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TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE IRISH PEASANTRY 
 
 Volume Three 
 

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 P/u\z, Up/^/itson 
 lee anc/ot/zens 
 
 Boston college library 
 „,u. 
 
CELTIC eOITIOK 
 
 which one thousand numbered 
 and registered copies have been 
 
 printed 
 
 ‘.ua'iit 
 
 'Printed by 
 
 'ITHE COLOtKI AL 'PRESS 
 C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U. S. A. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Donagh or, the Horse-Stealers ... 1 
 
 Phil Purcell the Pig Driver 46 
 
 Geography of an Irish Oath 88 
 
 The Lianhan Shee 244 
 
 Going to Maynooth 288 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 “ Is it thrachery you hint at? ” (See page 12) 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 Giving the Pig a Warm Reception 55 
 
 Clearing the Ship 84* 
 
 The Salmon Leap, Leixlip ....... 150 
 
 Tramore Strand 220 
 
 Denis promoted to the Dignity of a Horse . . .318 
 
 Eagle’s Nest, Killarney 420 
 
IRELAND 
 
 TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 THE DONAGH 
 
 OR, THE HORSE-STEAI.ERS 
 
 Carnmore, one of those small villages that are 
 to be found in the outskirts of many parishes in 
 Ireland, whose distinct boundaries are lost in 
 the contiguous mountain-wastes, was situated 
 at the foot of a deep gorge, or pass overhung 
 by two bleak hills, from the naked sides of which 
 the storm swept over it, without discomposing 
 the peaceful little nook of cabins that stood be- 
 low. About a furlong farther down were two 
 or three farm-houses, inhabited by a family 
 named Cassidy, men of simple, inoffensive man- 
 ners, and considerable wealth. They were, 
 however, acute and wise in their generation; 
 intelligent cattle-dealers, on whom it would have 
 been a matter of some difficulty to impose an 
 unsound horse, or a cow older than was inti- 
 mated by her horn-rings, even when conscien- 
 tiously dressed up for sale by the ingenious aid 
 of the file or burning-iron. Between their 
 houses and the hamlet rose a conical pile of 
 
 iii-i I 
 
2 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 rocks, loosely heaped together, from which the 
 place took its name of Carnmore. 
 
 About three years before the time of this 
 story, there came two men with their families 
 to reside in the upj)er village, and the house 
 which they chose as a residence was one at some 
 distance from those which composed the little 
 group we have just been describing. They said 
 their name was Meehan, although the general 
 report went, that this was not true; that the 
 name was an assumed one, and that some dark 
 mystery, which none could penetrate, shrouded 
 their history and character. They were cer- 
 tainly remarkable men. The elder, named An- 
 thony, was a dark, black-browed person, stern 
 in his manner, and atrociously cruel in his dis- 
 position. His form was Herculean, his bones 
 strong and hard as iron, and his sinews stood 
 out in undeniable evidence of a life hitherto 
 spent in severe toil and exertion, to bear which 
 he appeared to an amazing degree capable. 
 His brother Denis was a small man, less savage 
 and daring in his character, and consequently 
 more vacillating and cautious than Anthony; 
 for the points in which he resembled him were 
 superinduced upon his natural disposition by 
 the close connexion that subsisted between 
 them, and by the identity of their former pur- 
 suits in life, which, beyond doubt, had been such 
 as could not bear investigation. 
 
 The old proverb of “ birds of a feather flock 
 together,” is certainly a true one, and in this 
 case it was once more verified. Before the ar- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 3 
 
 rival of these men in the village, there had been 
 two or three bad characters in the neighbour- 
 hood, whose delinquencies were pretty well 
 known. With these persons the strangers, by 
 that sympathy which assimilates with congenial 
 good or evil, soon became acquainted; and al- 
 though their intimacy was as secret and cautious 
 as possible, still it had been observed, and was 
 known; for they had frequently been seen skulk- 
 ing together at daybreak, or in the dusk of 
 evening. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say that Meehan and his 
 brother did not mingle much in the society of 
 Carnmore. In fact, the villagers and they 
 mutually avoided each other. A mere return 
 of the common phrases of salutation was gener- 
 ally the most that passed between them: they 
 never entered into that familiarity which leads 
 to mutual intercourse, and justifies one neigh- 
 bour in freely entering the cabin of another, 
 to spend a winter’s night, or a summer’s even- 
 ing, in amusing conversation. Few had ever 
 been in the house of the Meehans since it be- 
 came theirs; nor were the means of their sub- 
 sistence known. They led an idle life, had no 
 scarcity of food, were decently clothed, and 
 never wanted money; circumstances which oc- 
 casioned no small degree of conjecture in Carn- 
 more and its vicinity. 
 
 Some said they lived by theft; others that they 
 were coiners; and there were many who im- 
 agined, from the diabolical countenance of the 
 elder brother, that he had sold himself to the 
 
4 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 devil, who, they affirmed, set his mark upon him, 
 and was his paymaster. Upon this hypothesis 
 several were ready to prove that he had neither 
 breath nor shadow: they had seen him, they said, 
 standing under a hedge-row of elder — that un- 
 holy tree which furnished wood for the cross, 
 and on which Judas hanged himself — yet, al- 
 though it was noon-day in the month of July, 
 his person threw out no shadow. Worthy souls! 
 because the man stood in the shade at the time. 
 But with these simple explanations Supersti- 
 tion had nothing to do, although we are bound 
 in justice to the reverend old lady to affirm that 
 she was kept exceedingly busy in Carnmore. 
 If a man had a sick cow, she was elf-shot; if his 
 cliild became consumptive, it had been over- 
 looked, or received a blast from the fairies; if 
 the hooping-cough was rife, all the afflicted chil- 
 dren were put three times under an ass ; or when 
 they happened to have the “ mumps,” were led, 
 before sunrise, to a south-running stream, with 
 a halter hanging about their necks, under an 
 obligation of silence during the ceremony. In 
 short, there could not possibly be a more super- 
 stitious spot than that which these men of 
 mystery had selected for their residence. An- 
 other circumstance which caused the people to 
 look upon them with additional dread, was their 
 neglect of mass on Sundays and holidays, 
 though they avowed themselves Roman Cath- 
 olics. They did not, it is true, join in the 
 dances, drinking-matches, foot-ball, and other 
 sports with which the Carnmore folk celebrated 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 the Lord’s-day; but they scrupled not, on the 
 other hand, to mend their garden-ditch or 
 mould a row of cabbages on the Sabbath — a 
 circumstance for which two or three of the Carn- 
 more boys were, one Sunday evening when tipsy, 
 well-nigh chastising them. Their usual man- 
 ner, however, of spending that day was by 
 sauntering lazily about the fields, or stretching 
 themselves supinely on the sunny side of the 
 hedges, their arms folded on their bosoms, and 
 their hats lying over their faces to keep off the 
 sun. 
 
 In the mean time, loss of property was be- 
 coming quite common in the neighbourhood. 
 Sheep were stolen from the farmers, and cows 
 and horses from the more extensive graziers in 
 the parish. The complaints against the authors 
 of these depredations were loud and incessant: 
 watches were set, combinations for mutual 
 security formed, and subscriptions to a consider- 
 able amount entered into, with a hope of being 
 able, by the temptation of a large reward, to 
 work upon the weakness or cupidity of some 
 accomplice to betray the gang of villains who in- 
 fested the neighbourhood. All, however, was in 
 vain ; every week brought some new act of plun- 
 der to light, perpetrated upon such unsuspecting 
 persons as had hitherto escaped the notice of 
 the robbers; but no trace could be discovered of 
 the perpetrators. Although theft had from time 
 to time been committed upon a small scale be- 
 fore the arrival of the Meehans in the village, 
 yet it was undeniable that since that period the 
 
6 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 instances not only multiplied, but became of a 
 more daring and extensive description. They 
 arose in a gradual scale, from the hen-roost to 
 the stable ; and with such ability were they 
 planned and executed, that the people, who in 
 every instance identified Meehan and his brother 
 with them, began to believe and hint that, in 
 consequence of their compact with the devil, 
 they had power to render themselves invisible. 
 Common Fame, who can best treat such sub- 
 jects, took up this, and never laid it aside until, 
 by narrating several exploits which Meehan the 
 elder was said to have performed in other parts 
 of the kingdom, she wound it up by roundly in- 
 forming the Carnmorians, that, having been once 
 taken prisoner for murder, he was caught by 
 the leg, when half through a hedge, but that, be- 
 ing most wickedly determined to save his neck, he 
 left the leg with the officer who took him, shout- 
 ing out that it was a new species of leg-bail; 
 and yet he moved away with surprising speed, 
 upon two of as good legs as any man in his 
 majesty’s dominions might wish to walk off 
 upon, from the insinuating advances of a bailiff 
 or a constable! 
 
 The family of the Meehans consisted of their 
 wives and three children, two boys and a girl; 
 the former were the offspring of the younger 
 brother, and the latter of Anthony. It has 
 been observed, with truth and justice, that there 
 is no man, how hardened and diabolical soever 
 in his natural temper, who does not exhibit to 
 some particular object a peculiar species of af- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 7 
 
 fection. Such a man was Anthony Meehan. 
 That sullen hatred which he bore to human 
 society, and that inherent depravity of heart 
 which left the trail of vice and crime upon his 
 footsteps, were flung off his character when he 
 addressed his daughter Anne. To him her 
 voice was like music; for her he was not the 
 reckless villain, treacherous and cruel, which 
 the helpless and unsuspecting found him ; 
 but a parent kind and indulgent as ever pressed 
 an only and beloved daughter to his bosom. 
 Anne was handsome: had she been born and 
 educated in an elevated rank in society, she 
 would have been softened by the polish and 
 luxury of life into perfect beauty: she was, how- 
 ever, utterly without education. As Anne ex- 
 perienced from her father no unnatural cruelty, 
 no harshness, nor even indifference, she conse- 
 quently loved him in return ; for she knew 
 that tenderness from such a man was a 
 proof of parental love rarely to be found in 
 life. Perhaps she loved not her father the less 
 on perceiving that he was proscribed by the 
 world; a circumstance which might also have 
 enhanced in his eyes the affection she bore him. 
 When Meehan came to Carnmore, she was six- 
 teen; and, as that was three years before the in- 
 cident occurred on which we have founded this 
 narrative, the reader may now suppose her to 
 be about nineteen; an interesting country girl 
 as to person, but with a mind completely neg- 
 lected, yet remarkable for an uncommon stock 
 of good-nature and credulity. 
 
8 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 About the hour of eleven o’clock, one winter’s 
 night in the beginning of December, Meehan 
 and his brother sat moodily at their hearth. 
 The fire was of peat wliich had recently been 
 put dowm, and, from between the turf, the ruddy 
 blaze was shooting out in those little tongues 
 and gusts of sober light, which throw around 
 the rural hearth one of those charms which make 
 up the felicity of domestic life. The night was 
 stormy, and the wind moaned and howled along 
 the dark hills beneath which the cottage stood. 
 Every object in the house was shrouded in a 
 mellow shade, which afforded to the eye no clear 
 outline, except around the hearth alone, where 
 the light brightened into a golden hue, giving 
 the idea of calmness and peace. Anthony 
 Meehan sat on one side of it, and his daughter 
 opposite him, knitting: before the fire sat Denis, 
 drawing shapes in the ashes for his own amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 “ Bless me,” said he, “ how sthrange it is! ” 
 
 “What is?” inquired Anthony, in his deep 
 and grating tones. 
 
 “Why, thin, it is sthrange!” continued the 
 other, who, despite of the severity of his brother, 
 was remarkably superstitious — “ a coffin I made 
 in the ashes three times runnin’! Isn’t it very 
 quare, Anne?” he added, addressing the niece. 
 
 “ Sthrange enough, of a sartinty,” she replied, 
 being unwilling to express before her father the 
 alarm which the incident, slight as it was, created 
 in her mind; for she, like her uncle, was subject 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 9 
 
 to such ridiculous influences. “ How did it 
 happen, uncle? ” 
 
 “ Why, thin, no way in life, Anne; only, as 
 I was thryin’ to make a shoe, it turned out a 
 coffin on my hands. I thin smoothed the ashes, 
 and began agin, an’ sorra bit of it but was a 
 coffin still. Well, says I, I’ll give you another 
 chance, — here goes once more; — an’, as sure as 
 gun’s iron, it was a coffin the third time. 
 Heaven be about us, it’s odd enough! ” 
 
 “ It would be little matther you were nailed 
 down in a coffin,” replied Anthony, fiercely; 
 “ the world would have little loss. What a 
 pitiful cowardly rascal you are! Afraid o’ your 
 own shadow afther the sun goes down, except 
 Fm at your elbow! Can’t you dhrive all them 
 palavers out o’ your head? Didn’t the sargint 
 tell us, an’ prove to us, the time we broke the 
 guard-house, an’ took Frinch lave o’ the ridg- 
 ment for good, that the whole o’ that, an’ more 
 along wid it, is all priestcraft? ” 
 
 “I remimber he did, sure enough: I dunna 
 where the same sargint is now, Tony? About 
 no good, any way. I’ll be bail. Howsomever, in 
 regard o’ that, why doesn’t yourself give up 
 fastin’ from the mate of a Friday?” 
 
 “ Do you want me to sthretch you on the 
 hearth? ” replied the savage, whilst his eyes 
 kindled into fury, and his grim visage darkened 
 into a Satanic expression. “ I’ll tache you to 
 be puttin’ me through my catechiz about atin’ 
 mate, I may manage that as I plase; it comes 
 
10 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 at first-cost, any how: but no cross-questions to 
 me about it, if you regard your health! ” 
 
 “ I must say for you,” repHed Denis, re- 
 proachfully, “ that you’re a good warrant to put 
 the health astray upon us of an odd start : we’re 
 not come to this time o’ day widout carryin’ some- 
 thin’ to remimber you by. For my own part, 
 Tony, I don’t like such tokens; an’ moreover, 
 I wish you had resaved a thrifle o’ lamin’, es- 
 pishily in the writin’ line; for whenever we have 
 any difference, you’re so ready to prove your 
 opinion by settin’ your mark upon me, that I’d 
 rather, fifty times over, you could write it with 
 pen an’ ink.” 
 
 “ My father will give that up, uncle,” said 
 the niece; “ it’s bad for any body to be fightin’, 
 but worst of all for brothers, that ought to live 
 in peace and kindness. Won’t you, father?” 
 
 “ Maybe I will, dear, some o’ these days, on 
 your account, Anne; but you must get this crea- 
 ture of an uncle of yours to let me alone, an’ 
 not be aggravatin’ me with his folly. As for 
 your mother, she’s worse; her tongue’s sharp 
 enough to skin a flint, and a batin’ a day has 
 little effect on her.” 
 
 Anne sighed, for she knew how low an ir- 
 religious life, and the infamous society with 
 which, as her father’s wife, her mother was com- 
 pelled to mingle, had degraded her. 
 
 “ Well but, father, you don’t set her a good 
 example yourself,” said Anne; ‘'and if she 
 scoulds and drinks now, you know she was a 
 different woman when you got her. You al- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 II 
 
 low this yourself ; and the crathur, the dhrunkest 
 time she is, doesn’t she cry bittherly, remimberin’ 
 what she has been. Instead of one batin’ a day, 
 father, thry no batin’ a day, an’ may be it ’ill 
 turn out betther, than thumpin’ an’ smashin’ her, 
 as you do.” 
 
 “ Why, thin, there’s thruth an’ sinse in what 
 the girl says, Tony,” observed Denis. 
 
 “ Come,” replied Anthony, “ whatever she 
 may say. I’ll suffer none of your interference. 
 Go an’ get us the black bottle from the place; 
 it’ll soon be time to move. I hope they won’t 
 stay too long.” 
 
 Denis obeyed this command with great readi- 
 ness, for whiskey in some degree blunted the 
 fierce passions of his brother, and deadened his 
 cruelty; or rather diverted it from minor objects 
 to those which occurred in the lawless perpetra- 
 tion of his villany. 
 
 The bottle was got, and in the mean time the 
 fire blazed up brightly; the storm without, how- 
 ever, did not abate, nor did Meehan and his 
 brother wish that it should. As the elder of them 
 took the glass from the hands of the other, an air 
 of savage pleasure blazed in his eyes, on reflect- 
 ing that the tempest of the night was favourable 
 to the execution of the villanous deed on which 
 they were bent. 
 
 “More power to you!” said Anthony, im- 
 piously personifying the storm: “sure that’s 
 one proof that God doesn’t throuble his head 
 about what we do, or we would not get such a 
 murdherin’ fine night as is in it, any how. 
 
12 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 That’s it ! blow an’ tundher away, an’ keep your- 
 self an’ us as black as hell, sooner than we should 
 fail in what we intend! Anne, your health, 
 acushla! — Yours, Dinny! If you keep your 
 tongue off o’ me. I’ll neither make nor meddle 
 in regard o’ the batin’ o’ you.” 
 
 “ I hope you’ll stick to that, any how,” replied 
 Denis ; “ for my part I’m sick and sore o’ you 
 every day in the year. Many another man 
 would put salt wather between himself and 
 yourself, sooner nor become a battin’-stone for 
 you, as I have been. Few would bear it, when 
 they could mend themselves.” 
 
 “What’s that you say?” replied Anthony, 
 suddenly laying down his glass, catching his 
 brother by the collar, and looking him with a 
 murderous scowl in the face. “Is it thrachery 
 you hint at? — eh? Sarpent, is it thrachery you 
 mane? ” and as he spoke, he compressed Denis’s 
 neck between his powerful hands, until the other 
 was black in the face. 
 
 Anne flew to her uncle’s assistance, and with 
 much difficulty succeeded in rescuing him from 
 the deadly gripe of her father, who exclaimed, 
 as he loosed his hold, “You may thank the girl, 
 or you’d not spake, nor dare to spake, about 
 crossin’ the salt-wather, or lavin’ me in a desate- 
 ful way agin. If I ever suspect that a thought 
 of thrachery comes into your heart. I’ll do for 
 you ; and you may carry your story to the world 
 I’ll send you to.” 
 
 “ Father dear, why are you so suspicious of 
 my uncle? ” said Anne; “ sure he’s a long time 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 13 
 
 livin’ ^vith you, an’ goin’ step for step in all the 
 danger you meet with. If he had a mind to 
 turn out a Judas agin you, he might a done it 
 long agone ; not to mintion the throuble it would 
 bring on his own head, seein’ he’s as deep in 
 every thing as you are.” 
 
 “ If that’s all that’s throubling you,” replied 
 Denis, trembling, “ you may make yourself asy 
 on the head of it; but well I know ’tisn’t that 
 that’s on your mind; ’tis your owm conscience; 
 but sure it’s not fair nor rasonable for you to 
 vent your evil thoughts on me! ” 
 
 “ Well, he won’t,” said Anne, ‘‘he’ll quit it; 
 his mind’s throubled; an’, dear knows, it’s no 
 wondher it should. Och, I’d give the world ^\dde 
 that his conscience was lightened of the load 
 that’s upon it ! My mother’s lameness is 
 notliin’; but the child, poor thing! An’ it was 
 only widin three days of her lyin’-in. Och, it 
 was a cruel sthroke, father! An’ when I seen 
 its little innocent face, dead, an’ me widout a 
 brother, I thought my heart would break, 
 thinkin’ upon who did it!” The tears fell in 
 showers from her eyes, as she added, “ Father, 
 I don’t want to vex you; but I wish you to feel 
 sorrow for that at laste. Oh, if you’d bring the 
 priest, an’ give up sich courses, father dear, how 
 happy we’d be, an’ how happy yourself ’ud be! ” 
 Conscience for a moment started from her 
 sleep, and uttered a cry of guilt in his spirit: his 
 face became ghastly, and his eyes full of horror: 
 his lips quivered, and he was about to upbraid 
 his daughter with more harshness than usual. 
 
14 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 when a low whistle, resembling that of a curlew, 
 was heard at a chink of the door. In a moment 
 he gulped down another glass of spirits, and was 
 on his feet: ‘‘ Go, Denis, an’ get the arms,” said 
 he to his brother, “ while I let them in.” 
 
 On opening the door, three men entered, hav- 
 ing their great-coats muffled about them, and 
 their hats slouched. One of them, named 
 Kenny, was a short villain, but of a thick-set, 
 hairy frame. The other was known as “ the Big 
 Mower,” in consequence of his following that 
 employment every season, and of his great skill 
 in performing it. He had a deep-rooted objec- 
 tion against permitting the palm of his hand to 
 be seen; a reluctance which common fame at- 
 tributed to the fact of his having received on 
 that part the impress of a hot iron, in the shape 
 of the letter T, not forgetting to add, that T 
 was the hieroglyphic for Thief. The villain 
 himself affirmed it was simply the mark of a 
 cross, burned into it by a blessed friar, as a 
 charm against St. Vitus’s dance, to which he had 
 once been subject. The people, however, were 
 rather sceptical, not of the friar’s power to cure 
 that malady, but of the fact of his ever having 
 moved a limb under it ; and they concluded with 
 telling him, good-humouredly enough, that not- 
 withstanding the charm, he was destined to die 
 “ wid the threble of it in his toe.” The third 
 was a noted pedlar called Martin, who, under 
 pretence of selling tape, pins, scissors, &c., was 
 very useful in setting such premises as this 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 15 
 
 virtuous fraternity might, without much risk, 
 make a descent upon. 
 
 “ I thought yez would out-stay your time,” 
 said the ' elder Meehan, relapsing into his de- 
 termined hardihood of character; “we’re ready, 
 hours agone. Dick Rice gave me two curlew 
 an’ two patrich calls to-day. Now pass the 
 glass among yez, while Denny brings the arms. 
 I know there’s danger in this business, in regard 
 of the Cassidys livin’ so near us. If I see any- 
 body afut. I’ll use the curlew call; an’ if not, I’ll 
 whistle twice on the patrich ^ one, an’ ye may 
 come an. The horse is worth eighty guineas, if 
 he’s worth a shillin’ ; an’ we’ll make sixty of him 
 ourselves.” 
 
 For some time they chatted about the plan in 
 contemplation, and drank freely of the spirits, 
 until at length the impatience of the elder Mee- 
 han at the delay of his brother became ungovern- 
 able. His voice deepened into tones of savage 
 passion, as he uttered a series of blasphemous 
 curses against this unfortunate butt of his in- 
 dignation and malignity. At length he rushed 
 out furiously to know why he did not return; 
 but, on reaching a secret excavation in the 
 mound against which the house was built, he 
 found, to his utter dismay, that Denis had made 
 his escape by an artificial passage, scooped out 
 of it to secure themselves a retreat in case of 
 surprise or detection. It opened behind the 
 house among a clump of black-thorn and brush- 
 wood, and was covered with green turf in such 
 
16 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 a manner, as to escape the notice of all who were 
 not acquainted with the secret. Meehan’s face, 
 on his return, was worked up into an expression 
 truly awful. 
 
 “ We’re sould! ” said he; “ but, stop. I’ll tache 
 the thraithur what revinge is ! ” 
 
 In a moment he awoke his brother’s two sons, 
 and dragged them by the neck, one in each hand, 
 to the hearth. 
 
 “ Your villain of a father’s off,” said he, “ to 
 betray us : go, an’ folly him ; bring him back, an’ 
 he’ll be safe from me: but let him become a stag 
 agin us, and if I should hunt you both into the 
 bowels of the airth. I’ll send yez to a short ac- 
 count. I don’t care that,” and he snapped his 
 fingers — “ ha, ha — no, I don’t care that for the 
 law ; I know how to dale with it, when it comes ! 
 An, what’s the stuff about the other world, but 
 priestcraft and lies! ” 
 
 “ Maybe,” said the Big Mower, “ Denis is gone 
 to get the fore way of us, an’ to take the horse 
 himself. Our best plan is to lose no time, at all 
 events ; so let us hurry, for f raid the night might 
 happen to clear up.” 
 
 “ He! ” said Meehan, “ he go alone! No: the 
 miserable wretch is afeard of his own shadow. 
 I only wondher he stuck to me so long: but sure 
 he wouldn’t, only I bate the courage in, and the 
 fear out of him. You’re right, Brian,” said he 
 upon reflection, “ let us lose no time, but be off. 
 Do ye mind?” he added to his nephews; “Did 
 ye hear me? If you see him, let him come back, 
 an’ all will be berrid; but, if he doesn’t, you 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 17 
 
 know your fate!” Saying which, he and his 
 accomplices departed amid the howhng of the 
 storm. 
 
 The next morning, Carnmore, and indeed the 
 whole parish, was in an uproar; a horse, worth 
 eighty guineas, had been stolen in the most dar- 
 ing manner from the Cassidys, and the hue-and- 
 cry was up after the thief or thieves who took 
 him. For several days the search was closely 
 maintained, but without success ; not the slightest 
 trace could be found of him or them. The Cas- 
 sidys could very well bear to lose him; but there 
 were many struggling farmers, on whose prop- 
 erty serious depredations had been committed, 
 who could not sustain their loss so easily. It 
 was natural under these circumstances that sus- 
 picion should attach to many persons, some of 
 whom had but indifferent characters before, as 
 well as to several who certainly had never de- 
 served suspicion. When a fortnight or so had 
 elapsed, and no circumstances transpired that 
 might lead to discovery, the neighbours, includ- 
 ing those who had principally suffered by the 
 robberies, determined to assemble upon a certain 
 day at Cassidy’s house, for the purpose of clear- 
 ing themselves, on oath, of the imputations 
 thrown out against some of them, as accomplices 
 in the thefts. In order, however, that the cere- 
 mony should be performed as solemnly as possi- 
 ble, they determined to send for Father Farrell, 
 and Mr. Nicholson, a magistrate, both of whom 
 they requested to undertake the task of jointly 
 presiding upon this occasion; and, that the cir- 
 
 III— 2 
 
18 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 cumstance should have every publicity, it was 
 announced from the altar by the priest, on the 
 preceding Sabbath, and published on the church- 
 gate in large legible characters, ingeniously 
 printed with a pen by the village schoolmaster. 
 
 In fact, the intended meeting, and the object 
 of it, were already notorious ; and much conversa- 
 tion was held upon its probable result, and the 
 measures which might be taken against those 
 who should refuse to swear. Of the latter de- 
 scription there was but one opinion, which was 
 that their refusal in such a case would be tanta- 
 mount to guilt. The innocent were anxious to 
 vindicate themselves from suspicion: and, as the 
 suspected did not amount to more than a dozen, 
 of course the whole body of the people, including 
 the thieves themselves, who applauded it as 
 loudly as the others, all expressed their satisfac- 
 tion at the measures about to be adopted. A 
 day was therefore appointed, on which the in- 
 habitants of the neighbourhood, particularly the 
 suspected persons, should come to assemble at 
 Cassidy’s house, in order to have the characters 
 of the innocent cleared up, and the guilty, if 
 possible, made known. 
 
 On the evening before this took place, were 
 assembled in Meehan’s cottage, the elder Meehan, 
 and the rest of the gang, including Denis, who 
 had absconded on the night of the theft. 
 
 “Well, well, Denny,” said Anthony, who 
 forced his rugged nature into an appearance of 
 better temper, that he might strengthen the timid 
 spirit of his brother against the scrutiny about to 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 19 
 
 take place on the morrow — perhaps, too, he 
 dreaded him — “ Well well, Denny, I thought, 
 sure enough, that it was some new piece of 
 cowardice came over you. Just think of him,” 
 he added, “ shabbin’ off, only because he made, 
 with a bit of a rod, three strokes in the ashes 
 that he thought resembled a coffin! — ^ha, ha, ha! ” 
 
 This produced a peal of derision at Denis’s 
 pusillanimous terror. 
 
 “ Ay! ” said the Big Mower, “ he was makin’ 
 a coffin, was he? I wondher it wasn’t a rope 
 you drew, Denny. If any one dies in the coil, 
 it will be the greatest coward, an’ that’s your- 
 self.” 
 
 “ You may all laugh,” replied Denis, “ but I 
 know such things to have a manin’. When my 
 mother died, didn’t my father, the heavens be 
 his bed ! see a black coach about a week before it ? 
 an’ sure from the first day she tuck ill, the dead- 
 watch was heard in the house every night: and 
 what was more nor that, she kept warm until she 
 went into her grave ; ^ an’, accordingly, didn’t 
 my sisther Shibby die within a year afther? ” 
 
 “ It’s no matther about thim things,” replied 
 Anthony; “it’s thruth about the dead-watch, 
 my mother keepin’ warm, an’ Shibby’s death, any 
 way. But on the night we tuck Cassidy’s horse, 
 I thought you were goin’ to betray us: I was 
 surely in a murdherin’ passion, an’ would have 
 done harm, only things turned out as they did.” 
 
 “ Why,” said Denis, “ the thruth is, I was 
 afeard some of us would be shot, an’ that the 
 lot would fall on myself; for the coffin, thinks 
 
20 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 I, was sent as a warnin’. How-and-ever, I spied 
 about Cassidy’s stable, till I seen that the coast 
 was clear; so whin I heard the low cry of the 
 patrich that Anthony and I agreed on, I joined 
 yez.” 
 
 “ Well, about to-morrow,” observed Kenny — 
 “ ha, ha, ha! — there’ll be lots o’ swearin’. Why 
 the whole parish is to switch the primer; many 
 a thumb and coat-cuff will be kissed in spite of 
 priest or magistrate. I remimber once, whin I 
 was swearin’ an alibi for long Paddy Murray, 
 that suffered for the M‘Gees, I kissed my thumb, 
 I thought, so smoothly, that no one would notice 
 it; but I had a keen one to dale with, so says he, 
 ‘ You know for the matther o’ that, my good 
 fellow, that you have your thumb to kiss every 
 day in the week,’ says he, ‘ but you might salute 
 the booh out o’ dacency and good manners ; not,’ 
 says he, ‘ that you an’ it are strangers aither ; 
 for, if I don’t mistake, you’re an ould hand at 
 swearin’ alibis.’ 
 
 At all evints, I had to smack the book itself, 
 and it’s I, and Barney Green, and Tim Casserly, 
 that did swear stiffly for Paddy, but the thing 
 was too clear agin him. So he suffered, poor 
 fellow, an’ died right game, for he said over his 
 dhrop — ha, ha, ha — that he was as innocent o’ the 
 murder as a child unborn: an’ so he was in one 
 sinse, bein’ afther gettin’ absolution.” 
 
 “ As to thumb-kissin’,” observed the elder 
 Meehan; “ let there be none of it among us to- 
 morrow; if we’re caught at it ’twould be as bad 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 21 
 
 as stayin’ away altogether; for my part, I’ll give 
 it a smack like a pistol-shot — ha, ha, ha! ” 
 
 “ I hope they won’t bring the priest’s book,” 
 said Denis. “ I haven’t the laste objection agin 
 payin’ my respects to the magistrate's paper, but 
 somehow I don’t like tastin’ the priest's in a 
 falsity.” 
 
 “ Don’t you know,” said the Big Mower, 
 “ that whin a magistrate’s present, it’s ever an’ 
 always only the Tistament hy law that’s used. 
 I myself wouldn’t kiss the mass-book in a 
 falsity.” 
 
