Well,  throth,  Barney,  this  is  good !  afore  your  own 
childre  too.  An'  now  if  you  want  to  know,  I  did  nothin'  wrong 
wid  thim,  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,  and  my 
sisther  an'  her  bachelor,  Charley  Cleary,  an'  I  axed  thim  in 
an  thrated  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." 

"  Divil  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- 


204 


BAllNEY    BRADY  S    GOOSI 


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  pittionge,  is  it  to  sell  geese — 
arra  what'll  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  me  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  ouid  woman — a  Molshy — of  your- 
self 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  his- 
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  his 
authority  and  watchfulness  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  this. 
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.  2G5 

wanted,  stumbled  upon  a  smooth  round  vessel  with  a  handle  on 
one  side,  a  pipe  on  the  other,  and  a  close-fitting  lid  on  the  top. 
Cruikshank  or  Brooke  would  have  enjoyed  the  grin  of  malig- 
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  theii  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  applied,  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  application.  He  immediately  whipped  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  Avas  their 
deliberation  respecting  the  steps  necessary  to  be  taken  upon 
this  important  occasion ;  one  suggesting  one  thing,  another 
mother.  At  length  it  occurred  to  them,  that  their  best  plan 
would  be  to  consult  Kate  Doorish,  an  old  woman  who  was 
considered  an  infallible  authority.  Barney,  accordingly,  once 
more  putting  this  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  with  whom,  had  he  known  as 
much  as  his  Avife,  he  would  or  ought  to  have  expected  informa- 
tion. She  it  AAras  Ayho  had  chiefly  corrupted  the  good  Avives  of 
the  village,  both  by  precept  ami  example,  and  on  her  head  of 
course  did  the  original  sin  of  the  whole  neighbourhood  lie. 
Barney  found  her  at  home,  and  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
difficulty  must  noAv  be  solved  without  further  trouble. 

N 


2GG  BARNEY    BRADY'S    GOOSE  ;    OR, 

"God  save  you,  Kate." 

"  God  save  you  kindly,  Barney.  How  is  Aileen  and  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  never  wor  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." 

"  Why,  barrin'  the  grace  o'  God  that's  thrue  ;  for,  Barney, 
where's  the  man  or  woman  aithcr  that  is  as  they  ought  to  be? 
glory  be  to  God !" 

"  To  tell  the  thruth,  Kate,  I'm  afeard  my  own  wife's  not 
much  betther  than  tin  rest." 

"  Faith,  if  she's  as  good,  man,  you  have  no  right  to  com- 
plain. Isn't  she  good  enough  for  you  anyhow  ?  Is  it  a  lady 
you  want  ?  Musha,  cock  you  up,  indeed  !" 

"There's  thim  eleven  geese,  they're  gone  now,  and  not  a 
fivrden  ever  I  touched  of  the  price  of  any  one  o'  them,  only 
two  hogs  I  got  to  help  to  buy  leather  for  a  pair  of  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  belief.  An  not  only  that,  but 
wl  n  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  catch  them." 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLAlUBGli.  267 

tc  Cotch  them  !  at  what  ?  pullin'  down  churches  ?  eh  ? 

"  Any  way  I  as  good  as  cotch  them  ;  an  here's  a  piece  o" 
their  villar.y,"  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  daeent 
woman  to  satisfy  your  curiosity !  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  whidi  he  carried  under 
his  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 
replied — 

"  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  beei) 
confessing,  and  inquired  what  was  the  matter. 


2('8  FARNEY    ERAIJY's    GOOSE  ;    OP, 

■c  3iu  first  sit  down,  Barney,"  said  he  ;  "  and  how  is  the 
wife  and  children  ?'' 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  replied  Barney ;  "  but  it's 
not  jist  convanient  to  me  to  sit,  in  regard  of  what  I'm  carryin' 
— the  childre'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  1  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  invintion." 

"  "Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Why,  sir,  I  was  gropin'  about  to-day  looking  for  n  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  humorist  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,  arc  }'ou  there  ?" 

Oh  for  the  muse  of  old  Meonides,  or  that  tenth  Lady  from 
I  lelicon  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  his  worst 
terrors,  and  the  confirmation  of  his  unprincipled  wife's  guilt, 
an  accursed  tea-pot : — 

"  Oljstupult,  steteruntque  comix:,  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    SLATHBKG.  CG9 

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  this  ;  but  the  reader 
may  rest  assured  that  so  it  was.  In  the  time  of  which  Ave 
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. 

In  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  et  white  bread"  and  butter  weie 
a  decided  improvement.  This  costly  indulgence  was  naturally 
and  justly  looked  upon  as  an  act  of  domestic  profligacy,  alto- 
gether unjustifiable  on  the  part  of  the  poor  and  struggling 
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  injurious  consequences,  in  a 
moral  point  of  view,  end  here.     Wives  and  daughters  have 


270  BARNEY  BBADY  S  GOOSE  ;  OK, 

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  prejudice?, 
however,  does  not  end  even  here.  It  was  reported-  by  the 
husbands j  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  families,  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  !  Sure  it 
was  well  known  that  the  devil  was  always  present,  and  made 
the  "tay"  himself;  and  sis  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  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  wTas  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  theirinoffensive  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   SLAJHBKG.  Til 

than  the  unhappy  people  themselves.  It  was  truly  amusing 
to  witness  the  harmless  but  covert  warfare  which  went  0Tl  &e" 
tween  the  husbands  and  wives  of -a  village,  who  assailed  each 
other  as  if  from  masked  batteries,  whilst  a  firm  an&iuov- 
ruptible  esprit  du  carps  knit  the  individuals  on  each  side 
together — thus  joining  themselves  into  a  most  cunning  league 
for  the  purpose  of  circumventing  the  opposite  party.  Andir 
later  times,,  when  tea  was  sanctioned  at  least  once  a  week — 
to  wit,  on  Sunday  morning — it  was  highly  diverting  to  witness 
the  manoeuvres  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  secure  it  to 
themselves.  But  alas  !  those  good  innocent  days  are  gone, 
and  we  fear  for  ever ! — But  to  return — 

"  Heaven  and  earth,  your  reverence  I"  exclaimed  Barney, 
when  he  had  recovered  himself,  "  what's  to  be  done  ?  I'm  a 
ruined  man,  an1  my  wife's  worse." 

Now  nobody  living  understood  the  nature  of  Barney's 
grievance  better  than  the  priest,  to  whom,  upon  the  woftil 
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." 

"  Nine  months  !  how  is  that?  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  The  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  ;    Oil, 

gans'  wives.  Ay  are  they ;  an'  the  truth,  the  naked  truth,  is, 
sir,  that  they're  all-roddled  wid  the  same  stick — divil  a  tiling 
but  truth  I'm  tellin'  you. 

"  Tut !  you're  dreaming,  Barney.  How  could  youi  wife 
afford  to  drink  tea  ?  Where  could  she  get  the  money  for  it  ? 
You  have  none  to  spare)  I  believe ;  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  1  got  from  an  aunt  o'  mine ;  and  may  all  the  plagues 
of  Aygip  light  upon  her,  an'  on  the  dotin'  ould  goose  of  a 
gandher  that's  along  wid  her  1" 

"  Why,  what  has  the  goose  to  do  with  your  wife's  tea- 
drinking?" 

"Every  thing,  and  be  cursed  to  her—  the  diny  blackguard 
fowl  made  me  a  laughingstock  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-dhriuker,  your  reverence  knows, 
will  do  any  thing." 

"But  the  goose,  Barney  ?  I  can't  connect  the  goose  witt 
your  wife's  tea-drinking." 

if  Thonom  an  dioual,  sir — the  same  goose  brought  us  a 
uuekin'  of  eleven  as  fine  fat  birds  as  ever  you  tasted  in  your 
life ;  an'  confusion  to  the  one  of  them  but  she  drank  in  tea, 
barrin'  two  shillings  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,"  replied  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  fit  now,  Barney?" 


DARK    DOINGS    AT    SLATHBEG.  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  ine  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  you  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  may'nt  be  too  late,  so  far  as  I'm  consarned ;  for  they  say 
that  a  tay-dhrinker  has  no  scruples  good  or  bad.  Oh  murdher  ! 
God  pity  the  man  that  has  a  tay-dhrinkin'  wife,  an'  undher- 
takes  to  rear  geese !  I'm  nothing  but  a  marthyr  to  them." 

"Barney,  I'll  tell  you  what  you'll  do,"  says  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  thing;  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  yon 
proper  instructions." 

Barney  thanked  the  priest,  rolled  it  up  in  the  tail  of  las 
great-coat  as  before,  and  mads  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 


-''*  baraky  brady's  goose. 

the  tea-pot  without  the  possibility  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  inclination 
to  melody — whether  as  the  result  of  accident  or  design. 

"  Barney,  dear,"  said  she,  with  more  affection  than  usual, 
"  where  wor  you  ?" 

"  In  several  vlaces,  Aileen  my  honey.  I  ,c?en  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  anything  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  clays,  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  absence  and  the  rapid  expresses  that  passed 
from  time  to  time  between  them.  The  fact  was,  that  the  finding 
of  the  tea-pot  proved  a  very  fortunate  discovery,  and  Avas  at- 
tended by  a  no  less  important  result  than  the  breaking  up  oi 
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   immorality  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  so 
severe  an  interdict  against  the  forbidden  beverage,  as  alto 
Ectner  suppressed  the  practice  throughout  the  parish. 


CONDY  CULLEN 


THE    EXCISEMAN    DEFEATED. 

Young  Condy  Cullen  was  descended  from  a  long  line  of 
private  distillers,  and  of  course,  exhibited  in  his  own  person  all 
the  practical  wit,  sagacity,  cunning,  and  fertility  of  invention, 
Avhich  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  Ave  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 — the  gauger.  In  fact,  Condy's 
talents  did  not  merely  consist  in  an  acquaintance  with  the 
hereditary  tricks  of  his  family.  These,  of  themselves,  would 
prove  but  a  miserable  defence  against  the  ever-varying 
ingenuity,  with  Avhich  the  progressive  skill  of  the  still-hunter 
masks  his  approaches,  and  conducts  his  designs.  On  the 
contrary,  every  new  plan  of  the  gauger  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  deliberation — Paddy's,  from 
the  very  nature  of  the  circumstances,  must  be  necessarily 
extemporaneous  and  rapid.  The  hostility  between  the  parties, 

275 


276  coxdy   cullcn;  or, 

being,  as  it  is,  carried  on  through  such  varied  stratagem  on 
both  sides,  and  characterized  by  such  adroit  and  able  duplicity, 
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 — be- 
tween 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  his  lynx-eyed  foe,  the  ganger. 
They  are  curious  as  throwing  light  upon  the  national  character 
of  our  people,  und  as  evidences  of  the  surprising  readiness  of 
wit,  fertility  of  invention,  and  irresistible  humour,  which  they 
mix  up  with  almost  every  actual  eonexvm  of  life,  no  matter  how 
difficult  or  critical  it  may  be.  Nay,  it  mostly  happens  that 
the  character  of  the  peasant  in  all  its  fulness,  rises  in  propor- 
tion to  what  he  is  called  upon  to  encounter,  and  that  the 
laugh  at,  or  the  hoax  upon  the  gauger,  keeps  pace  with  the 
difficulty  that  is  overcome.     But  now  to  our  short  story. 