 “ There’s none of us sayin’ we’d do it in a lie,” 
 said the elder Meehan; “ an’ it’s well for thou- 
 sands that the law doesn’t use the priest’s book; 
 though, after all, aren’t there books that say 
 religion’s all a sham? I think myself it is; for 
 if what they talk about justice an’ Providence is 
 thrue, would Tom Dillon be transported for the 
 robbery we committed at Bantry? Tom, it’s 
 true, was an ould offender; but he was innocent 
 of that, any way. The world’s all chance, boys, 
 as sargint Eustace used to say, and whin we die 
 there’s no more about us ; so that I don’t see why 
 a man mightn’t as well switch the priest’s book 
 as any other, only that, somehow, a body can’t 
 shake the terror of it off o’ them.” 
 
 “ I dunna, Anthony, but you an’ I ought to 
 curse that sargint; only for him we mightn’t be 
 as we are, sore in our conscience, an’ afeard of 
 every fut we hear passin’,” observed Denis. 
 
 “ Spake for your own cowardly heart, man 
 
22 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 alive/’ replied Anthony; ‘‘ for my part, I’m 
 afeard o’ nothin’. Put round the glass, and 
 don’t be nursin’ it there all night. Sure we’re 
 not so bad as the rot among the sheep, nor the 
 black leg among the bullocks, nor the staggers 
 among the horses, any how; an’ yet they’d hang 
 us up only for bein’ fond of a bit o’ mate — ha, 
 ha, ha! ” 
 
 “ Thrue enough,” said the Big Mower, philos- 
 ophizing — “ God made the beef and the mutton, 
 and the grass to fed it; but it was man made the 
 ditches: now we’re only bringin’ things back to 
 the right way that Providence made them in, 
 when ould times were in it, manin’ before ditches 
 war invinted — ^ha, ha, ha! ” 
 
 “ ’Tis a good argument,” observed Kenny, 
 “ only that judge and jury would be a little deli- 
 cate in actin’ up to it; an’ the more’s the pity. 
 Howsomever, as Providence made the mutton, 
 sure it’s not harm for us to take what he sends.” 
 “ Ay; but,” said Denis, 
 
 * God made man, an’ man made money ; 
 
 God made bees, and bees made honey: 
 
 God made Satan, an’ Satan made sin; 
 
 An’ God made a hell to put Satan in.’ 
 
 Let nobody say there’s not a hell; isn’t there it 
 plain from Scripthur? ” 
 
 “ I wish you had the Scripthur tied about your 
 neck! ” replied Anthony — “ How fond of it one 
 o’ the greatest thieves that ever missed the rope 
 is! Why the fellow could plan a roguery with 
 any man that ever danced the hangman’s horn- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 23 
 
 pipe, and yet he he’s repatin’ bits an’ scraps of 
 ould prayers, an’ charms, an’ stuff. Ay, in- 
 deed ! Sure he has a varse out o’ the Bible, that 
 he thinks can prevent a man from bein’ hung 
 up any day! ” 
 
 While Denny, the Big JNIower, and the two 
 Meehans were thus engaged in giving expression 
 to their peculiar opinions, the Pedlar held a con- 
 versation of a different kind with Anne. 
 
 With the secrets of the family in his keeping, 
 he commenced a rather penitent review of his 
 own life, and expressed his intention of abandon- 
 ing so dangerous a mode of accumulating wealth. 
 He said that he thanked heaven he had already 
 laid up sufficient for the wants of a reasonable 
 man; that he understood farming and the man- 
 agement of sheep particularly well: that it was 
 his intention to remove to a different part of the 
 kingdom, and take a farm; and that nothing 
 prevented him from having done this before, but 
 the want of a helpmate to take care of his estab- 
 lishment: he added, that his present wife was of 
 an intolerable temper, and a greater villain by 
 fifty degrees than himself. He concluded by 
 saying, that his conscience twitched him night and 
 day for living with her, and that by abandoning 
 her immediately, becoming truly religious, and 
 taking Anne in her place, he hoped, he said, to 
 atone in some measure for his former errors. 
 
 Anthony, however, having noticed the ear- 
 nestness which marked the Pedlar’s manner, sus- 
 pected him of attempting to corrupt the princi- 
 ples of his daughter, having forgotten the 
 
24 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 influence which his own opinions were calculated 
 to produce upon her heart. 
 
 “ Martin,” said he, “ ’twould be as well you 
 ped attention to what we’re sayin’ in regard o’ 
 the trial to-morrow, as to be palaverin’ talk into 
 the girl’s ear that can’t be good cornin’ from 
 your lips. Quit it, I say, quit it! Cory an 
 duowol ^ — I won’t allow such proceedins! ” 
 
 “ Swear till you blister your Hps, Anthony,” 
 rephed Martin: “ as for me, bein’ no residenthur, 
 I’m not bound to it; an’ what’s more, I’m not 
 suspected. ’Tis settin’ some other bit o’ work 
 for yez I’ll be, while you’re all clearin’ your- 
 selves from stealin’ honest Cassidy’s horse. I 
 wish we had him safely disposed of in the mane 
 time, an’ the money for him an’ the other beasts 
 in our pockets.” 
 
 Much more conversation of a similar kind 
 passed between them upon various topics con- 
 nected with their profligacy and crimes. At 
 length they separated for the night, after hav- 
 ing concerted their plan of action for the en- 
 suing scrutiny. 
 
 The next morning, before the hour appointed 
 arrived, the parish, particularly the neighbour- 
 hood of Carnmore, was struck with deep conster- 
 nation. Labour became suspended, mirth dis- 
 appeared, and every face was marked with pale- 
 ness, anxiety, and apprehension. If two men 
 met, one shook his head mysteriously, and in- 
 quired from the other, “Did you hear the news? ” 
 
 “ Ay! ay! the Lord be about us all, I did! an’ 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 25 
 
 I pray God that it may lave the counthry as it 
 came to it! ” 
 
 “ Oh, an’ that it may, I humbly make suppli- 
 cation this day! ” 
 
 If two women met, it was with similar mystery 
 and fear. ‘‘ Vread/ do you know what’s at the 
 Cassidys’? ” 
 
 “Whisht, a-hagur, I do; but let what will 
 happen, sure it’s best for us to say nothin’.” 
 
 “ Say! the blessed Virgin forbid! I’d cut my 
 hand otF o’ me, afore I’d spake a word about it; 
 only that ” 
 
 “Whisht! woman — for mercy’s sake — 
 don’t ” 
 
 And so they would separate, each crossing her- 
 self devoutly. 
 
 The meeting at Cassidy’s was to take place 
 that day at twelve o’clock; but, about two hours 
 before the appointed time, Anne, who had been 
 in some of the other houses, came into her fa- 
 ther’s, quite pale, breathless and trembhng. 
 
 “Oh!” she exclaimed, with clasped hands, 
 whilst the tears fell fast from her eyes, “ we’ll 
 be lost, ruined ; — did yez hear what’s in the neigh- 
 bourhood wid the Cassidys’ ? ” 
 
 “ Girl,” said the father, with more severity 
 than he had ever manifested to her before, “ I 
 never yit m my hand to you, but ma corp an 
 duowol, if you open your lips. I’ll fell you where 
 you stand. Do you want that cowardly uncle 
 o’ yours to be the manes o’ hanging your father? 
 Maybe that was one o’ the lessons Martin gave 
 
26 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 you last night?” And as he spoke he knit his 
 brows at her with that murderous scowl which 
 was habitual to him. The girl trembled, and 
 began to think that since her father’s temper 
 deepened in domestic outrage and violence as his 
 crimes multiplied, the sooner she left the family 
 the better. Every day, indeed, diminished that 
 species of instinctive affection which she had 
 entertained towards him; and this, in proportion 
 as her reason ripened into a capacity for compre- 
 hending the dark materials of which his char- 
 acter was composed. Whether he himself began 
 to consider detection at hand, or not, we cannot 
 say ; but it is certain, that his conduct was 
 marked with a callous recklessness of spirit, 
 which increased in atrocity to such a degree, that 
 even his daughter could only not look on him with 
 disgust, 
 
 “What’s the matter now?” inquired Denis, 
 with alarm: “ is it any thing about us, Anthony? ” 
 
 “No, ’tisn’t,” replied the other, “ anything 
 about us! What ’ud it be about us for? ’Tis 
 a lyin’ report that some cunnin’ knave spread, 
 hopin’ to find out the guilty. But hear me, 
 Denis, once for all; we’re goin’ to clear ourselves 
 — now listen — an’ let my words sink deep into 
 your heart: if you refuse to swear this day — no 
 matther whafs put into your hand — you’ll do 
 harm — that’s all: have courage, man; but should 
 you cow, your coorse will be short; an’ mark, 
 even if you escape me, your sons won’t: I have 
 it all planned; an’ corp an duowol! thim you 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 27 
 
 won’t know from Adam will revenge me, if I’m 
 taken up through your unmanliness.” 
 
 “ ’T would be betther for us to lave the coun- 
 thry,” said Anne; “ we might slip away as it is.” 
 “Ay,” said the father, “an’ be taken by the 
 neck afore we’d get two miles from the place! 
 no, no, girl; it’s the safest way to brazen thim 
 out. Did you hear me, Denis? ” 
 
 Denis started, for he had been evidently pon- 
 dering on the mysterious words of Anne, to 
 which his brother’s anxiety to conceal them gave 
 additional mystery. The coffin, too, recurred to 
 him; and he feared that the death shadowed out 
 by it, would in some manner or other occur in 
 the family. He was, in fact, one of those miser- 
 able villains with but half a conscience; — that 
 is to say, as much as makes them the slaves of 
 the fear which results from crime, without being 
 the slightest impediment to their committing it. 
 It was no wonder he started at the deep pervad- 
 ing tones of his brother’s voice, for the question 
 was put with ferocious energy. 
 
 On starting, he looked with vague terror on 
 his brother, fearing, but not comprehending, his 
 question. 
 
 “ What is it, Anthony? ” he inquired. 
 
 “ Oh, for that matther,” replied the other, 
 “ nothin’ at all: think of what I said to you, any 
 how; swear through thick an’ thin, if you have 
 a regard for your own health, or for your chil- 
 dher. Maybe I had betther repate it agin for 
 you?” he continued, eying him with mingled 
 
28 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 fear and suspicion. “ Denis, as a friend, I bid 
 you mind yourself this day, an’ see you don’t 
 bring aither of us into throuble.” 
 
 There lay before the Cassidys’ houses a small 
 flat of common, trodden into rings by the young 
 horses they were in the habit of training. On 
 this level space were assembled those who came, 
 either to clear their own character from suspicion, 
 or to witness the ceremony. The day was dark 
 and lowering, and heavy clouds rolled slowly 
 across the peaks of the surrounding mountains; 
 scarcely a breath of air could be felt; and, as 
 the country people silently approached, such was 
 the closeness of the day, their haste to arrive in 
 time, and their general anxiety, either for them- 
 selves or their friends, that almost every man, on 
 reaching the spot, might be seen taking up the 
 skirts of his “ cothamore,” or ‘‘big coat,” (the 
 peasant’s handkerchief), to wipe the sweat from 
 his brow; and as he took off his dingy woollen 
 hat, or caubeen, the perspiration rose in strong 
 exhalations from his head. 
 
 “Michael, am I in time?” might be heard 
 from such persons, as they arrived: “did this 
 business begin yit?” 
 
 “ Full time, Larry; my self’s here an hour ago, 
 but no appearance of anything as yit. Father 
 Farrell an’ Squire Nicholson are both in Cassidys’ 
 waitin’ till they’re all gotlier, whin they’ll begin 
 to put thim through their facins. You hard 
 about what they’ve got? ” 
 
 “ No; for I’m only on my way home from the 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 29 
 
 berril of a cleaveen of mine, that we put down 
 this mornin’ in Tullyard. What is it?” 
 
 “ Why, man alive, it’s through the whole parish 
 inready; ” — he then went on, lowering his voice 
 to a whisper, and speaking in a tone hordering 
 on dismay. 
 
 The other crossed himself, and betrayed symp- 
 toms of awe and astonishment, not unmingled 
 with fear. 
 
 “ Well,” he replied, “ I dunna whether I’d 
 come here, if I’d known that; for, innocent or 
 guilty, I wouldn’t wish to be near it. Och, may 
 God pity thim that’s to come acrass it, espishily 
 if they dare to do it in a lie! ” 
 
 “ They needn’t, I can tell yez both,” observed 
 a third person, “ be a hair afeard of it, for the 
 best razon livin’, that there’s no thruth at all in 
 the report, nor the Cassidys never thought of 
 sindin’ for anything o’ the kind: I have it from 
 Larry Cassidy’s own lips, an’ he ought to know- 
 best.” 
 
 The truth is, that two reports were current 
 among the crowd: one, that the oath was to be 
 simply on the Bible; and the other, that a more 
 awful means of expurgation was resorted to by 
 the Cassidys. The people, consequently, not 
 knowing which to credit, felt that most painful 
 of all sensations — uncertainty. 
 
 During the period which intervened between 
 their assembling and the commencement of the 
 ceremony, a spectator, interested in contempla- 
 ting the workings of human nature in circum- 
 
30 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 stances of deep interest, would have had ample 
 scope for observation. The occasion was to 
 them a solemn one. There was little conversa- 
 tion among them; for when a man is wound up 
 to a pitch of great interest, he is seldom disposed 
 to relish discourse. Every brow was anxious, 
 every cheek blanched, and every arm folded: 
 they scarcely stirred, or when they did, only with 
 slow abstracted movements, rather mechanical 
 than voluntary. If an individual made his ap- 
 pearance about Cassidy’s door, a sluggish stir 
 among them was visible, and a low murmur of a 
 peculiar character might be heard; but on per- 
 ceiving that it was only some ordinary person, 
 all subsided again into a brooding stillness that 
 was equally singular and impressive. 
 
 Under this peculiar feeling was the multitude, 
 when Meehan and his brother were seen ap- 
 proaching it from their own house. The elder, 
 with folded arms, and hat pulled over his brows, 
 stalked grimly forward, having that remarkable 
 scowl upon his face, which had contributed to 
 establish for him so diabolical a character. Denis 
 walked by his side, with his countenance strained 
 to inflation; — a miserable parody of that sullen 
 effrontery which marked the unshrinking mis- 
 creant beside him. He had not heard of the 
 ordeal, owing to the caution of Anthony; but, 
 notwithstanding his effort at indifference, a 
 keen eye might have observed the latent anxiety 
 of a man who was habitually villanous, and 
 naturally timid. 
 
 When this pair entered the crowd, a few secret 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 31 
 
 glances, too rapid to be noticed by the people, 
 passed between them and their accomplices. 
 Denis, on seeing them present, took fresh cour- 
 age, and looked with the heroism of a blusterer 
 upon those who stood about him, especially when- 
 ever he found himself under the scrutinizing eye 
 of his brother. Such was the horror and de- 
 testation in which they were held, that on 
 advancing into the assembly, the persons on each 
 side turned away, and openly avoided them: 
 eyes full of fierce hatred were bent on them vin- 
 dictively, and “ curses, not loud, but deep,” were 
 muttered with an indignation which nothing but 
 a divided state of feeling could repress within 
 due limits. Every glance, however, was paid 
 back by Anthony with interest, from eyes and 
 black shaggy brows tremendously ferocious; and 
 his curses, as they rolled up half smothered from 
 his huge chest, were deeper and more diabolical 
 by far than their own. He even jeered at them; 
 but, however disgusting his frown, there was 
 something truly appalling in the dark gleam of 
 his scoff, which threw them at an immeasurable 
 distance behind him, in the power of displaying 
 on the countenance the worst of human passions. 
 
 At length Mr. Nicholson, Father Farrell, and 
 his curate, attended by the Cassidys and their 
 friends, issued from the house: two or three serv- 
 ants preceded them, bearing a table and chairs 
 for the magistrate and priests, who, however, 
 stood during the ceremony. When they entered 
 one of the rings before alluded to, the table and 
 chairs were placed in the centre of it, and Father 
 
32 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Farrell, as possessing most influence over the 
 people, addressed them very impressively. 
 
 “ There are,” said he, in conclusion, “ persons 
 in this crowd whom we know to be guilty ; but we 
 will have an opportunity of now witnessing the 
 lengths to which crime, long indulged in, can 
 carry them. To such people I would say, be- 
 ware! for they know not the situation in which 
 they are placed.” 
 
 During all this time there was not the slightest 
 allusion made to the mysterious ordeal which had 
 excited so much awe and apprehension among 
 them — a circumstance which occasioned many a 
 pale, downcast face to clear up, and reassume its 
 usual and cheerful expression. The crowd now 
 were assembled around the ring, and every man 
 on whom an imputation had been fastened came 
 forward, when called upon, to the table at which 
 the priests and magistrates stood uncovered. 
 The form of the oath was framed by the two 
 clergymen, who, as they knew the reservations 
 and evasions commonest among such characters, 
 had ingeniously contrived not to leave a single 
 loophole through which the consciences of those 
 who belonged to this worthy fraternity might es- 
 cape. 
 
 To those acquainted with Irish courts of jus- 
 tice there was nothing particularly remarkable 
 in the swearing. Indeed, one who stood among 
 the crowd might hear from those who were sta- 
 tioned at the greatest distance from the table, 
 such questions as the following: — 
 
 “ Is the thing in it, Art? ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 33 
 
 “No; ’tis nothin’ but the law Bible, the mag- 
 istrate’s own one.” 
 
 To this the querist would reply, with a satis- 
 fied nod of the head, “ Oh, is that all? I heard 
 they war to have on which he would push 
 himself through the crowd until he reached the 
 table, where he took his oath as readily as another. 
 
 “ Jem Hartigan,” said the magistrate, to one 
 of those persons, “ are you to swear? ” 
 
 “ Faix, myself doesn’t know, your honour ; 
 only that I hard them say that the Cassidys min- 
 tioned our names along wid many other honest 
 people; an’ one wouldn’t, in that case, lie under 
 a false report, your honour, from any one, when 
 we’re as clear as them that never saw the light of 
 anything of the kind.” 
 
 The magistrate then put the book into his 
 hand, and Jem, in return, fixed his eye, with 
 much apparent innocence, on his face: “Now, 
 Jem Hartigan,” &c. &c. and the oath was ac- 
 cordingly administered. Jem put the book to 
 his mouth, with his thumb raised to an acute 
 angle on the back of it; nor was the smack by 
 any means a silent one which he gave it, (his 
 thumb). 
 
 The magistrate set his ear with the air of a 
 man who had experience in discriminating such 
 sounds. “ Hartigan,” said he, “ you’ll conde- 
 scend to kiss the hook^ Sir, if you please : there’s 
 a hollowness in that smack, my good fellow, that 
 can’t escape me/^ 
 
 “Not kiss it, your honour? why, by this staff 
 in my hand, if ever a man kissed ” — 
 
 III— 3 
 
34 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Silence! you impostor,” said the curate; ‘‘ I 
 watched you closely, and am confident your lips 
 never touched the book.” 
 
 “ My lips never touched the book! — ^Why, you 
 know I’d be sarry to conthradict either o’ yez; 
 but I was jist goin’ to absarve, wid simmission, 
 that my own lips ought to know best; an’ don’t 
 you hear them tellin’ you that they did kiss it? ” 
 and he grinned with confidence in their faces. 
 
 “You double-dealing reprobate!” said the 
 parish priest, “ I’ll lay my whip across your jaws. 
 I saw you, too, an’ you did not kiss the book.” 
 
 “ By dad, an’ maybe I did not, sure enough,” 
 he replied: “ any man may make a mistake un- 
 knownst to himself ; but I’d give my oath, an’ 
 be the five crasses, I kissed it as sure as how- 
 
 ever, a good thing’s never the worse o’ bein’ 
 twice done, gintlemen; so here goes, jist to sat- 
 isfy yez; ” and, placing the book near his mouth, 
 and altering his position a little, he appeared to 
 comply, though, on the contrary, he touched 
 neither it nor his thumb. “ It’s the same thing 
 to me,” he continued, laying down the book with 
 an air of confident assurance ; “ it’s the same 
 thing to me if I kissed it fifty times over, which 
 I’m ready to do if that doesn’t satisfy yez.” 
 
 As every man acquitted himself of the 
 charges brought against him, the curate imme- 
 diately took down his name. Indeed, before the 
 “ clearing ” commenced, he requested that such 
 as were to swear would stand together within the 
 ring, that, after having sworn, he might hand 
 each of them a certificate of the fact, which they 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 35 
 
 appeared to think might be serviceable to them, 
 should they happen to be subsequently indicted 
 for the same crime in a court of justice. This, 
 however, was only a plan to keep them together 
 for what was soon to take place. 
 
 The detections of thumb-kissing were received 
 by those who had already sworn, and by several 
 in the outward crowd, with much mirth. It is 
 but justice, however, to the majority of those as- 
 sembled to state, that they appeared to entertain 
 a serious opinion of the nature of the ceremony, 
 and no small degree of abhorrence against those 
 who seemed to trifle with the solemnity of an 
 oath. 
 
 Standing on the edge of the circle, in the in- 
 nermost row, were Meehan and his brother. The 
 former eyed, with all the hardness of a Stoic, 
 the successive individuals as they passed up 
 to the table. His accomplices had gone 
 forward, and to the surprise of many who 
 strongly suspected them, in the most indifferent 
 manner “ cleared ” themselves in the trying 
 words of the oath, of all knowledge of, and par- 
 ticipation in, the thefts that had taken place. 
 
 The grim visage of the elder Meehan was 
 marked by a dark smile, scarcely perceptible; 
 but his brother, whose nerves were not so firm, 
 appeared somewhat confused and distracted by 
 the imperturbable villany of the perjurers. 
 
 At length they were called up. Anthony ad- 
 vanced slowly but collectedly, to the table, only 
 turning his eye slightly about, to observe if his 
 brother accompanied him. “ Denis,” said he. 
 
36 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 ‘‘which of us will swear first? you may;” for, 
 as he doubted his brother’s firmness, he was pru- 
 dent enough, should he fail, to guard against 
 having the sin of perjury to answer for, along 
 with those demands which his country had to 
 make for his other crimes. Denis took the book, 
 and cast a slight glance at his brother as if for 
 encouragement ; their eyes met, and the darkened 
 brow of Anthony hinted at the danger of flinch- 
 ing in this crisis. The tremor of his hand was 
 not, perhaps, visible to any but Anthony, who, 
 however, did not overlook this circumstance. 
 He held the book, but raised not his eye to meet 
 the looks of either the magistrate or the priest; 
 the colour also left his face, as with shrinking 
 lips he touched the Word of God in deliberate 
 falsehood. Having then laid it down, Anthony 
 received it with a firm grasp, and whilst his eye 
 turned boldly in contemptuous mockery upon 
 those who presented it, he impressed it with the 
 kiss of a man whose depraved conscience seemed 
 to goad him only to evil. After “ clearing ” 
 himself, he laid the Bible upon the table with 
 the affected air of a person who felt hurt at the 
 imputation of theft, and joined the rest with a 
 frown upon his countenance, and a smothered 
 curse upon his lips. 
 
 Just at this moment, a person from Cassidy’s 
 house laid upon the table a small box covered 
 with black cloth; and our readers will be sur- 
 prised to hear, that if fire had come down visibly 
 from heaven, greater awe and fear could not have 
 been struck into their hearts, or depicted upon 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 37 
 
 their countenances. The casual conversation, 
 and the commentaries upon the ceremony they 
 had witnessed, instantly settled into a most pro- 
 found silence, and every eye was turned towards 
 it with an interest absolutely fearful. 
 
 ‘‘ Let,” said the curate, “ none of those who 
 have sworn depart from wdthin the ring, until 
 they once more clear themselves upon this ; ” and 
 as he spoke, he held it- up — “ Behold! ” said he, 
 “ and tremble — behold The Donagh! ! ! ” 
 
 A low murmur of awe and astonishment burst 
 from the people in general, wliilst those within 
 the ring, who, with few exceptions, were the 
 worst characters in the parish, appeared ready to 
 sink into the earth. Their countenances, for the 
 most part, paled into the condemned hue of guilt ; 
 many of them became almost unable to stand; 
 and altogether, the state of trepidation and terror 
 in which they stood, was strikingly wild and ex- 
 traordinary. 
 
 The curate proceeded: ‘‘ Let him now who is 
 
 guilty depart ; or if he wishes, advance, and chal- 
 lenge the awful penalty annexed to perjury 
 upon THIS 1 Who has ever been known to swear 
 falsely upon the Donagh, without being visited 
 by a tremendous punishment, either on the spot, 
 or in twenty-four hours after his perjury? If 
 we ourselves have not seen such instances wdth 
 our own eyes, it is because none liveth who dare 
 incur such a dreadful penalty; but we have heard 
 of those who did, and of their awful punishment 
 afterwards. Sudden death, madness, paralysis, 
 self-destruction, or the murder of some one dear 
 
38 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 to them, are the marks by which perjury upon 
 the Donagh is known and visited. Advance, 
 now, ye who are innocent, but let the guilty with- 
 draw; for we do not desire to witness the terrible 
 vengeance which would attend a false oath upon 
 the Donagh. Pause, therefore, and be cautious! 
 for if this grievous sin be committed, a hea\y 
 punishment will fall, not only upon you, but 
 upon the parish in which it occurs 1 ” 
 
 The words of the priest sounded to the guilty 
 like the death-sentence of a judge. Before he 
 had concluded, all, except Meehan and his 
 brother, and a few who were really innocent, had 
 slunk back out of the circle into the crowd. 
 Denis, however, became pale as a corpse; and 
 from time to time wiped the large drops from his 
 haggard brow : even Anthony’s cheek, despite of 
 his natural callousness, was less red; his eyes be- 
 came disturbed; but by their influence, he con- 
 trived to keep Denis in sufficient dread, to prevent 
 him from minghng, like the rest, among the peo- 
 ple. The few who remained along with them 
 advanced; and notwithstanding their innocence, 
 when the Donagh was presented and the flgure 
 of Christ and the Twelve Apostles displayed in 
 the solemn tracery of its carving, they exhibited 
 symptoms of fear. With trembling hands they 
 touched the Donagh, and with trembling lips 
 kissed the Cruciflx, in attestation of their guilt- 
 lessness of the charge with which they had been 
 accused. 
 
 “ Anthony and Denis Meehan, come forward,” 
 said the curate, “ and declare your innocence of 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 39 
 
 the crimes with which you are charged by the 
 Cassidys and others.” 
 
 Anthony advanced; but Denis stood rooted to 
 the ground; on perceiving which, the former 
 sternly returned a step or two, and catching him 
 by the arm with an admonitory grip, that could 
 not easily be misunderstood, compelled him to 
 proceed with himself step by step to the table. 
 Denis, however, could feel the strong man trem- 
 ble, and perceive that although he strove to lash 
 himself into the energy of despair, and the utter 
 disbelief of all religious sanction, yet the trial 
 before him called every slumbering prejudice 
 and apprehension of his mind into active power. 
 This was a death-blow to his own resolution, or, 
 rather it confirmed him in his previous determina- 
 tion not to swear on the Donagh, except to ac- 
 knowledge his guilt, which he could scarcely pre- 
 vent himself from doing, such was the vacillating 
 state of mind to which he felt himself reduced. 
 
 When Anthony reached the table, his huge 
 form seemed to dilate by his effort at maintaining 
 the firmness necessary to support him in this 
 awful struggle between conscience and supersti- 
 tion on the one hand, and guilt, habit, and infi- 
 delity, on the other. He fixed his deep, dilated 
 eyes upon the Donagh, in a manner that be- 
 tokened somewhat of irresolution: his counte- 
 nance fell; his colour came and went, but eventu- 
 ally settled in a flushed red; his powerful hands 
 and arms trembled so much, that he folded them 
 to prevent his agitation from being noticed: the 
 grimness of his face ceased to be stern, while it 
 
40 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 retained the blank expression of guilt ; his temples 
 swelled out with the terrible play of their blood- 
 vessels, his chest, too, heaved up and down with 
 the united pressure of guilt, and the tempest 
 which shook him within. At length he saw 
 Denis’s eye upon him, and his passions took a 
 new direction ; he knit his brows at him with more 
 than usual fierceness, ground his teeth, and with 
 a step and action of suppressed fury, he placed 
 his foot at the edge of the table, and bowing down 
 under the eye of God and man, took the awful 
 oath on the mysterious Donagh, in a falsehood! 
 When it was finished, a feeble groan broke from 
 his brother’s lips. Anthony bent his eye on him 
 with a deadly glare; but Denis saw it not. The 
 shock was beyond his courage, — he had become 
 insensible. 
 
 Those who stood at the outskirts of the crowd, 
 seeing Denis apparently lifeless, thought he must 
 have sworn falsely on the Donagh, and ex- 
 claimed, “ He’s dead! gracious God! Denis 
 Meehan’s struck dead by the Donagh! He 
 swore in a lie, and is now a corpse! ” Anthony 
 paused, and calmly surveyed him as he lay with 
 his head resting upon the hands of those who sup- 
 ported him. At this moment a silent breeze came 
 over where they stood; and, as the Donagh lay 
 upon the table, the black ribbons with which it 
 was ornamented fluttered with a melancholy 
 appearance, that deepened the sensations of the 
 people into something peculiarly solemn and 
 preternatural. Denis at length revived, and 
 stared wildly and vacantly about him. When 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 41 
 
 composed sufficiently to distinguish and recog- 
 nise individual objects, he looked upon the 
 gloomy visage and threatening eye of his brother, 
 and shrunk back with a terror almost epileptical. 
 “ Oh! ” he exclaimed, “ save me! save me from 
 that man, and I’ll discover all! ” 
 
 Anthony calmly f olded one arm into his bosom, 
 and his lip quivered with the united influence of 
 hatred and despair. 
 
 “ Hould him!” shrieked a voice, which pro- 
 ceeded from his daughter, “ hould my father, or 
 he’ll murdher him! Oh! oh! merciful Heaven! ” 
 
 Ere the words w^ere uttered, she had made an 
 attempt to clasp the arms of her parent, whose 
 motions she understood; but only in time to re- 
 ceive from the pistol which he had concealed in 
 his breast, the bullet aimed at her uncle! She 
 tottered! and the blood spouted out of her neck 
 upon her father’s brows, who hastily put up his 
 hand and wiped it away, for it had actually 
 blinded him. 
 
 The elder Meehan was a tall man, and as he 
 stood, elevated nearly a head above the crowd, 
 his grim brows red with his daughter’s blood — 
 which, in attempting to wipe away, he had 
 deeply streaked across his face — his eyes shooting 
 fiery gleams of his late resentment, mingled with 
 the wildness of unexpected horror — as he thus 
 stood, it would be impossible to contemplate a 
 more revolting picture of that state to which the 
 principles that had regulated his life must ulti- 
 mately lead, even in this world. 
 
 On perceiving what he had done, the deep 
 
42 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 working of his powerful frame was struck into 
 sudden stillness, and he turned his eyes on his 
 bleeding daughter, with a fearful perception of 
 her situation. Now was the harvest of his creed 
 and crimes reaped in blood; and he felt that the 
 stroke which had fallen upon him was one of 
 those by which God will sometimes bare his arm 
 and vindicate his justice. The reflection, how- 
 ever, shook him not : the reality of his misery was 
 too intense and pervading, and grappled too 
 strongly with his hardened and unbending spirit, 
 to waste its power upon a nerve or a muscle. It 
 was abstracted, and beyond the reach of bodily 
 suffering. From the moment his daughter fell, 
 he moved not: his lips were half open with the 
 conviction produced by the blasting truth of her 
 death, eff ected prematurely by his own hand. 
 
 Those parts of his face which had not been 
 stained with her blood assumed an ashy paleness, 
 and rendered his countenance more terrific by the 
 contrast. Tall, powerful, and motionless, he ap- 
 peared to the crowd, glaring at the girl like a 
 tiger anxious to join his offspring, yet stunned 
 with the shock of the bullet which has touched a 
 vital part. His iron-gray hair, as it fell in thick 
 masses about his neck, was moved slightly by the 
 blast, and a lock which fell over his temple was 
 blown back with a motion rendered more distinct 
 by his statue-like attitude, immovable as death. 
 
 A silent and awful gathering of the people 
 around this impressive scene, intimated their 
 knowledge of what they considered to be a judi- 
 cial punishment annexed to perjury upon the 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 43 
 
 Donagh. This relic lay on the table, and the 
 eyes of those who stood within view of it, turned 
 from Anthony’s countenance to it, and again 
 back to his blood-stained visage, with all the over- 
 whelming influence of superstitious fear. Shud- 
 derings, tremblings, crossings, and ejaculations, 
 marked their conduct and feeling; for though the 
 incident in itself was simply a fatal and uncom- 
 mon one, yet they considered it supernatural and 
 miraculous. 
 
 At length a loud and agonizing cry burst from 
 the lips of Meehan — “ Oh, God! — God of heaven 
 an’ earth! — have I murdhered my daughter? ” 
 and he cast down the fatal weapon with a force 
 which buried it some inches into the wet clay. 
 
 The crowd had closed upon Anne ; but with the 
 strength of a giant he flung them aside, caught 
 the girl in his arms, and pressed her bleeding to 
 his bosom. He gasped for breath: ‘‘Anne,” 
 
 said he, “ Anne, I am without hope, an’ there’s 
 none to forgive me except you; — none at all: 
 from God, to the poorest of his creatures, I am 
 hated an’ cursed by all, except you ! Don’t curse 
 me, Anne; don’t curse me! Oh, isn’t it enough, 
 darlin’, that my sowl is now stained with your 
 blood, along with my other crimes? In hell, on 
 earth, an’ in heaven, there’s none to forgive your 
 father but yourself! — none! none! Oh, what’s 
 cornin’ over me ! I’m dizzy an’ shiverin’ ! How 
 cowld the day’s got of a sudden! Hould up, 
 avourneen machree! I was a bad man; but to 
 you, Anne, I was not as I was to every one! 
 Darlin’, oh, look at me with forgiveness in your 
 
44 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 eye, or any way don’t curse me! Oh! I’m far 
 CO wider now! Tell me that you forgive me, 
 acushla oge macliree! — Manim asihee hu, ^ dar- 
 lin’, say it. I dar’n’t look to God! but oh! do 
 you say the forgivin’ word to your father before 
 you die! ” 
 
 “ Father,” said she, “ I deserve this — it’s only 
 just: I had plotted with that divilish Martin to 
 betray them all, except yourself, an’ to get the 
 reward ; an’ then we intended to go — an’ — live at 
 a distance — an’ in wickedness — where we — might 
 not be known — ^he’s at our house — let him be — 
 secured. F or give me, father ; — you said so often 
 that there was no thmth in religion — that I began 
 to — think so. Oh ! — God ! have mercy upon 
 me ! ” And with these words she expired. 
 
 Meehan’s countenance, on hearing this, was 
 overspread with a ghastly look of the most deso- 
 lating agony : he staggered back, and the body of 
 his daughter, which he strove to hold, would have 
 fallen from his arms, had it not been caught by 
 the bystanders. His eye sought out his brother, 
 but not in resentment. “ Oh ! she died, but didn’t 
 say ‘ I FORGRTE you! ’ Denis,” said he, “ Denis, 
 bring me home — I’m sick — very sick — oh, but it’s 
 cowld — everything’s reeling — how cowld — cowld 
 it is ! ” — and as he uttered the last words, he shud- 
 dered, fell down in a fit of apoplexy, never to rise 
 again; and the bodies of his daughter and him- 
 self were both waked and buried together. 
 
 The result is brief. The rest of the gang were 
 secured: Denis became approver, by whose evi- 
 dence they suffered that punishment decreed by 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 45 
 
 law to the crimes of which they had been guilty. 
 The two events which we have just related, of 
 course added to the supernatural fear and rever- 
 ence previously entertained for this terrible relic. 
 It is still used as an ordeal of expurgation, in 
 cases of stolen property; and we are not wrong 
 in asserting, that many of those misguided crea- 
 tures, who too frequently hesitate not to swear 
 falsely on the Word of God, would suffer death 
 itself sooner than commit a perjury on the 
 Donagh.® 
 
PHIL PURCEL THE PIG DRIVER 
 
 Phil Purcel was a singular character, for he 
 was never married; but notwithstanding his sin- 
 gularity, no man ever possessed, for practical 
 purposes, a more plentiful stock of duplicity. 
 All his acquaintances knew that Phil was a knave 
 of the first water, yet was he decidedly a general 
 favourite. Now as we hate mystery ourselves, 
 we shall reveal the secret of this remarkable pop- 
 ularity ; though, after all, it can scarcely be called 
 so, for Phil was not the first cheat who has been 
 popular in his day. The cause of his success lay 
 simply in this ; — that he never laughed ; and none 
 of our readers need be told, that the appearance 
 of a grave cheat in Ireland is an originality which 
 almost runs up into a miracle. This gravity in- 
 duced every one to look upon him as a phenom- 
 enon. The assumed simplicity of his manners 
 was astonishing, and the ignorance which he 
 feigned, so apparently natural, that it was 
 scarcely possible for the most keen-sighted 
 searcher into human motives to detect him. The 
 only way of understanding the man was to deal 
 with him: if, after that,, you did not comprehend 
 him thoroughly, the fault was not PhiFs, but your 
 own. Although not mirthful himself, he was the 
 cause of mirth in others; for, without ever smil- 
 ing at his own gains, he contrived to make others 
 
 46 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 47 
 
 laugh at their losses. His disposition, setting 
 aside laughter , was strictly anomalous. The 
 most incompatible, the most unamalgamatible, 
 and the most uncomeatable qualities that ever re- 
 fused to unite in the same individual, had no 
 scruple at all to unite in Phil. But we hate 
 metaphysics, which we leave to the mechanical 
 philosophers, and proceed to state that Phil was a 
 miser, which is the best explanation we can give 
 of his gravity. 
 
 Ireland, owing to the march of intellect, and 
 the superiority of modern refinement, has been 
 for some years past, and is at present, well sup- 
 plied with an abundant variety of professional 
 men, every one of whom will undertake, for 
 proper considerations, to teach us, Irish, all man- 
 ner of useful accomplishments. The drawing- 
 master talks of his profession ; the dancing-master 
 of his profession; the fiddler, tooth-drawer, and 
 corn-cutter, (who, by the way, reaps a richer har- 
 vest than we do, since the devil has tempted the 
 schoolmaster to go abroad, are all practising in 
 his absence, as professional men. 
 
 Now Phil must be included among this class 
 of grandiloquent gentlemen, for he entered life 
 as a Professor of Pig-driving; and it is but jus- 
 tice towards him to assert, that no corn-cutter of 
 them all ever elevated his profession so high as 
 Phil did that in which he practised. In fact, he 
 raised it to the most exalted pitch of improve- | 
 ment of which it was then susceptible ; or to use ' 
 the cant of the day, he soon arrived at “ the head 
 of his profession.” 
 
48 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 In Phil’s time, however, pig-driving was not 
 so general, nor had it made such rapid advances 
 as in modern times. It was, then, simply pig- 
 driving, unaccompanied by the improvements of 
 poverty, sickness, and famine. Political econ- 
 omy had not then taught the people how to be 
 poor upon the most scientific principles; free 
 trade had not shown the nation the most approved 
 plan of reducing itself to the lowest possible state 
 of distress; nor liberalism enabled the working 
 classes to scoff at religion, and wisely to stop at 
 the very line that lies between outrage and re- 
 bellion. Many errors and inconveniences, now 
 happily exploded, were then in existence. The 
 people, it is true, were somewhat attached to their 
 landlords, but still they were burdened with the 
 unnecessary appendages of good coats and stout 
 shoes; were tolerably industrious, and had the 
 mortification of being able to pay their rents, and 
 feed in comfort. They were not, as they are 
 now, free from new coats and old prejudices, nor 
 improved by the intellectual march of politics and 
 poverty. When either a man or a nation starves, 
 it is a luxury to starve in an enlightened man- 
 ner ; and nothing is more consolatory to a person 
 acquainted with public rights and constitutional 
 privileges, than to understand those liberal prin- 
 ciples upon which he fasts and goes naked. 
 
 From all we have said, the reader sees clearly 
 that pig-driving did not then proceed upon so 
 extensive a scale as it does at present. The peo- 
 ple, in fact, killed many of them for their own 
 use; and we know not how it happened, but po- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 49 
 
 litical ignorance and good bacon kept them in 
 more flesh and comfort than those theories which 
 have since succeeded so well in introducing the 
 science of starvation as the basis of national pros- 
 perity. Irishmen are frequently taxed with ex- 
 travagance, in addition to their other taxes; but 
 we should be glad to know what people in 
 Europe reduce economy in the articles of food 
 and clothing to such close practice as they do. 
 
 Be this as it may, there was, in Ireland, an old 
 breed of swine, which is now nearly extinct, ex- 
 cept in some remote parts of the country, where 
 they are still useful in the hunting season, par- 
 ticularly if dogs happen to be scarce. ^ They 
 were a tall, loose species, with legs of an unusual 
 length, with no flesh, short ears, as if they had 
 been cropped for sedition, and with long faces of 
 a highly intellectual cast. They were also of 
 such activity that few greyhounds could clear a 
 ditch or cross a fleld with more agility or speed. 
 Their backs formed a rainbow arch, capable of 
 being contracted or extended to an inconceivable 
 degree ; and their usual rate of travelling in droves 
 was at mail-coach speed, or eight Irish miles an 
 hour, preceded by an outrider to clear the way, 
 whilst their rear was brought up by another horse- 
 man, going at a three-quarter gallop. 
 
 In the middle of summer, when all nature 
 reposed under the united influence of heat and 
 dust, it was an interesting sight to witness a drove 
 of them sweeping past, like a whirlwind, in a 
 cloud of their own raising ; their sharp and 
 
 lengthy outlines dimly visible through the shining 
 III— 4 
 
50 IRELAND 
 
 haze, like a flock of antelopes crossing the deserts 
 of the East. 
 
 But alas! for those happy days! This breed 
 is now a curiosity — few specimens of it remaining 
 except in the mountainous parts of the country, 
 whither these lovers of liberty, like the free na- 
 tives of the back settlements of America, have 
 retired to avoid the encroachments of civilization, 
 and exhibit their Irish antipathy to the slavish 
 comforts of steam-boat navigation, and the re- 
 laxing luxuries of English feeding. 
 
 Indeed, their patriotism, as evinced in an at- 
 tachment to Ireland and Irish habits, was scarcely 
 more remarkable than their sagacity. There is 
 not an antiquary among the members of that 
 learned and useful body, the Irish Academy, 
 who can boast such an intimate knowledge of the 
 Irish language in all its shades of meaning and 
 idiomatic beauty, as did this once flourishing class 
 of animals. Nor were they confined to the 
 Irish tongue alone, many of them understood 
 English too; and it was said of those that be- 
 longed to a convent, the members of which, in 
 their intercourse with each other, spoke only in 
 Latin, that they were tolerable masters of that 
 language, and refused to leave a potato field or 
 plot of cabbages, except when addressed in it. 
 To the English tongue, however, they had a deep- 
 rooted antipathy; whether it proceeded from the 
 national feeling, or the fact of its not being 
 sufficiently guttural, I cannot say: but be this as 
 it may, it must be admitted that they were ex- 
 cellent Irish scholars, and paid a surprising de- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 51 
 
 gree of deference and obedience to whatever was 
 addressed to them in their own language. In 
 Munster, too, such of them as belonged to the 
 hedge-schoolmasters were good proficients in 
 Latin; hut it is on a critical knowledge of their 
 native tongue that I take my stand. On this 
 point they were unrivalled by the most learned 
 pigs or antiquaries of their day; none of either 
 class possessing, at that period, such a knowledge 
 of Irish manners, nor so keen a sagacity in tra- 
 cing out Irish roots. 
 
 Their education, it is true, was not neglected, 
 and their instructors had the satisfaction of seeing 
 that it was not lost. Nothing could present a 
 finer display of true friendship founded upon a 
 sense of equality, mutual interest, and good-will, 
 than the Irishman and his pig. The Arabian and 
 his horse are proverbial; but had our English 
 neighbours known as much of Ireland as they 
 did of Arabia, they would have found as signal 
 instances of attachment subsisting between the 
 former as between the latter; and, perhaps, when 
 the superior comforts of an Arabian hut are con- 
 trasted with the squahd poverty of an Irish cabin, 
 they would have perceived a heroism and a disin- 
 terestedness evinced by the Irish parties, that 
 would have struck them with greater admiration. 
 
 The pigs, however, of the present day are a 
 fat, gross, and degenerate breed; and more like 
 well-fed aldermen, than Irish pigs of the old 
 school. They are, in fact, a proud, lazy, carnal 
 race, entirely of the earth, earthy. John Bull 
 assures us it is one comfort, however, that we do 
 
52 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 not eat, but ship them out of the country; yet, 
 after all, with great respect to John, it is not 
 surprising that we should repine a little on think- 
 ing of the good old times of sixty years since, 
 when every Irishman could kill his own pig, and 
 eat it when he pleased. We question much 
 whether any measure that might make the eating 
 of meat compulsory upon us, would experience 
 from Irishmen a very decided opposition. But 
 it is very condescending in John to eat our beef 
 and mutton; and as he happens to want both, it 
 is particularly disinterested in him to encourage 
 us in the practice of self-denial. It is possible, 
 however, that we may ultimately refuse to ban- 
 quet by proxy on our own provisions; and that 
 John may not be much longer troubled to eat for 
 us in that capacity. 
 
 The education of an Irish pig, at the time of 
 which we write, was an important consideration 
 to an Irishman. He, and his family, and his 
 pig, like the Arabian and his horse, all slept in 
 the same bed; the pig generally, for the sake of 
 convenience, next the “ stock.” ® At meals the 
 pig usually was stationed at the scrahag, or po- 
 tato-basket; where the only instances of bad 
 temper he ever displayed broke out in petty and 
 unbecoming squabbles with the younger branches 
 of the family. Indeed, if he ever descended 
 from his high station as a member of the domestic 
 circle, it was upon these occasions, when, with a 
 want of dignity, accounted for only by the 
 grovelling motive of self-interest, he embroiled 
 himself in a series of miserable feuds and con- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 53 
 
 tentions about scraping the pot, or carrying off 
 from the jealous urchins about him more than 
 came to his share. In these heart-burnings about 
 the good things of this world, he w^as treated with 
 uncommon forbearance: in his owner he always 
 had a friend, from whom, when he grunted out 
 his appeal to him he was certain of receiving 
 redress: “Barney, behave, avick: lay down the 
 potstick, an’ don’t be batin’ the pig, the crathur.” 
 In fact, the pig w^as never mentioned but with 
 this endearing epithet of “ crathur ” annexed. 
 “ Barney, go an’ call home the pig, the crathur, 
 to his dinner, before it gets cowld an him.” 
 “ Barney, go an’ see if you can see the pig, the 
 crathur, his buckwhist will soon be ready.” 
 “ Barney, run an’ dhrive the pig, the crathur, out 
 of Larry Neil’s phatie-field : an’, Barney, whis- 
 per, a bouchal bawn, don’t run too hard, Barney, 
 for fraid you’d lose your breath. What if the 
 crathur does get a taste o’ the new phaties — small 
 blame to him for the same ! ” 
 
 In short, whatever might have been the habits 
 of the family, such were those of the pig. The 
 latter was usually out early in the morning to 
 take exercise, and the unerring regularity with 
 wLich he returned at meal-time, gave sufficient 
 proof that procuring an appetite was a work of 
 supererogation on his part. If he came before 
 the meal was prepared, his station was at the door, 
 which they usually shut to keep him out of the 
 way until it should be ready. In the meantime, 
 so far as a forenoon serenade and an indifferent 
 voice could go, his powers of melody were freely 
 
54 
 
 IRELAXD 
 
 exercised on the outside. But he did not stop 
 here: every stretch of ingenuity was tried by 
 which a possibility of gaining admittance could 
 be established. The hat and rags were repeat- 
 edly driven in from the windows, which from 
 practice and habit he was enabled to approach on 
 his hind legs ; a cavity was also worn by the fre- 
 quent grubbings of his snout under the door, the 
 lower part of which was broken away by the sheer 
 strength of his tusks, so that he was enabled, by 
 thrusting himself between the bottom of it and 
 the ground, to make a most unexpected appear- 
 ance on the hearth, before his presence was at all 
 convenient or acceptable. 
 
 But, independently of these two modes of en- 
 trance, i. e. the door and window, there \vas also 
 a third, by which he sometimes scrupled not to 
 make a descent upon the family. This was by 
 the chimney. There are many of the Irish cabins 
 built for economy’s sake against slopes in the 
 ground, so that the labour of erecting either a 
 gable or side-wall is saved by the perpendicular 
 bank that remains after the site of the house is 
 scooped away. Of the facihties presented by 
 this peculiar structure, the pig never failed to 
 avail himself. He immediately mounted the 
 roof (through wliich, however, he sometimes 
 took an unexpected flight), and traversing 
 it with caution, reached the chimney, into which 
 he deliberately hacked himself, and, with no 
 small share of courage, went down precisely as 
 the northern bears are said to descend the trunks 
 
ithk // b giT .&fij 
 
 '■)’ ■!} i:oiU1^nO 5t&.4«0.\ 
 
 rt.’ Qd 
 
Giving the Pig a Warm Reception 
 
 Etching from an Original Drawing by Wrightson 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 55 
 
 of trees during the winter, but with far different 
 motives. 
 
 In this manner he cautiously retrograded 
 downwards with a hardihood which set furze 
 bushes, brooms, tongs, and all other available 
 weapons of the cabin at defiance. We are bound, 
 however, to declare, that this mode of entrance, 
 which was only resorted to when every other 
 failed, was usually received by the cottager and 
 his family with a degree of mirth and good-hu- 
 mour that were not lost upon the sagacity of the 
 pig. In order to save him from being scorched, 
 which he deserved for his temerity, they usually 
 received him in a creel, often in a quilt, and 
 sometimes in the tattered blanket, or large pot, 
 out of which he looked with a humorous con- 
 ception of his own enterprise, that was highly 
 diverting. We must admit, however, that he was 
 sometimes received with the comforts of a hot 
 poker, which Paddy pleasantly called, “ givin’ 
 him a warm welcome.” 
 
 Another trait in the character of these animals, 
 was the utter scorn with which they treated all 
 attempts to fatten them. In fact, the usual con- 
 sequences of good feeding were almost inverted 
 in their case; and although I might assert that 
 they became leaner in proportion to what they 
 received, yet I must confine myself to truth, by 
 stating candidly that this was not the fact; that 
 there was a certain state of fleshlessness to which 
 they arrived, but from which they neither ad- 
 vanced nor receded by good f eeding or bad. 
 
56 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 At this point, despite of all human ingenuity, 
 they remained stationary for life, received the 
 bounty afforded them with a greatness of appe- 
 tite resembling the fortitude of a brave man, 
 which rises in energy according to the magnitude 
 of that which it has to encounter. The truth is, 
 they were scandalous hypocrites; for with the 
 most prodigious capacity for food, they were 
 spare as philosophers, and fitted evidently more 
 for the chase than the sty; rather to run down 
 a buck or a hare for the larder, than to have a 
 place in it themselves. If you starved them, 
 they defied you to diminish their flesh ; and if you 
 stuffed them like aldermen, they took all they 
 got, but disdained to carry a single ounce more 
 than if you gave them whey thickened with 
 water. In short, they gloried in maceration and 
 liberty; were good Irish scholars, sometimes ac- 
 quainted with Latin; and their flesh, after the 
 trouble of separating it from a superfluity of 
 tough skin, was excellent venison so far as it 
 went. 
 
 Now Phil Purcel, whom we will introduce more 
 intimately to the reader by and by, was the son of 
 a man who always kept a pig. His father’s 
 house had a small loft, to which the ascent was 
 by a step-ladder through a door in the inside 
 gable. The first good thing ever Phil was 
 noticed for he said upon the following occasion. 
 His father happened to be called upon, one 
 morning before breakfast, by his landlord, who 
 it seems occasionally visited his tenantry to en- 
 courage, direct, stimulate, or reprove them, as 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 57 
 
 the case might require. Phil was a boy then, and 
 sat on the hob in the corner, eyeing the landlord 
 and his father during their conversation. In the 
 mean time the pig came in, and deliberately began 
 to ascend the ladder with an air of authority that 
 marked him as one in the exercise of an estab- 
 lished right. The landlord was astonished at see- 
 ing the animal enter the best room in the house, 
 and could not help expressing his surprise to old 
 Purcel : 
 
 “ Why, Purcel, is your pig in the habit of 
 treating himself to the comforts of your best 
 room? ” 
 
 “ The pig is it, the crathur? Why, your 
 haner,” said Purcel, after a little hesitation, “ it 
 sometimes goes up of a mornin’ to waken the 
 childhre, particularly when the buckwhist hap- 
 pens to be late. It doesn’t like to be waitin’ ; and 
 sure none of us likes to be kept from the male’s 
 mate, your haner, when we want it, no more than 
 it, the crathur! ” 
 
 “ But I wonder your wife permits so filthy an 
 animal to have access to her rooms in this man- 
 ner.” 
 
 “ Filthy! ” replied Mrs. Purcel, who felt her- 
 self called upon to defend the character of the 
 pig, as well as her own, “ why, one would think. 
 Sir, that any crathur that’s among Christyen 
 childhre, like one o’ themselves, couldn’t be filthy. 
 I could take it to my dyin’ day, that there’s not 
 a claner or dacenter pig in the kingdom, than 
 the same pig. It never misbehaves, the crathur, 
 but goes out, as wise an’ riglar, jist by a look, an’ 
 
58 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 that’s enough for it, any day — a single look, 
 your haner, the poor crathur! ” 
 
 “ I think,” observed Phil, from the hob, “ that 
 nobody has a betther right to the run of the house, 
 whedher up stairs or down stairs, than him that 
 pays the rint!^ 
 
 “ Well said, my lad!” observed the landlord, 
 laughing at the quaint ingenuity of Phil’s de- 
 fence. “ His payment of the rent is the best 
 defence possible, and no doubt should cover a 
 multitude of his errors.” 
 
 “ A multitude of his shins you mane. Sir,” 
 said Phil, ‘‘ for thrath he’s all shin.” 
 
 In fact, Phil from his infancy had an uncom- 
 mon attachment to these animals, and by a mind 
 naturally shrewd and observing, made himself as 
 intimately acquainted with their habits and in- 
 stincts, and the best modes of managing them, 
 as ever the celebrated Cahir na Cappul ^ did with 
 those of the horse. Before he was fifteen, he 
 could drive the most vicious and obstinate pig 
 as quietly before him as a lamb; yet no one knew 
 how, nor by what means he had gained the secret 
 that enabled him to do it. Whenever he attended 
 a fair, his time was principally spent among the 
 pigs, where he stood handling, and examining, 
 and pretending to buy them, although he seldom 
 had half-a-crown in his pocket. At length, by 
 hoarding up such small sums as he could possibly 
 lay his hand on, he got together the price of a 
 “ slip,” which he bought, reared, and educated in 
 a manner that did his ingenuity great credit. 
 When this was brought to its ne plus ultra of fat- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 59 
 
 ness, he sold it, and purchased two more, which he 
 fed in the same way. On disposing of these, he 
 made a fresh purchase, and thus proceeded, until, 
 in the course of a few years, he was a well-known 
 pig- jobber. 
 
 Phil’s journeys as a pig-driver to the leading 
 sea-port towns nearest him, were always partic- 
 ularly profitable. In Ireland swine are not kept 
 in sties, as they are among English feeders, but 
 permitted to go at liberty through pasture fields, 
 commons, and along roadsides, where they make 
 up as well as they can for the scanty pittance 
 allowed them at home during meal-times. We do 
 not, however, impeach Phil’s honesty ; but simply 
 content ourselves with saying, that when his 
 journey was accomplished, he mostly found the 
 original number with which he had set out in- 
 creased by three or four, and sometimes by half- 
 a-dozen. Pigs in general resemble each other, 
 and it surely was not Phil’s fault if a stray one, 
 feeding on the roadside or common, thought 
 proper to join his drove and see the world. 
 Phil’s object, we presume, was only to take care 
 that his original number was not diminished, its 
 increase being a matter in which he felt little con- 
 cern. 
 
 He now determined to take a professional trip 
 to England, and that this might be the more pro- 
 ductive, he resolved to purchase a lot of the ani- 
 mals we have been describing. No time was lost 
 in this speculation. The pigs were bought up 
 as cheaply as possible, and Phil set out, for the 
 first time in his life, to try with what success he 
 
60 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 could measure his skill against that of a York- 
 shireman. On this occasion, he brought with him 
 a pet, which he had with considerable pains 
 trained up for purposes hereafter to be ex- 
 plained. 
 
 There was nothing remarkable in the passage, 
 unless that every creature on board was sea-sick, 
 except the pigs; even to them, however, the 
 change was a disagreeable one; for to be pent 
 up in the hold of a ship was a deprivation of 
 liberty, which, fresh as they were from their na- 
 tive hills, they could not relish. They felt, there- 
 fore, as patriots, a loss of freedom, but not a 
 whit of appetite; for, in truth, of the latter no 
 possible vicissitude short of death could deprive 
 them. 
 
 Phil, however, with an assumed air of sim- 
 plicity absolutely stupid, disposed of them to a 
 Yorkshire dealer, at about twice the value they 
 would have brought in Ireland, though as pigs 
 went in England it was low enough. He de- 
 clared that they had been fed on tip-top feeding; 
 which was literally true, as he afterwards ad- 
 mitted that the tops of nettles and potato stalks 
 constituted the only nourishment they had got 
 for three weeks before. 
 
 The Y orkshireman looked with great contempt 
 upon what he considered a miserable essay to 
 take him in. 
 
 “ What a fule this Hirishmun mun bea; ” said 
 he, “ to think to teake me in! Had he said that 
 them there Hirish swoine were badly feade, I’d 
 ha’ thought it fairish enough on un; but to seay 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 61 
 
 that they was oil weal feade on tip-top feeadin’! 
 Nea, nea! I knaws weal enough that they was 
 noat feade on notliin’ at oil, which meakes them 
 loak so poorish! Howsomever, I shall fatten 
 them, I’se warrant — I’se warrant I shall! ” 
 When driven home to sties somewhat more 
 comfortable than the cabins of unfortunate 
 Irishmen, they were well supplied with food 
 which would have been very often considered a 
 luxury by poor Paddy himself, much less by his 
 pigs. 
 
 “ Measter,” said the man who had seen them 
 fed, “ them there Plirish pigs ha’ not teasted 
 nout for a moonth yet: they feade like nout I 
 never seed o’ my laifel! ” 
 
 “ Ay! ay! ” replied the master, “ I’se warrant 
 they’ll soon fatten — I’se warrant they shall, 
 Hodge — they be praime feeders — I’se warrant 
 they shall; and then, Hodge, we’ve bit the soft 
 Hirishmun.” 
 
 Hodge gave a knowing look at his master, and 
 grinned at this observation. 
 
 The next morning Hodge repaired to the sties 
 to see how they were thriving; when, to his great 
 consternation, he found the feeding-troughs 
 clean as if they had been washed, and not a 
 single Irish pig to be seen or heard about the 
 premises; but to what retreat the animals could 
 have betaken themselves, was completely beyond 
 his comprehension. He scratched his head, and 
 looked about him in much perplexity : 
 
 ‘‘Dang un!” he exclaimed, “I never seed 
 nout like this.” 
 
62 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 He would have proceeded in a strain of cogita- 
 tion equally enlightened, had not a noise of shout- 
 ing, alarm, and confusion in the neighbourhood, 
 excited his attention. He looked about him, and 
 to his utter astonishment saw that some extraor- 
 dinary commotion prevailed, that the country 
 was up, and the hills alive with people, who ran^ 
 and shouted, and wheeled at full flight in all 
 possible directions. His first object was to join 
 the crowd, which he did as soon as possible, and 
 found that the pigs he had shut up the preceding 
 night in sties whose enclosures were at least four 
 feet high, had cleared them like so many chamois, 
 and were now closely pursued by the neighbours, 
 who rose en masse to hunt down and secure such 
 dreadful depredators. 
 
 The waste and mischief they had committed 
 in one night were absolutely astonishing. Bean 
 and turnip fields, and vegetable enclosures of all 
 descriptions, kitchen-gardens, corn-fields, and 
 even flower-gardens, were rooted up and de- 
 stroyed with an appearance of system which 
 would have done credit to Terry Alt himself. 
 
 Their speed was the theme of every tongue. 
 Hedges were taken in their flight, and cleared 
 in a style that occasioned the country people to 
 turn up their eyes, and scratch their heads in 
 wonder. Dogs of all degrees bit the dust, and 
 were caught up dead in stupid amazement by 
 their owners, who began to doubt whether or 
 not these extraordinary animals were swine at 
 all. The depredators in the mean time had 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES G3 
 
 adopted the Horatian style of battle. When- 
 ever there was an ungenerous advantage taken 
 in the pursuit, by slipping dogs across or before 
 their path, they shot off at a tangent through 
 the next crowd, many of whom they prostrated 
 in their flight; by this means they escaped the 
 dogs until the latter were somewhat exhausted, 
 when, on finding one in advance of the rest, 
 they turned, and, with standing bristles and 
 burning tusks, fatally checked their pursuer in 
 his full career. To wheel and fly until another 
 got in advance, was then the plan of fight; but, 
 in fact, the conflict was conducted on the part 
 of the Irish pigs with a fertility of expediency 
 that did credit to their country, and established 
 for those who displayed it, the possession of in- 
 tellect far superior to that of their opponents. 
 The pigs now began to direct their course to- 
 wards the sties in which they had been so well 
 fed the night before. This being their last 
 flight, they radiated towards one common centre, 
 with a fierceness and celerity that occasioned 
 the women and children to take shelter within- 
 doors. On arriving at the sties, the ease with 
 which they shot themselves over the four-feet 
 walls was incredible. The farmer had caught 
 the alarm, and just came out in time to witness 
 their return ; he stood with his hands driven down 
 into the pockets of his red, capacious waistcoat, 
 and uttered not a word. When the last of them 
 came bounding into the stye, Hodge approached, 
 quite breathless and exhausted : 
 
64 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Oh, measter,” he exclaimed, ‘‘ these be not 
 Hirish pigs at oil, they be Hirish deevils; and 
 yau mun ha’ bought ’em fra a cunning mon ! ” 
 
 “ Hodge,” replied his master, “ I’se be bit — 
 I’se heard feather talk about un. That breed’s 
 true Hirish; but I’se try and sell ’em to Squoire 
 Jolly to hunt wi’ as beagles, for he wants a pack. 
 They do say all the swoine that the deevils were 
 put into ha’ been drawned; but for my peart, 
 I’se sure that some on un must ha’ escaped to 
 Hireland.” 
 