Two  men  in  the  garb  of  gentlemen  were  riding  along  a  re- 
mote by-road,  one  morning  in  the  month  of  October,  about  the 
year  1827,  or  '28,  I'm  not  certain  which.  The  air  wa9  re- 
markably 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  valleys  as  his 
beams  could  not  reach,  until  evening  chilled  their  influence  too 
much  to  absorb  the  feathery  Avhiteness  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.     Iu  point  of  fact,  it   waa  a 


THE    EXCISEMAN    DEFEATED.  2'i'7 

moderately  inclined  plane  or  slope  rather  than  a  declivity  ; 
bnt  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 
mgbt  almost  imagine  it  possible  to  walk  upon  their  surface. 
O  coming  within  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  this 
a  gle,  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  lit  with  that  vivacious  spark- 
ling of  habitual  sagacity,  which  marks  the  practised  gauger 
among  ten  thousand.  For  a  single  moment  he  drew  up  his 
horse,  an  action  which,  however  slight  in  itself,  intimated 
more  plainly  than  he  could  have  wished,  the  obvious  interest 
which  had  just  been  excited  in  him.  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  declivity.  To 
gallop  to  the  spot,  dismount,  cross  the  ditch  also,  and  pursue 
him,  was  only  the  work  of  a  few  minutes. 

"  We  have  him,"  said  the  gauger,  "  we  have  him — one 
thing  is  clear,  he  cannot  escape  us." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Stint  on,"  replied  his  companion — 
"as  for  me,  not  being  an  officer  of  his  Majesty's  Excise,  I 
decline  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  folloAving  lines,  in  a  spirit  of  that  hearty 
hilarity  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  solemuly  swear  now,  I'll  ne'er  have  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  CONDT    CULLEN  J  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,  gintlemen." 

"  I  say,  my  lad,"  said  the  gauger,  "  where  is  the  customer 
with  the  keg  on  his  back? — he  crossed  over  there  this 
moment." 

"  Where,  when,  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,  sir  ?" 

"  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  1  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  gauger 
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 


'/fIB    EXCISEMAN    DEFEATED.  279 

the  road  there  below,  and  runnin'  down  the  other  side  of  that 
ditch." 

This  was  too  palpable  a  lie  to  stand  the  test  even  of  a  glance 
at  the  ditch  in  question  ;  which  was  nothing  more  than  a  slight 
mound  that  ran  down  a  long  lea  field,  on  -which  there  was 
not  even  the  appearance  of  a  shrub. 

The  ganger  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  ?oul  that  a  rat  could  not 
have  gone  in  that  direction,  without  our  seeing  it?" 

"  Bedad  an'  I  saw  him,"  returned  the  lad,  "  Avid  a  grey  coat 
upon  him,  that  was  a  little  too  short  in  the  tail — it's  better 
than  half  an  hour  agone." 

"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,  v/idin  the  time,  barrin'  myself." 

The  gaugor  eyed  him  closely  for  a  short  space,  and  pulling 
out  half-a-crown,  said — "Iiarkee,  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  himself  might  be  the  actual 
smuggler.  On  re-considering  the  matten,  this  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 
gauger.     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  curi- 
osity, perplexity,  and  wonder. 

"  Why  so  ?"  replied  Stinton — c:  we  shall  see — we  shall  soon 
see." 

"  Surely  you  don't  think  1  vc  hid  the  keg  about  me,"  said 
the  other,  his  features  now  relaxing  into  such  an  appearance 
of  utter  simplicity,  as  would  have  certainly  made  any  other 
man  but  a  gauger  give  up  the  examination  as  hopeless,  and 
exonerate  the  boy  from  any  participation  whatsoever  in  the 
transaction. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  the  gauger,  "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. 


2S1 


His  companion  was  certainly  astonished  in  no  small  decree, 
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  tins  gentle  man 
had  in  the  transaction,  arose  from  the  mere  gratification  which 
a  keen  observer  of  character,  gifted  with  a  strong  relish  for 
humour,  might  be  supposed  to  feel.  The  gauger,  in  sifting  the 
matter,  and  scenting  the  trail  oi  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  nut 
a  moment  in  letting  us  know  where  you've  hid  the  keg." 

"  The  sorra  bit  of  it  I  hid— it  fell  off  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  thin  hedge, 
which  could  by  no  means  conceal  it. 

"  CartwrighV  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  thing  that  whatever  direction 
he  takes  from  this  spot  is  the  wrong  one ;  so  back  here,  yuii, 
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 
altogether  inimitable. 

"  I  say,  my  boy,"  asked  Stinton  ironically,  "  don't  you  look 
rather foulish  now?  can  you  tell  your  right  hand  from  your  left?" 

"  1  can,"  replied  Condy,  holding  up  his  left,  "  there's  my 
right  hand." 

■'  And  what  do  you  call  the  other?"  said  Cartwright. 


282  CONDY    CULLEN  ;    OK, 

"My  left,  bedad,  any  how,  an'  that's  true  enough." 
Both  gentleman  daughed  heartily. 

"  But  it's  carrying  the  thing  a  little  too  far?  said  ho 
gauger  :  "in  the  meantime  let  us  hear  how  you  prove  it  P" 

"  Aisy  enough,  sir,"  replied  Condy,  "  bekase  I  am  left- 
handed — this,"  holding  up  the  left,  "  is  the  right  hand  tome, 
whatever  you  may  say  to  the  conthrary." 

Coudy'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  gauger,  "  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,  loud,  and  hearty,  that  he  looked  at  him  with 
amazement — "  Hey,  dcy,"  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." 

Now,  in  this  contest  between  the  gauger  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  indefinable  visage  imaginable,  except  in  the 


THE    EXCISEMAN    DEFEATED.  2.88 

matter  of  las  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,  Avhich  mark  extended  down  to  the  furze  bushes 
that  grew  at  the  foot  of  the  slope  where  they  then  stood. 

As  a  staunch  old  hound  lays  his  nose  to  the  trail  of  a  hare 
or  i'ox,  so  did  the  ganger  pursue  the  trace  of  the  keg  down  the 
little  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  accomplished, 
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  gauger  was  now  complete,  and  a  com- 
placent sense  of  his  own  sagacity  sat  visible  on  his  features. 
C  ondy'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  laugh  against,  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- 
nantly ;  "an:  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it,  nor  afeard  to  tell  it  to 
you  or  any  man-" 


284  CONDY    CULLEN  *,    OE, 

"  What,  of  the  Keerigans  of  Killoghan?" 

"  Ay  jist,  of  the  Keerigans  of  Killoghan." 

"I  know  the  family,"  said  Stinton,  "they  are  decent  in  their 
way — but  come,  my  lad,  don't  lose  your  temper,  and  answer 
me  another  question.  Where  were  you  bringing  this  whiskey  ?" 

"  To  a  bettherman  than  ever  stood  in  your  shoes,"  replied 
Condy,  in  a  tone  of  absolute  defiance — "  to  a  gintleman  any 
way,"  Avith  a  peculiar  emphasis  on  the  word  gintleman. 

"But  what's  his  name?" 

"  Mr.  Stinton's  his  name — gauger  Stinton." 

The  shrewd  exciseman  stood  and  fixed  his  keen  eye  od 
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  forgot  ten  the  line 
of  cunning  policy  he  had  previously  adopted,  in  a  mortification 
which  had  predominated  over  duplicity  and  art. 

Me  is  now  speaking  truth,  thought  the  gauger  ;  he  has  lost 
his  temper,  and  is  completely  off  his  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  looV  of  strong  con- 
tempt at  the  gauger,  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  mau  I  never  seen?"  replied  Condy, 
.-till  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  yon  were 
bringing  the  keg  to.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  what  you  must  do 
for  me ;  proceed  to  my  house  with  as  little  delay  as  possible  ; 
ask  to  see  my  daughter — ask  for  Miss  Stinton — take  tliis  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  gallou  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,  sirra.  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  such  a  weary  trudge  as  1  had  wid  it,  but  my  breakfast?" 

*'  Here,"  said  Stinton,  throwing  him  half-a-crown,  "  take 
that  along  with  it,  and  now  be  off- — or  stop — Cartvvright,  will 
you  dine  with  me  to-day,  and  let  us  broach  the  keg?  Til 
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  a  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  addressed  the  gauger  as  follows : — 

"  Do  you  not  put  this  lad,  Stinton,  in  a  capacity  to  over- 
reach you  yet  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  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  n>v  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  sail,  these  Keerigans — notorious  illicit,  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." 

"  i\rot  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  Aveek,  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 of  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  him  meeting 
them. 

"  Gintlemen,"  said  he.  "  how  do  I  know  that  aither  ofyous 
is  Mr.  Stinton,  or  that  the  house  you  directed  me  to  is  his  ?  I 
know  that  if  the  whiskey  doesnt  go  to  him,  I  may  lave  the 
counthry  !" 

"  You  are  either  a  deeper  rogue,  or  a  more  stupid  fool  than  1 


THE    EXCISEMAN     DEFEATED. 


2S7 


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  to  do  widout  my 
breakfast — Gintlemen,  tell  me  the  truth,  bekase  I'd  only  be 
murdhered  out  of  the  face." 

"  Why,  you  idiot,''  said  the  gauger,  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 ;  w  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. 

"  Now,"  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  himself  certain 
against  being  deceived,  he  Avould  have  made  the  best  of  his 
way  from  us — a  rogue  never  wantonly  puts  himself  in  the 
way  of  danger  or  detection." 

That  evening,  about  live  o'clock,  Stinton,  Cartwright,  and 
two  others  arrived  at  the  house  of  the  worthy  gauger,  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.  No  sooner  were  the  viands  discussed,  the  cloth 
removed,   ai  asses  ready,  than  their  generous   host 


288  ccndy  cullen;  ott, 

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  gauger  and  Cartwright  both  groaned  in  unison. 

'-'  No  keg !"   said  the  gauger. 

"  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  gauger,  "  I'm  knocked  up,  outwitted, — 

oh  ::< 

"  Bought  and  sold,"  added  Cartwright. 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  gauger,  "  I  must  hear  it  out  ?" 

"  As  a  token,"  proceeded  Miss  Stinton,  "  that  he  was  to  get 

the  five  gallon  keg  on  the  little  stillion,  under  the  blunderbuss, 

for  Captain  Dal  ton." 
••  wild  he  got  it  ?" 

"  Yes  sir,  he  got  it ;  for  I  took  the  kry  as  a  sufficient  token.' 
"But,  Maggy — hell  and  fury,  hear  me,  child— surely  ho 

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  teas  in  the  cellar  away  with  him." 
"  Stinton,"  said  Cartwright,  "send  round  the  bottle." 
"  The  rascal,"  ejaculated  the  gauger,  "  we  shall  drink  his 

uealth  " 

And  on  relating  the  circumstances,  the  company  drank  the 

.sheepish  lad's  health,  that  bought  and  sold  the  gauger. 