 Phil, during the commotion excited by his 
 knavery in Yorkshire, was traversing the coun- 
 try, in order to dispose of his remaining pig; and 
 the manner in which he effected his first sale of 
 it was as follows: — 
 
 A gentleman was one evening standing with 
 some labourers by the wayside when a tattered 
 Irishman, equipped in a pair of white dusty 
 brogues, stockings without feet, old patched 
 breeches, a bag slung across his shoulder, his 
 coarse shirt lying open about a neck tanned by 
 the sun into a reddish yellow, a hat nearly the 
 colour of the shoes, and a hay rope tied for com- 
 fort about his waist: in one hand he also held a 
 straw rope, that depended from the hind leg of 
 a pig which he drove before him; in the other 
 was a cudgel, by the assistance of which he con- 
 trived to limp on after it, his two shoulder-blades 
 rising and falling alternately with a shrugging 
 motion that indicated great fatigue. 
 
 When he came opposite where the gentleman 
 stood he checked the pig, which instinctively 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 65 
 
 commenced feeding upon the grass by the edge 
 of the road. 
 
 “ Och/’ said he, wiping his brow with the cuff 
 of his coat, mavrone orth a inuck/^ but I’m 
 kilt wit you. Musha, Gad bless yer haner, an’ 
 maybe ye’d buy a slip of a pig fwhrom me, that 
 has my heart bruck, so she has, if ever any body’s 
 heart was bruck wit the likes of her; an’ sure 
 so there was, no doubt, or I wouldn’t be as I am 
 wit her. I’ll give her a dead bargain. Sir; for 
 it’s only to get her aff av my hands I’m wantin’, 
 plase yer haner — liusth amuck — husth, a veeho- 
 nee! Be asy, an’ me in conwersation wit his 
 haner here! ” 
 
 “You are an Irishman? ” the gentleman in- 
 quired. 
 
 “ I am. Sir, from Cannaught, yer haner, an’ 
 ’ill sell the crathur dag cheap, all out. Asy, you 
 thief!” 
 
 “ I don’t want the pig, my good fellow,” re- 
 plied the Englishman, without evincing curi- 
 osity enough to inquire how he came to have such 
 a commodity for sale. 
 
 “ She’d be the darlint in no time wit you. Sir; 
 the run o’ your kitchen ’ud make her up a beauty, 
 your haner, along wit no throuble to the sar- 
 wints about sweepin’ it, or any thing. You’d 
 only have to lay down the potato-basket on the 
 flure, or the misthress. Gad bless her, could do 
 it, an’ not lave a crumblin’ behind her, besides 
 sleepin’, your haner, in the earner beyant, if 
 she’d take the throuble.” 
 
 The sluggish phlegm of the Englishman was 
 III— 5 
 
66 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 stirred up a little by the twisted, and somewhat 
 incomprehensible nature of these instructions. 
 
 “ How far do you intend to proceed to-night, 
 Paddy? ” said he. 
 
 “ The sarra one o’ myself knows, plaze yer 
 haner: sure we’ve an ould sayin’ of our own in 
 Ireland beyant — ^that he’s a wise man can tell 
 how far he’ll go. Sir, till he come to his jour- 
 ney’s ind. I’ll give this crathur to you at more 
 nor her value, yer haner.” 
 
 “ More ! — why the man knows not what he’s 
 saying,” observed the gentleman; “ Zm you 
 mean, I suppose, Paddy? ” 
 
 “ More or less. Sir: you’ll get her a bargain; 
 an’ Gad bless you. Sir! ” 
 
 But it is a commodity which I don’t want 
 at present. I am very well stocked with pigs, as 
 it is. Try elsewhere.” 
 
 “ She’d flog the counthry side. Sir; an’ if the 
 mishthress herself. Sir, ’ud shake the wishp o’ 
 sthraw fwhor her in the kitchen. Sir, near the 
 whoire. Yer haner could spake to her about it; 
 an’ in no time put a knife in her whin you plazed. 
 In regard o’ the other thing. Sir — she’s like a 
 Christyeen, yer haner, an’ no throuble, Sir, if 
 you’d be seein’ company or any thing.” 
 
 “ It’s an extraordinary pig, this, of yours.” 
 It’s no lie fwhor you. Sir; she’s as clane an’ 
 dacent a crathur. Sir! Och, if the same pig ’ud 
 come into the care o’ the misthress. Gad bliss 
 her! an’ I’m sure if she has as much gudness in 
 her face as the hanerable dinnha ousahl — the 
 handsome gintleman she’s married upon!— = 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 67 
 
 you’ll have her thrivin’ bravely. Sir, shartly, 
 plase Gad, if you’ll take courage. Will I 
 dhrive her up the aveny fwhor you, Sir? A good 
 gintlewoman I’m sure, is the same mishtriss! 
 Will I dhrive her up fwhor you. Sir? Skadh 
 amuck — shadh dherim! 
 
 “No, no; I have no further time to lose; you 
 may go forward.” 
 
 “ Thank yer haner: is it whorid toarst the 
 house abow. Sir? I wouldn’t be standin’ up. 
 Sir, wit you about a thrifle; an’ you’ll have her. 
 Sir, fwhor any thing you plase bey ant a pound, 
 yer haner; an’ ’tis throwin’ her away it is: but 
 one can’t be hard wit a rale gintleman, any way.” 
 “You only annoy me, man; besides I don’t 
 want the pig ; you lose time ; I don’t want to buy 
 it, I repeat to you.” 
 
 “ Gad bliss you. Sir — Gad bliss you! Maybe 
 if I’d make up to the mishthress, yer haner! 
 Thrath she wouldn’t turn the crathur from the 
 place, in regard that the tindherness ow the 
 feelin’ would come ower her — the rale gintle- 
 woman, any way! ’Tis dag chape you have her 
 at what I said. Sir; an’ Gad bliss you! ” 
 
 “ Do you want to compel me to purchase it 
 whether I will or no?” 
 
 “ Thrath, it’s whor next to nothin’ I’m givin’ 
 her to you. Sir; but sure you can make your own 
 price at any thing beyant a pound. Hurrish 
 amuck — stadli anish ! — be asy, you crathur, sure 
 you’re gettin’ into good quarthers, any how — 
 goin’ to the hanerable English gintleman’s 
 kitchen; an’ Gad knows it’s a pleasure to dale 
 
68 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 wit ’em. Och, the world’s differ there is be- 
 tuxt thim an’ our own dirty Irish buckeens, that 
 ’ud shkin a bad skilleen, an’ pay their debts wit 
 the remaindher. The gateman ’ud let me in, yer 
 haner, an’ I’ll meet you at the big house abow.” 
 
 “ Upon my honour this is a good jest,” said 
 the gentleman, absolutely teased into compli- 
 ance; “ you are forcing me to buy that which I 
 don’t want.” 
 
 “ Sure you will. Sir; you’ll want more nor that 
 yit, please Gad, if you be spared. Come, amuck 
 — come, you crathur; faix, you’re in luck so you 
 are — gettin’ so good a place wit his haner here, 
 that you won’t know yourself shortly, plase Gad.” 
 
 He immediately commenced driving his pig 
 towards the gentleman’s residence with such an 
 air of utter simplicity, as would have imposed 
 upon any man not guided by direct inspiration. 
 Whilst he approached the house, its proprietor 
 arrived there by another path a few minutes be- 
 fore him, and, addressing his lady, said. 
 
 My dear, will you come and look at a pur- 
 chase which an Irishman has absolutely com- 
 pelled me to make. You had better come and 
 see himself too, for he is the greatest simpleton 
 of an Irishman I have ever met with.” 
 
 The lady’s curiosity was more easily excited 
 than that of her husband. She not only came 
 out, but brought with her some ladies who had 
 been on a visit, in order to hear the Irishman’s 
 brogue, and to amuse themselves at his expense. 
 Of the pig, too, it appeared she was determined 
 to know something. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 69 
 
 George, my love, is the pig also from Ire- 
 land? ’’ 
 
 “ I don’t know, my dear; but I should think 
 so from its fleshless appearance. I have never 
 seen so spare an animal of that class in this coun- 
 try.” 
 
 “ Juliana,” said one of the ladies to her com- 
 panion, “ don’t go too near him. Gracious ! look 
 at the bludgeon, or beam, or something he car- 
 ries in his hand, to flght and beat the people, I 
 suppose: yet,” she added, putting up her glass, 
 “ the man is actually not ill-looking ; and, though 
 not so tall as the Irishman in Sheridan’s Rivals, 
 he is well made.” 
 
 “ His eyes are good,” said her companion — 
 “ a bright gray and keen ; and were it not that 
 his nose is rather short and turned up, he would 
 be handsome.” 
 
 “ George, my love,” exclaimed the lady of the 
 mansion, “he is like most Irishmen of his class 
 that I have seen; indeed, scarcely so intelligent, 
 for he does appear quite a simpleton, except, 
 perhaps, a lurking kind of expression, which is a 
 sign of their humour, I suppose. Don’t you 
 think so, my love ? ” 
 
 “No, my dear; I think him a bad specimen of 
 the Irishman. Whether it is that he talks our 
 language but imperfectly, or that he is a stupid 
 creature, I cannot say; but in selling the pig just 
 now, he actually told me that he would let me 
 have it for more than it was worth.” 
 
 “ Oh, that was so laughable! We will speak 
 to him, though.” 
 
70 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 The degree of estimation in which these civil- 
 ized English held Phil was so low, that this con- 
 versation took place within a few yards of him, 
 precisely as if he had been an animal of an in- 
 ferior species, or one of the aborigines of New 
 Zealand. 
 
 “ Pray what is your name? ” inquired the ma- 
 tron. 
 
 “ Phadhrumshagh Corfuffle, plase yer haner: 
 my fadher carrid the same name upon him. 
 We’re av the Corfuffles av Leatherum Laghy, 
 my lady ; but my grandmudher was a Dornyeen, 
 an’ my own mudher, plase yer haner, was o’ the 
 Shudhurthagans o’ Ballymadoghy, my lady- 
 ship. Stadh anish, amuck hradagh! — be asy, 
 can’t you, an’ me in conwershation wit the 
 beauty o’ the world that I’m spakin’ to.” 
 
 “ That’s the Negus language,” observed one 
 of the young ladies, who aff ected to be a wit and 
 a blue-stocking ; “ it’s Irish and English mixed.” 
 “ Thrath, an’ but that the handsome young 
 lady’s so purty,” observed Phil, “I’d be sayin’ 
 myself that that’s a quare remark upon a poor 
 unlarned man ; but, Gad bless her, she is so purty 
 what can one say for lookin’ an her! ” 
 
 “ The poor man, Adelaide, speaks as well as 
 he can,” replied the lady, rather reprovingly: 
 “he is by no means so wild as one would have 
 expected.” 
 
 “ Candidly speaking, much tamer than I ex- 
 pected,” rejoined the wit. “ Indeed, I meant 
 the poor Irishman no offence.” 
 
 “ Where did you get the pig, friend? and how 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 71 
 
 come you to have it for sale so far from home? ” 
 “ Fwhy it isn’t whor sale, my lady,” replied 
 Phil, evading the former question; “the mas- 
 ther here. Gad bless him an’ spare him to you, 
 ma’am! — thrath, an’ it’s his four quarthers that 
 knew how to pick out a wife, any how, whor 
 beauty an’ all hanerable whormations o’ gi’an- 
 dheur — so he did; an’ well he desarves you, my 
 lady: faix, it’s a fine houseful o’ thim you’ll have, 
 plase Gad — an’ fwhy not? whin it’s all in the 
 coorse o’ Providence, bein’ both so handsome; — 
 he gev me a pound note whor her my ladyship, 
 an’ his own plisure aftherwards; an’ I’m now 
 watin’ to be ped.” 
 
 “ What kind of a country is Ireland, as I un- 
 derstand you are an Irishman? ” 
 
 “ Thrath, my lady, it’s like fwhat maybe you 
 never seen — a fool’s purse, ten guineas goin’ out 
 whor one that goes in.” 
 
 “ Upon my word that’s wit,” observed the 
 young blue-stocking. 
 
 “What’s your opinion of Irishwomen?” the 
 lady continued ; “ are they handsomer than the 
 English ladies, think you? ” 
 
 “ Murdher, my lady,” says Phil, raising his 
 caubeen, and scratching his head in pretended 
 perplexity, with his finger and thumb, “ fwhat 
 am I to say to that, ma’am, and all of yez to the 
 f whore? But the sarra one av me will give it 
 agin the darlins beyant.” 
 
 “ But which do you think the more hand- 
 some? ” 
 
 “ Thrath I do, my lady; the Irish and English 
 
72 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 women would flog the world, an’ sure it would 
 be a burnin’ shame to go to set them agin one 
 another fwhor beauty.” 
 
 “ Whom did you mean by the ‘ darlins be- 
 yant’?” inquired the blue-stocking, attempting 
 to pronounce the words. 
 
 “ Faix, Miss, who but the crathurs ower the 
 wather, that kills us entirely, so they do.” 
 
 “ I cannot comprehend him,” she added to the 
 lady of the mansion. 
 
 “ Arrah, maybe I’d make bould to take up the 
 manners from you fwhor a while, my lady, plase 
 yer haner? ” said Phil, addressing the latter. 
 
 “ I do not properly understand you,” she re- 
 plied, “ speak plainer.” 
 
 “ Throth, that’s fwhat they do, yer haner; 
 they never go about the bush wit yez — the gintle- 
 men, ma’am, of our country, fwhin they do be 
 coortin’ yez; an’ I want to ax, ma’am, if you 
 plase, fwhat you think of thim, that is if ever 
 any of them had the luck to come acrass you, my 
 lady? ” 
 
 “ I have not been acquainted with many Irish 
 gentlemen,” she replied, “ but I hear they are 
 men of a remarkable character.” 
 
 “Faix, ’tis you may say that,” replied Phil; 
 “ sowl, my lady, ’tis well for the masther here, 
 plase yer haner. Sir, that none o’ them met wit 
 the misthress before you was both marrid, or, 
 wit riverence be it spoken, ’tis the sweet side o’ 
 the tongue they’d be layin’ upon you, ma’am, 
 an’ the rough side to the masther himself, along 
 wit a few scrapes of a pen on a slip o’ paper, jist 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 73 
 
 to appoint the time and place, in regard of her 
 ladyship’s purty complexion — an’ who can deny 
 that, any way? Faix ma’am, they’ve a way wit 
 them, my counthrymin, that the ladies like well 
 enough to thravel by. Asy, you deludher, an’ 
 me in conwersaytion wit the quality.” 
 
 “ I am quite anxious to know how you came 
 by the pig, Paddy,” said the wit. 
 
 “ Arrah, Miss, sure ’tisn’t pigs you’re thinkin’ 
 on, an’ us discoursin’ about the gintlemen from 
 Ireland, that you’re all so fond ow here; faix. 
 Miss, they’re the boys that fwoight for yees, an’ 
 ’ud rather be bringing an Englishman to the sad 
 fwhor your sakes, nor atin’ bread an’ butther. 
 Fwhy, now. Miss, if you were beyant wit us, 
 sarra ounce o’ gunpowdher we’d have in no time, 
 for love or money.” 
 
 “ Upon my word I should like to see Ireland! ” 
 exclaimed the blue-stocking ; “ but why would 
 the gunpowdher get scarce, pray? ” 
 
 “ Faix, fightin’ about you. Miss, an’ all of 
 yez, sure; for myself sees no differ at all in your 
 hanerable fwhormations of beauty and gran- 
 dheur, an’ all high-flown admirations.” 
 
 “ But tell us where you got the pig, Paddy? ” 
 persisted the wit, struck naturally enough with 
 the circumstance. “ How do you come to have 
 an Irish pig so far from home? ” 
 
 “ Fwhy thin. Miss, ’twas to a brodher o’ my 
 own I was bringing it, that was livin’ down the 
 counthry here, an fwhin I came to f where he 
 lived, the sarra one o’ me knew the place, in re- 
 gard o’ havin’ forgot the name of it entirely, an’ 
 
74 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 there was I wit the poor crathur an my hands, till 
 his haner here bought it whrom me — Gad bless 
 you, Sir!” 
 
 “ As I live, there’s a fine Irish blunder,” ob- 
 served the wit; “ I shall put it in my common- 
 place-book — it will be so genuine. I declare I’m 
 quite delighted ! ” 
 
 “Well, Paddy,” said the gentleman, “here’s 
 your money. There’s a pound for you, and 
 that’s much more than the miserable animal is 
 worth.” 
 
 “ Thrath, Sir, you have the crathur at what 
 we call in Ireland a bargain.^® Maybe yer 
 haner ’ud spit upon the money fwhor luck. Sir. 
 It’s the way we do. Sir, beyant.” 
 
 “ No, no, Paddy, take it as it is. Good 
 heavens! what barbarous habits these Irish have 
 in all their modes of life, and how far they are 
 removed from anything like civilization! ” 
 
 “ Thank yer haner. Faix, Sir, this’ll come so 
 handy for the landlord at home, in regard o’ the 
 rint for the bit o’ phatie ground, so it will, if I 
 can get home agin widout brakin’ it. Arrah, 
 maybe yer haner ’ud give me the price o’ my bed, 
 an’ a bit to ate. Sir, an’ keep me from brakin’ in 
 upon this. Sir, Gad bless the money! I’m 
 thinkin’ o’ the poor wife an’ childher. Sir — 
 strivin’, so I am, to do fwhor the darlins.” 
 
 “ Poor soul,” said the lady, “ he is affectionate 
 in the midst of his wretchedness and ignorance.” 
 “ Here — here,” replied the Englishman, anx- 
 ious to get rid of him, “ there’s a shilling, which 
 
TRAITS, AND STORIES 75 
 
 I give because you appear to be attached to 
 your family.” 
 
 “ Och, och, fwhat can I say, Sir, only that 
 long may you reign ower your family an’ the 
 hanerable ladies to the f whore. Sir. Gad fwhor 
 ever bliss you. Sir, but you’re the kind, noble 
 gintleman, an’ all belongin’ to you. Sir! ” 
 
 Having received the shilling, he was in the 
 act of departing, when, after turning it deliber- 
 ately in his hand, shrugging his shoulders two or 
 three times, and scratching his head, with a 
 vacant face he approached the lady. 
 
 ‘‘ Musha, ma’am, an’ maybe ye’d have the 
 tindherness in your heart, seein’ that the gud- 
 ness is in yer hanerable face, any way, an’ it 
 would save the skillyeen that the masther gev’d 
 for payin’ my passage, so it would, jist to bid 
 the steward, my ladyship, to ardher me a bit to 
 ate in the kitchen below. The hunger, ma’am, 
 is hard upon me, my lady; an’ fwhat I’m doin’, 
 sure, is in regard o’ the wife at home, an’ the 
 childher, the crathurs, an’ me far fwhrom them, 
 in a sthrange counthry. Gad help me ! ” 
 
 “What a singular being, George! and how 
 beautifully is the economy of domestic affection 
 exemplified, notwithstanding his half-savage 
 state, in the little plans he devises for the benefit 
 of his wife and children!” exclaimed the good 
 lady, quite unconscious that Phil was a bachelor. 
 “ Juliana, my love, desire Timmins to give him 
 his dinner. Follow this young lady, good man, 
 and she will order you refresliment.” 
 
76 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Gad’s blessin’ upon your beauty an’ gud- 
 ness, my lady; an’ a man might thravel far afore 
 he’d meet the likes o’ you for aither o’ them. 
 Is it the other handsome young lady I’m to folly, 
 ma’am? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied the young wit, with an arch 
 smile; “ come after mef" 
 
 “ Thrath, Miss, an’ it’s an asy task to do that, 
 any way; wit a heart an’ a half I go, acushla; 
 an’ I seen the day. Miss, that it’s not much of 
 mate an’ dhrink ’ud throuble me, if I jist got 
 lave to be lookin’ at you, wit nothin’ but your- 
 self to think an. But the wife an’ childher. Miss, 
 makes great changes in us entirely.” 
 
 “ Why you are quite gallant, Paddy.” 
 
 “ Trath, I suppose I am now. Miss; but you 
 see, my hanerable young lady, that’s our 
 fwhailin’ at home: the counthry’s poor, an’ we 
 can’t help it, wheder or not. We’re fwhorced 
 to it. Miss, whin we come ower here, by you, 
 an’ the likes a’ you, mavourneeni ” 
 
 Phil then proceeded to the house, was sent to 
 the kitchen by the young lady, and furnished 
 through the steward with an abundant supply 
 of cold meat, bread and beer, of which he con- 
 trived to make a meal that somewhat astonished 
 the servants. Having satisfied his hunger, he 
 deliberately — ^but with the greatest simplicity 
 of countenance — filled the wallet which he car- 
 ried slung across his back, with whatever he had 
 left, observing as he did it: — 
 
 “ Fwhy, thin, ’tis sthrange it is that the same 
 custom is wit us in Ireland bey ant that is here; 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 77 
 
 fwhor whinever a thraveller is axed in, he al- 
 ways brings fwhat he doesn’t ate along wit 
 him. An sure enough it’s the same here amongst 
 yez,” added he, packing up the bread and beef as 
 he spoke, “ but Gad bliss the custom, any how, 
 fwhor it’s a good one! ” 
 
 When he had secured the provender, and was 
 ready to resume his journey, he began to yawn, 
 and to exhibit the most unequivocal symptoms 
 of fatigue: 
 
 “ Arrah, Sir,” said he to the steward, ‘‘ you 
 wouldn’t have e’er an ould barn that I’d throw 
 myself in fwhor the night? The sarra leg I 
 have to put undlier me, now that I’ve got stiff 
 wit the sittin’ so lang; that, an’ a wishp o’ 
 sthraw Sir, to sleep an, an’ Gad bliss you! ” 
 “Paddy, I cannot say,” replied the steward; 
 “ but I shall ask my master, and if he orders it, 
 you shall have the comfort of a hard floor and 
 clean straw, Paddy — that you shall.” 
 
 “ Many thanks to you. Sir: it’s in your face, 
 in thrath, the same gudness an’ ginerosity.” 
 
 The gentleman, on hearing Phil’s request to 
 be permitted a sleeping-place in the barn, was 
 rather surprised at his wretched notion of com- 
 fort than at the request itself. 
 
 “ Certainly, Timmins, let him sleep there,” he 
 replied; “ give him sacks and straw enough. I 
 dare say he will feel the privilege a luxury, poor 
 devil, after his fatigue. Give him liis break- 
 fast in the morning, Timmins. Good heavens,” 
 he added, “ what a singular people ! What an 
 amazing progress civilization must make before 
 
78 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 these Irish can be brought at all near the com- 
 monest standard of humanity ! ” 
 
 At this moment Phil, who was determined to 
 hack the steward’s request, approached them. 
 
 “ Paddy,” said the gentleman, anticipating 
 him, “ I have ordered you sacks and straw in 
 the barn, and your breakfast in the morning 
 before you set out.” 
 
 “ Thrath,” said Phil, “ if there’s e’er a sthray 
 blissin’ goin’, depind an it. Sir, you’ll get it, 
 fwhor your hanerable ginerosity to the 
 sthranger. But about the ‘ slip,’ Sir — if the 
 misthress herself ’ud shake the wishp o’ sthraw 
 fwhor her in the far earner o’ the kitchen below, 
 an’ see her gettin’ her supper, the crathur, be- 
 fore she’d put her to bed, she’d be thrivin’ like 
 a salmon. Sir, in less than no time ; an’ to ardher 
 the sarwints. Sir, if you plase, not to be de- 
 fraudin’ the crathur of the big phaties. Fwhor 
 in regard it cannot spake fwhor itself. Sir, it 
 frets as wise as a Christyeen, when it’s not hon- 
 estly thrated.” 
 
 “ Never fear, Paddy; we shall take good care 
 of it.” 
 
 “ Thank you. Sir. But I aften heerd. Sir, 
 that you dunna how to feed pigs in this coun- 
 thry in ardher to mix the fwhat an’ lane, lair 
 (layer) about.” 
 
 “ And how do you manage that in Ireland, 
 Paddy? ” 
 
 “ Fwhy, Sir, I’ll tell you how the misthress. 
 Gad bliss her, will manage it fwhor you: Take 
 the crathur. Sir, an’ feed it to-morrow till it’s 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 79 
 
 as full as a tick — that’s fwhor the fwliat. Sir; 
 thin let her give it nothin’ at all the next day, 
 but keep it black fwhastin’ — that’s fwhor the 
 lane (lean). Let her stick to that, Sir, keepin’ 
 it atin’ one day an’ fastin’ anodher, for six 
 months, thin put a knife in it, an’ if you don’t 
 have the fwhat an’ lane, lair about, beautiful 
 all out, fwhy niver bl’eve Phadrumshagh Cor- 
 fuffle agin. Ay, indeed!” 
 
 The Englishman looked keenly at Phil, but 
 could only read in his countenance a thorough 
 and implicit belief in his own recipe for mixing 
 the fat and lean. It is impossible to express his 
 contempt for the sense and intellect of Phil; 
 nothing could surpass it but the contempt which 
 Phil entertained for him. 
 
 “ Well,” said he to the servant, “ I have often 
 heard of the barbarous habits of the Irish, but 
 I must say that the incidents of this evening 
 have set my mind at rest upon the subject. 
 Good heavens ! when will ever this besotted 
 country rise in the scale of nations! Did ever 
 a human being hear of such a method of feeding 
 swine! I should have thought it incredible had 
 I heard it from any but an Irishman! ” 
 
 Phil then retired to the kitchen, where his as- 
 sumed simplicity highly amused the servants, 
 who,' after an hour or two’s fun with “ Paddy,” 
 conducted him in a kind of contemptuous pro- 
 cession to the barn, where they left him to his 
 repose. 
 
 The next morning he failed to appear at 
 the hour of breakfast, but his non-appearance 
 
80 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 was attributed to his fatigue, in consequence of 
 which he was supposed to have over-slept him- 
 self. On going, however, to call him from the 
 barn, they discovered that he had decamped; 
 and on looking after the “ slip,’' it was found 
 that both had taken French leave of the English- 
 man. Phil and the pig had actually travelled 
 fifteen miles that morning, before the hour on 
 which he was missed — Phil going at a dog’s trot, 
 and the pig following at such a respectful dis- 
 tance as might not appear to identify them as 
 fellow-travellers. In this manner Phil sold the 
 pig to upwards of two dozen intelligent English 
 gentlemen and farmers, and after winding up 
 his bargains successfully, both arrived in Liver- 
 pool, highly delighted by their commercial trip 
 through England. 
 
 The passage from Liverpool to Dublin, in 
 Phil’s time, was far different from that which 
 steam and British enterprise have since made it. 
 A vessel was ready to sail for the latter place on 
 the very day of Phil’s arrival in town; and, as 
 he felt rather anxious to get out of England as 
 soon as he could, he came, after selling his pig 
 in good earnest, to the aforesaid vessel to ascer- 
 tain if it were possible to get a deck passage. 
 The year had then advanced to the latter part 
 of autumn; so that it was the season when those 
 inconceivable hordes of Irishmen who emigrate 
 periodically for the purpose of lightening John 
 Bull’s labour, were in the act of returning to 
 that country in which they find little to welcome 
 them — but domestic affection and misery. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 81 
 
 When Phil arrived at the vessel, he found the 
 captain in a state of peculiar difficulty. About 
 twelve or fourteen gentlemen of rank and prop- 
 erty, together with a score or upwards of highly 
 respectable persons, but of less consideration, 
 were in equal embarrassment. The fact was, 
 that as no other vessel left Liverpool that day, 
 about five hundred Irishmen, mostly reapers 
 and mowers, had crowded upon deck, each deter- 
 mined to keep his place at all hazards. The 
 captain, whose vessel was small, and none of 
 the stoutest, flatly refused to put to sea with 
 such a number. He told them it was madness 
 to think of it; he could not risk the lives of the 
 other passengers, nor even their own, by sailing 
 with five hundred on the deck of so small a 
 vessel. If the one-half of them would withdraw 
 peaceably, he would carry the other half, which 
 was as much as he could possibly accomplish. 
 They were very willing to grant that what he 
 said was true; but in the mean time, not a man 
 of them would move, and to clear out such a 
 number of fellows, who loved notliing better 
 than fighting, armed, too, with sickles and 
 scythes, was a task beyond either his ability or 
 inclination to execute. He remonstrated with 
 them, entreated, raged, swore, and threatened; 
 but all to no purpose. His threats and en- 
 treaties were received with equal good-humour. 
 Gibes and jokes were broken on him without 
 number, and as his passion increased, so did 
 their mirth, until nothing could be seen but the 
 
 captain in vehement gesticulation, the Irishmen 
 III— 6 
 
82 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 huzzaing him so vocif erously, that his damns and 
 curses, uttered against them, could not reach 
 even his own ears. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said he to his cabin passengers, 
 “for the love of Heaven, tax your invention to 
 discover some means whereby to get one-half of 
 these men out of the vessel, otherwise it will be 
 impossible that we can sail to-day. I have al- 
 ready proffered to take one-half of them by lot, 
 but they will not hear of it ; and how to manage 
 I am sure I don’t know.” 
 
 The matter, however, was beyond their depth ; 
 the thing seemed utterly impracticable, and the 
 chances of their putting to sea were becoming 
 fainter and fainter. 
 
 “ B1 — t their eyes ! ” he at length exclaimed, 
 “ the ragged, hungry devils! If they heard me 
 with decency I could bear their obstinacy better: 
 but no, they must turn me into ridicule, and break 
 their jests, and turn their cursed barbarous grins 
 upon me in my own vessel. I say, boys,” he 
 added, proceeding to address them once more — 
 “ I say, savages, I have just three observations 
 to make. The first is,” — 
 
 “ Arrah, Captain, avourneen, hadn’t you bet- 
 ther get upon a stool,” said a voice, “ an’ put 
 a text before it, thin divide it dacently into three 
 halves, an’ make a sarmon of it.” 
 
 “ Captain, you wor intinded for the church,” 
 added another. “ You’re the moral of a 
 Methodist preacher, if you wor dressed in black.” 
 “ Let him alone,” said a third ; “ he’d be a 
 jinteel man enough in a wildherness, an’ ’ud 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 83 
 
 make an illigant dancin’-masther to the bears.” 
 “ He’s as graceful as a shaved pig on its hind 
 legs, dancin’ the ‘ Baltithrum Jig.’ ” 
 
 The captain’s face was literally black with 
 passion : he turned away with a curse, which pro- 
 duced another huzza, and swore that he would 
 rather encounter the bay of Biscay in a storm, 
 than have anything to do with such an un- 
 manageable mob. 
 
 “ Captain,” said a little, shrewd-looking Con- 
 naught man, “ what ’ud you be willin’ to give 
 any body, ower an’ abow his free passage, that 
 ’ud tell you how to get one half o’ them out? ” 
 “I’ll give him a crown,” replied the captain, 
 “ together with grog and rations to the eyes : I’ll 
 be hanged if I don’t.” 
 
 “ Thin I’ll do it fwhor you, Sir, if you keep 
 your word wit me.” 
 
 “Done!” said the captain; “it’s a bargain, 
 my good fellow, if you accomplish it; and, 
 what’s more. I’ll consider you a knowing one.” 
 
 “ I’m a poor Cannaught man, your haner,” 
 replied our friend Phil; “ but what’s to prevent 
 me thryin’? Tell thim,” he continued, “that 
 you must go; purtind to be for takin’ them all 
 wit you. Sir. Put Munsther agin Connaught, 
 one half an this side, an’ the odher an that, to 
 keep the crathur of a ship steady, your haner; 
 an’ f whin you have thim half an’ half, wit a little 
 room betuxt thim, ‘ now,’ says yer haner, ‘ boys, 
 you’re divided into two halves; if one side kicks 
 the other out o’ the ship. I’ll bring the cun- 
 quirors.’ ” 
 
84 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 The captain said not a word in reply to Phil, 
 but immediately ranged the Munster and Con- 
 naught men on each side of the deck — a matter 
 which he found little difficulty in accomplishing, 
 for each party, hoping that he intended to take 
 themselves, readily declared their province, and 
 stood together. When they were properly 
 separated, there still remained about forty or 
 fifty persons belonging to neither province; but, 
 at Phil’s suggestion, the captain paired them off 
 to each division, man for man, until they were 
 drawn up into two bodies. 
 
 ‘‘Now,” said he, “there you stand: let one 
 half of you drub the other out of the vessel, and 
 the conquerors shall get their passage.” 
 
 Instant was the struggle that ensued for the 
 sake of securing a passage and from the anxiety 
 to save a shilling, by getting out of Liverpool 
 on that day. The saving of the shilling is in- 
 deed a consideration with Paddy which drives 
 him to the various resources of begging, claim- 
 ing kindred with his resident countrymen in 
 England, pretended illness, coming to be passed 
 from parish to parish, and all the turnings and 
 shiftings which his reluctance to part with money 
 renders necessary. Another night, therefore, 
 and probably another day, in Liverpool, would 
 have been attended with expense. This argu- 
 ment prevailed with all: with Munster as well 
 as with Connaught, and they fought accordingly. 
 
 When the attack first commenced, each party 
 hoped to be able to expel the other without blows. 
 
qifiS arii sahsaO 
 
 'cd \ouiQnO «o i«otV 
 
Cleariag the Ship 
 
 Etching from an Original Drawing by Wrightson 
 

TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 85 
 
 This plan was soon abandoned. In a few 
 minutes the sticks and fists were busy. Throt- 
 tling, tugging, cuffing, and knocking down — 
 shouting, hallooing, huzzaing, and yelling, gave 
 evident proofs that the captain, in embracing 
 PhiFs proposal, had unwittingly applied the 
 match to a mine, whose explosion was likely to 
 be attended with disastrous consequences. As 
 the fight became warm, and the struggle more 
 desperate, the hooks and scythes were resorted 
 to; blood began to flow, and men to fall, disabled 
 and apparently dying. The immense crowd 
 which had now assembled to witness the fight 
 among the Irishmen, could not stand tamely by, 
 and see so many lives likely to be lost, without 
 calling in the civil authorities. A number of 
 constables in a few minutes attended; but these 
 worthy officers of the civil authorities experi- 
 enced very uncivil treatment from the fists, 
 cudgels, and sickles of both parties. In fact, 
 they were obliged to get from among the rioters 
 with all possible celerity, and to suggest to the 
 magistrates the necessity of calling in the 
 military. 
 
 In the mean time the battle rose into a furious 
 and bitter struggle for victory. The deck of 
 the vessel was actually slippery with blood, and 
 many were lying in an almost lifeless state. 
 Several were pitched into the hold, and had their 
 legs and arms broken by the fall; some were 
 tossed over the sides of the vessel, and only 
 saved from drowning by the activity of the 
 
86 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 sailors; and not a few of those who had been 
 knocked down in the beginning of the fray were 
 trampled into insensibility. 
 
 The Munster men at length gave way; and 
 their opponents, following up their advantage, 
 succeeded in driving them to a man out of the 
 vessel, just as the military arrived. Fortunately 
 their interference was unnecessary. The ruf- 
 fianly captain’s object was accomplished; and as 
 no lives were lost, nor any injury more serious 
 than broken bones and flesh-wounds sustained, 
 he got the vessel in readiness, and put to sea. 
 
 Who would not think that the Irish were a 
 nation of misers, when our readers are informed 
 that all this bloodshed arose from their unwill- 
 ingness to lose a shilling by remaining in Liver- 
 pool another night? Or who could believe that 
 these very men, on reaching home, and meeting 
 their friends in a fair or market, or in a public- 
 house after mass on a Sunday, would sit down 
 and spend, recklessly and foolishly, that very 
 money which in another country they part with 
 as if it were their very heart’s blood? Yet so it 
 is! Unfortunate Paddy is wiser anywhere 
 than at home, where wisdom, sobriety, and in- 
 dustry are best calculated to promote his own 
 interests. 
 
 This slight sketch of Phil Purcel we have pre- 
 sented to our readers as a specimen of the low, 
 cunning Connaught-man ; and we have only to 
 add, that neither the pig-selling scene, nor the 
 battle on the deck of the vessel in Liverpool, is 
 fictitious. On the contrary, we have purposely 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 87 
 
 kept the tone of our description of the latter cir- 
 cumstance beneath the reality. Phil, however, is 
 not drawn as a general portrait, but as one of 
 that knavish class of men called “ jobbers,” a 
 description of swindlers certainly not more com- 
 mon in Ireland than in any other country. We 
 have known Connaughtmen as honest and hon- 
 ourable as it was possible to be; yet there is a 
 strong prejudice entertained against them in 
 every other province of Ireland, as is evident by 
 the old adage, “ Never trust a Connaught-man.” 
 
GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH 
 
 No pen can do justice to the extravagance 
 and frolic inseparable from the character of the 
 Irish people; nor has any system of philosophy 
 been discovered that can with moral fitness be 
 applied to them. Phrenology fails to explain it; 
 for, so far as the craniums of Irishmen are con- 
 cerned, according to the most capital surveys 
 hitherto made and reported on, it appears that, 
 inasmuch as their moral and intellectual organs 
 predominate over the physical and sensual, the 
 people ought, therefore, to be ranked at the very 
 tip-top of morality. We would warn the 
 phrenologists, however, not to be too sanguine 
 in drawing inferences from an examination of 
 Paddy’s head. Heaven only knows the scenes 
 in which it is engaged, and the protuberances 
 created by a long life of hard fighting. Many 
 an organ and development is brought out on it 
 by the cudgel, that never would have appeared 
 had Nature been left to herself. 
 
 Drinking, fighting, and swearing, are the 
 three great characteristics of every people. 
 Paddy’s love of fighting and of whisky has been 
 long proverbial; and of his tact in swearing 
 much has also been said. But there is one de- 
 partment of oath-making in which he stands un- 
 rivalled and unapproachable; I mean the oLihi. 
 
 88 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 89 
 
 There is where he shines, where his oath, instead 
 of being a mere matter of fact or opinion, rises 
 up into the dignity of epic narrative, containing 
 within itself all the complexity of machinery, 
 harmony of parts, and fertility of invention, by 
 which your true epic should be characterised. 
 
 The Englishman, whom we will call the histo- 
 rian in swearing, will depose to the truth of this or 
 that fact, but there the line is drawn: he swears 
 his oath so far as he knows, and stands still. 
 “I’m sure, for my part, I don’t know; I’ve said 
 all I knows about it,” and beyond this his be- 
 sotted intellect goeth not. 
 
 The Scotchman, on the other hand, who is the 
 metaphysician in swearing, sometimes borders 
 on equivocation. He decidedly goes farther 
 than the Englishman, not because he has less 
 honesty, but more prudence. He will assent to, 
 or deny a proposition; for the Englishman’s “ I 
 don’t know,” and the Scotchman’s “ I dinna 
 ken,” are two very distinct assertions when 
 properly understood. The former stands out a 
 monument of dulness, an insuperable barrier 
 against inquiry, ingenuity, and fancy; but the 
 latter frequently stretches itself so as to em- 
 brace hypothetically a particular opinion. 
 
 But Paddy! Put him forward to prove an 
 alibi for his fourteenth or fifteenth cousin, and 
 you will be gratified by the pomp, pride, and 
 circumstance of true swearing. Every oath 
 with him is an epic — pure poetry, abound- 
 ing with humour, pathos, and the highest order 
 of invention and talent. He is not at ease, it 
 
90 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 is true, under facts; there is something too com- 
 mon-place in dealing with them, which his genius 
 scorns. But his flights — his flights are beauti- 
 ful; and his episodes admirable and happy. In 
 fact, he is an improvisator e at oath-taking; with 
 this difference, that his extempore oaths possess 
 all the ease and correctness of labour and design. 
 
 He is not, however, altogether averse to facts; 
 but, like your true poet, he veils, changes, and 
 modifies them with such skill, that they possess 
 all the merit and graces of fiction. If he hap- 
 pen to make an assertion incompatible with the 
 plan of the piece, his genius acquires fresh en- 
 ergy, enables him to widen the design, and to 
 create new machinery, with such happiness of 
 adaptation, that what appeared out of propor- 
 tion or character is made, in his hands, to con- 
 tribute to the general strength and beauty of 
 the oath. 
 
 ’Tis true, there is nothing perfect under the 
 sun; but if there were, it would certainly be 
 Paddy at an alibi. Some flaws, no doubt, oc- 
 cur; some slight inaccuracies may be noticed by 
 a critical eye; an occasional anachronism stands 
 out, and a mistake or so in geography; but let it 
 be recollected that Paddy’s alibi is but a human 
 production; let us not judge him by harsher 
 rules than those which we apply to Homer, 
 Virgil, or Shakspeare. 
 
 “ Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus,” is 
 allowed on all hands. Virgil made Dido and 
 iEneas contemporary, though they were not so; 
 and Shakspeare, by the creative power of his 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 91 
 
 genius, changed an inland town into a sea-port. 
 Come, come, have bowels. Let epic swearing 
 be treated with the same courtesy shown to epic 
 poetry, that is, if both are the production of a 
 rare genius. I maintain, J:hat when Paddy 
 commits a blemish he is too harshly admonished 
 for it. When he soars out of sight here, as oc- 
 casionally happens, does he not frequently alight 
 somewhere about Sydney Bay, much against 
 his own inclination? And if he puts forth a 
 hasty production, is he not compelled, for the 
 space of seven or fourteen years, to revise his 
 oath? But, indeed, few works of fiction are 
 properly encouraged in Ireland. 
 
 It would be unpardonable in us, however, to 
 overlook the beneficial effects of Paddy’s pecul- 
 iar genius in swearing alibis. Some persons, 
 who display their own egregious ignorance of 
 morality, may be disposed to think that it tends 
 to lessen the obligation of an oath, by inducing 
 a habit among the people of swearing to what 
 is not true. We look upon such persons as very 
 dangerous to Ireland and to the repeal of the 
 Union; and we request them not to push their 
 principles too far in the disturbed parts of the 
 country. Could society hold together a single 
 day, if nothing but truth were spoken? Would 
 not law and lawyers soon become obsolete, if 
 nothing but truth were sworn? What would 
 become of parliament if truth alone were ut- 
 tered there? Its annual proceedings might be 
 dispatched in a month. Fiction is the basis of 
 society, the bond of commercial prosperity, the 
 
92 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 channel of communication between nation and 
 nation, and not un frequently the interpreter 
 between a man and his own conscience. 
 
 For these, and many other reasons which we 
 could adduce, we saw with Paddy, “ Long life to 
 fiction ! ” When associated with swearing, it 
 shines in its brightest colours. What, for in- 
 stance, is calculated to produce the best and 
 purest of the moral virtues so beautifully 
 as the swearing an ahili? Here are fortitude 
 and a love of freedom resisting oppression; for 
 it is well known that all law is oppression in Ire- 
 land. 
 
 There is compassion for the peculiar state of 
 the poor boy, who, perhaps, only burned a 
 family in tlieir beds; benevolence to prompt the 
 generous effort in his behalf; disinterestedness 
 to run the risk of becoming an involuntary ab- 
 sentee ; fortitude in encountering a host of 
 brazen-faced lawyers; patience under the un- 
 sparing grip of a cross-examiner; perseverance 
 in conducting the oath to its close against a host 
 of difficulties ; and friendship, which bottoms 
 and crowns them all. 
 
 Paddy’s merits, however, touching the alibi, 
 rest not here. Fiction on these occasions only 
 teaches him how to perform a duty. It may be, 
 that he is under the obligation of a previous oath 
 not to give evidence against certain of his 
 friends and associates. Now, could anything in 
 the whole circle of religion or ethics be conceived 
 that renders the epic style of swearing so in- 
 cumbent upon Paddy? There is a kind of 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 93 
 
 moral fitness in all things; for where the neces- 
 sity of invention exists, it is consolatory to re- 
 flect that the ability to invent is bestowed along 
 with it. 
 
 Next to the alibi comes Paddy’s powers in sus- 
 taining a cross-examination. ]\Iany persons 
 think that this is his forte; but we cannot yield 
 to such an opinion, nor compromise his original- 
 ity of conception in the scope and plan of an 
 alibi. It is marked by a minuteness of touch, 
 and a peculiarity of expression which give it 
 every appearance of real life. The circumstan- 
 ces are so well imagined, the groups so naturally 
 disposed, the colouring so finished, and the back- 
 ground in such fine perspective, that the whole 
 picture presents you with such keeping and vrai- 
 semblance, as could be accomplished only by the 
 genius of a master. 
 
 In point of interest, however, we must admit 
 that his ability in a cross-examination ranks next 
 to his skill in planning an alibi. There is, in the 
 former, a versatility of talent that keeps him al- 
 ways ready; a happiness of retort, generally dis- 
 astrous to the wit of the most established cross- 
 examiner; an apparent simplicity, which is quite 
 as impenetrable as the lawyer’s assurance; a vis 
 comica, which puts the court in tears; and an 
 originality of sorrow, that often convulses it with 
 laughter. His resources, when he is pressed, are 
 inexhaustible ; and the address with which he con- 
 trives to gain time, that he may suit his reply 
 to the object of his evidence, is beyond all praise. 
 And yet his appearance when he mounts the 
 
94 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 table is anything but prepossessing; a sheepish 
 look, and a loose- jointed frame of body, wrapped 
 in a frieze great-coat, do not promise much. 
 Nay, there is often a rueful blank expression in 
 his visage, which might lead a stranger to antici- 
 pate nothing but blunders and dulness. This, 
 however, is hypocrisy of the first water. Just 
 observe the tact with which he places his caubeen 
 upon the table, his kippeen across it, and the 
 experienced air with which he pulls up the waist- 
 bands of his breeches, absolutely girding his loins 
 for battle. ’Tis true his blue eye has at present 
 nothing remarkable in it, except a drop or two 
 of the native; but that is not remarkable. 
 
 When the direct examination has been con- 
 cluded, nothing can be finer than the simplicity 
 with which he turns round to the lawyer who is 
 to cross-examine him. Yet, as if conscious that 
 firmness and caution are his main guards, he 
 again pulls up his waistbands with a more vigor- 
 ous hitch, looks shyly into the very eyes of his 
 opponent, and awaits the first blow. 
 
 The question at length comes; and Paddy, 
 after having raised the collar of his big coat on 
 his shoulder, and twisted up the shoulder along 
 with it, directly puts the query back to the lawyer, 
 without altering a syllable of it, for the purpose 
 of ascertaining more accurately whether that is 
 the precise question that has been put to him; 
 for Paddy is conscientious. Then is the science 
 displayed on both sides. The one, a veteran, 
 trained in all the technicalities of legal puzzles, 
 irony, blarney, sarcasm, impudence, stock jokes. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 95 
 
 quirks, rigmarolery, brow-beating, ridicule, and 
 subtilty; the other a poor peasant, relpng only 
 upon the justice of a good cause and the gifts 
 of nature; without either experience or learning, 
 and with nothing but his native modesty to meet 
 the forensic effrontery of his antagonist. 
 
 Our readers will perceive that the odds are a 
 thousand to one against Paddy; yet, when he 
 replies to a hackneyed genius at cross-examina- 
 tion, how does it happen that he uniformly elicits 
 those roars of laughter which rise in the court, 
 and convulse it from the judge to the crier? In 
 this laugh, which is usually at the expense of the 
 cross-examiner, Paddy himself always joins, so 
 that the counsel has the double satisfaction of 
 being made not only the jest of the judge and liis 
 brother lawyers, but of the ragged witness whom 
 he attempted to make ridiculous. 
 
 It is not impossible that this merry mode of 
 dispensing justice may somewhat encourage 
 Paddy in that independence of mind which rel- 
 ishes not the idea of being altogether bound by 
 oaths that are too often administered with a joc- 
 ular spirit. To most of the Irish in general an 
 oath is a solemn, to some, an awful thing. Of 
 this wholesome reverence for its sanction, two or 
 three testimonies given in a court of justice 
 usually cure them. The indifferent, business- 
 like manner in which the oaths are put, the sing- 
 song tone of voice, the rapid utterance of the 
 words, give to this solemn act an appearance of 
 excellent burlesque, which ultimately renders the 
 whole proceedings remarkable for the absence of 
 
96 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 truth and reality; but, at the same time, gives 
 them unquestionable merit as a dramatic repre- 
 sentation, abounding with fiction, well related and 
 ably acted. 
 
 Thumb-kissing is another feature in Paddy’s 
 adroitness too important to be passed over in 
 silence. Here his tact shines out again ! It 
 would be impossible for him, in many cases, to 
 meet the perplexities of a cross-examination so 
 cleverly as he does, if he did not believe that 
 he had, by kissing his thumb instead of the book, 
 actually taken no oath, and consequently given 
 to himself a wider range of action. We must ad- 
 mit, however, that this very circumstance involves 
 him in difficulties which are sometimes peculiarly 
 embarrassing. Taking everything into consid- 
 eration, the prospect of freedom for his sixth 
 cousin, the consciousness of having kissed his 
 thumb, or the consoling reflection that he swore 
 only on a Law Bible, it must be granted that the 
 opportunities presented by a cross-examination 
 are well calculated to display his wit, humour, 
 and fertility of invention. He is accordingly 
 great in it; but still we maintain that his execu- 
 tion of an alibi is his ablest performance, com- 
 prising, as it does, both the conception and con- 
 struction of the work. 
 
 Both the oaths and imprecations of the Irish 
 display, like those who use them, indications of 
 great cruelty and great humour. Many of the 
 former exhibit that ingenuity which comes out 
 when Paddy is on his cross-examination in a 
 court of justice. Every people, it is true, have 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 97 
 
 resorted to the habit of mutilating or changing 
 in their oaths the letters which form the Cre- 
 ator’s name; but we question if any have sur- 
 passed the Irish in the cleverness with which they 
 accomplish it. Mock oaths are habitual to Irish- 
 men in ordinary conversation ; but the use of any 
 or all of them is not considered to constitute an 
 oath: on the contrary, they are in the mouths 
 of many who would not, except upon a ver}^ sol- 
 emn occasion indeed, swear by the name of the 
 Deity in its proper form. 
 
 The ingenuity of their mock oaths is sufficient 
 to occasion much perplexity to any one disposed 
 to consider it in connection with the character 
 and moral feelings of the people. Whether to 
 note it as a reluctance on their part to incur the 
 guilt of an oath, or as a proof of habitual tact 
 in evading it by artifice, is manifestly a difficulty 
 hard to be overcome. We are decidedly inclined 
 to the former; for although there is much laxity 
 of principle among Irishmen, naturally to be ex- 
 pected from men whose moral state has been neg- 
 lected by the legislature, and deteriorated by 
 political and religious asperity, acting upon quick 
 passions and badly regulated minds — yet we know 
 that they possess, after all, a strong, but vague 
 undirected sense of devotional feeling and rever- 
 ence, which are associated with great crimes and 
 awfully dark shades of character. This explains 
 one chief cause of the sympathy which is felt in 
 Ireland for criminals from whom the law exacts 
 the fatal penalty of death; and it also accounts, 
 independently of the existence of any illegal asso- 
 
 III— 7 
 
98 
 
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 ciation, for the terrible retribution inflicted upon 
 those who come forward to prosecute them. It 
 is not in Ireland with criminals as in other coun- 
 tries, where the character of a murderer or in- 
 cendiary is notoriously bad, as resulting from a 
 life of gradual profligacy and villany. Far from 
 it. In Ireland you will find those crimes perpe- 
 trated by men who are good fathers, good hus- 
 bands, good sons, and good neighbours — by men 
 who would share their last morsel or their last 
 shilling with a fellow-creature in distress — who 
 would generously lose their lives for a man who 
 had obliged them, provided he had not incurred 
 their enmity — and who would protect a defence- 
 less stranger as far as lay in their power. 
 
 There are some mock oaths among Irishmen 
 which must have had their origin amongst those 
 whose habits of thought were much more elevated 
 than could be supposed to characterise the lower 
 orders. “ By the powers of death ” is never now 
 used as we have written it; but the ludicrous 
 travestie of it, “ by the powdhers o’ delf,” is quite 
 common. Of this and other mock oaths it may 
 be right to observe, that those who swear by them 
 are in general ignorant of their proper origin. 
 There are some, however, of this description 
 whose original form is well known. One of 
 these Paddy displays considerable ingenuity in 
 using. “ By the cross ” can scarcely be classed 
 under the mock oaths, but the manner in which 
 it is pressed into asseverations is amusing. When 
 Paddy is affirming a truth he swears ‘‘ by the 
 crass ” simply, and this with him is an oath of 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 99 
 
 considerable obligation. He generally, in order 
 to render it more impressive, accompanies it with 
 suitable action, that is, he places the forefinger 
 of each hand across, that he may assail you 
 through two senses instead of one. On the con- 
 trary, when he intends to hoax you by asserting 
 what is not true, he ingeniously multiplies the 
 oath, and swears “ by the five crasses,” that is 
 by liis own five fingers, placing at the same time 
 his four fingers and his thumbs across each other 
 in a most impressive and vehement manner. 
 Don’t believe him then — the knave is lying as 
 fast as possible, and with no remorse. “ By the 
 crass o’ Christ ” is an oath of much solemnity, 
 and seldom used in a falsehood. Paddy also 
 often places two bits of straws across, and some- 
 times two sticks, upon which he swears with an 
 appearance of great heat and sincerity — sed 
 caveto! 
 
 Irishmen generally consider iron as a sacred 
 metal. In the interior of the country, the 
 thieves (but few in number) are frequently 
 averse to stealing it. Why it possesses this hold 
 upon their affections it is difficult to say, but 
 it is certain that they rank it among their sacred 
 things, consider that to find it is lucky, and nail 
 it over their doors when found in the convenient 
 shape of a horse-shoe. It is also used as a 
 medium of asserting truth. We believe, how- 
 ever, that the sanction it imposes is not very 
 strong. ‘‘By this blessed iron!” — “by this 
 blessed an’ holy iron!” are oaths of an inferior 
 grade; but if the circumstance on which they are 
 
100 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 founded be a matter of indifference, they seldom 
 depart from truth in using them. 
 
 We have said that Paddy, when engaged in 
 a fight, is never at a loss for a weapon, and we 
 may also affirm, that he is never at a loss for 
 an oath. When relating a narrative, or some 
 other circumstance of his own invention, if con- 
 tradicted, he will corroborate it, in order to sus- 
 tain his credit or produce the proper impression, 
 by an abrupt oath upon the first object he can 
 seize. “ Arrah, nonsense! by this pipe in my 
 hand, it’s as thrue as ” — and then, before he com- 
 pletes the illustration, he goes on with a fine 
 specimen of equivocation — “ By the stool I’m sit- 
 tin’ an, it is; an’ what more would you have from 
 me barrin’ I take my book oath of it? ” Thus 
 does he, under the mask of an insinuation, induce 
 you to believe that he has actually sworn it, 
 whereas the oath is always left undefined and 
 incomplete. 
 
 Sometimes he is exceedingly comprehensive in 
 his adjurations, and swears upon a magnificent 
 scale; as, for instance, — “By the contints of all 
 the books that ever wor opened an’ shut, it’s as 
 thrue as the sun to the dial.” This certainly 
 leaves “ the five crasses ” immeasurably behind. 
 However, be cautious, and not too confident in 
 taking so sweeping and learned an oath upon 
 trust, notwithstanding its imposing effect. We 
 grant, indeed, that an oath which comprehends 
 within its scope all the learned libraries of 
 Europe, including even the Alexandrian of old. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 lOI 
 
 is not only an erudite one, but establishes in a 
 high degree the taste of the swearer, and dis- 
 plays on his part an uncommon grasp of intel- 
 lect. Still we recommend you, whenever you 
 hear an alleged fact substantiated by it, to set 
 your ear as sharply as possible; for, after all, it 
 is more than probable that every book by which 
 he has sworn might be contained in a nutshell. 
 The secret may be briefly explained: — Paddy is 
 in the habit of substituting the word ?zever for 
 ever. “ By all the books that never wor opened 
 or shut,” the reader perceives, is only a flourish 
 of trumpets — a mere delusion of the enemy. 
 
 In fact, Paddy has oaths rising gradually from 
 the lying ludicrous to the superstitious solemn, 
 each of which finely illustrates the nature of the 
 subject to which it is applied. When he swears 
 “ By tire contints o’ Moll Kelly’s Primer,” or 
 “ By the piper that played afore Moses,” you 
 are, perhaps, as strongly inclined to believe him 
 as when he draws upon a more serious oath ; that 
 is, you almost regret the thing is not the gospel 
 that Paddy asserts it to be. In the former sense, 
 the humorous narrative which calls forth the 
 laughable burlesque of “ By the piper o’ Moses,” 
 is usually the richest lie in the whole range of 
 fiction. 
 
 Paddy is, in his ejaculatory, as well as in all 
 his other mock oaths, a kind of smuggler in 
 morality, imposing as often as he can upon his 
 own conscience, and upon those who exercise 
 spiritual authority over him. Perhaps more of 
 
102 
 
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 his oaths are blood-stained than would be found 
 among the inhabitants of all Christendom put 
 together. 
 
 Paddy’s oaths in his amours are generally rich 
 specimens of humorous knavery and cunning. 
 It occasionally happens — but for the honour of 
 our virtuous countrywomen, we say but rarely — 
 that by the honey of his flattering and delusive 
 tongue, he succeeds in placing some unsuspect- 
 ing girl’s reputation in rather a hazardous predic- 
 ament. When the priest comes to investigate 
 the affair, and to cause him to make compensation 
 to the innocent creature who suffered by his 
 blandishments, it is almost uniformly ascertained 
 that, in order to satisfy her scruples as to the 
 honesty of his promises, he had sworn marriage 
 to her on a hook of ballads!!! In other cases 
 blank books have been used for the same pur- 
 pose. 
 
 If, however, you wish to pin Paddy up in a 
 corner, get him a Relic, a Catholic prayer-book, 
 or a Douay Bible to swear upon. Here is where 
 the fox — notwithstanding all his turnings and 
 windings upon heretic Bibles, books of ballads, or 
 mock oaths — is caught at last. The strongest 
 principle in him is superstition. It may be found 
 as the prime mover in his best and worst actions. 
 An atrocious man, who is superstitious, will per- 
 form many good and charitable actions, with a 
 hope that their merit in the sight of God may 
 cancel the guilt of his crimes. On the other 
 hand, a good man, who is superstitiously the slave 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 103 
 
 of his religious opinions, will lend himself to those 
 illegal combinations, whose object is, by keeping 
 ready a system of organised opposition to an 
 heretical government, to fulfil, if a political crisis 
 should render it practicable, the absurd prophecies 
 of Pastorini and Columbkil. Although the 
 prophecies of the former would appear to be out 
 of date to a rational reader, yet Paddy, who can 
 see farther into prophecy than any rational 
 reader, honestly believes that Pastorini has left 
 for those who are superstitiously given, sufficient 
 range of expectation in several parts of his work. 
 
 We might enumerate many other oaths in fre- 
 quent use among the peasantry; but as our object 
 is not to detail them at full length, we trust that 
 those already specified may be considered suffi- 
 cient to enable our readers to get a fuller insight 
 into their character, and their moral influence 
 upon the people. 
 
 The next thing which occurs to us in connec- 
 tion with the present subject, is cursing; and 
 here again Paddy holds the first place. His im- 
 precations are often full, bitter, and intense. In- 
 deed, there is more poetry and epigrammatic 
 point in them than in those of any other country 
 in the world. 
 
 We find it a difficult thing to enumerate the 
 Irish curses, so as to do justice to a subject so 
 varied and so liable to be shifted and improved 
 by the fertile genius of those who send them 
 abroad. Indeed, to reduce them into order and 
 method would be a task of considerable difficulty. 
 
104 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Every occasion, and every fit of passion, fre- 
 quently produce a new curse, perhaps equal in 
 bitterness to any that has gone before it. 
 
 Many of the Irish imprecations are difficult to 
 be understood, having their origin in some his- 
 torical event, or in poetical metaphors that require 
 a considerable process of reasoning to explain 
 them. Of this twofold class is that general one, 
 “ The curse of Cromwell on you! ” which means, 
 may you suffer all that a tyrant like Cromwell 
 would inflict! and “ The curse o’ the crows upon 
 you ! ” which is probably an allusion to the Dan- 
 ish invasion — a raven being the symbol of Den- 
 mark; or it may be tantamount to “ May you rot 
 on the hills, that the crows may feed upon your 
 carcase!” Perhaps it may thus be understood 
 to imprecate death upon you or some member of 
 your house — alluding to the superstition of rooks 
 hovering over the habitations of the sick, when 
 the malady with which they are afflicted is known 
 to be fatal. Indeed, the latter must certainly be 
 the meaning of it, as is evident from the proverb 
 of “ Die, an’ give the crow a puddin’.” 
 
 “ Hell’s cure to you ! — the devil’s luck to you ! — 
 high hanging to you! — hard feeding to you! — a 
 short coorse to you ! ” are all pretty intense, and 
 generally used under provocation and passion. 
 In these cases the curses just mentioned are 
 directed immediately to the offensive object, and 
 there certainly is no want of the malus animus 
 to give them energy. It would be easy to mul- 
 tiply the imprecations belonging to this class 
 among the peasantry, but the task is rather un- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 105 
 
 pleasant. There are a few, however, which, in 
 consequence of their ingenuity, we cannot pass 
 over: they are, in sooth, studies for the swearer. 
 “ May you never die till you see your own 
 funeral!” is a very beautiful specimen of the 
 periphrasis : it simply means, may you be hanged ; 
 for he who is hanged is humorously said to be 
 favoured with a view of that sombre spectacle, 
 by which they mean the crowd that attends an 
 execution. To the same purpose is, ‘‘ May you 
 die wid a caper in your heel! ” — “ May you die 
 in your pumps!” — “May your last dance be a 
 hornpipe on the air! ” These arc all emblematic 
 of hanging, and are uttered sometimes in jest, 
 and occasionally in earnest. “ May the grass 
 grow before your door!” is highly imaginative 
 and poetical. Nothing, indeed, can present the 
 mind with a stronger or more picturesque emblem 
 of desolation and ruin. Its malignity is terrible. 
 
 There are also mock imprecations as well as 
 mock oaths. Of this character are, “ The devil 
 go with you an’ sixpence, an’ thin you’ll want 
 neither money nor company!” This humorous 
 and considerate curse is generally confined to the 
 female sex. When Paddy happens to be in a 
 romping mood, and teases his sweetheart too 
 much, she usually utters it with a countenance 
 combating with smiles and frowns, whilst she 
 stands in the act of pinning up her dishevelled 
 hair ; her cheek, particularly the one next Paddy, 
 deepened into a becoming blush. 
 