A  ItECOKD  OF  THE  HEART : 

OR, 

THE  PARENTS'  TRIAL. 

It  may  appear  to  many  persons,  that  the  life  and  death  of  a 
harmless  idiot  boy  can  present  very  few  facts  or  incidents  oi 
sufficient  importance  to  interest  readers  in  general,  or  to  touch 
those  chords  which  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  feeling  into  which  the 
infinite  shiftings  of  external  circumstances,  added  to  its  uncon- 
scious experience  during  the  progress  of  general  life,  may 
throw  it.  Would  Trenck,  when  buoyant  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  individual  who 
would  avow  himself  incapable  of  entertaining  sympathy  with 
any  human  being,  no  matter  how  degradf  d.  A  mortal  bcin^ 
o  269 


290  A    RECORD    OF    THE    HEART  ;    O'?, 

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  life ;  that  is  to  say, 
he  filled  that  most  important  position  in  society,  which  lies 
between  the  wealthy  farmer  and  the  unpretending  country 
gentlemen.  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  than  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 
inclined  towards  the  active  pursuits  and  healthy  amusements 
of  a  country  life,  he  ultimately  gave  up  all  pretensions  to 
that  profession,  took  the  farm  I  have  alluded  to,  and  in  a 
short  time  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  most  promising  and 
intelligent  agriculturist. 

AVilson,  when  about  to  determine  his  pursuit  in  life,  m  s 
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 
delicacy  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 
cf  sentiment  and  study,  which  after  all  was  little  else  than  tho 


THE  parents'  trial.  291 

absence  of  sun  and  wind,  began  to  disappear,  and  his  features 
to  assume  the  firm  and  manly  tone  of  health  and  exercise.  His 
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  Fielding  humourously  parodied 
it — Ferns  consumer e  nati.  Many  of  the  fair  sentimentalists— 
a  class  who  look  upon  health  to  be  incompatible  with  their 
idea  of  beauty — now  began  to  think  that  ho  was  getting  quite 
coarse  and  vulgar,  and  were  frequently  hoard  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  was  true,  that  a  very  remarkable 
change  did  certainly  take  place,  not  only  in  his  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  polish  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  relish  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  shew  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  ;    OR, 

man.  He  had  also  given  up  the  custom  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-cared,  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  educa- 
tion may  meet  in  the  same  person,  and  form  a  model  of  gentle- 
manly 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 
Avhich  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  feeling,  he  paid  his  addresses  in  a  quarter  where  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  Avas  not  one  of  those  who  parade  their  accom- 
plishments 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  pain- 
ful. 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  reflec- 
tion. Indeed  the  slightest  opportunity  of  conversation  dis- 
closed 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  reluc- 
tance was  certainly  manifested  by  himself  and  his  family 
against  the  proposed  alliance,  but  Wilson's  manners,  ^ood 
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 
rinooth  margin  contrasted  beautifully  with  the  summer  sheen 
of  its  waters.  Behind  it  rose  a  semicircular  sweep  of  fine  old 


294  A    RECORD    OF    THE    HEART  J    OR, 

timber,  tenanted  by  a  ro  >kery,  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  glergyman.  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  from  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  their  heart  with  an  affeo- 


the  parents'  trial.  295 

tion,  which  for  the  first  time  was  absorbed  in  a  stronger 
feeling  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  lit  up  their  hearts  into  momentary  gratitude 
and  happiness,  the  quick  memory  of  their  want  startled  them 
back  into  anxiety  and  gloom. 

A  fifth  event  again  approached — passed — and  added  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  disrelish  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 
visible  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  Ave  ourselves  are  apt  to  imagine.  His  mind 
at  once  dissatisfied  and  enfeebled,  Avas  noAv  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  aAArare  of  it, 
Wilson  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  Avhich  constituted 
his  OAvn  unhappiness  ;  and  he  soon  found,  that,  with  charac- 
teristic consistency,  every  new  objection  against  truth,  Avhilst 
it  flattered  the  pride  of  his  intellect,  disturbed  his  soul  Avitb 
an  impatient  sense  of  his  own  condition,  as  Avell  as  of  the 
general  disorder  which  he  thought  marked  the  great  mass  of 
human  opinions ;  so  that  whilst  he  advanced  in  his  neAv  doc- 
trines, he  found  that  his  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  Avholesome  error,  than  to  fix  his  faith 
upon  one  of  those  philosophical  doctrines,  which  relax  the 
morals,  Avhilst  they  raise  the  mind  into  a  vain  and  empty 
pride  in  its  OAvn  powers. 

To  such  a  fluctuating  and  unsettled  state  of  thinking  and 
feeling  was  Wilson  reduced,  Avhen  his  Avife  had  the  unspeak- 
able transport  of  presenting  him  Avith  a  son. 

FeAV  men  can  say  what  they  are,  and  still  foAver  Avhat  they 
Avill  be. — Wilson  argued  narrowly  ;  and  the  consequence  was, 
that  substituting  feeling  for  reason,  he  adopteds  cepticism 


THE  parents'  trial.  297 

not  because  it  was  truth,  but  because  he  had  no  son.  There 
are  thousands  who  reason  on  the  subject  of  religion  in  this 
way,  and  who,  when  the  feelings  upon  which  their  opinions 
have  been  formed,  pass  away,  or  happen  to  be  changed  by 
6ome  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  therefore  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  living 
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  Avhich  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  his  son 
Wilson  repented  his  errors,  and  deeply  regretted  the  day  that 
ho  ever  dared  murmur  against  Providence,  or  to  question 
those  truths  which,  like  the  stars  of  heaven,  are  visible  by 
their  own  light. 

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  little 

o2 


298  A  RECOKD  OF  THE  HEART;  Oil, 

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  religion  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  youn«- ; 
and,  although  it  is  injurious  to  allow  this  unaccountable  pre- 
dilection 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  Jirst  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  whilst 
indulging  in  all  those  happy  hopes  and  prophecies,  to  which 
the  parent's  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  like  grandpapa :  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  mamma  kissed  his  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  ob- 
served that  sometimes  for  a  moment  the  serene  brow  of  his 
mother  would  become  shaded  as  she  contemplated  him.  This, 
u  here  he  knew  the  fulness  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,  which  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  attribut- 
ing what  he  had  observed  to  causes  which  we  must  admit  were 
very  natural,  he  felt  very  little  disposed  to  pay  attention  to 
them,  especially  as  his  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  solicitude,  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,  which 
even  his  presence  could  not  restrain,  he  ventured  to  inquire 
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  are  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 


THE  parents'  trial.  301 

that  I  cannot  but  participate  in  your  anxiety,  whatever  it  may 
proceed  from." 

"  A  little  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  Wilson,  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,  whithsr  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  which 
obscured  the  joys  of  the  mother.  Neither,  1  owever,  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  his  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  child,  my 
child,"  she  sobbed,  ''from  the  moment  of  his  birth  he  hasnever 
smiled  upon  his  mother  !  And  oh  !  Alick,  Alick,  why  is  this 
so  ?" 

The  husband  paused,  his  lip  quivered,  and  a  paleness  like 
that  of  death  overspread  his  temples. 

"It  is  true,"  said  he,  "nor  on  me,  his  father  ;  he  knows 
us  not." 


302  A    RECOKD    OF    THE    HEART  J    O!!, 

He  rose,  wrung  his  kinds,  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,"  replied  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 
recognized  me." 

"  As  yet  he  has  recognized  nobody,"  replied  the  father, 
"and  perhaps  after  all  Ave  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  brilliant  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  believe  in 
what  it  wishes.  The  mother,  as  she  surveyed  the  baby, 
appeared  to  be  much  relieved  by  this,  and  Wilson  himself  drew 
consolation  from  what  he  had  said. 

"  You  will  see,"  he  added,  "  that  in  a  little  time  the  light  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  believe  me,  if  God  Almighty  spares  him,  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 — 

"  Incipe,  parve  puer,  risu  cognoscere  matrem." 

Which,  having  explained  to  his  wife,  the  conversation  termi- 
nated, much  more  to  their  satisfaction  than  either  haJ 
apprehended  it  would  have  done. 


THE   parents'  trial.  303 

Our  readers,  from  what  we  have  written,  will  naturally 
suppose  that  those  most  earnest  aspirations  of  the  parents  were 
not  to  be  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,  wThen  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  const ernition  of  her 
cousin.  On  recovering,  she  rallied  as  well  as  she  could,  and 
dropping  hastily  on  her  knees,  held  her  boy  up,  as  it  were 
to  heaven  ;  but  the  fulness  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  lux- 
ury of  tears  relieved  her.  She  then  rang  the  bell,  and  in- 
quired from  one  of  the  servants  if  her  master  had  gone  out, 
who  pointed  to  him  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 — 


"  Ma)7  the  name  of  God  be  praised  for  e\ 


•er 


"My  dear  Alick — return  immediately — ourchild's  eyeshave 
smiled  upon  its  mother — he  knows  me — oh,  he  knows  me  I  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. 

Jn  due  course  of  time  the  father  was  also  recognized,  and 
subsequently  the  sisters  and  his  little  brother.  What  a  happy 
family  at  this  period  was  that  of  which  we  write.  Not  a  Avish 
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  little  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  tnem  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  the  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 
that  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  wa  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  which  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  though  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  prin- 
cipal hope  of  their  house  and  of  their  hearts — 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  everything  done  that  could  in  the  remotest  degree  be 
supposed  capable  of  rendering  the  harmless  creature  any  as- 
sistance. Even  the  peasant  doctor,  with  his  list  of  infallible 
herbs,  and  the  wise  old  woman,  reported  to  be  equally  suc- 
cessful, 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 
10  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 
bop  dead  than  live  through  life  a  hapless  idiot.  An  attack  of 
measles,  however,  soon  taught  them  how  little  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  responsibility  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 
shew3  a  beaiuitul  economy  in  the  arrangement  of  our  moral 
feelings.  A  child,  for  instance,  is  loved  with  an  affection  pecu- 
liarly 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  wever  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 
his  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  lor  his 
mother,  she  never  was  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,  thut 
nothing  on  earth  oould  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  lightly  to 
the  room  door,  as  she  was  in  the  habit  of  doing,  lest,  should  he 
be  asleep,  the  noise  of  her  footstep  might  awaken  him.  On 
looking  in,  she  perceived  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  room, 
and  paused  a  moment  to  asoertain,  by  the  manner  of  his 
breathing,  if  he  were  asleep.  The  child  neither  saw  her,  nor 
could  he  have  heard  her  foot.  However,  while  listening,  as  we 
have  said,  the  words  "Mamma,  come, — mamma,  come,''  fell 
faintly  on  her  ear,  for  the  poor  thing  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  little  feverish  hand,  and 
placing  it  on  her  neck,  said,  as  if  to  himself,  "  now"  intimating 
his  satisfaction  al  having  her  beside  him.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
say,  that  the  sluices  of  the  mother's  grief  were  opened,  or  that 
her  tears  fell  in  showers  upon  his  cheek. 