 “Bad scran to you! ” is another form seldom 
 used in anger; it is the same as “ Hard feeding 
 
106 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 to you! ” “ Bad win’ to you! ” is ‘‘ 111 health to 
 
 you! ” it is nearly the same as “ Consumin’ (con- 
 sumption) to you!” Two other imprecations 
 come under this head, which we will class to- 
 gether, because they are counterparts of each 
 other, with this difference, that one of them is 
 the most subtilely and intensely withering in its 
 purport that can well be conceived. The one is 
 that common curse, ‘‘ Bad ’cess to you! ” that is, 
 bad success to you: we may identify it with 
 “Hard fortune to you!” The other is a keen 
 one, indeed — Sweet bad luck to you!” Now, 
 whether we consider the epithet sweet as bitterly 
 ironical, or deem it as a wish that prosperity may 
 harden the heart to the accomplishment of future 
 damnation, as in the case of Dives, we must in 
 either sense grant that it is an oath of powerful 
 hatred and venom. Occasionally the curse of 
 “Bad luck to you!” produces an admirable re- 
 tort, which is pretty common. When one man 
 applies it to another, he is answered with “ Good 
 luck to you, thin; but may neither of thim ever 
 happen/^ 
 
 “ Six eggs to you, an’ half-a-dozen o’ them 
 rotten ! ” — like “ The devil go with you an’ six- 
 pence ! ” is another of those pleasantries which 
 mostly occur in the good-humoured badinage be- 
 tween the sexes. It implies disappointment. 
 
 There is a species of imprecation prevalent 
 among Irishmen which we may term neutral. It 
 is ended by the word hit, and merely results from 
 a habit of swearing where there is no malignity 
 of purpose. An Irishman, when corroborating 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 107 
 
 an assertion, however tme or false, will often say, 
 “ Bad luck to the bit but it is; ” — “ Divil lire the 
 bit but it’s thruth! ” — “ Damn the bit but it is! ” 
 and so on. In this form the mind is not moved, 
 nor the passions excited: it is therefore probably 
 the most insipid of all their imprecations. 
 
 Some of the most dreadful maledictions are to 
 be heard among the confirmed mendicants of Ire- 
 land. The wit, the gall, and the poetry of these 
 are uncommon. “ May you melt olf the earth 
 like snow off the ditch! ” is one of a high order 
 and intense malignity; but it is not exclusively 
 confined to mendicants, although they form that 
 class among which it is most prevalent. Nearly 
 related to this is, “ May you melt like butther 
 before a summer sun!” These are, indeed, es- 
 sentially poetical ; they present the mind with ap- 
 propriate imagery, and exhibit a comparison per- 
 fectly just and striking. The former we think 
 unrivalled. 
 
 Some of the Irish imprecations would appear 
 to have come down to us from the Ordeals. Of 
 this class, probably, are the following: “ May this 
 be poison to me! ” — “ May I be roasted on red- 
 hot iron! ” Others of them, from their boldness 
 of metaphor, seem to be of Oriental descent. 
 One expression, indeed, is strikingly so. When 
 a deep offence is offered to an Irishman, under 
 such peculiar circumstances that he cannot im- 
 mediately retaliate, he usually rephes to his 
 enemy — “ You’ll sup sorrow for this! ” — “ You’ll 
 curse the day it happened!” — “I’ll make you 
 rub your heels together!” All these figurative 
 
108 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 denunciations are used for the purpose of inti- 
 mating the pain and agony he will compel his 
 enemy to suffer. 
 
 We cannot omit a form of imprecation for 
 good, which is also habitual among the peasantry 
 of Ireland. It is certainly harmless, and argues 
 benevolence of heart. We mean such expres- 
 sions as the following: “ Salvation to me! — May I 
 never do harm! — May I never do an ill turn! — 
 May I never sin ! ’’ These are generally used by 
 men who are blameless and peaceable in their lives 
 — simple and well-disposed in their intercourse 
 with the world. 
 
 At the head of those Irish imprecations which 
 are dreaded by the people, the Excommunication, 
 of course, holds the first and most formidable 
 place. In the eyes of men of sense it is as absurd 
 as it is illiberal; but to the ignorant and super- 
 stitious, who look upon it as anything but a 
 hrutum fulmen, it is terrible indeed. 
 
 Next in order are the curses of priests in their 
 private capacity, pilgrims, mendicants, and 
 idiots. Of those also Paddy entertains a whole- 
 some dread ; a circumstance which the pilgrim and 
 mendicant turn with great judgment to their 
 own account. Many a legend and anecdote do 
 such chroniclers relate, when the family, with 
 whom they rest for the night, are all seated 
 around the winter hearth. These are often illus- 
 trative of the baneful effects of the poor man’s 
 curse. Of course they produce a proper impres- 
 sion; and, accordingly, Paddy avoids offending 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 109 
 
 such persons in any way that might bring him 
 under their displeasure. 
 
 A certain class of curses much dreaded in Ire- 
 land are those of the widow and the orphan. 
 There is, however, something touching and beau- 
 tiful in this fear of injuring the sorrowful and 
 unprotected. It is, we are happy to say, a be- 
 coming and prominent feature in Paddy’s char- 
 acter; for, to do him justice in his virtues as w^ell 
 as in his vices, we repeat that he cannot be sur- 
 passed in his humanity to the lonely widow and 
 her helpless orphans. He will collect a number 
 of his friends, and proceed with them in a body 
 to plant her bit of potato ground, to reap her 
 oats, to draw home her turf, or secure her hay. 
 Nay, he will beguile her of her sorrows with a 
 natural sympathy and delicacy that do him hon- 
 our; his heart is open to her complaints, and his 
 hand ever extended to assist her. 
 
 There is a strange opinion to be found in Ire- 
 land upon the subject of curses. The peasantry 
 think that a curse, no matter how uttered, will 
 fall on sojnething; but that it depends upon the 
 person against whom it is directed, whether or not 
 it will descend on him. A curse, we have heard 
 them say, will rest for seven years in the air, 
 ready to alight upon the head of the person who 
 provoked the malediction. It hovers over him, 
 like a kite over its prey, watching the moment 
 when he may be abandoned by his guardian 
 angel: if this occurs, it shoots with the rapidity 
 of a meteor on his head, and clings to him in the 
 
9 
 
 no IRELAND 
 
 shape of illness, temptation, or some other calam- 
 ity. 
 
 They think, however, that the blessing of one 
 person may cancel the curse of another ; but this 
 opinion does not affect the theory we have just 
 mentioned. When a man experiences an un- 
 pleasant accident, they will say, “ He has had 
 some poor body’s curse;” and, on the contrary^ 
 when he narrowly escapes it, they say, “ He has 
 had some poor body’s blessing.” 
 
 There is no country in which the phrases of 
 good-will and affection are so strong as in 
 Ireland. The Irish language actually flows 
 with the milk and honey of love and friendship. 
 Sweet and palatable is it to the other sex, and 
 sweetly can Paddy, with his deluding ways, ad- 
 minister it to them from the top of his melliflu- 
 ous tongue, as a dove feeds her young, or as a 
 kind mother her babe, shaping with her own 
 pretty mouth every morsel of the delicate viands 
 before it goes into that of the infant. In this 
 manner does Paddy, seated behind a ditch, of 
 a bright Sunday, when he ought to be at Mass, 
 feed up some innocent girl, not with “ false 
 music,” but with sweet words; for nothing more 
 musical or melting than his brogue ever dissolved 
 a female heart. Indeed, it is of the danger to 
 be apprehended from the melody of his voice, 
 that the admirable and appropriate proverb 
 speaks; for when he addresses his sweetheart, 
 under circumstances that justify suspicion, it is 
 generally said — “Paddy’s feedin’ her up wid 
 false music.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 111 
 
 What language has a phrase equal in heauty 
 and tenderness to cuslila ma chree — pulse of my 
 heart? Can it be paralleled in the whole range 
 of all that are, ever were, or ever will be spoken, 
 for music, sweetness, and a knowledge of anat- 
 omy? If Paddy is unrivalled at swearing, he 
 fairly throws the world beliind him at the 
 blarney. In professing friendship, and making 
 love, give him but a taste of the native j, and he 
 is a walking honey-comb, that every woman who 
 sees liim wishes to have a lick at; and Heaven 
 knows, that frequently, at all times, and in all 
 places, does he get himself licked on their 
 account. 
 
 Another expression of peculiar force is vich 
 machree — or, son of my heart. This is not only 
 elegant, but affectionate, beyond almost any 
 other phrase except the foregoing. It is, in a 
 sense somewhat different from that in which the 
 philosophical poet has used it, a beautiful eom- 
 ment upon the sentiment of “ the child’s the 
 father of the man,” uttered by the great, we 
 might almost say, the glorious, Wordsworth. 
 
 We have seen many a youth, on more occa- 
 sions than one, standing in profound affliction 
 over the dead body of his aged father, exclaim- 
 ing, Ahir^ vick machree — vick machree — wuil 
 thu marra wo"um? Wuil thu marra wo'um? 
 Father, son of my heart, son of my heart, art 
 thou dead from me — art thou dead from me?” 
 An expression, we think, under any circum- 
 stances, not to be surpassed in the intensity of 
 domestic affection which it expresses; but under 
 
112 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 those alluded to, we consider it altogether ele- 
 vated in exquisite and poetic beauty above the 
 most powerful symbols of Oriental imagery. 
 
 A third phrase peculiar to love and affection, 
 is Manim asthee hu — or. My soul’s within 
 you.” Every person acquainted with languages 
 knows how much an idiom suffers by a literal 
 translation. How beautiful, then, how tender 
 and powerful, must those short expressions be, 
 uttered, too, with a fervour of manner peculiar 
 to a deeply feeling people, when, even after a 
 literal translation, they carry so much of their 
 tenderness and energy into a language whose 
 genius is cold when compared to the glowing 
 beauty of the Irish. 
 
 Mavourneen dheelish, too, is only a short 
 phrase, but, coming warm and mellowed from 
 Paddy’s lips into the ear of his colleen dhas, it is 
 a perfect spell — a sweet murmur, to which the 
 lenis susurrus of the Hybla bees is, with all their 
 honey, jarring discord. How tame is “ My 
 sweet darling,” its literal translation, compared 
 to its soft and lulling intonations. There is a 
 dissolving, entrancing, beguiling, deluding, flat- 
 tering, insinuating, coaxing, winning, inveigling, 
 roguish, palavering, come-over-ing, comedher- 
 ing, consenting, blarneying, killing, willing, 
 charm in it, worth all the philtres that ever the 
 gross knavery of a withered alchymist imposed 
 upon the credulity of those who inhabit the other 
 nations of the earth — for we don’t read that 
 these shrivelled philtre-mongers ever prospered 
 in Ireland, 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 113 
 
 No, no — let Paddy alone. If he hates in- 
 tensely, and effectually, he loves intensely, com- 
 prehensively, and gallantly. To love with power 
 is a proof of a large soul, and to hate well is, 
 according to the great moralist, a thing in itself 
 to be loved. Ireland is, therefore, through all 
 its sects, parties, and religions, an amicable na- 
 tion. Their affections are, indeed, so vivid, that 
 they scruple not sometimes to kill each other with 
 kindness: but we hope that the march of love 
 and friendship will not only keep pace with, but 
 outstrip, the march of intellect. 
 
 Peter Connell was for many years of his 
 life a pattern and a proverb for industry and 
 sobriety. He first began the world as keeper 
 of a shebeen-house at the cross-roads, about four 
 miles from the town of Bally poteen. He w^as 
 decidedly an honest man to his neighbours, but 
 a knave to excisemen, whom he hated by a kind 
 of instinct that he had, which prompted him, in 
 order to satisfy his conscience, to render them 
 every practicable injury wdthin the compass of 
 his ingenuity. Shebeen-house keepers and ex- 
 cisemen have been, time out of mind, destructive 
 of each other; the exciseman pouncing like a 
 beast or bird of prey upon the shebeen man and 
 his illicit spirits; the shebeen man staving in the 
 exciseman, like a barrel of doublings, by a knock 
 from behind a hedge, which sometimes sent him 
 to that world which is emphatically called the 
 world of spirits. For this, it sometimes hap- 
 pened that the shebeen man was hanged; but as 
 III— 8 
 
114 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Ills death only multiplied that of the excisemen 
 in a geometrical ratio, the sharp-scented frater- 
 nity resolved, if possible, not to risk their lives, 
 either by exposing themselves to the necessity 
 of travelling by night, or prosecuting by day. 
 In this they acted wisely and prudently; fewer 
 of the unfortunate peasantry were shot in their 
 rencounters with the yeomanry or military on 
 such occasions, and the retaliations became by 
 degrees less frequent, until, at length, the mur- 
 der of a gauger became a rare occurrence in the 
 country. 
 
 Peter, before his marriage, had wrought as 
 labouring servant to a man who kept two or 
 three private stills in those caverns among the 
 remote mountains, to which the gauger never 
 thought of penetrating, because he supposed that 
 no human enterprise would have ever dreamt of 
 advancing farther into them than appeared to 
 him to be practicable. In this he was frequently 
 mistaken; for though the still-house was in many 
 cases inaccessible to horses, yet by the contrivance 
 of slipes — a kind of sledge — a dozen men could 
 draw a couple of sacks of barley with less trouble, 
 and at a quicker pace, than if horses only had 
 been employed. By this, and many other similar 
 contrivances, the peasantry were often able to 
 carry on the work of private distillation in places 
 so distant, that few persons could suspect them 
 as likely to be chosen for such purposes. The 
 uncommon personal strength, the daring spirit, 
 and great adroitness of Peter Connell, rendered 
 him a very valuable acquisition to his master in 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 115 
 
 the course of his illicit occupations. Peter was, 
 in addition to his other qualities, sober and ready- 
 witted, so that whenever the gauger made his 
 appearance, his expedients to baffle him were 
 often inimitable. Those expedients did not, how- 
 ever, always arise from the exigency of the mo- 
 ment; they were often deliberately, and with 
 much exertion of ingenuity, planned by the pro- 
 prietors and friends of such establishments, per- 
 haps for weeks before the gauger’s visit occurred. 
 But, on the other hand, as the gauger’s object 
 was to take them, if possible, by surprise, it fre- 
 quently happened that his appearance was as 
 unexpected as it was unwelcome. It was then 
 that the prompt ingenuity of the people was 
 fully seen, felt, and understood by the baffled 
 exciseman, who too often had just grounds for 
 bitterly cursing their talent at outwitting him. 
 
 Peter served his master, as a kind of superin- 
 tendent in such places, until he gained the full 
 knowledge of distilling, according to the proc- 
 esses used by the most popular adepts in the art. 
 Having acquired this, he set up as a professor, 
 and had excellent business. In the meantime, 
 he had put together by degrees a small purse of 
 money, to the amount of about twenty guineas, — 
 no inconsiderable sum for a young Irishman who 
 intends to begin the world on his own account. 
 He accordingly married, and, as the influence 
 of a wife is usually not to be controlled during 
 the honey-moon, Mrs. Connell prevailed on 
 Peter to relinquish his trade of distiller, and ta 
 embrace some other mode of life that might not 
 
116 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 render their living so much asunder necessary. 
 Peter suffered himself to be prevailed upon, and 
 promised to have nothing more to do with private 
 distillation, as a distiller. One of the greatest 
 curses attending this lawless business, is the idle 
 and irregular habit of life which it gradually in- 
 duces. Peter could not now relish the labour of an 
 agriculturist, to which he had been bred, and yet 
 he was too prudent to sit down and draw his own 
 and his wife’s support from so exhaustible a 
 source as twenty guineas. Two or three days 
 passed, during which “ he cudgelled his brains,” 
 to use his own expression, in plans for future 
 subsistence; two or three consultations were held 
 with Ellish, in which their heads were laid to- 
 gether, and, as it was still the honey-moon, the 
 subject-matter of the consultation, of course, was 
 completely forgotten. Before the expiration of 
 a second month, however, they were able to think 
 of many other things, in addition to the fondlings 
 and endearments of a new-married couple. Pe- 
 ter was every day becoming more his own man, 
 and Ellish by degrees more her own woman. 
 “ The purple light of love,” which had changed 
 Peter’s red head into a rich auburn, and his swivel 
 eye into a loiowing wink, exceedingly irresistible 
 in his bachelorship, as he made her believe, to the 
 country girls — had passed away, taking the 
 aforesaid auburn along with it, and leaving noth- 
 ing but the genuine carrot behind, Peter, too, 
 on opening his eyes one morning about the be- 
 ginning of the third month, perceived that his 
 wife was, after all, nothing more than a thump- 
 
TllAlTS AND STORIES 
 
 117 
 
 ing red-cheeked wench, with good eyes, a mouth 
 rather large, and a nose very much resembling, 
 in its curve, the seat of a saddle, allowing the top 
 to correspond with the pummel. 
 
 “ Pether,” said she, “ it’s like a dhrame to me 
 that you’re neglectin’ your business, alanna.” 
 
 “ Is it you, beauty? but, may be, you’d first 
 point out to me what business, barrin’ buttherin’ 
 up yourself, I have to mind, you phanix bright? ” 
 
 “Quit yourself, Pether! it’s time for you to 
 give up your ould ways; you caught one bird 
 wid them, an’ that’s enough. What do you in- 
 tind to do? It’s full time for you to be lookin’ 
 about you.” 
 
 “ Lookin’ about me! What do you mane, 
 EUish?” 
 
 “ The dickens a bit o’ me thought of it,” re- 
 plied the wife, laughing at the unintentional allu- 
 sion to the circumspect character of Peter’s eyes, 
 — “upon my faix, I didn’t — ha, ha, ha! ” 
 
 “ Why, thin, but you’re full o’ your fun, sure 
 enough, if that’s what you’re at. Maybe, avour- 
 neen, if I had looked right afore me, as I ought 
 to do, it’s Katty Murray an’ her snug farm I’d 
 have, instead of ” — 
 
 Peter hesitated. The rapid feelings of a 
 woman, and an Irishwoman, quick and tender, 
 had come forth and subdued him. She had not 
 voluntarily alluded to his eyes; but on seeing 
 Peter offended, she immediately expressed that 
 sorrow and submission which are most powerful 
 when accompanied by innocence, and when 
 meekly assumed, to pacify rather than to con- 
 
118 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 vince. A tear started to her eye, and with a 
 voice melted into unaffected tenderness, she ad- 
 dressed him, but he scarcely gave her time to 
 speak. 
 
 “No, avourneen, no, I won’t say what I was 
 goin’ to mintion. I won’t indeed, Ellish, dear; 
 an’ forgive me for woundin’ your feelins, alanna 
 dhas,^^ Hell resave her an’ her farm! I dunna 
 what put her into my head at all ; but I thought 
 you wor jokin’ me about my eyes: an’ sure if 
 you war, acushla, that’s no rason that I’d not 
 allow you to do that an’ more wid your own 
 Pether. Give me a slewsther/^ agrah — a sweet 
 one, now! ” 
 
 He then laid his mouth to hers, and immedi- 
 ately a sound, nearly resembling a pistol-shot, 
 was heard through every part of the house. It 
 was, in fact, a kiss upon a scale of such magni- 
 tude, that the Emperor of Morocco might not 
 blush to be charged with it. A reconciliation 
 took place, and in due time it was determined 
 that Peter, as he understood poteen, should open 
 a shebeen-house. 
 
 The moment this resolution was made, the wife 
 kept coaxing him, until he took a small house at 
 the cross-roads before alluded to, where, in the 
 course of a short time, he was established, if not in 
 his own line, yet in a mode of life approximating 
 to it as nearly as the inclination of Ellish would 
 permit. The cabin which they occupied had a 
 kitchen in the middle, and a room at each end 
 of it, in one of which was their own humble chaff 
 bed, with its blue quilted drugget cover; in the 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 119 
 
 other stood a couple of small tables, some stools, 
 a short form, and one chair, being a present from 
 his father-in-law. These constituted Peter’s 
 whole establishment, so far as it defied the 
 gauger. To this we must add a five-gallon keg 
 of spirits hid in the garden, and a roll of smug- 
 gled tobacco. From the former he bottled, over 
 night, as much as was usually drank the follow- 
 ing day; and from the tobacco, which was also 
 kept under ground, he cut, with the same caution, 
 as much as to-morrow’s exigencies might require. 
 This he kept in his coat pocket, a place where 
 the gauger would never think of searching for it, 
 divided into halfpenny and pennyworths, ounces 
 or half-ounces, according as it might be required ; 
 and as he had it without duty, the liberal spirit 
 in which he dealt it out to his neighbours soon 
 brought him a large increase of custom. 
 
 Peter’s wife was an excellent manager, and 
 he himself a pleasant, good-humoured man, full 
 of whim and inoffensive mirth. His powers of 
 amusement were of a high order, considering his 
 station in life and his want of education. These 
 qualities contributed, in a great degree, to bring 
 both the young and the old to his house during 
 the long winter nights, in order to hear the fine 
 racy humour with which he related his frequent 
 adventures and battles with excisemen. In the 
 summer evenings, he usually engaged a piper or 
 fiddler, and had a dance, a contrivance by which 
 he not only rendered himself popular, but in- 
 creased his business. 
 
 In this mode of life, the greatest source of 
 
120 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 anxiety to Peter and Ellish was the difficulty of 
 not offending their friends by refusing to give 
 them credit. Many plans, were, with great skill 
 and forethought, devised to obviate this evil; but 
 all failed. A short board was first procured, on 
 which they got written with chalk — 
 
 “ No credit giv’n — barrin’ a thrifle to Pether’s friends.” 
 
 Before a week passed, after this intimation, 
 the number of “ Pether’s friends ” increased so 
 rapidly, that neither he nor Ellish knew the half 
 of them. Every scamp in the parish was hand 
 and glove with him: the drinking tribe, partic- 
 ularly, became desperately attached to him and 
 Ellish. Peter was naturally kind-hearted, and 
 found that his firmest resolutions too often gave 
 way before the open flattery with which he was 
 assailed. He then changed his hand, and left 
 Ellish to bear the brunt of their blarney. When- 
 ever any person or persons were seen approach- 
 ing the house, Peter, if he had reason to suspect 
 an attack upon his indulgence, prepared himself 
 for a retreat. He kept his eye to the window, 
 and if they turned from the direct line of the 
 road, he immediately slipped into bed, and lay 
 close in order to escape them. In the meantime 
 they enter. 
 
 “God save all here! Ellish, agra machree, 
 how are you? ” 
 
 “God save you kindly! Faix, I’m middlin’, 
 I thank you, Condy: how is yourself, an’ all at 
 home?” 
 
 “ Devil a heartier, barrin’ my father, that’s 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 121 
 
 touched wid a loss of appetite afther his meals — 
 ha, ha, ha! ” 
 
 “ Musha, the dickens be an you, Condy, but 
 you’re your father’s son, any way; the best com- 
 pany in Euro23e is the same man. Throth, 
 whether you’re jokin’ or not, I’d be sarry to hear 
 of anything to his disadvantage, dacent man. 
 Boys, won’t ye go down to the other room? ” 
 
 “ Go way wid yez, boys, till I spake to Ellish 
 here about the affairs o’ the nation. Why, 
 Ellish, you stand the cut all to pieces. By the 
 contints o’ the book, you do; Pether doesn’t stand 
 it half so well. How is he, the thief? ” 
 
 “ Throth, he’s not well to-day, in regard of a 
 smotherin’ about the heart he tuck this mornin’ 
 afther his breakfast. He jist laid himself on the 
 bed a while, to see if it would go off of him — 
 God be praised for all his marcies 1 ” 
 
 “ Thin, upon my solevstiion, I’m sarry to hear 
 it, and so will all at home, for there’s not in the 
 parish we’re sittin’ in a couple that our family 
 has a greater regard an’ friendship for, than him 
 an’ yourself. Faix, my modher, no longer ago 
 than Friday night last, argued down Bartle 
 Meegan’s throath, that you and Biddy ^lartin 
 war the two portliest weemen that comes into 
 the chapel. God forgive myself, I was near 
 quarrelhn’ wid Bartle, on the head of it, bekase 
 I tuck my modher’s part, as I had good right to 
 do.” 
 
 “ Thrath, I’m thankful to you both, Condy, 
 for your kindness.” 
 
 “ Oh, the sarra taste o’ kindness was in it at 
 
122 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 all, Ellish, ’twas only the truth; an’ as long as 
 I live, I’ll stand up for that.” 
 
 “ Arrah, how is your aunt down at Carntall? ” 
 “ Indeed thin but middhn’, not gettin’ her 
 health: she’ll soon give the crow a puddin’, any 
 way; thin, Ellish, you thief, I’m in for the yallow 
 boys. Do you know thim that came in wid me? ” 
 “ Why thin I can’t say I do. Who are they, 
 Condy? ” 
 
 “ Why one o’ them’s a bachelor to my sisther 
 Norah, a very dacent boy, indeed — him wid the 
 frieze jock upon him, an’ the buckskin breeches. 
 The other three’s from Teernabraighera beyant. 
 They’re related to my brother-in-law, Mick Dil- 
 lon, by his first wife’s brother-in-law’s uncle. 
 They’re come to this neighbourhood till the ’Sizes, 
 bad luck to them, goes over; for you see, they’re 
 in a little throuble.” 
 
 “ The Lord grant them safe out of it, poor 
 boys!” 
 
 “ I brought them up here to treat them, poor 
 fellows; an’, Ellish, avourneen, you must credit 
 me for whatsomever we may have. The thruth 
 is, you see, that when we left home, none of us 
 had any notion of drinkin’, or I’d a put somethin’ 
 in my pocket, so that I’m taken at an average. — 
 Bud-an’-age! how is little Dan? Sowl, Ellish, 
 that goorsoon, when he grows up, will be a credit 
 to you. I don’t think there’s a finer child in 
 Europe of his age, so there isn’t.” 
 
 ‘‘ Indeed, he’s a good child, Condy. But, 
 Condy, avick, about givin’ credit: — ^by thim five 
 Grasses, if I could give score to any boy in the 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 123 
 
 parish, it ’ud be to yourself. It was only last 
 night that I made a promise against doin’ sich a 
 thing for man or mortual. We’re a’most broken 
 an’ harrish’d out o’ house an’ home by it; an’ 
 what’s more, Condy, we intend to give up the 
 business. The landlord’s at us every day for his 
 rint, an’ we owe for the two last kegs we got, but 
 hasn’t a rap to meet aither o’ tliim; an’ enough 
 due to us if we could get it together : an’ whisper, 
 Condy, atween ourselves, that’s what ails Pether, 
 although he doesn’t wish to let an to any one 
 about it.” 
 
 “ Well, but you know I’m safe, Ellish? ” 
 
 ‘‘ I know you are, avounieen, as the bank 
 itself ; an’ should have what you want wid a heart 
 an’ a half, only for the promise I made an my 
 two knees last night, aginst givin’ credit to man 
 or woman. Why the dickens didn’t you come 
 yistherday? ” 
 
 “ Didn’t I tell you, woman alive, that it was 
 by accident, an’ that I wished to sarve the house, 
 that we came at all. Come, come, Ellish; don’t 
 disgrace me afore my sisther’s bachelor an’ the 
 sthrange boys that’s to the fore. By this staff 
 in my hand, I wouldn’t for the best cow in our 
 byre be put to the blush afore thim; an’ besides, 
 there’s a cleeveen^^ atween your family an’ 
 ours.” 
 
 “ Condy, avourneen, say no more : if you were 
 fed from the same breast wdd me, I couldn’t, nor 
 wouldn’t break my promise. I wouldn’t have 
 the sin of it an me for the wealth o’ the three 
 kingdoms.” 
 
124 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Bedad, you’re a quare woman; an’ only that 
 my regard for you is great entirely, we would 
 be two, Ellish; but I know you’re dacent 
 still.” 
 
 He then left her, and joined his friends in the 
 little room that was appropriated for drinking, 
 where, with a great deal of mirth, he related the 
 failure of the plan they had formed for outwit- 
 ting Peter and Ellish. 
 
 “ Boys,” said he, “ she’s too many for us! St. 
 P ether himself wouldn’t make a hand of her. 
 Faix, she’s a cute one. I palavered her at the 
 rate of a hunt, an’ she ped me back in my own 
 coin, wid dacent intherest — but no whisky! — 
 Now to take a rise out o’ Pether. Jist sit where 
 ye are, till I come back.” 
 
 He then left them enjoying the intended 
 “ spree,” and went back to Ellish. 
 
 “Well, I’m sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck 
 their book oath that you’d refuse my father’s 
 son sich a thrifle, I wouldn’t believe them. It’s 
 not wid Pether’s knowledge you do it, I’ll be 
 bound. But bad as you thrated us, sure we must 
 see how the poor fellow is, at any rate.” 
 
 As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to 
 prevent him, he pressed into the room where 
 Peter lay. 
 
 “ Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are, 
 at this hour o’ the day? ” 
 
 “Eh? Who’s that— who’s that? oh!” 
 
 “ Why thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that 
 the way wid you? ” 
 
 “Oh!— oh! Eh? Is that Condy? ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 T25 
 
 “ All that’s to the fore of him. What’s asthray 
 wid you, man alive? ” 
 
 “ Throth, Condy, I don’t know, rightly. I 
 went out, wantin’ my coat, about a week ago, an’ 
 got cowld in the small o’ the back: I’ve a pain in 
 it ever since. Be sittin’.” 
 
 “Is your heart safe? You have no smotherin’ 
 or anything upon it? 
 
 “ Why thin, thank goodness, no ; it’s all about 
 my back an’ my hinches.” 
 
 “ Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call 
 an alloverness ails you, you shkaimer o’ the world 
 wide. ’Tis the oil o’ the hazel, or a rubbin’ down 
 wid an oak towel you want. Get up, I say, or, 
 by this an’ by that, I’ll flail you widin an inch 
 o’ your life.” 
 
 “ Is it beside yourself you are, Condy? ” 
 
 “No, no, faix; I’ve found you out: Ellish is 
 afther tellin’ me that it was a smotherin’ on the 
 heart ; but it’s a pain in the small o’ the back wid 
 yourself. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say 
 agin, afore I take the stick to you ! ” 
 
 “ Why, thin, all sorts o’ fortune to you, Condy 
 — ^ha, ha, ha! — but you’re the sarra’s pet, for 
 there’s no escapin’ you. What was that I hard 
 atween you an’ Ellish?” said Peter, getting 
 up. 
 
 “ The sarra matther to you. If you behave 
 yourself, we may let you into the wrong side o’ 
 the sacret afore you die. Go an’ get us a pint 
 o’ what you know,” replied Condy, as he and 
 Peter entered the kitchen. 
 
 “ Ellish,” said Peter, “ I suppose we must give 
 
126 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 it to thim. Give it — give it, avourneen. Now, 
 Condy, whin ’ill you pay me for this? ” 
 
 “ Never fret yourself about that; you’ll be ped. 
 Honour bright^ as the black said whin he stole 
 the boots.” 
 