Another  incident,  equally  affecting,  took  place  after  he  haf* 
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  hiin.  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  about  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  unceasing  attention  which  they  paid 
*nin.  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  plaything  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  his  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  tVv\  light  of  reason.     But,  though 


THE    PARENTS'   TRIAL.  309 

healthy,  the  poor  boy  was  of  a  slender  make,  aud  the  feeble- 
ness 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  his  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 
attachment  to  his  little  brother,  which,  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 — their  hearts  overflowing 
with  affection  towards  both,  as,  with  their  little  arms  wreathed 
round  each  others  necks,  they  walked  about  the  lawn — a  per- 
fect livi  ig  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  little  incident  con- 
nected with  the  boy,  and  indeed  with  both,  filled  their  hearts 
with  that  enjoyment  which  love  like  that  thf.y  bore  them  can 
extract  from  such  details.  If  their  father,  ibr  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  little 
hand  into  his,  and  in  this  manner  all  would  return  to  the 
house,    the   delighted   parent   listening   to   their  prattle,   01 


310  A    RECORD    OF    THE    HEART  J    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  balbutire  which  hang  about 
the  accents  of  childhood,  and  which  also  cling  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  idiom 
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  slightest  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  Spirits,  than  a  consideration  of  the 
many  almost  miraculous  escapes  which  may  be  witnessed  in 
the  lives  of  children.  One  of  those  which  befel  little  Alick,  we 


THE    PARENTS'    TRIAL.  311 

shall  mention.     The  clay  on  Avliich  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  his 
brother  brought  him  home,  for  both  got  hungry,  and  wanted 
bread  and  butter.     In  a  t-hort  time  his  manly  little  guardian, 
overcome  by  heat  an  1  exercise,  fell  asleep,  and  the  poor  boy 
sauntered  out  to  amuse  himself  in  a  little  solitary  ramble,  as 
he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  only  when  any  slight  indis- 
position or  oth      cise  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  pleasure  in  complying  with  the 
harmless  wishes  of  the  gentle  creature,  and  she  accordingly 
took  it  oft'  her  own  neck,  and  pinned  it  around  his  shoulders, 
just  as  she  her:  elf  had  worn  it.     He  immediately  felt  it  with 
apparent  curiosity,  and  giving  her  a  look  indicative  of  the 
pride  and  delight  of  a  child,  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  will  buy  her  a 
watch" — a  promise  which  his  father  was  in  the  habit  of  making 
to  himself.  He  lingered  about  the  lawu  for  some  time,  ad 
miring  the  gaudy  colour  of  the  kerchief,  and  feeling  its  texture 
when,  passing  through  a  gate  which  was  accidentally  and 
negligently  left  open,  he  entered  an  adjoining  field  and 
sauntered  along,  murmuring  to  himself,  or  addressing  his 
little  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 
line  bull,  which  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  fierce  antipathy 
against  the  colour  of  red,  immediately  on  seeing  the  child  pass 
him,  began  to  growl  forth  those  low  terrific  bello wings  which 
indicate  his  rage,  and  to  paAv  the  ground,  which  he  also  tore 
up  with  his  thick  strong  horns  ;  Ins  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 
their  playthings,  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,  Avalked  away  without  I  eing  even  aware  of  his  danger.  The 
animal,  still  attracted  by  the  glare  of  the  hated  colour,  turned 
his  rage  upon  the  kerchief,  which  he  goared  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  close,  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  lie  visible  in  such  occur- 


THE    PAKENTS    TRIAL.  313 

rences,  they  may  by  veiy  plausible  reasoning  be  also  imputed 
to  the  contingencies  which  arise  out  of  the  innumerable  va- 
riety of  incidents  that  meet  and  harmonize  together  or  clash 
like  antagonist  principles  in  life. 

The  next  record,  therefore,  of  the  gentle  boy  which  we  shall 
put  down,  is  one  of  a  different  and  much  more  pathetic  descrip- 
tion. His  mother's  love  for  him,  as  the  reader  already  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  silken  locks;  and  having  done 
this,  she  looked  upon  the  innocence  with  which  he  held  up 
his  lips  for  the  kiss  which  rewarded  his  patience,  as  her  most 
delightful  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  slight  attack 
of  fevei*,  was  forced  to  intermit  her  labour  of  love,  and  allow 
her  darling  child  to  be  washed  and  combed  by  his  eldest  sis- 
ter, whom  next  to  mamma  and  Willy  he  doated  on.  He  sub- 
mitted 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  vain 
to  seek  for  in  any  other — that  mysterious  charm  which  in 
after  life,  and  when  that  mother  is  in  dust,  comes  over  me- 
mory like  a  fragrance,  anl  brings  the  heart  back  from  pre- 
sent mysery,  sorrow,  and  calamity,  to  those  days  of  innocence 
and  happiness  which  make  a  mother's  love  shine  as  the  only 
star  that  can  light  us  back  through  the  darkness  of  the  past 
in  those  days  which  the  bitter  present  turns  into  happiness 
by  the  contrast. 

This  attack,  which  confined  his  mother  to  her  bed  for  a  few 

Jays,  pioved  to  be  one  of  no  serious  apprehension,  either  to 

p 


1314 


A    RECORD    OF    THE    HEART 


the  physician  who  attended  her,  or  to  her  own  friends.  Nothing 
m  life,  however,  could  present  a  more  affectionate,  touching, 
and  melancholy  proof  of  loneliness  and  sorrow,  than  the  con- 
duct of  this  pitiable  child.  His  daily  amusements,  his  play- 
things, nay,  even  his  brother  Willy — all— all  were  forgotten, 
and  the  poor  thing  Avent  about  moping  and  speaking  to  him- 
self, 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,  stealing  to  her  side,  or  when  gently  intimidated  from 

tering  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  inquire  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  listened,  and  in  a  little  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  wouW  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  his 
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,  darling,  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  wa<h 
and  kiss  me  again,"  he  exclaimed  ;  and  as  he  spoke  he  passed 
gently  out  of  the  room  to  seek  his  brother  and  communicatt- 
to  him  the  removal  of  the  care  which  had  for  the  last  fe^ 
days  pressed  upon  his  innocent  spirit. 

Many  a  bitter  tear  did  these  words  cause  that  mamma  to 
shed,  long  after  his  beloved  face  and  fair  shining  head  had 
been  removed  from  among  the  circle  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.  Alick,  as  the  eldest,  had  his  claim  first  granted, 
and  a  singular  delight  it  seemed  to  give  the  child.  He  kissed 
his  papa — laughed  often — murmured  little  words  and  frag- 
ments of  short  sentences,  that  nobody  understood  but  himself 
and  his  brother;  and  finally  fell  asleep,  singing  a  little  nur- 
sery 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  him  a  penny. 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do  with  it,  darling  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  It's  about  papa,"  he  said,  nodding  with  a  smile,  which 
seemed  to  indicate  some  little  plan  or  mystery. 

"  Well,  I  will  not  inquire,"  added  his  mother  ;  "  but  you 
shall  have  it,  my  life."  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  little  surprised 
to  see  the  poor  child  struggling,  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  knowing  that  in  point  of  fact  the  child  was  wrong,  he 
began  to  reason  with  him  as  well  as  he  could. 

"  It  is  not  your  night,  my  dear  Alick, — this  is  Willy's  night." 

"  No,  papa,  me  bought  it — Willy  has  the  two " 

"  Two  what,  my  darling?" 

But  ere  the  father  or  his  little  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  piinciples  upon  which  the  child 
acted,  and  consecjuently  asked  his  brother  if  he  understood 
what  Alick  said,  when  the  little  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  little  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  little  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  his  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  his  brother's  knowledge,  the  two 
halfpence  into  his  pocket,  had  accomplished,  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  disorganised  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  overshadoAved  by  his  loss — 
when  the  lengthened  childhood  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  little  plans  of  love  to  be  effected — or  his  little  barter- 
ings  with  his  brother  to  take  place  ;  and  never  again  was  his 
timid  step  to  be  heard  stealing  in  artless  sorrow  and  sympathy 
to  the  sick  bed  of  his  mother,  whom,  in  his  innocence,  he 
thought  his  kiss  might  cure. 

At  the  beginning  of  spring,  about  his  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  all  the  children  except  himself, 
whom  it  seemed  to  spare.  This  was,  however,  a  treacherous 
indulgence,  and  its  subsequent  attack  on  their  favourite,  just 
when  all  theo  thers  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  declined 
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 
ohild.  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 
themselves  prepared  for  the  worst. 

Language ~  could  not  describe  the  sorrow  and  despair  that 
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  hid  never  seen  the  complaint  before,  from  entertaining  any 
serious  apprehensions  of  Alick.  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  altogether  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  latenc  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  him,  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  trembling  in  the  heart  of  those  it  loves. 

Nothing,  however,  which  we  can  write,  can  give  the  reader 
such  a  clear  and  affecting  account  of  this  innocent  death-bed 
as  the  short  journal,  Avritten  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,  com- 
menced 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  drops  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  his  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  malignant  attack,  and  moi  e 
unfavourable  symptoms  than  his.     But  lest  it  should  be  t!  e 


320  A    RECORD    OF    THE    HEART  ;    OH, 

will  of  the  Almighty  to  remove  bim,  I  am  resolved  to  mark 
down  a  register  of  our  darling's  pains  and  sufferings,  and  of 
everything  connected  with  him,  that,  when  he  is  gone,  we  caa 
bring  him  back  to  our  memory  during  the  most  affecting  pe- 
riod 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  i3  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  is  so  much  attached,  is,  now  that 
she  has  heard  the  doctor's  opinion,  weeping  bitterly  in  her  own 
room,  kissing  his  little  coat,  and  pressing  every  part  of  his 
dress  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  playfellow?  The  innocent  child  replied, 
that  he  would  not  let  him  die.  '  Alas,  my  darling,'  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  him,  but  only  wept  the  more. 

"  Twelve  o'clock. — Alick  is  awake,  and  seems  a  little  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,  which 
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  him  ;  he  then  calls  mamma, 
and  when  1  ask  him  what  he  wants,  he  looks  at  me  and  smiles, 
feebly 


THE    PARENTS     TRIAL.  321 

"  Oh  how  will  my  heart  part  with  him  ?  How  can  I  give 
him  up  ?  Am  I  not  his  mother  ?  Sustain — sustain  me,  O 
God 

"  Two  o'clock,  p.  m. — His  Lrother  has  come  to  his  bed-side, 
and  he  seems  pleaeed  to  see  him.  He  has  given  him  his 
little  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  knew  not 
what  either  the  question  or  answer  means.  Oh  this  is  almost 
too  much  for  my  heart. 

"  At  first,  none  but  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  bit- 
terly together  in  the  parlour,  with  the  exception  of  his  bro- 
ther, 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  fathers  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,  nor  attend  to  the  concerns  of  his 
farm,  nor  to  any  business  whatever.  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  shewed  him 
to  be  unconscious  of  the  cause  of  his  father's  sorrow — a  circum- 
stance that  only  increased  it  the  more.  It  would  appear,  how- 
ever, that  in  some  measure  the  beloved  child  feels  as  if  his  pre- 
sent situation  were  connected  with  the  affliction  of  the  family, 
for  when  asked  how  he  is,  he  uniformly  replies,  '  better.'  But 

p2 


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  little  hands  a  silver  sixpence  fresh  and  glittering 
liom  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. 

1  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  be  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- 
like expression  of  the  child's  eye,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 
The  poor  child  is  quiet,  as  he  always  was,  and  gives  but 
little  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  hid 
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  ex- 
press 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 


THE  parents'  trial.  323 

founded  ;  still,  it  looks  well,  for  lie  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  life,  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  lor 
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  Avas  engaged  ;  at  length 
he  said,  addressing  them,  and  pointing  upwards  with  his  finger, 
1  Isn't  there  heaven  ?'  To  which  they  replied  in  the  affirma- 
tive. '  Then,'  said  he,  '  me  will  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  obliged  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  toss  ? 
I  cannot  tell;  but  I  feel  that  there  is  something  peculiarly 
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 ;  their  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  b€ 
to  God  !  he  is  much,  very  much  better ;  appears  refreshed, 
and  asks  for  some  fotid.  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,  O  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  hcpe  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  \\\a 
little  playthings — 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  delight.  When  our 
darling  speaks,  however,  we  are  obliged  to  put  down  our 
ears  to  his  lips,  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 
oeart's  delight  ?' 


THE    PARENTS'    TRIAL.  #?5 

"  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.'      *         *         * 

"Twelve  o'clock,  noon. — All  glory  be  to  God !  The  doctor 
has  been  with  him, — says  he  is  decidedly  better.  Wine,  a 
little,  is  ordered,  as  our  darling'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  support  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  1  also  to  hope  ?  Joy  is  among 
them  all ;  hut  /  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 — no,  I 
am  not  without  hope. 

"  Eleven  o'clock. — O  God,  that  has  happened  which  almost, 
if  anything  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  brino- 
it  to  him.  Kapturously,  and  with  intense  delight,  did  he 
comply  with  this  intimation  of  the  dai-lingboy.  The  child,  on 
getting  it  into  the  bed,  signed  to  us  to  raise  him ;  and  his 
father  put  his  arm  round  him,  and  kept  him  easily  up.     With 


326  A    RECORD    OF    THE    HEART  J    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,  which  was  in- 
stantly 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  helpless — 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  little  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  him  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'    TRIAL. 

At  length  her  grief  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  inoiFensive 
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  like  a  shadow, 
>vithout  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.  Having  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  tbe  three  persons 
mentioned      We  give  it  without  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  burfct  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,  you  will  rest  this 
night — the  last,  my  angel  boy,  we  can  ever  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  his  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  lip  began  to  quiver 
with  emotion,  "won't  you  speak  to  me — 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 
Ins  grief,  as  he  kissed  him,  and  called  loudly  upon  his  name, 
had  in  it  a  desolateness  of  spirit,  which  smote  the  heorts  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  also  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.  3'2;> 

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  n^at  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  condition  of  faith. 
Such  was  not  Abraham's,  whose  child  was  spared  to  him  in 
consequence  of  his  obedience.  Aa  for  me," — but  here  his  grief 
overcame  him,  and  he  burst  into  tears  exclaiming — "  Yes — I 
am  punished — Alick's  gone /" 


THE  THKEE  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,  1  suppose, 
of  his  carrying  their  name  upon  him. 

Biily,  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 
Avay,  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  him  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  acknowleged  on  all  hands  to  be  the 
complatest  swindler  and  the  poorest  vagabond  in  the  whole 
parish. 

330 

- 


// 


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  his 
mind  to  give  Bill  an  occupation,  and  he  accordingly  bound  him 
to  a  blacksmith ;  but  whether  Bill  was  to  live  or  die  by  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    THREU    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  he  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  countenance.  Never  was  there 
a  blessed  pair  so  well  met ;  and  a  beautiful  sight  it  was  to  see 
them  both  at  breakfast-time  blinking  at  each  other  across  the 
potatoe-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  reeling  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  squalling  brat  on  her  arm, — now 
cuffing  and  dragging  Bill,  and  again  kissing  and  hugging 
him  1  yes,  it  was  a  pleasant  picture  to  see  this  loving  pair  in 
such  a  state ! 

This  might  do  for  a  while,  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 
ibund  that  their  fighting,  and  drinking,  and  idleness  made 
them  the  laughing-sport  of  the  neighbours;  but  neither 
brought  food  to  their  child/ire,  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    IRISH    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 
equalling  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  his  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  himself,  Avith  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  meat  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 
thick  and  heavy  on  me,  and  the  childre'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  knoA 
particularly  well  what  it  is  to  want  them  at  the  present  spak- 
itig  ;  an  empty  sack  won't  stand,  neighbour." 

So  far  Bill  told  him  truth.  The  good  thought  was  in  his 
heart,  because  he  found  himself  on  a  footing  with  the  beggar; 
and  nothing  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,"  replied 
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;  "  lam  cold,  and  a 
warming  at  your  fire  will  do  me  good,  sure  enough.  Oh,  it  is 
a  bitter,  bitter  day,  God  bless  it !" 

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  foi  it,  they  shall 
be  granted." 

Now,  the  truth  is,  that  Bill,  though  he  believed  himself  a 
gveat  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  ?° 

"  Ay,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  three  wishes — that  was  what 
1  said." 

"  Well,''  said  Bill,  "  here  goes, — aha! — let  me  alone,  my 
old  worthy  ! — faith  I'll  overreach  the  parish,  if  what  you  say 
i-  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.     "  Faith  you're  the  sort  to  meet  of 


AN    IRISH    LEGEND.  335 

a  frosty  morning,  when  a  man  wants  his  breakfast ;  and  I'm 
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  something 
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  know  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  quar- 
tered 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  relieve  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  prac- 
tice, 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  chah*, 
however,  soon  spread  ;  so  did  that  of  his  sledge.  In  a  short 
time  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child  would  darken  his  door  ; 
all  avoided  him  and  his  fixtures  as  they  wo  old  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  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;  everybody  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  sin- 
ner, if  you  be  convanient  and  willing,  why,  stand  out  here  ; 
shew  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 
«p  to  him.     Bill  looked  at  the  foot  and  saw  the  hoof 
11  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  thing  fresh  below  ?" 

I  can't  exactly  say,  Bill ;  I  spend  little  of  my  time  down 
now ;  the  Whigs  are  in  office,  and  my  hands  are  conse- 
quently too  full  of  business  here  to  pay  much  attention  to 
anything  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 

Q 


338  THE    THREE    WISHES. 

were  muttering  to  yourself  awhile  ago  ?  If  you  wuut  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  fleshy  side  out,  and  the  woolly  side  in, 
They  Hbe  pleasant  and  cool,  says  Brian  O'Lynii. 

A  cool  pair  would  sarve  you,  Nick. 

"  You're  mighty  waggish  to-day,  Mr.  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 ;  "  m  the  meantime  it  s  ratner  odd 
that  so  respectable  a  man  should  not  have  six  inches  ot 
unbroken  cloth  in  his  apparel.  You  are  as  naked  a  tatter- 
demallion  as  1  ever  laid  my  eyes  on  ;  in  full  dress  for  a  party 
of  scare-crows,  William." 

'•'  That's  my  own  fancy,  Nick  ;  I  don't  work  at  my  trade 
like  a  gentleman.     This  is  my  forge  dress,  you  know." 

"  Well,  Hut  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  ths  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    LEGi.Nl).  339 

know  I  have  a  thriving  trade  of  my  own,  and  that  if  I  like  I 
needn't  be  at  a  loss ;  but  in  the  meantime  I'm  rather  in  a 
kind  of  a  so — so — don't  you  take  ?" 

And  Bill  winked  knowingly,  hoping  to  trick  hirn  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  plain.  Don't  think  I  can  be  lobing  my  time 
with  such  a  pitiful  rascal  as  you  are." 

"  Well,''  says  Bill,  ie  I  want  money,  then,  and  am  ready  to 
come  into  terms.     What  have  you  to  say  to  that,  Nick  P" 

"  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 
quartei-ed  under  your  eye,  and — " 

u  Don't  make  little  of  Waciguards,"  says  Bill,  "  nor  spake 
disparagingly  of  your  own  crest." 

"  Why,  what  would  you  bring,  you  brazen  rascal,  if  you 
were  fairly  put  up  at  auction  ?'' 

"  Faith,  I'd  bring  more  bidders  than  you  would,"  said  Bill, 
"  if  you  were  to  go  off  at  auction  to-morrow.  I  tell  you  they 
should  bid  doicnwards  to  come  to  your  value,  Nicholas.  We 
have  no  coin  small  enough  to  purchase  you  " 

"  Well,  no  matter,"  said  Nick,  "  if  you  are  willing  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. 


o40  THE    THREJB    WISHES. 

"  Won  t  you  give  me  a  luck  penny  ?"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
Tut,"  said  Bill,  "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  oft' 
now,  or  I'll  commit  suicide  on  you.  Your  absence  is  a  co.aial 
to  most  people,  you  infernal  old  profligate.  You  have  injured 
my  morals  even  for  the  short  time  you  have  been  with  me  ; 
lor  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  1  mane, 
Nicholas,  ahagur." 

The  old  gentleman,  as  Bill  spoke,  hopped  across  the  ditch, 
on  his  way  to  Downing  street,  where  of  late  'tis  thought  he 
possesses  much  influence. 

Bill  now  began  by  degree*  to  ehowoff ;  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  Derson  would  speak  to  him  ;  even 
'die  proud  serving  men  at  the  "  Big  House"  would  turn  up  the) 
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  noio  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  fare-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  difference  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  fashion- 
able 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  Avas  "  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  obliged  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  dry  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  words  in  their  cheeks.  The  devil  mend 
him  !     He  deserved  it,  and  more  if  he  got  it. 


343  THE    THREE    WISHES. 

Bill,  however,  who  was  a  hardened  sinner,  never  fre'ted 
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  the  forge,  sober  and  hungry,  the  wife 
cursing  him,  and  the  childhre  squailing  as  before  ;  he  was 
thinking  how  he  might  defraud  some  honest  neighbour  out  of 
a  breakfast  to  stop  their  mouths  and  his  OAvn  too,  when  who 
walks  into  him  but  old  Kick,  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  uay, 
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  came  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  falling  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  would  sarve  you  better  than  my 
company,  Nicholas." 

"Bill,  it's  no  use  in  shirking;"  said  his  friend,  u  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 — Tm  not  to  be  swindled,  my  good  fellow. 
I  have  rather  a — a — better  opinion  of  myself,  Mr.  D.  than  to 
think  that  you  could  outwit  one  Nicholas  Clu tie,  Esq. —  ehem!" 
"  You  may  sneer,  }tou  sinner,"  replied  Bill ;  ''but  I  tell  you 
for  your  comfort,  that  I  have  outwitted  men  who  could  buy 


AN    IRISH    LEGEND.  313 

and  sell  you  to  your  face.     Despair,  you  villain,  when  I  tell 
you  that  no  attorney  could  stand  before  me." 