 “ Now, Pether,” said the wife, “ sure it’s no 
 use axin’ me to give it, afther the promise I made 
 last night. Give it yourself; for me. I’ll have 
 no hand in sich things, good or bad. I hope we’ll 
 soon get out of it altogether, for myself’s sick 
 an’ sore of it, dear knows! ” 
 
 Peter accordingly furnished them with the 
 liquor, and got a promise that Condy would cer- 
 tainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday, 
 which was only three days distant. The fun of 
 the boys was exuberant at Condy’s success; they 
 drank, and laughed, and sang, until pint after 
 pint followed in rapid succession. 
 
 Every additional inroad upon the keg brought 
 a fresh groan from Ellish; and even Peter him- 
 self began to look blank as their potations deep- 
 ened. When the night was far advanced they 
 departed, after having first overwhelmed Ellish 
 with professions of the warmest friendship, prom- 
 ising that in future she exclusively should reap 
 whatever benefit was to be derived from their 
 patronage. 
 
 In the meantime Condy forgot to perform his 
 promise. The next Sunday passed, but Peter 
 was not paid, nor was his clever debtor seen at 
 mass, or in the vicinity of the shebeen-house, for 
 many a month afterwards — an instance of in- 
 gratitude which mortified his creditor extremely. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 127 
 
 The latter, who felt that it was a take in, resolved 
 to cut short all hopes of obtaining credit from 
 them in future. In about a week after the fore- 
 going hoax, he got up a board, presenting a more 
 vigorous refusal of scoj'e than the former. His 
 friends, who were more in number than he could 
 possibly have imagined, on tliis occasion, were 
 altogether wiped out of the exception. The no- 
 tice ran to the following effect: — 
 
 “ Notice to the Public, and to P ether ConnelVs friends in 
 particular . — Divil resave the morsel of credit will be got or 
 given in this house, while there is stick or stone of it to- 
 gether, barrin’ them that axes it has the ready money. 
 
 “ Pether X his mark Connell, 
 
 ** Ellish X her mark Connell.’" 
 
 This regulation, considering everything, was 
 a very proper one. It occasioned much mirth 
 among Peter’s customers; but Peter cared little 
 about that, provided he made the money. 
 
 The progress of his prosperity, dating it from 
 so small a beginning, was certainly slow. He 
 owed it principally to the careful habits of Ellish, 
 and his own sobriety. He was prudent enough 
 to avoid placing any sign in his window, by which 
 his house could be knowm as a shebeen; for he 
 was not ignorant that there is no class of men 
 more learned in this species of hieroglyphics than 
 excisemen. At all events, he was prepared for 
 them, had they come to examine his premises. 
 Nothing that could bring him within the law 
 was ever kept visible. The cask that contained 
 the poteen was seldom a week in the same place 
 of concealment, which was mostly, as we have 
 
128 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 said, under ground. The tobacco was weighed 
 and subdivided into small quantities, which, in 
 addition to what he carried in his pocket, were 
 distributed in various crevices and crannies of the 
 house; sometimes under the thatch; sometimes 
 under a dish on the dresser, but generally in a 
 damp place. 
 
 When they had been about two or three years 
 thus employed, Peter, at the solicitation of the 
 wife, took a small farm. 
 
 “You’re stout an’ able,” said she; “an’ as I 
 can manage the house widout you, wouldn’t it be 
 a good plan to take a bit o’ ground — nine or ten 
 acres, suppose — an’ thry your hand at it? Sure 
 you wor wanst the greatest man in the parish 
 about a farm. Surely that ’ud be dacenter nor 
 to be slung ein^ about, invintin’ truth and lies for 
 other people, whin they’re at their work, to 
 make thim laugh, an’ you doin’ nothin’ but 
 standin’ over thim, wid your hands down to the 
 bottom o’ your pockets? Do, Pether, thry it, 
 avick, an’ you’ll see it ’ill prosper wid us, plase 
 God.” 
 
 “ Faix I’m ladin’ an asier life, Ellish.” 
 
 “ But are you ladin’ a dacenter or a more 
 becominer hfe? ” 
 
 “ Why I think, widout doubt, that it’s more 
 becominer to walk about like a gintleman, nor 
 to be workin’ hke a slave.” 
 
 “ Gintleman! Musha, is it to the fair you’re 
 bringin’ yourself? Why, you great big bost- 
 hoon, isn’t it both a sin an’ a shame to see you 
 sailin’ about among the neighbours, like a shtray 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 129 
 
 turkey, widout a hand’s turn to do? But, any 
 way, take my advice, a villish, — will you, aroon? 
 — an’ faix you’ll see how rich we’ll get, wid a 
 blessin’?” 
 
 “ Ellish, you’re a deludher! ” 
 
 “ Well, an’ what suppose? To be sure I am. 
 Usen’t you be followin’ me, like a calf afther 
 the finder? — ha, ha, ha! — Will you do my biddin’, 
 Pether darlin’? ” 
 
 Peter gave her a shrewd, significant wink, 
 in contradiction to what he considered the de- 
 grading comparison she had just made. 
 
 ‘‘ Ellish, you’re beside the mark, you beauty ; 
 always put the saddle on the right horse, woman 
 alive! Didn’t you often an’ often sw^ear to me, 
 upon two green ribbons acrass one another, that 
 you liked a red head best, an’ that the redder 
 it was you liked it the betther? ” 
 
 “ An’ it was thruth, too ; an’ sure, by the 
 same a token, where could I get one half so red 
 as your own? Faix, I knew what I was about! 
 I wouldn’t give you yet for e’er a young man 
 in the parish, if I was a widow to-morrow. Will 
 you take the land? ” 
 
 “ So thin, afther all, if the head hadn’t been 
 an me, I wouldn’t be a favourite wId you? — 
 ha, ha, ha! ” 
 
 ‘‘ Get out wid you, an’ spake sinse. Throth 
 if you don’t say aither ay or no, I’ll give myself 
 no more bother about it. There we are now 
 
 wid some guineas together, an’ Faix, Pether, 
 
 you’re vexin’ me!” 
 
 “Do you w^ant an answer? ” 
 
 III— 9 
 
130 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Why, if it’s plasin’ to your honour, I’d have 
 no objection.” 
 
 “ Well, will you have my new big coat made 
 agin Shraft? ” 
 
 “ Ay will I, in case you do what I say ; but 
 if you don’t, the sarra stitch of it ’ll go to your 
 back this twelvemonth, maybe, if you vex me. 
 Now!” 
 
 “Well, I’ll tell you what: my mind’s made 
 up — I will take the land; an’ I’ll show the 
 neighbours what Pether Connell can do yit.” 
 
 “Augh! augh! mavourneen, that you wor! 
 Throth I’ll fry a bit o’ the bacon for our dinner 
 to-day, on the head o’ that, although I didn’t 
 intind to touch it till Sunday. Ay, faix, an’ a 
 pair o’ stockins, too, along wid the coat; an’ 
 somethin’ else, that you didn’t hear of yit.” 
 
 Ellish, in fact, was a perfect mistress of the 
 science of wheedHng; but as it appears instinctive 
 in the sex, this is not to be wondered at. Peter 
 himself was easy, or rather indolent, till prop- 
 erly excited by the influence of adequate mo- 
 tives ; but no sooner were the energies that 
 slumbered in him called into activity, than he 
 displayed a firnmess of purpose, and a perse- 
 verance in action, that amply repaid his exer- 
 tions. 
 
 The first thing he did, after taking his little 
 farm, was to prepare for its proper cultivation, 
 and to stock it. His funds were not, however, 
 sufficient for this at the time. A horse was to 
 be bought, but the last guinea they could spare 
 had been already expended, and this purchase 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 131 
 
 was, therefore, out of the question. The usages 
 of the small farmers, however, enabled him to 
 remedy this inconvenience. Peter made a bar- 
 gain with a neighbour, in which he undertook 
 to repay him by an exchange of labour, for the 
 use of his plough and horses in getting down 
 his crop. He engaged to give him, for a stated 
 period in the slack season, so many days’ mowing 
 as would cover the expenses of ploughing and 
 harrowing his land. There was, however, a con- 
 siderable portion of his holding potato-ground: 
 this Peter himself dug with his spade, break- 
 ing it as he went along into fine mould. He 
 then planted the seed — got a hatchet, and select- 
 ing the best thorn-bush he could find, cut it 
 down, tied a rope to the trunk, seized the rope, 
 and in this manner harrowed his potato-ground. 
 Thus did he proceed, struggling to overcome 
 difficulties by skill, and substituting for the 
 more efficient modes of husbandry, such rude 
 artifical resources as his want of capital com- 
 pelled him to adopt. 
 
 In the meantime, Ellish, seeing Peter ac- 
 quitting himself in his undertaking with such 
 credit, determined not to be outdone in her own 
 department. She accordingly conceived the 
 design of extending her business, and widening 
 the sphere of her exertions. This intention, 
 however, she kept secret from Peter, until by 
 putting penny to penny, and shilling to shilling, 
 she was able to purchase a load of crockery. 
 Here was a new source of profit opened exclu- 
 sively by her own address. Peter was aston- 
 
132 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 ished when he saw the car unloaded, and the 
 crockery piled in proud array by Ellish’s own 
 hands. 
 
 “ I knew,” said she, “ I’d take a start out o’ 
 you. Faix, Pether, you’ll see how I’ll do, never 
 fear, wid the help o’ Heaven! I’ll be off to 
 the market in the mornin’, plase God, where I’ll 
 sell rings round me o’ them crocks and pitchers. 
 An’ now, Pether, the sarra one o’ me would do 
 this, good or bad, only bekase your managin’ 
 the farm so cleverly. Tady Gormley’s goin’ to 
 bring home his meal from the mill, and has 
 promised to lave these in the market for me, an’ 
 never fear but I’ll get some o’ the neighbours 
 to bring them home, so that there’s car-hire 
 saved. Faix, Pether, there’s nothin’ like givin’ 
 the people sweet words, any way ; sure they come 
 chape.” 
 
 “ Faith, an’ I’ll back you for the sweet words 
 agin any woman in the three kingdoms, Ellish, 
 you darlin’. But don’t you know the proverb, 
 ‘ sweet words butther no parsnips.’ ” 
 
 “ In throth the same proverb’s a lyin’ one, 
 and ever was; but it’s not parsnips I’ll butther 
 wid ’em, you gommoch.” 
 
 “ Sowl, you butthered me wid ’em long enough, 
 you deludher — devil a lie in it; but thin, as you 
 say, sure enough, I was no parsnip — not so soft 
 as that either, you phanix.” 
 
 “No? Thin I seldom seen your beautiful 
 head without thinkin’ of a carrot, an’ it’s well 
 known they’re related — ^ha, ha, ha! — Behave, 
 Pether — behave, I say — Pether, Pether — ha, ha. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 133 
 
 ha! — let me alone! Katty Hacket, take him 
 away from me — ha, ha, ha! ” 
 
 Will ever you, you shaver wid the tongue 
 that you are? Will ever you, I say? Will ever 
 you make delusion to my head again — eh? ” 
 
 “ Oh, never, never — but let me go, an’ me so 
 full o’ tides! Oh, Pether, avourneen, don’t, 
 you’ll hurt me, an’ the way I’m in — quit, 
 avillish! ” 
 
 “ Bedad, if you don’t let my head alone. I’ll 
 — will ever you? ” 
 
 “ Never, never. There now — ha, ha, ha! — oh, 
 but I’m as wake as wather wid what I laughed. 
 Well now, Pether, didn’t I manage bravely — 
 didn’t I? ” 
 
 “ Wait till we see the profits first, Ellish — 
 crockery’s very tindher goods.” 
 
 “Ay! — just wait, an’ I’ll engage. I’ll turn 
 the penny. The family’s risin’ wid us ” — 
 
 “ Very thrue,” replied Peter, giving a sly wink 
 at the wife — “ no doubt of it.” 
 
 “ — Risin’ wid us — I tell you to have sinse, 
 Pether; an’ it’s our duty to have something for 
 the crathurs when they grow up.” 
 
 “ Well, that’s a thruth — sure I’m not sayin’ 
 against it.” 
 
 “ I know that; but what I say is, if we hould 
 an, we may make money. Every thing, for so 
 far, has thruv wid us, God be praised for it. 
 There’s another thing in my mind, that I’ll be 
 tellin’ you some o’ these days.” 
 
 “ I believe, Ellish, you dhrame about makin’ 
 money.” 
 
134 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “Well, an’ I might do worse; when I’m 
 dhramin’ about it, I’m doin’ no sin to any one. 
 But, listen, you must keep the house to-morrow 
 while I’m at the market. Won’t you, Pether? ” 
 
 “ An’ who’s to open the dhrain in the bottom 
 below? ” 
 
 “ That can be done the day afther. Won’t 
 you, abouchal? ” 
 
 “ Ellish, you’re a deludher, I tell you. Sweet 
 words; — sowl, you’d smooth a furze bush wid 
 sweet words. How-an-ever, I will keep the 
 house to-morrow, till we see the great things 
 you’ll do wid your crockery.” 
 
 Elhsh’s success was, to say the least of it, 
 quite equal to her expectations. She was cer- 
 tainly an excellent wife, full of acuteness, indus- 
 try, and enterprise. Had Peter been married to 
 a woman of a disposition resembling his own, 
 it is probable that he would have sunk into in- 
 dolence, filth, and poverty. These miseries might 
 have soured their tempers, and driven them into 
 all the low excesses and crimes attendant upon 
 pauperism. Ellish, however, had sufficient spirit 
 to act upon Peter’s natural indolence, so as to 
 excite it to the proper pitch. Her mode of 
 operation was judiciously suited to his temper. 
 Playfulness and kindness were the instruments 
 by which she managed him. She knew that 
 violence, or the assumption of authority, would 
 cause a man who, like him, was stern when pro- 
 voked, to re-act, and meet her with an assertion 
 of his rights and authority not to be trifled with. 
 This she consequently avoided, not entirely from 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 135 
 
 any train of reasoning on the subject; but from 
 that intuitive penetration which taught her to 
 know that the plan she had resorted to was best 
 calculated to make liim subservient to her own 
 purposes without causing him to feel that he 
 was governed. 
 
 Indeed, every day brought out her natural 
 cleverness more clearly. Her intercourse with 
 the world afforded her that facility of under- 
 standing the tempers and dispositions of others, 
 which can never be acquired when it has not 
 been bestowed as a natural gift. In her hands 
 it was a valuable one. By degrees her house 
 improved in its appearance, both inside and out- 
 side. From crockery she proceeded to herrings, 
 then to salt, in each of which she dealt with sur- 
 prising success. There was, too, such an air of 
 bustle, activity, and good-humour about her that 
 people loved to deal with her. Her appearance 
 was striking, if not grotesque. She was tall and 
 strong, walked rapidly, and when engaged in 
 fair or market disposing of her coarse merchan- 
 dise, was dressed in a short red petticoat, blue 
 stockings, strong brogues, wore a blue cloak, 
 with the hood turned up over her head, on the 
 top of which was a man’s hat fastened by a 
 ribbon under her chin. As she thus stirred about, 
 with a kind word and a joke for every one, her 
 healthy cheek in full bloom, and her blue-grey 
 eye beaming with an expression of fun and good- 
 nature, it would be difficult to conceive a charac- 
 ter more adapted for intercourse with a laughter- 
 loving people. In fact, she soon became a 
 
136 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 favourite, and this not the less that she was 
 as ready to meet her rivals in business with a 
 blow as with a joke. Peter witnessed her success 
 with unfeigned pleasure; and although every 
 feasible speculation was proposed by her, yet he 
 never felt that he was a mere nonentity when 
 compared to his wife. ’Tis true, he was perfectly 
 capable of executing her agricultural plans when 
 she proposed them, but his own capacity for mak- 
 ing a lucky hit was very limited. Of the two 
 she was certainly the better farmer; and scarcely 
 an improvement took place in his little holding, 
 which might not be traced to Ellish. 
 
 In the course of a couple of years she bought 
 him a horse, and Peter was enabled to join with 
 a neighbour who had another. Each had a 
 plough and tackle, so that here was a little team 
 made up, the half of which belonged to Peter. 
 By this means they ploughed week about, until 
 their crops were got down. Peter finding his 
 farm doing well, began to feel a kind of rivalship 
 with his wife — that is to say, she first suggested 
 the principle, and afterwards contrived to make 
 him imagine that it was originally his own. 
 
 “ The sarra one o’ you, Pether,” she exclaimed 
 to him one day, “ hut’s batin’ me out an’ out. 
 Why, you’re the very dickins at the farmin’, so 
 you are. Faix, I suppose, if you go an this 
 way much longer, that you’ll be thinkin’ of an- 
 other farm, in regard that we have some guineas 
 together. Pether, did you ever think of it, 
 abouchal? ” 
 
 “ To be sure, I did, you beauty; an’ amn’t I 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 137 
 
 in fifty notions to take Harry Neal’s land, that 
 jist lies alongside of our own.” 
 
 “ Faix, an’ you’re right, maybe; but if it’s 
 sthrivin’ agin me you are, you may give it over: 
 I tell you. I’ll have more money made afore this 
 time twelvemonth than you will.” 
 
 “ Arrah, is it jokin’ you are? More money? 
 Would you advise me to take Harry’s land? 
 Tell me that first, you phanix, an’ thin I’m your 
 man! ” 
 
 “ Faix, take your own coorse, avourneen. If 
 you get a lase of it at a fair rint. I’ll buy an- 
 other horse, any how. Isn’t that doin’ the thing 
 dacent? ” 
 
 “More power to you, Ellish! I’ll hold you 
 a crown, I pay you the price o’ the horse afore 
 this time twelvemonth.” 
 
 “Done! The sarra be off me but done! — an’ 
 here’s Barny Dillon an’ Katty Hacket to bear 
 witness.” 
 
 “ Sure enough we will,” said Bamy, the 
 servant. 
 
 “ I’ll back the misthress any money,” replied 
 the maid. 
 
 “ Two to one on the masther,” said the man. 
 “ Whoo! our side o’ the house for ever! Come, 
 Pether, hould up your head, there’s money bid 
 for you! ” 
 
 “ Ellish, I’ll fight for you ancle deep,” said 
 Katty — “ depind your life an me.” 
 
 “ In the name o’ goodness, thin, it’s a bargain,” 
 said Ellish; “ an’ at the end o’ the year, if we’re 
 spared, we’ll see wKat we’ll see. We’ll have 
 
138 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 among ourselves a little sup o’ tay, plase good- 
 ness, an’ we’ll be comfortable. Now, Barny, go 
 an’ draw home thim phaties from the pits while 
 the day’s fine; and Katty, a colleen, bring in 
 some wather, till we get the pig killed and 
 scalded — bit’ll hardly have time to be good bacon 
 for the big markets at Christmas. I don’t wish,” 
 she continued, “ to keep it back from them that 
 we have a thrifle o’ money. One always does 
 betther when it’s known that they’re not strug- 
 glin’. There’s Nelly Cummins, an’ her customers 
 is lavin’ her, an’ dalin’ wid me, bekase she’s 
 goin’ down in business. Ay, an’, Pether, a 
 hagur, it’s the way o’ the world.” 
 
 “ Well but, Ellish, don’t you be givin’ Nelly 
 Cummins the harsh word, or lanin’ too heavily 
 upon her, the crathur, merely in regard that 
 she is goin’ down. Do you hear, a colleen? ” 
 
 “ Indeed I don’t do it, Pether; but you know 
 she has a tongue like a razor at times, and whin 
 it gets loose she’d provoke St. Pether himself. 
 Thin she’s takin’ to the dhrink, too, the poor 
 misfortunate vagabond” 
 
 “ Well, well, that’s no affair o’ yours, or mine 
 aither — only don’t be risin’ ructions and norra- 
 tions wid her. You threwn a jug at her the 
 last day you war out, an’ hot the poor ould 
 Potticary as he was passin’. You see I hard that, 
 though you kept it close from me! — ha, ha, ha! ” 
 “ Ha, ha, ha! — why you’d split if you had seen 
 the crathur whin he fell into Pether White’s 
 brogue-creels, wid his heels up. But what right 
 had she to be shtrivin’ to bring away my cus- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 139 
 
 tomers afore my face? Alley Dogherty was 
 buying a crock wid me, and Nelly shouts over 
 to her from where she sot like a queen on her 
 stool, ‘ Alley,’ says she, ‘ here’s a betther one for 
 three fardens less, an’ another farden ’ill get 
 you a pennorth o’ salt.’ An’, indeed. Alley 
 walks over, manely enough, an’ tuck her at her 
 word. Why, flesh an’ blood couldn’t bear it.” 
 “ Indeed, an’ you’re raal flesh an’ blood, Ellish, 
 if that’s thrue.” 
 
 “ Well, but consarnin’ what I mintioned awhile 
 agone — hut! the poor mad crathur, let us have 
 no more discoorse about her — I say, that no 
 one ever thrives so well as when the world sees 
 that they are gettin’ an, an’ prosperin’; but if 
 there’s not an appearance, how will any one 
 know whether we are prosperin’ or not, barrin’ 
 they see some sign of it about us; I mane, in a 
 quiet rasonable way, widout show or extrava- 
 gance. In the name o’ goodness, thin, let us get 
 the house brushed up, an’ the outhouses dashed. 
 A bushel or two of lime ’ill make this as white 
 as an egg widin, an’ a very small expinse will 
 get it plastered and whitewashed widout. 
 Wouldn’t you like it, avoureen? Eh, Pether? ” 
 ‘‘ To be sure I’d like it. It’ll give a respectful 
 look to the house and place.” 
 
 “ Ay, an’ it’ll bring customers, that’s the main 
 thing. People always like to come to a snug 
 comfortable place. An’, plase God, I’m thinking 
 of another plan that I’ll soon mintion.” 
 
 “ An’ what may that be, you skamer? Why, 
 Ellish, you’ve ever an’ always some skame or 
 
140 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 other in that head o’ yours. For my part, I 
 don’t know how you get at them.” 
 
 “ Well, no matter, acushla, do you only back 
 me; jist show me how I ought to go on wid them, 
 for nobody can outdo you at such things, an’ 
 I’ll engage we’ll thrive yit, always wid a blessin’ 
 an us.” 
 
 “ Why, to tell God’s thruth, I’d bate the devil 
 himself at plannin’ out, an’ bringin’ a thing to a 
 conclusion — eh, you deludher? ” 
 
 “ The sarra doubt of it; but takin’ the other 
 farm was the brightest thought I seen wid you 
 yit. Will you do it, avillish? ” 
 
 “ To be sure. Don’t I say it? An’ it’ll be 
 up wid the lark wid me. Hut, woman, you 
 don’t see the half o’ what’s in me, yet.” 
 
 “I’ll buy you a hat and a pair o’ stockins at 
 Christmas.” 
 
 “Will you, EUish? Then, by the book. I’ll 
 work like a horse.” 
 
 “ I didn’t intind to tell you, but I had it laid 
 out for you.” 
 
 “ Faith, you’re a beauty, EUish. What’ll we 
 call this young chap that’s cornin’, acushla? ” 
 
 “ Now, Pether, none o’ your capers. It’s 
 time enough when the thing happens to be 
 thinkin’ o’ that, glory be to God! ” 
 
 “ Well, you may talk as you plase, but I’ll call 
 him Pether.” 
 
 “ An’ how do you know but he’ll be a girl, 
 you omadhawn?” 
 
 “ Murdher alive, ay, sure enough! Faith I 
 didn’t think o’ that! ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 111 
 
 ‘‘ Well, go up now an’ spake to INIisther Eccles 
 about the land; maybe somebody else ’ud slip 
 in afore us, an’ that wouldn’t be pleasant. 
 Here’s your brave big coat, put it an; faix, it 
 makes a man of you — gives you a bodagh look 
 entirely; but that’s little to what you’ll be yet, 
 wid a blessin’ — a Half Sir, any way.” 
 
 In fact, Ellish’s industry had already gained 
 a character for both herself and her husband. 
 He got credit for the assiduity and activity to 
 which she trained him; and both were respected 
 for their cleverness in advancing themselves 
 from so poor a beginning, to the humble state 
 of independence they had then reached. The 
 farm which Ellish was so anxious to secure was 
 the property of the gentleman from whom they 
 held the other. Being a man of sense and pene- 
 tration, he fortunately saw — what, indeed, was 
 generally well knowm — that Peter and Ellish 
 were rising in the world, and that their elevation 
 was the consequence of their own unceasing ef- 
 forts to become independent, so that industry is 
 in every possible point of view its own reward. 
 So long as the farm was open to competition, 
 the offers for it multiplied prodigiously, and 
 rose in equal proportion. Persons not w^orth 
 twenty shillings in the world, offered double the 
 rent which the utmost stretch of ingenuity, even 
 with suitable capital, could pay. New-married 
 couples, with nothing but the strong imaginative 
 hopes peculiar to their country, proposed for it in 
 a most liberal spirit. Men who had been ejected 
 out of their late farms for non-payment of rent, 
 
 III— 10 
 
142 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 were ready to cultivate this at a rent much 
 above that which, on better land, they were un- 
 able to pay. Others, who had been ejected from 
 farm after farm — each of which they undertook 
 as a mere speculation, to furnish them with 
 present subsistence, but without any ultimate 
 expectation of being able to meet their engage- 
 ments — came forward with the most laudable ef- 
 forts. This gentleman, however, was none of 
 those landlords who are so besotted and ignorant 
 of their own interests, as to let their lands 
 simply to the highest bidders, without taking 
 into consideration their capital, moral character, 
 and habits of industry. He resided at home, 
 knew his tenants personally, took an interest in 
 their successes and difficulties, and instructed 
 them in the best modes of improving their farms. 
 
 Peter’s first interview with him was not quite 
 satisfactory on either side. The honest man 
 was like a ship without her rudder, when trans- 
 acting business in the absence of his wife. The 
 fact was, that on seeing the liigh proposals 
 which were sent in, he became alarmed lest, as 
 he flattered himself, that the credit of the 
 transaction should be all his own, the farm might 
 go into the hands of another, and his character 
 for cleverness suffer with Ellish. The land- 
 lord was somewhat astounded at the rent which 
 a man who bore so high a name for prudence 
 offered him. He knew it was considerably be- 
 yond what the land was worth, and he did not 
 wish that any tenant coming upon his estate 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 143 
 
 should have no other prospect than that of 
 gradually receding into insolvency. 
 
 ‘‘ I cannot give you any answer now,” said 
 he to Peter; “but if you will call in a day or 
 two I shall let you know my final determina- 
 tion.” 
 
 Peter, on coming home, rendered an account 
 of his interview with the landlord to his wife, 
 who no sooner heard of the extravagant proposal 
 he made, than she raised her hands and eyes, 
 exclaiming — 
 
 “ Why thin, Pether, a lanna, was it beside 
 yourself you wor, to go for to offer a rint that 
 no one could honestly pay! Why, man alive, 
 it ’ud lave us widout house or home in no time, 
 all out! Sure Pether, a cushla, where ’ud be 
 the use of us or any one takin’ land, barrin’ they 
 could make somethin’ by it? Faix, if the gintle- 
 man had sinse, he wouldn’t give the same farm 
 to anybody at sich a rint; an’ for good rasons 
 too — bekase they could never pay it, an him- 
 self ’ud be the sufferer in the long run.” 
 
 “ Dang me, but you’re the long-headedest 
 woman alive this day, Ellish. Why, I never 
 wanst wint into the rason o’ the thing, at all. 
 But you don’t know the offers he got.” 
 
 “Don’t I? Why do you think he’d let the 
 Mullins, or the Conlans, or the O’Donoghoes, 
 or the Duffys, upon his land, widout a shillin’ 
 in one o’ their pockets to stock it, or to begin 
 workin’ it properly wid. Hand me my cloak 
 from the pin there, an’ get your hat. Katty, 
 
144 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 avourneen, have an eye to the house tiU we c6me 
 back; an’ if Dick Murphy comes here to get 
 tobaccy on score, tell him I can’t afford it, till 
 he pays up what he got. Come, Petber, in the 
 name o’ goodness — come, a bouchal.” 
 
 Ellish, during their short journey to the land- 
 lord’s, commenced, in her own way, a lecture 
 upon agricultural economy, which, though 
 plain and unvarnished, contained excellent and 
 practical sense. She also pointed out to him when 
 to speak and when to be silent ; told him what rent 
 to offer, and in what manner he should offer it; 
 but she did all this so dexterously and sweetly, 
 that honest Peter thought the new and corrected 
 views which she furnished him with, were alto- 
 gether the result of his own penetration. 
 
 The landlord was at home when they arrived, 
 and ordered them into the parlour, where he 
 soon made his appearance. 
 
 “ Well, Connell,” said he, smiling, “ are you 
 come to make me a higher offer? ” 
 
 “ Why thin no, plase your honour,” replied 
 Peter, looking for confidence to Elfish: “ instead 
 
 o’ that, sir. Elfish here ” 
 
 “Never heed me, a lanna; tell his honour 
 what you’ve to say, out o’ the face. Go an, 
 acushla.” 
 
 “ Why, your honour, to tell the blessed thruth, 
 the dickens a bit o’ myself but had a sup in 
 my head when I wid your honour to-day be- 
 fore.” 
 
 Elfish was thunderstruck at this most un- 
 expected apology from Peter; but the fact was, 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 145 
 
 that the instructions which she had given him 
 on their way had completely evaporated from 
 his brain, and he felt himself thrown altogether 
 upon his own powers of invention. Here, how- 
 ever, he was at home; for it was well known 
 among all his acquaintances, that, however he 
 might be deficient in the management of a 
 family when compared to his wife, he was 
 capable, notmthstanding, of exerting a certain 
 imaginative faculty in a very high degree. 
 Elfish felt that to contradict him on the spot 
 must lessen both him and herself in the opinion 
 of the landlord, a circumstance that would have 
 given her much pain. 
 
 “ I’m sorry to hear that, Connell,” said Mr. 
 Eccles; “ you bear the character of being strictly 
 sober in your habits. You must have been early 
 at the bottle, too, which makes your apolog}^ 
 rather unhappy. Of all tipplers, he who drinks 
 early is the worst and most incurable.” 
 
 “ Thrue for you, sir, but this only happens me 
 wanst a year, your honour.” 
 
 “ Once a year! But, by the by, you had no 
 appearance of being tipsy, Peter.” 
 
 “ Tipsy! Bud-a’-age, your honour, I w^as 
 never seen tipsy in all my life,” said Peter. — 
 “ That’s a horse of another colour, sir, plase 
 your honour.” 
 
 The reader must at once perceive that Peter 
 here was only recovering himself from the eff ects 
 of the injurious impression which his first admis- 
 sion was calculated to produce against him in 
 the mind of his landlord. 
 
 Ill— 10 
 
146 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Tipsy! No, no, sir; but the rason of it, sir, 
 was this : it bein’ my birthday, sir, I merely tuck 
 a sup in the mornin’, in honour o’ the day. It’s 
 altogether a lucky day to me, sir! ” 
 
 “ Why, to be sure, every man’s birthday may, 
 probably, be called such — ^the gift of existence 
 being, I fear, too much undervalued.” 
 
 “ Bedad, your honour, I don’t mane that, at 
 all.” 
 
 “ Then what do you mean, Peter? ” 
 
 “ Why, sir, you see, it’s not that I was entirely 
 born on this day, but partly, sir; I was married 
 to Ellish here into the bargain, — one o’ the best 
 wives, sir — ^however. I’ll say no more, as she’s 
 to the fore herself. But, death alive, sir, sure 
 when we put both conclusions together — ^myself 
 bein’ sich a worthy man, and Ellish such a tip- 
 top wife, who could blame me for smellin’ the 
 bottle? — for divil a much more I did — about two 
 glasses, sir — an’ so it got up into my head a 
 little when I was wid your honour to-day be- 
 fore.” 
 