Satan's  countenance  got  blank  when  he  heard  this  ;  he 
wriggled  and  fidgetted  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  Low  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  this  horse- 
shoe— it's  the  last  of  a  set  I'm  finishing  for  one  of  your  friend 
the  attorney's  horses.  And  here,  Nick,  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  Parr  a  Goto  was  a  child  to  you  at  sledging,  you're 
such  an  able  tyke.  Now  just  exercise  yourself  till  I  bid  the 
wife  and  childhre  good-bye,  and  then  I'm  off." 

Out  went  Bill,  of  course  without  the  slightest  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  wa^  just 
what  Bill  Avanted.  He  was  now  compelled  to  sledge  away  until 
it  was  Bill's  pleasure  to  release  him ;  and  so  we  leave  him  very 
industriously  employed,  Avhile  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  wherover  he  could  get 


3'i4  THB    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  owt 
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  Shawn  Gow'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  ft 
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 
sich  blackguard  language,  so  unbecomin'  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  ndustrious,  I 
simply  say  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  to  take  you  from  it. 


AN     IRISH     LECiKND.  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  cre- 
ditably. I'm  afraid  if  you  weren'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,  I  reckon  industry  : 
but  still  it  is  in  generosity  you  shine.  Come,  Bill,  honoui 
bright,  and  release  me." 

"  Name  the  terms,  you  profligate." 

"  You're  above  terms,  William  ;  a  generous  fellow  like  you 
never  thinks  of  terms." 

"  Good  bye,  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, 
delightful  fellow,  not  so  fast ;  not  so  fast.  Come,  name  your 
terms,  you  eland — 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  turn  the 
tab — a — hem  ?  You  are  an  exceedingly  simple  fellow,  Bill : 
still  there  will  come  a  day,  my  dear  Bill — there  will  come— — " 

"Do  you  grumble,  you  vagrant?  Another  word,  and  I 
double  the  terms." 

"  Mum,  William — mum  ;  tace  is  Latin  for  a  candlo." 

' '  Seven  years  more  of  grace,  and  the  same  measure  of  the 
needful  that  I  got  before.     Ay  or  no  ?"  . 


34G  THE    THREE    WISHES. 

"  Of  grace,  Bill !  Ay  !  ay  !  ay  !  There's  the  casb.  1 
accept  the  terms.     0  blood  !  the  rascal — of  grace  !  !  Bill!" 

"Well,  now  drop  the  hammer,  and  vanish,"  sa)7s  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  his  former  extravagance. 

"Say  what  you  will,"  said  one,  "  Billy  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  while 
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  anything;  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     IHIdH    LEGEND.  347 

and  all  to  convince  them  that  he  was  a  sterling  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  his  money  was  out  again,  his  friends  served  him  the 
same  rascally  game  once  more.  No  sooner  did  his  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  anything  to  be  got  there.  A  kind 
of  virgin  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  delicate  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  forced  to  betake  himself,  as  a  last  remedy,  to 
the  forge :  in  other  words,  he  found  that  there  is,  after  all, 
nothing  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 — ran  off  him  like  water  off  a  duck. 

He  took  to  his  employment  sorely  against  his  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.  Pie  was  now 
a  common  blinking  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  Tins  at  the  Curragh  ;  the  din- 
ners he  gave — how  much  they  cost  him,  and  attempting  to 
extort  credit  upon  the  strength  of  his  former  wealth.  lie  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. 

Ho  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  Nic'k.  The  wife,  it  seems,  in  spite  of 
all  her  exertions  to  the  contrary,  was  getting  the  worst  of  it ; 
and  Sir  Nicholas,  willing  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. 
]S  o w  Satan  thought  this  too  bad  ;  and  as  he  felt  himself  under 
many  obligations  to  the  sex,  he  determined  to  defend  one  oi 
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 
your  wife  ?  'l'on  honour,  Bill,  I'll  chastise  you  on  the  spot.   I 

*  It  is  almost  unnecessary  fur  us  to  acknowledge  the  little  theft  manifest 
is  the  above  travestie. 


AN    IRISH    LEGEND.  349 

could  not  stand  by  a  spectator  of  such  ungentlemanly  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  like  a 
murderer  behind  his  ack,"  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  lie  bates  me,  you  shabby  dog  you,  who  has  a  better  right? 
I'm  sure  it's  nothing  out  of  your  pocket.  Must  you  have  your 
fiuger  in  every  pie  ?" 

This  was  any  thing  but  idle  talk;  for  at  every  word  she 
gave  him  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 
that  few  will  be  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  Low  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  and  me.     Judy,  are  the  tongs  hot?" 

Satan's  face  \yas  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,  Nicholas,  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  this  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're  too  modest ; 
that  was  ever  your  failing;  houldupyour  head,  there's  money 
bid  for  you.  I'll  give  you  such  a  nose,  my  good  friend,  that 
you  mil  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  children  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  this  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  believe,  Judy,  it's  long  enough  ?'' 
'  What  is  ?"  said  Judy. 

"  Why,  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,  William,"  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  things  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 ;  "  si  511, 1  am  decidedly 
of  opinion,  that  if  you  could  shorten  both  the  joke  and  the 
nose  without  further  violence,  you  would  lay  me  under  very 
heavy  obligations,  which  I  shall  be  ready  to  acknowledge 
and  repay  a3  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  advQutnfe 
They  laughed  till  they  fell  down  on  the  floor. 

It  is  useless  to  go  over  the  same  ground  again.  Bill  wad 
still  incorrigible.  The  money  wrent  as  the  devil's  money  alwa 5  ? 
goes.  Bill  caroused  and  squandered,  but  could  never  turn  a 
penny  of  it  to  a  good  purpose.  In  this  way,  year  after  year 
went,  till  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.  Not  a  shilling  had  he,  nor  a  shilling'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  break- 
fast, 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,  "I  got  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  I"  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 
bagjred  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 
p  ewe: . 


AN    IRISH    LEGEND.  353 

"  Mr.  Duffy,"  said  he,  "  Ave  understand  each  other.  I'll  give 
the  seven  years  additional,  and  the  cash  on  the  nail." 

"  Be  aisy,  Nicholas.  You  know  the  weight  of  the  hammer, 
that's  enough.  It's  not  a  whipping  with  feathers  you're  going 
to  get,  any  how.     Just  be  aisy." 

"  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  your'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. 

"Am  I  heavy  enough ?"  said  Bill. 

"  Lighter,  lighter,  William,  if  you  love  me.  I  haven't  been 
well,  latterly,  Mr.  Duffy — I  have  been  delicate — my  health,  in 
short,  is  in  a  very  precarious  state,  Mr.  Duffy." 

"I  can  believe  that"  said  Bill,  "and  it  will  be  more  so 
before  I  have  done  with  you.     Am  I  doing  it  right  ? 

'  Beautifully,  William  ;  but  a  little  of  the  heaviest ;  strike 
me  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  little  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  warm  wel- 
come. Divil  an  ould  youth  more  so  ;  but  you  must  be  daling 
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  delicate." 

"Oh,  how  delicate  you  are!  Maybe  a  cup  o'  tay  would 
sarve  you,  or  a  little  small  gruel  to  compose  your  stomach." 


354  THE    THREE    WISHED. 

"  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  wfe  ;  "hould  him  hard,  Bill,  ban-in'  he  sets 
you  clear  of  your  engagement." 

"  There  it  is,  my  poesy,"  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  devil'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  otner,  "  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  tr>  stop  now,  merely  to  inlorm  our  readers 


AN    IRISH    LEGEND.  355 

that  Bill  was  beyond  improvement.  In  short,  he  once  more 
took  to  his  old  habits,  and  lived  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  relied  upon  his  own  industry  and  honest 
perseverance  in  life,  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  his  wealth,  was  obliged,  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. 

Nov/,  it  is  usual,  when  a  man  dies,  to  close  the  history  of  his 
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  pure  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  himself,  "  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.    "What's  your  name  ? 

"  Billy  DuflV'  he  replied. 


S.jG  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. 

k'  Oh,"  said  Bill,  with  his  eye  to  the  bar  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  his  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  which  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    HUSH    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  circulating  knave,  knowing 
that  he  must  seek  the  coldest  bogs  and  quagmires  in  order  to 
cool  his  nose,  seizes  upon  that  opportunity  of  misleading  the 
unthinking  and  tipsy  night  travellers  from  their  way,  just 
that  he  may  have  the  satisfaction  of  still  taking  in  as  many 
ss  possible. 


THE  IRISH  RAKE 

The  character  of  an  Irish  Rake  is  one  which  has  not,  to  ray 
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  himself  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  individuality ; 
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  facility  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.  Fvery  one  knows  him,  and  he  knows 
every  one  He  can  tell  you,  as  if  by  intuition,  the  name  of  tne 
fanner's  wife  in  the  parish  who  was  last  confined,  and  whether 
her  little  one  was  a  boy  or  a  girl.  No  earthly  fun  or  frolic 
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 
358 


THE     IRISh'     R.VKU.  359 

will  certainly  be  present  at  both.  lie  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  brooish*;  in  short,  never  did  such  an 
ubitiquarian  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  living  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 
lived  in  a  distant  county  ;  that  they  have  been  long  dead,  and 
that  he  had  a  brother  hanged  in  the  time  of  the  throuble.  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  alive,"  he  will  say  ;  "  but  the  marriage  didn't 
turn  out  well,  for  they  lived  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  Avay — 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  his 
system  .always  is,  to  borrow  thrice  the  sum  from  the  person  he 
obliged,  and  never  to  repay  it.  This,  however,  is  not  all  his 
means  of  support ;  for,  with  shame  and  sorrow  I  say  it,  both 
on  his  account  and  theirs,  he  contrives,  in  a  sense  any  thing 
but  metaphorical,  to  constitute  himself  a  heavy  debtor  to  the 

•  "What  the  Scotch  call  the  Injure — i.  c.  the  hauling  home  of  a  wi*e. 


.V>0  THE    IRISH    RAKE 

6ofter  sex.  'In  all  love  affairs,  his  first  principles  are  s wave  I 
>y  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  cm  be  expected  afterwards  but  that  which  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  'jail  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  his  shirt  is  at  all  times  well  washed,  ready 
mode  up,  and  remarkable  for  its  whiteness.  This,  however,  ig 
ai.oth.er  mystery  between  himself  and  the  other  sex,  which  it 
is  n  )t  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  lake  finds  it  necessary  to  be 
accomplished,  and  he  accordingly  whistles  like  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.  Jew's-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.  3(5] 

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  nothing  more  than  the  foibles  and  vices  of 
a  private,  low-bred  vagabond.  But  here  he  absolutely  becomes 
a  public  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  public  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- 
uerchief,  the  property  of  his  wife.  Connected  with  this,  the 
rake  is  found  to  be  very  useful  in  fairs  and  markets  for  beat- 


302  THE    IRISH    RAKE. 

ing  or  waylaying  'udividuals,  who  may  happen  to  be  obnoxious 
to  his  friends,  and  by  whom  their  persons  Avould  be  known,  if 
they  undertook  the  task  which  the  rake  kindly  performs.  To 
a;i ve  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  him  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  Avife,  a  doleful  story  of  how  her  little  hoard  oi 
money  was  first  lent  to  the  rake,  and  of  the  ungrateful  return 
jhe  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  tne 
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  little  burnt  spirits, 
a  tumbler,  and  half-a-crown  judiciously  placed  upon  the  seat  ol 
the  disease ;  so  as  by  the  miraculous  power  of  the  tumbler  and 
spirits  absolutely  to  raise  the  heart  of  the  sufferer. 

There  is  always  one  person,  in  whatever  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    RAKE.  36'S 

complaints  against  him  are  usually  laid  before  the  pastor,  tha' 
his  reverence  feels  it  to  be  his  duty  to  put  his  parishioners  on 
their  guard  against  his  arts.  Such,  however,  is  the  indomit- 
able fund  of  spirits  by  which  the  rake  is  characterized,  and 
so  easy  and  good-humoured  is  his  swagger,  that  his  counte- 
nance, beaming  as  it  usually  does  with  mirth  and  frolic,  ren- 
ders it  impossible  for  any  one  to  carry  the  good  Father's  cen 
sure  into  execution 

The  people,  in  fact,  cannot  look  upon  anything  the  rake 
either  says  or  does  in  s  serious  light;  and  as  he  is  himself 
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  possibility  of  his  failing,  and  that 
whatever  he  intends  to  be  considered  as  humour,  whether  in 
word  or  acticii,  will  be  laughed  at,  whether  it  may  possess 
that  quality  or  not. 

Another  quality  for  which  this  character  is  remarkable,  wf 
cannot  pass  over  in  silence.  There  never,  probably,  has  been 
an  instance  known  of  the  rake  exhibiting  any  degree,  however 
slight,  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  a? 
light  a  heart  and  as  pleasant  a  familiarity  as  he  would  to  the 
children  of  his  neighbours  ;  but  this  comprises  all  the  solicitude 
he  ever  feels  about  them.  Neither  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   labour,  a  few  shillings,  or 
it  may  be  pounds,  the  rake  never  stops  until  he  wheedles  it  out 
of  their  hands,  and  leaves  them  to  struggle  on  in  new  difficul- 
ties, whilst  he,  as  usual,  rollicks  and  roves  away  through  life, 
!  is  laugh  as  loud  and  his  joke  as  ready  at  these  frolicsome 
frauds  upon  his  own  children,  as  if  he  had  practised  them 
upon  strangers,  or  rendered  them  a  service. 


304  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  him  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,  lives  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  reappear — 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  ol  this  rustic 
but  humourous  profligate  lie  interred 


STORIES 


SECOND-SIGHT  AND   APPARITION. 

I  beg  to  assure  my  readers  that  I  am  neither  superstitious  nor 
visionary  on  the  subject  of  dreams  or  apparitions,  but  on  the 
contrary,  little  disposed  to  place  reliance  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  deliberate  imposture 
have  been  foisted  upon  human  credulity,  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  feeling  would  I  contem- 
plate your  pompous  philosophical  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  spirits  to  proof,  and 
if  you  offer  them  a  glass  of  weak  whiskey  punch,  the  fellows 
refuse  to  swallow  it,  until  it  be  rendered  perfectly  philosophical 
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 

365 


366  STORIES    OF 

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  gi'eat  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  invention  for  opening 
oysters  or  darning  stockings,  and  he  immediately  boasts  the 
advantages  of  mechanical  science.  They  have  excellent  appe- 
tites, too,  for  everything  but  that  which  is  supernatural ;  love 
Monsieur  Ude  and  the  transcendental  philosophy,  and  arc 
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  believe 
the  miracles.  You  might  as  well  pull  one  of  them  by  the  nose  as 
mention  witchcraft  seriously  in  his  presence — indeed,  better ; 
for  the>  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  1  have  seer 
them,  when  dressed  and  cut  up,  afford  a  very  rich  repast  at 
several  tables  of  my  acquaintances.  In  Bracebridge-hall,  the 
fat-headed  gentleman  who,  like  a  slowhounds  eternally  pursued 


SECOND-SIGHT    AND    APPARITION. 


367 


the  same  joke  against  Master  Simon,  was  one  of  these  ungodly 
Sadducees,  differing  widely  from  the  thin- faced,  lively  little 
gentleman  so  fond  of  the  supernatural,  and  whose  head  on  one 
side  had  a  dilapidated  look,  like  the  haunted  Aving  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 
Whig  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  little  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,  like  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  thigh 
buried  in  the  grave  of  his  predecessors,  was  frequently  at  a  loss 
to  know  whether  he  should  class  himself  with  the  living  or  the 
dead.  Sometimes,  ifc  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  we. 

They  may  talk  about  the  invisibility  of  spirits  :  but  I  &en\i 
that  doctrine,  and  bring- forward  Shamus  to  disprove  it     The 


368  STORIES    OF 

truth  is,  no  ghost  could  escape  him  :  if  there  was  om  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,  lianhanshees,  will-o'-the-wisp3, 
death-watches,  white  women,  black  men,  and  all  the  variety  of 
the  genuine  supernatural,  were  familiar  to  him.  No  man  living 
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  which  they  offered  to  contribute.  For  some  time  he  refused 
to  embrace  the  proposal,  but  at  length  he  was  pressed  into 
compliance.  The  tombstone  was  got,  and  the  following  epitaph 
furnished  to  Shamus  by  an  imp  of  a  schoolboy  who  owed  him 
many  supernatural  obligations  ; — 

Underneath  this  marble  stone, 

[The.  villain!  it  was  common  limestone.] 
Lies  Shamus  Ewh,  ochone  !  ochone  ! 
Except  a  single  leg  and  thigh, 
And  all  the  rest  of  his  both/ 

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  be 
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.  That  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  liar, 
than  eat  venison  and  drink  champagne  with  a  plodding  villain, 
who  speaks  as  solemnly  as  if  he  were  giving  evidence  on  a  case 
of  life  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  contest  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  liar.  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  malignant — 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  lic3 
are  always  of  such  a  description  that  they  cannot  be  contm- 

r2 


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  lie  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  history 
of  his  hunting  feats,  and  an  enumeration  of  the  immense  sums 
he  won  at  play,  are  the  beet  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  anything  in  the  way  of  historical  narrative,  either  on 
or  off  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    APPARITION.  371 

manner  of  relating  his  adventures  was  always  equal,  if  not 
superior,  to  the  matter.  Materiem  superabat  opus.  There  he 
sat,  his  thread-bare  face  and  lively  dark  eyes  beaming  with 
something  between  an  expression  of  complacency  and  a  positive 
smile,  both  probably  produced  by  the  novelty  of  his  facts  and 
imagery,  Avhich,  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  his  friends  with  invention.  One 
in  particular  he  nicknamed  "  lying  Alick,"  but  upon  perfectly 
fair  grounds.  'Tis  true,  Alick  was  what  a  punster  is  to  a  wit 
when  compared  with  George  himself.  He  was  happy  at  a 
short  monosyllabic  lie,  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  Alick,  for  instance,  he  would  tell  you  that  he  had 

just  lunched  with  my  Lord  O'N ,  and  was  asked  to  dine 

with  him  to-morrow.     This  was  a  lie. 

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  failing,  but  that  was 
more  than  overbalanced  by  his  talent  at  lying : — he  gave 
cursedly  bad  suppers.  Of  this  I  am  myself  a  living  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,  1  often  remonstrated  with  him,  in  a  manner 
so  earnest,  that  it  must  have  shewed  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 
very  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  like  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  Assumed  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  multiplicity  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  rebellion."  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  surfftt 
of  cockles,  eaten  in  town  whilst  his  family  were  out  at  his 
country  residence,  Cockle  Lodge.  He  made  lying  Alick  hia 
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- 
vivor— De  mortuis  nil  nisi  verum.  This  hint  was  taken ; 
but  the  motto  was  rather  a  stumbling-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  hut  just  to  state, 

For  the  benefit  of  those  who  may  come  aftei  aim, 

That  he  was  unrivalled  at 

INVENTING  TRUTH. 

This,  to  be  sure,  was  rather  disguising  his  talents  than 
openly  rescuing  them  from  obliv — 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  connection  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  returning  to  a  subject  which  lies  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  reality,  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  Avhich  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  little  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  one 
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  Avhose  lambs  frisked  and  gamboled  in 
■wanton  mirth — now  running  in  flighty  circles  around  their 
dams,  then  starting  off  in  mad  little  excursions  performed  at 
the  top  of  their  speed,  and  instantly  returning  again,  their 
swiftness  increasing  as  they  approached  the  mamma,  thinking 
that  they  had  actually  performed  something  for  the  world  to 
wonder  at:  the  poor,  foolish,  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  this  country  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  glimpse  of  such  an  evening,  and  it 
would  be  well  worth  his  while  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  challenged  and  killed  three  Cadis  for  abusing  Dan  O'Connell 
behind  his  back;  escaped  from  that,  and  slipped  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 
thing  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  his  rays 
slantingly,  and  in  a  very  handsome  manner  indeed,  upon  the 
earth.  It  was  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  evening.  No  ;  there  was 
a  freshness  and  delicacy  of  light  mingling  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  pun^h,  it  was  calculated  to  make  a 
man's  heart  rejoice  within  him.  The  golden  beams,  resembling 
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,  while  their  hearts  gushed  with  love,  both  apparently 
on  the  eve  of  a  declaration.  How  still,  how  beautiful,  how 
soft,  how  fall  of  pathos  to  a  blue  stocking,  was  that  celebrated 
evening ! 

"  The  forest  seern'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  the  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 
charm3  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  heart  at  a  first  glance, 
but  who,  upon  a  longer  intimacy,  gradually  disclose  virtue  after 
virtue,  and  charm  after  charm,  until,  before  we  are  conscious 
ot  it,  we  find  them  irrevocably  fixed-  in  our  affections,  and 
wonder  why  we  did  not  at  first  perceive  their  loveliness.  In 
both  cases  the  object  holds  its  influence  with  more  enduring 
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 
ciilmly  did  it  flow  between  the  banks  from  which  the  osier* 
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  bliss  bestow, 
As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
And  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 
Tobrtathe  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,"  while  the  world  lasts. 

Ac  we  were  engaged  at  play  on  the  evening  I  have  described, 
light-hearted  and  innocent  as  the  lambs  about  us,  each  an  all 
intent  upon  our  pastimes,  1  at  once  felt  such  an  elevationof  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.  Emotion?, 
at  first  undirected  to  any  object,  but  balmy,  delightful,  and 
ethereal,  crowded  upon  me.  I  instantly  abandoned  my  position 
in  the  game,  the  range  of  which  I  considered  to  be  too  limited 


378  STORIES    OF 

for  ray  powers.  I  bounded  with  shoutings  of  rapture  and 
exultation  over  the  fields,  threw  ray  self  into  a  thousand  antic 
•ntitudes,  leaped,  caprioled,  and  gamboled  like  a  young  puppy, 
and,  in  fact,  felt  precisely  the  same  class  of  sensation  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  ;  bome  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*, 
who  having  observed  my  countenance  to  change,  instantly  sur- 
rounded me ;  but  I  saw  them  not.  They  asked  me  why  I  got 
pal?,  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  mere  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,  occa- 
sioned by  my  having  lapsed  into  insensibility.  On  recover- 
ing, 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  ?" 

1  then  described  to  him  the  vision  I  had  seen  during  ray 
ee.»tacy,  which  was  precisely  what  I  now  relate.    It  appeared 


SECOND-SIGHT    AND    ArPAIUTION.  379 

to  me  that  I  saw  my  sister,  then  only  about  three  months  mar- 
ried, coming  down  the  road  which  led  to  our  house,  and  what 
is  singular,  I  felt  no  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  defined  in 
outline  as  it  advanced.  The  dress,  however,  was  new  to  me, 
and  I  did  not  for  a  moment  suspect  it  to  be  my  sister.  By  and 
bye  the  features  began  to  develop  themselves,  until  they  were 
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  Mrs.  Thomas — gave  an 
apple  to  a  neighbour's  child  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  declined  leaving  his 
playfellows. 

I  replied  that  what  I  had  said  was  true,  that  I  had  seen 
her,  and  that  1  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 
heard  my  brother  say — "  Something  ails  him  :  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  little  James  Delany  ?  She  had.  Everything,  in  fact,  oc- 
curred 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  anything 
like  decent  sufferable  grammar,  and  contain  one  idea  not  al- 
ready worn  to  tatters,  I  hereby  pledge  myself  that  Mr.  Poplar 
■will  give  it  insertion 

1  now  proceed  to  another  circumstance  equally  authentic, 
quorum  pars  fui.  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  he 
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  resto- 
tion  of  his  vision,  I  ventured  to  observe,  that  in  case  the 
operation  succeeded,  he  himself  would  be  a  living  witness  of 
the  reality  of  second  sight.  Pie  smiled  benevolently,  and 
replied,  that  he  hoped  he  would  live  to  settle  that  difficult 
question.  We  then  separated,  each  to  his  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  this  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  dressed, 
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  morning.  After  waiting  and  rapping 
three  or  four  time?,  the  servant  maid,  with  a  cloak  about  her 
shoulders,  opened  the  door  without  unchaining  it,  and  putting 
out  rather  a  frost-bitten  nose,  asked  what  I  wanted.  She  in- 
stantly recognized  me,  however,  and  without  more  ado  shewed 
me  into  the  parlour. 

"  Tell  your  master,"  said  I,  "  tnat  1  wish  to  speak  to  him  on 
the  instant/ 

Ere  she  had  time  to  reply,  her  mistress  entered  the  room, 
exhibiting  an  unusual  degree  of  agitation. 

"Oh,  Mr.  W ,"  said  she,  "  he  is  dead  !  he  is  dead  !"  and 

she  immediately  burst  into  tears. 

"  Dead !"  said  I,  feigning  astonishment — "  who  is  dead  ?" 

"  You  need  not  conceal  it,"  she  replied,  "  Mr.  F r  is 

dead !" 

"  Which  of  them  ?  I  inquired ;  is  it  your  Mr.  F r  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  returned,  "  but  my  father-in-law ;  I  know  he 
is  dead.     It  is  not  fifteen  minutes  since  he  was  with  me." 

The  husband  now  entered  the  parlour,  and  appeared  to 
labour  under  amazement,  doubt,  and  apprehension. 

"  What  is  this?"  he  inquired;  "has  anything  happened 
my  father?" 

"  Your  father  !"  said  I ;  "  why  what  could  lead  you  to  sup- 
pose such  a  thing  ?" 

"  Mrs.  F r,"  he  replied,  "  awoke  me  about  fifteen  mi- 
nutes ago,  and  said  that  mv  father  was  dead  /" 

"Mrs.  F ,"  said  I,  "let  me  know  the  circumstances  ?" 

She  then  related  them  precisely  as  follows  : — 

"Itis now," she  continued,  "about  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes, 
hince  my  father-in-law  came'to  the  bed-side  to  me,  and  putting 
his  hand  upon  my  forehead,  pressed  it  until  1  awoke.  On 
looking  up,  I  saw  him  standing  over  me,  with  a  countenance 
rather  in  sorrow  and  affection  than  otherwise.  Before  I  had 
time  to  speak  to  him,  he  said  in  a  solemn  voice: — 


SECOND-SIGHT    AND    APPARITION.  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  now  ;  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  rubbiug 
them,  I  found  that  he  was  gone.  I  awoke  my  husband  imme- 
diately, and  in  truth  we  were  actually  discussing  this  extra- 
ordinary 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  a  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  1  will  undertake  to  crush  you  in  platoons.  No  ;  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 ;  here 
come  Albertus  Magnus,  Cardan,  Paracelsus,  Franciscus  Picus 
Mirandola,  Olaus  Magnus,  and  Pontopopidan.  Tremble  again. 
Here  come  Bodinus,  Debrio,  Remigius,  Gaffarcl,  De  Loger,  De 
Lanore.  Then  come  Luther,  Melancthon,  Carnerai  ius,  Perkins, 
Mathers,  Glanville,  Scott,  Hookins,  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,  Delacampus, 
Julianus,  Delampus,  Melanthusus,  Prisculus,  Trobantus,  Mel- 
lagrinus,  and  a  host  of  others,  every  man  of  whom  could  not 
only  beat  you  on  the  supernatural,  but  shew  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  seership  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.  As 
a  farmer,  his  condition  in  life  was  respectable,  as  were  his 
connexions,  character,  and  education.  He  was  one  of  those 
silent  men  who  pass  through  the  world  blameless  and  without 
offence.  Hi3  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  al- 
though peaceable,  he  possessed  courage,  both  moral  and  phy- 
sical, 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 
iuty.  In  a  word,  he  was  respected  and  esteemed  by  all 
classes. 


SECOND-SIGHT    AND    APPARITION.  J85 

Walker  had  been  about  five  years  a  juror,  when  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  eldest  sister,  who  was  the 
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,  beauti- 
ful, 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.  The 
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.  Never,  probably,  was  a  scene  so  afflicting 
witnessed  in  a  court  of  justice.  Every  face  was  convulsed,  and 
every  cheek  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 


38G  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 
cubed,  "  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  decline,  and  ere  the  ex- 
piration of  a  year,  she  withered  away  like  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  wdiich  time  gives  to  our  recollection  of  guilt  and 
suffering.  Walker  maintained  the  same  excellent  and  respect- 
able character  with  which  he  had  set  out  in  life.  By  industry 
and  skill  he  had  become  wealthy.  Some  property,  to  which  he 
was  entitled  by  the  death  of  a  relation,  had,  however,  led  him 
into  the  mazes  of  litigation,  and  1  e  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  waking  he  feared  that  he  had  overslept  himself, 
as  he  concluded  from  the  light  that  glinted  in  through  the 
abutters  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    A1TAKITION.  387 

anxiety,  but  proceeded  leisurely  along,  uninfluenced  by  appre- 
hension, and  least  of  all  by  the  dread  of  anything  supernatural. 
The  night  was  calm  and  frosty  ;  the  moon,  though  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,  Avhose  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  crisped  under  his  feet ;  the  faint  sparkles  on  the 
grass  shone  like  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  which 
streamed  a  gush  of  clear  and  lonely  light !  There,  too,  were 
the  old  ancestral  tombs,  glittering  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  religion  swept  before  the  imagination  in 
the  gorgeous  array  of  temporal  pride.  Walker  could  not  help 
£  landing  to  contemplate  tliQ  monumental  effigies  where  husband 


388  STORIES    OF 

and  wife  appeared  to  sleep  before  him  on  the  old  grey  slab, 
like  persons  bound  by  enchantment — 

"  Outstretch'd  together  were  express 'd 

He  and  my  ladye  fair, 
With  hands  uplifted  on  the  brea9t 

In  attitude  of  prayer ; 
Long  visag'd,  clad  in  armour,  he ; 
With  ruffled  arms  and  boddice,  she." 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  on  which  the  eye  can  rest,  that  fills 
us  with  so  solemn  an  impression  of  the  vanity  of  life,  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  upon  the  husband  and  wife,  stretched  out  in  the 
decent  composure  of  Christian  hope,  their  hands  clasped  in 
affection,  or  raised  in  prayer,  without  feeling  a  crowd  of  sensa- 
tions that  knit  him  to  his  kind  ?  Imagination,  too,  wings  her 
way  back  into  the  gloom  of  centuries ;  reanimates  the  time- 
worn  effigies  that  lie  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  ca9tle,  or  attended  by  their 
sous  and  daughters,  sweeping  proudly  along  their  hails  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  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    AM)    APPARITION  389 

deserted  walls  with  those  pageantries  which  fascinate  the 
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  con- 
clude that  the  approach  of  morning  could  not  be  far  distant : — 
this  was  the  appearance  of  two  shadows  of  females,  which, 
although  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 
1  cannot  hear  theirs."  He  then  stood,  with  an  intention  of 
accosting  them  when  they  should  come  up      They  also  stood, 


390  STORIES    OF 

and  exhibited  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  scon 
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 
6hrub,  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 
nand,  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  seemed  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  recognized  their  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  anything  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  obj  ect  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  having  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  supernatural  contest  lasted,  during  which  Walker 
observed  that  the  distance  between  himself  and  them  was 
becoming  shorter  and  shorter.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not 
stir,  no  more  than  if  he  had  been  rooted  into  the  earth. 

It  was  now,  that,  for  the  first  time,  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
actually  withered  by  a  shriek  of  rage  and  disappointment  that 
burst  from  the  shadow  of  the  murderess.  She  stood  still,  as  if 
rendered  for  a  moment  impotent  by  the  terrific  force  of  her 
own  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 


392  BToRIBS    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  murderers  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  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,  1  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  a  pardon  on  earth  for  my  sister, 
but  you  refused  to  seek  it  in  her  behalf.  She  died  Avithout 
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    Al  PAMTIOK.  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  thing  he 
called  for  was  a  tumbler  of  punch,  which  he  swallowed  at  a 
draught ;  after  this  he  got  another,  which  went  the  way  of 
the  first ;  but  it  was  not  until  he  had  dispatched  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.  Now,  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  uhjht  last,  about  the  hour  of  four  o'clock  it 

the  morning,  as  Mr.  Walker  of was  proceeding  on  his  way 

to  meet  the  canal  packet,  he  was  attacked  by  two  fellows, 
dressed  in  female  apparel,  who  robbed,  stripped,  and  then 
tnrew  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 
trousers,  dressed  in  which  he  reached  the  station-house  in  a 
very  draggled,  disconsolate,  and  ludicrous  condition.  The 
police,  we  are  happy  to  say,  have  a  sharp  look  out  for  these 
viragos." 

Now,  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  logic  a  man  can  refuse  to  believe  him.  The  man  is 
always  sincere  on  such,  occasions,  and  sincerity  is  a  virtue 
which  we  ought  all  to  encourage. 

THE    END.