 “ But what is the amount of all this, Peter? ” 
 “ Why, sir, you see only I was as I said, sir 
 — not tipsy, your honour, any way, but seein’ 
 things double or so ; an’ that was, I suppose, what 
 made me offer for the farm double what I in- 
 tinded. Every body knows, sir, that the 
 ‘ crathur ’ gives the big heart to us, any how, 
 your honour.” 
 
 “ But you know, Peter, we entered into no 
 terms about it. I, therefore, have neither power 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 147 
 
 nor inclination to hold you to the offer you 
 made.” 
 
 “ Faith, sir, you’re not the gintleman to do 
 a shabby turn, nor ever was, nor one o’ your 
 family. There’s not in all Europe ” — 
 
 ElHsh, who was a point blank dealer, could 
 endure Peter’s mode of transacting business no 
 longer. She knew that if he once got into the 
 true spirit of applying the oil of flattery to the 
 landlord, he would have rubbed him into a per- 
 fect froth ere he quitted him. She, therefore, 
 took up the thread of the discourse, and finished 
 the compliment with much more delicacy than 
 honest Peter could have displayed. 
 
 “ Thrue for you, Pether,” she added; “there 
 is not a kinder family to the poor, nor betther 
 landlords, in the country they hve in. Pether 
 an’ myself, your honour, on layin’ both our heads 
 together, found that he offered more rint for the 
 land nor any tenant could honestly pay. So, 
 sir, where’s the use of keepin’ back God’s thruth 
 —Pether, sir ” — 
 
 Peter here trembled from an apprehension that 
 the wife, in accomplishing some object of her 
 own in reference to the land, was about to un- 
 deceive the landlord, touching the Me which he 
 had so barefacedly palmed upon that worthy 
 gentleman for truth. In fact, his anxiety over- 
 came his prudence, and he resolved to anticipate 
 her. ' 
 
 “ I’d advise you, sir,” said he, with a smile 
 of significant good-humour, “ to be a little sus- 
 
148 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 picious of her, for, to tell the thruth, she draws 
 the ” — here he illustrated the simile with his staff 
 — ‘‘ the long bow of an odd time; faith she does. 
 I’d kiss the book on the head of what I tould 
 you, sir, plase your honour. For the sacret of it 
 is, that I tuck the moisture afore she left her 
 bed.” 
 
 “ Why, Peter, alanna,” said Ellish, soothingly, 
 ‘‘ what’s cornin’ over you, at all, an’ me goin’ 
 to explain to his honour the outs and ins of our 
 opinion about the land? Faix, man, we’re not 
 thinkin’ about you, good or bad.” 
 
 “ I believe the drop has scarcely left your head 
 yet, Peter,” said the landlord. 
 
 “ Bud-an’-age, your honour, sure we must have 
 our joke, any how — doesn’t she desarve it for 
 takin’ the word out o’ my mouth? ” 
 
 “ Whisht, a villish ; you’re too cute for us all, 
 Pether. There’s no use, sir, as I was sayin’, for 
 any one to deny that when they take a farm 
 they do it to make by it, or at the laste to live 
 comfortably an it. That’s the thruth, your 
 honour, an’ it’s no use to keep it back from you, 
 sir.” 
 
 “ I perfectly agree with you,” said the land- 
 lord. “ It is with these motives that a tenant 
 should wish to occupy land ; and it is the duty of 
 every landlord who has his own interest truly 
 at heart, to see that his land be not let at such a 
 rent as will preclude the possibility of comfort 
 or independence on the part of his tenantry. He 
 who lets his land above its value, merely because 
 people are foolish enough to offer more for it 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 149 
 
 than it is worth, is as great an enemy to him- 
 self as he is to the tenant.” 
 
 “ It’s God’s thruth, sir, an’ it’s nothin’ else but 
 a comfort to hear sich words cornin’ from the 
 lips of a gintleman that’s a landlord himself.” 
 “Ay, an’ a good one, too,” said Peter; “an’ 
 kind father for his honour to be what he is. 
 Divil resave the family in all Europe ” — 
 
 “ Thrue for you, avourneen, an’ every one 
 knows that. We wor talkin’ it over, sir, betuxt 
 ourselves, Pether an’ me, an’ he says very cutely, 
 that, upon second thoughts, he offered more nor 
 we could honestly pay out o’ the land; so ” — 
 “Faith, it’s as thrue as gospel, your honour. 
 Says I, ‘ Ellish, you beauty ’ ” — 
 
 “ I thought,” observed Mr. Eccles, “ that she 
 sometimes drew the long bow, Peter.” 
 
 “ Oh, murdher alive, sir, it was only in regard 
 of her crassin’ in an’ whippin’ the word out o’ 
 my mouth, that I wanted to take a rise out of 
 her. Oh, bedad, sir, no; the crathur’s thruth to 
 the backbone, an’ farther if I’d say it.” 
 
 “ So, your honour, considherin’ everything, 
 we’re willin’ to offer thirty shillins an acre for 
 the farm. That rint, sir, we’ll be able to pay, 
 wid the help o’ God, for sure we can do nothin’ 
 widout his assistance, glory be to his name! 
 You’ll get many that’ll offer you more, your 
 honour; but if it ’ud be plasin’ to you to con- 
 sidher what manes they have to pay it, I think, 
 sir, you’d see, out o’ your own sinse, that it’s 
 not likely people who is gone to the bad, an* 
 has nothin’ could stand it out long.” 
 
150 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ I wish to heaven,” replied Mr. Eccles, “ that 
 every tenant in Ireland possessed your prudence 
 and good sense. Will you permit me to ask, 
 Mrs. Connell, what capital you and your hus- 
 band can command provided 1 should let you 
 have it.” 
 
 “ Wid every pleasure in life, sir, for it’s but 
 a fair question to put. An’ sure, it is to God 
 we owe it, whatever it is, plase your honour. 
 But, sir, if. we get the land, we’re able to stock 
 it, an’ to crop it well an’ dacently; an’ if your 
 honour would allow us for sartin improvements, 
 sir, we’d run it into snug fields, by plantin’ good 
 hedges, an’ gettin’ up shelther for the outlyin’ 
 cattle in the hard seasons, plase your honour, and 
 you know the farm is very naked and bare of 
 shelter at present.” 
 
 “ Sowl, will we, sir, an’ far more nor that, if 
 we get it. I’ll undhertake, sir, to level ” — 
 
 “No, Pether, we’ll promise no more nor we’ll 
 do; but anything that his honour will be plased 
 to point out to us, if we get fair support, an’ 
 that it remains on the farm afther us, we’ll be 
 willin’ to do it.” 
 
 “ Willin’! ” exclaimed Peter; — “ faith, whether 
 we’re willin’ or not, if his honour but says the 
 word ” — 
 
 “ Mrs. Connell,” said their landlord, “ say no 
 more. The farm is yours, and you may consider 
 yourselves as my tenants.” 
 
 “ Many thanks to you, sir, for the priference. 
 I hope, sir, you’ll not rue what you did in givin’ 
 it to us before them that offered a higher rint. 
 
qiixigj i£ qgsJ nornIs2 arlT 
 
 .K .H .51 .Z 'c^ o inot\ bsoMbo'\^^5l 
 
The Salmon Leap at Leixlip 
 
 Reproduced from a Painting by Francis S. Walker, R, H. A. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 151 
 
 You’ll find, sir, wid the help o’ the Almighty, 
 that we’ll pay you your rint rigular an’ punc- 
 tual.” 
 
 “ Why, thin, long life, an’ glory, an’ benedic- 
 tion to your honour! Faith it’s only kind 
 father for you, sir, to be what you are. The 
 divil resave the family in all Europe 
 
 “ Peter, that will do,” replied the landlord ; 
 “ it would be rather hazardous for our family 
 to compete with all Europe. Go home, Peter, 
 and be guided by your wife, who has more sense 
 in her little finger than ever your family had 
 either in Europe or out of it, although I mean 
 you no offence by going beyond Europe.” 
 
 “ By all the books that ?iever wor opened an’ 
 shut,” replied Peter, with the intuitive quickness 
 of perception peculiar to Irishmen, ‘‘ an inno- 
 center boy than Andy Connell never was sent 
 acrass the water. I proved as clear an alibi for 
 him as the sun in the firmament ; an’ yit, bad luck 
 to the big-wig O’Grady, he should be puttin’ 
 in his leek an me afore the jury, jist whin I had 
 the poor boy cleared out dacently, an’ wid all 
 honour. An’ bedad, now, that we’re spakin’ 
 about it. I’ll tell your honour the whole conclu- 
 sions of it. You see, sir, the Agint was shot one 
 night ; an’ above all nights in the year, your hon- 
 our, a thief of a toothach that I had kep me ” 
 
 “ Pether, come away, a bouchal: his honour 
 knows as much about it as you do. Come, aroon ; 
 you know we must help to scald an’ scrape the 
 pig afore night, an’ it’s late now.” 
 
 “ Bedad, sir, she’s a sweet one, this.” 
 
152 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Be guided by her, Peter, if you’re wise: she’s 
 a wife you ought to be proud of.” 
 
 “ Thrue for you, sir; divil resave the word o’ 
 lie in that, any how. Come, Ellish; come, you 
 deludher, I’m wid you.” 
 
 “ God bless your honour, sir, an’ we’re oblaged 
 to you for your kindness an’ patience wid the 
 likes o’ us.” 
 
 “ I say ditto, your honour. Long life an’ 
 glory to you every day your honour rises! ” 
 Peter on his way home, entered into a defence 
 of his apology for offering so liigh a rent to the 
 landlord; but although it possessed both ingenuity 
 and originality, it was, we must confess, grossly 
 defective in those principles usually inculcated 
 by our best Ethic writers. 
 
 “ Couldn’t you have tould him what we agreed 
 upon goin’ up,” observed Ellish; “ but instead o’ 
 that, to begin an’ tell the gintleman so many lies 
 about your bein’ dhrunk, an’ this bein’ your birth- 
 day, an’ the day we wor marrid, an’, Musha, 
 
 sich quare stories to come into your head! ” 
 
 “ Why,” said Peter, “ what harm’s in all that, 
 whin he didn’t find me out? ” 
 
 “ But why the sarra did you go to say that I 
 was in the custom o’ tellin’ lies? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Faix, bekase I thought you wor goin’ to let 
 out all, an’ I thought it best to have the first word 
 o’ you. What else? — ^but sure I brought myself 
 off bravely.” 
 
 “Well, well, a hudh; don’t be invitin’ sich 
 things another time, or you’ll bring yourself into 
 a scrape, some way or other.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 1,5a 
 
 “ Faix, an’ you needn’t spake Ellish; you can 
 let out a nate bounce yourself, whin it’s to sarve 
 you. Come now, don’t run away wid the story ! ” 
 
 “ Well, if I do, it’s in the way o’ my business; 
 whin I’m batin’ thim down in the price o’ what 
 I’m buyin’, or gettin’ thim to bid up for any 
 thing I’m sellin’: besides, it’s to advance ourselves 
 in the world, that I do it, a bouchal.” 
 
 “ Go an, go an; faix, you’re like the new^ moon, 
 sharp at both corners: but what matther, you 
 beauty, we’ve secured the farm, at any rate, an’, 
 by this an’ by that, I’ll show you tip-top farmin’ 
 an it.” 
 
 A struggle now commenced between the hus- 
 band and wife, as to which of them should, in 
 their respective departments, advance themselves 
 with greater rapidity in life. This friendly con- 
 test was kept up principally by the address of 
 Ellish, who, as she knew those points in her hus- 
 band’s character most easily wrought upon, felt 
 httle difficulty in shaping him to her own pur- 
 poses. Her great object was to acquire wealth; 
 and it mostly happens, that when this is the ruling 
 principle in life, there is usually to be found, in 
 association with it, all those qualities which are 
 best adapted to secure it. Peter, on finding that 
 every succeeding day brought something to their 
 gains, began to imbibe a portion of that spirit 
 which wholly absorbed Elhsh. He became 
 worldly ; but it was rather the worldliness of habit 
 than of principle. In the case of Ellish, it pro- 
 ceeded from both; her mind was apt, vigorous, 
 and conceptive; her body active, her manners 
 
154 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 bland and insinuating, and her penetration almost 
 intuitive. About the time of their entering upon 
 the second farm, four children had been the fruit 
 of their marriage — two sons and two daughters. 
 These were now new sources of anxiety to their 
 mother, and fresh impulses to her industry. Her 
 ignorance, and that of her husband, of any kind 
 of education, she had often, in the course of their 
 business, bitter cause to regret. She now re- 
 solved that their children should be well in- 
 structed ; and no time was lost in sending them to 
 school, the moment she thought them capable of 
 imbibing the simplest elements of instruction. 
 
 “ It’s hard to say,” she observed to her husband, 
 “ how soon they may be useful to us. Who 
 knows, P ether, but we may have a full shop yit, 
 an’ they may be able to make up bits of accounts 
 for us, poor things? Throth, I’d be happy if I 
 wanst seen it.” 
 
 “ Faix, Ellish,” replied Peter, “ if we can get 
 an as we’re doin’, it is hard to say. For my own 
 part, if I had got the larnin’ in time, I might be a 
 bright boy to-day, no doubt of it — could spake 
 up to the best o’ thim. I never wint to school but 
 wanst, an’ I remimber I threwn the masther into 
 a kiln-pot, an’ broke the poor craythur’s arm ; an’ 
 from that day to this, I never could be brought 
 a single day to school.” 
 
 Peter and Ellish now began to be pointed out 
 as a couple worthy of imitation by those who 
 knew that perseverance and industry never fail 
 of securing their own reward. Others, however, 
 — that is to say, the lazy, the profligate, and the 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 ignorant, — had a ready solution for the secret of 
 their success. 
 
 “ Oh, my dear, she’s a lucky woman, an’ any- 
 thing she puts her hand to prospers. Sure she 
 was born wid a lucky caul^"^ an her head; an’, 
 be sure, a hagur, the world will flow in upon thim. 
 There’s many a neighbour about thim works their 
 Angers to the stumps, an’ yit you see they can’t 
 get an: for Ellish, if she’d throw the sweepins of 
 her hearth to the wind, it ’ud come back to her in 
 money. She was horn to it, an^ nothin^ can keep 
 her from her luck! "" 
 
 Such are many of the senseless theories that 
 militate against exertion and industry in Ireland, 
 and occasion many to shrink back from the laud- 
 able race of honest enterprise, into filth, penury, 
 and crime. It is this idle and envious crew, who, 
 with a natural aversion to domestic industry, be- 
 come adepts in politics, and active in those illegal 
 combinations and outrages which retard the pros- 
 perity of the country, and bring disgrace upon 
 the great body of its peaceable inhabitants. 
 
 In the meantime Ellish was rapidly advancing 
 in life, while such persons were absurdly specu- 
 lating upon the cause of her success. Her busi- 
 ness was not only increased, but extended. 
 Erom crockery, herrings, and salt, she advanced 
 gradually to deal in other branches adapted to 
 her station, and the wants of the people. She 
 bought stockings, and retailed them every 
 market-day. By and by a few pieces of soap 
 might be seen in her window^s: starch, blue, 
 potash, and candles, were equally profitable. 
 
156 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Pipes were seen stuck across each other, flanked 
 by tape, cakes, children’s books, thimbles, and 
 bread. In fact, she was equally clever and ex- 
 pert in whatever she undertook. The conscious- 
 ness of this, and her reputation as being ‘‘ a hard 
 honest woman,” encouraged her to get a cask or 
 two of beer, and a few rolls of tobacco. Peter, 
 when she proposed the two last, consented only 
 to sell them still as smuggled goods — sub silentio. 
 With her usual prudence, however, she declined 
 this. 
 
 “We have gone on that way purty far,” she 
 replied, “ an’ never got a touch thanks to the 
 kindness o’ the neighbours that never informed 
 an us; but now, Pether, that we’re ablCj we had 
 betther do everything above boord. You know 
 the ould say, ‘ long runs the fox, but he’s catched 
 at last ; ’ so let us give up in time, an’ get out a 
 little bit o’ licence.” 
 
 “ I don’t like that at all,” replied Peter; “ I 
 can’t warm my heart to the licence. I’ll back you 
 in anything but that. The gauger won’t come 
 next or near us : he has thried it often, an’ never 
 made anything of it. Dang me, but I’d like to 
 have a bit o’ fun with the gauger, to see if my 
 hand’s still ready for practice.” 
 
 “ Oh, thin, Pether, how can you talk that way, 
 asthore? Now if what I’m sayin’ was left to 
 yourself wouldn’t you be apt to plan it as I’m 
 doin’? — ^wouldn’t you, acushla? Throth, I know 
 you’re too cute an’ sinsible not to do it.” 
 
 “ Why thin, do you know what, Ellish — 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 157 
 
 although I didn’t spake out, upon my faix I was 
 thinkin’ of it. T)ivii a word o’ lie in it.” 
 
 “ Oh, you tliief o’ the world, an’ never to tell 
 it to me. Faix, Pether, you’re a cunnin’ shaver, 
 an’ as deep as a draw well.” 
 
 “ Let me alone. Why I tell you if I study an’ 
 lay myself down to it, I can conthrive anything. 
 Whin I was young, many a time my poor father, 
 God be good to him! said that if there was any 
 possibility of gettin’ me to take to lamin’, I’d be 
 risin’ out o’ the ashes every mornin’ like a 
 phanix.” 
 
 “ But won’t you hould to your plan about the 
 licence? ” 
 
 “ Hould ! To be sure I will. ^^Hiat was I but 
 takin’ a rise out o’ you, I intinded it this good 
 while, you phanix — faix, I did.” 
 
 In tliis manner did Ellish dupe her own hus- 
 band into increasing wealth. Their business soon 
 became so extensive, that a larger house was ab- 
 solutely necessary. To leave that, beneath whose 
 roof she succeeded so well in all her specula- 
 tions, was a point — be it of prudence or of 
 prejudice — which Ellish could not overcome. 
 Her maxim was, wherever you find yourself do- 
 ing well, stay there. She contrived, however, 
 to remedy this. To the old house additional 
 apartments were, from time to time, added, into 
 which their business soon extended. When these 
 again became too small, others were also built ; 
 so that in the course of about twenty years, their 
 premises were so extensive, that the original 
 
158 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 shebeen-house constituted a very small portion of 
 Peter’s residence. Peter, during Elhsh’s prog- 
 ress within doors, had not been idle without. For 
 every new room added to the house, he was able 
 to hook in a fresh farm in addition to those he 
 had already occupied. Unexpected success had 
 fixed his heart as strongly upon the accumulation 
 of money, and the pride of rising in the world, 
 as it was possible for a man, to whom they were 
 only adventitious feelings, to experience. The 
 points of view in which he and his wife were con- 
 templated by the little public about them were 
 peculiar, but clearly distinct. The wife was gen- 
 erally esteemed for her talents and incessant ap- 
 plication to business ; but she was not so cordially 
 hked as Peter. He, on the other hand, though 
 less esteemed, was more beloved by all their 
 acquaintances than Ellish. This might probably 
 originate from the more obvious congeniality 
 which existed between Peter’s natural disposi- 
 tion, and the national character; for with the lat- 
 ter, Ellish, except good humour, had little in 
 common. 
 
 The usual remarks upon both were — “ she 
 would buy an’ sell him ” — “ ’twas she that made 
 a man of him; but for all that, Pether’s worth 
 a ship-load of her, if she’d give him his own way.” 
 That is, if she would permit him to drink with the 
 neighbours, to be idle and extravagant. 
 
 Every year, now that their capital was extend- 
 ing, added more perceptibly to their independ- 
 ence. Elhsh’s experience in the humbler kinds 
 of business, trained her for a higher line; just as 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 150 
 
 boys at school rise from one form to another. 
 She made no plunges, nor permitted Peter, who 
 was often inclined to jump at conclusions, to 
 make any. Her elevation was gradual and cau- 
 tious; for her plans were always so seasonable 
 and simple, that every new description of busi- 
 ness, and every new success, seemed to arise natu- 
 rally from that which went before it. 
 
 Having once taken out a license, their house 
 soon became a decent country spirit establish- 
 ment; from soap, and candles, and tobacco, she 
 rose into the full sweep of groceries; and from 
 dealing in Connemara stockings and tape, she 
 proceeded in due time to sell woollen and linen 
 drapery. Her crockery was now metamorphosed 
 into delf, pottery, and hardware ; her gingerbread 
 into stout loaves, for as Peter himself grew wheat 
 largely, she seized the opportunity presented by 
 the death of the only good baker in the neighbour- 
 hood, of opening an extensive bakery. 
 
 It may be asked, how two illiterate persons, 
 like Peter and Ellish, could conduct business in 
 which so much calculation was necessary, without 
 suffering severely by their liability to make mis- 
 takes. To tills we reply — first, that we should 
 have liked to see any person attempting to pass 
 a bad note or a light guinea upon Ellish after 
 nine or ten years’ experience; we should like to 
 have seen a smug clerk taking his pen from be- 
 hind his ear, and after making his calculation, 
 on inquiring from Ellish if she had reckoned up 
 the amount, compelled to ascertain the error 
 which she pointed out to him. The most remark- 
 
160 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 able point in her whole character, was the rapid 
 accuracy she displayed in mental calculation, and 
 her uncommon sagacity in detecting bad money. 
 
 There is, however, a still more satisfactory ex- 
 planation of this circumstance to be given. She 
 had not neglected the education of her children. 
 The eldest was now an intelligent boy, and a smart 
 accountant, who, thanks to his master, had been 
 taught to keep their books by Double Entry. 
 The second was little inferior to him as a clerk, 
 though as a general dealer he was far his su- 
 perior. The eldest had been principally behind 
 the counter ; whilst the younger, in accompanying 
 his mother in all her transactions and bargain- 
 making, had in a great measure imbibed her ad- 
 dress and tact. 
 
 It is certainly a pleasing, and, we think, an 
 interesting thing, to contemplate the enterprise 
 of an humble, but active, slirewd woman, enabling 
 her to rise, step by step, from the lowest state of 
 poverty to a small sense of independence; from 
 this, by calling fresh powers into action, taking 
 wider views, and following them up by increased 
 efforts, until her shebeen becomes a small country 
 public-house; until her roll of tobacco, and her 
 few pounds of soap and starch, are lost in the 
 well-filled drawers of a grocery shop; and her 
 grey Connemara stockings transformed by the 
 golden wand of industry, into a country cloth 
 warehouse. To see Peter — from the time when 
 he first harrowed part of his farm with a thorn- 
 bush, and ploughed it by joining his horse to 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 IGl 
 
 to horse, and cart to cart, until we find him a 
 wealthy and extensive agriculturist. 
 
 The progress of Peter and Ellish was in an- 
 other point of view a good study for him who 
 wishes to look into human nature, whilst adapt- 
 ing itself to the circumstances through which it 
 passes. When tliis couple began life, their 
 friends and acquaintances were as poor as them- 
 selves; as they advanced from one gradation to 
 another, and rose up from a lower to a higher 
 state, their former friends, who remained in their 
 original poverty, found themselves left behind in 
 cordiality and intimacy, as well as in circum- 
 stances; whilst the subjects of our sketch contin- 
 ued to make new friendships of a more respect- 
 able stamp, to fill up, as it were, the places held 
 in their good will by their humble, but neglected, 
 intimates. Let not our readers, however, con- 
 demn them for this. It was the act of society, 
 and not of Peter and Elfish. On their parts, it 
 was involuntary ; their circumstances raised them, 
 and they were compelled, of course, to rise with 
 their circumstances. They were passing through 
 the journey of life, as it were, and those with 
 whom they set out, not having been able to keep 
 up with them, soon lost their companionship, 
 which was given to those with whom they trav- 
 elled for the time being. Society is always ready 
 to reward the enterprising and industrious by its 
 just honours, whether they are sought or not; it 
 is so disposed, that every man falls or rises into 
 his proper place in it, and that by the wisdom and 
 harmony of its structure. The rake, who dissi- 
 
 III— 11 
 
162 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 pates by profligacy and extravagance that which 
 might have secured him an honourable place in 
 life, is eventually brought to the work-house; 
 whilst the active citizen, who realises an honest in- 
 dependence, is viewed with honour and esteem. 
 
 Peter and Ellish were now people of conse- 
 quence in the parish; the former had ceased to 
 do anything more than superintend the cultiva- 
 tion of his farms; the latter still took an active 
 part in her own business, or rather in the various 
 departments of business which she carried on. 
 Peter might be seen the first man abroad in the 
 morning proceeding to some of his farms 
 mounted upon a good horse, comfortably dressed 
 in top boots, stout corduroy breeches, buff cash- 
 mere waistcoat, and blue broad-cloth coat, to 
 which in winter was added, a strong frieze great- 
 coat, with a drab velvet collar, and a glazed hat. 
 Ellish was also respectably dressed, but still con- 
 siderably under her circumstances. Her mode 
 of travelling to fairs or markets was either upon 
 a common car, covered with a feather bed and 
 quilt, or behind Peter upon a pillion. This last 
 method flattered Peter’s vanity very much; no 
 man could ride on these occasions with a statelier 
 air. He kept himself as erect and stiff as a 
 poker, and brandished the thong of his loaded 
 whip, with the pride of a gentleman farmer. 
 
 ’Tis true, he did not always hear the sarcastic 
 remarks which were passed upon him by those 
 who witnessed his good-natured vanity: 
 
 “ There he goes,” some labouring man on the 
 wayside would exclaim, “ a purse-proud hodagh 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 1C3 
 
 upon our hands. Why, thin, does he forget that 
 we remimber when he kept the shebeen-house, 
 an’ soiild his smuggled tobaccy in gits out of 
 his pocket, for fraid o’ the gauger! Sowl, he’d 
 show a blue nose, any way, only for the wife — 
 ’Twas she made a man of him.” 
 
 “ Faith, an’ I, for one, won’t hear Pether Con- 
 nell run down,” his companion would reply; “ he’s 
 a good-hearted, honest man, an’ obligin’ enough ; 
 an’ for that matter so is the wife, a hard honest 
 woman, that made what they have, an’ brought 
 herself an’ her husband from nothin’ to some- 
 thin’.” 
 
 “ Thrue for you, Tim; in troth they do desarve 
 credit. Still, you see, here’s you an’ me, an’ 
 we’ve both been slavin’ ourselves as much as they 
 have, an’ yet you see how we are! However, 
 ifs their luck, an’ there’s no use in begrudgin’ it 
 to them.” 
 
 When their children were full grown, the 
 mother did not, as might have been supposed, 
 prevent them from making a respectable appear- 
 ance. With excellent judgment, she tempered 
 their dress, circumstances, and prospects so well 
 together, that the family presented an admirable 
 display of economy, and a decent sense of inde- 
 pendence. From the moment they were able to 
 furnish solid proofs of their ability to give a com- 
 fortable dinner occasionally, the priest of the 
 parish began to notice them; and this new inti- 
 macy, warmed by the honour conferred on one 
 side, and by the good dinners on the other, 
 ripened into a strong friendship. For many a 
 
164 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 long year, neither Peter nor Ellish, God forgive 
 them, ever troubled themselves about going to 
 their duty. They soon became, however, persons 
 of too much importance to be damned without an 
 effort made for their salvation. The worthy 
 gentleman accordingly addressed them on the 
 subject, and as the matter was one of perfect 
 indifference to both, they had not the slightest 
 hesitation to go to confession — in compliment to 
 the priest. We do not blame the priest for this; 
 God forbid that we should quarrel with a man 
 for loving a good dinner. If we ourselves were 
 a priest, it is very probable — nay, from the zest 
 with which we approach a good dinner, it is quite 
 certain — that we would have cultivated honest 
 Peter’s acquaintance, and drawn him out to the 
 practice of that most social of virtues — hospital- 
 ity. The salvation of such a man’s soul was 
 worth looking after; and, indeed, we find a much 
 warmer interest felt, in all churches, for those 
 who are able to ^ve good dinners, than for those 
 poor miserable sinners who can scarcely get even 
 a bad one. 
 
 But besides this, there was another reason for 
 the Rev. Mr. Mulcahy’s anxiety to cultivate a 
 friendship with Peter and his wife — which reason 
 consisted in a very laudable determination to 
 bring about a match between his own niece. Miss 
 Granua Mulcahy and Peter’s eldest son, Dan. 
 This speculation he had not yet broached to the 
 family, except by broken hints, and jocular allu- 
 sions to the very flattering proposals that had 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 165 
 
 been made by many substantial young men for 
 Miss Granua. 
 
 In the mean time the wealth of the Connells 
 had accumulated to thousands; their business in 
 the linen and woollen drapery line was incred- 
 ible. There was scarcely a gentleman within 
 many miles of them, who did not find it his in- 
 terest to give them his custom. In the hardware, 
 flour, and baking concerns, they were equally for- 
 tunate. The report of their wealth had gone far 
 and near, exaggerated, however, as everything of 
 the kind is certain to be; but still there were 
 ample grounds for estimating it at a very high 
 amount. 
 
 Their stores were large, and well filled with 
 many a valuable bale; their cellars well stocked 
 with every description of spirits; and their shop, 
 though not large in proportion to their trans- 
 actions, was well filled, neat, and tastefully fitted 
 up. There was no show, however — no empty 
 glare to catch the eye ; on the contrary, the whole 
 concern was marked by an air of solid, warm com- 
 fort, that was much more indicative of wealth 
 and independence, than tawdry embelhshment 
 would have been. 
 
 “ Avourneen,” said Ellish, “ the way to deck 
 out your shop is to keep the best of goods. 
 Wanst the people knows that they’ll get betther 
 money-worth here than they’ll get anywhere else, 
 they’ll come here, whether the shop looks well or 
 ill. Not sayin’ but every shop ought to be clane 
 an’ dacent, for there’s rason in all things.” 
 
166 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 This, indeed, was another secret of their suc- 
 cess. Every article in their shop was of the best 
 description, having been selected by Ellish’s own 
 eye and hand in the metropolis, or imported 
 directly from the place of its manufacture. Her 
 periodical visits to Dublin gave her great satis- 
 faction; for it appears that those with whom she 
 dealt, having had sufficient discrimination to ap- 
 preciate her talents and integrity, treated her with 
 marked respect. 
 
 Peter’s farm-yard bore much greater evidence 
 of his wealth, than did Ellish’s shop. It was cer- 
 tainly surprising to reflect, that by the capacity 
 of two illiterate persons, who began the world 
 with nothing, all the best and latest improvements 
 in farming were either adopted or anticipated. 
 The farm-yard was upon a great scale; for Peter 
 cultivated no less than four hundred acres of 
 land — to such lengths had his enterprise carried 
 him. Threshing machines, large barns, corn- 
 kilns, large stacks, extensive stables, and immense 
 cow-houses, together with the incessant din of 
 active employment perpetually going on — all 
 gave a very high opinion of their great prosper- 
 ity, and certainly reflected honour upon those 
 whose exertions had created such a scene about 
 them. One would naturally suppose, when the 
 family of the Connells had arrived to such unex- 
 pected riches, and found it necessary to conduct 
 a system whose machinery was so complicated 
 and extensive, that Ellish would have fallen back 
 to the simple details of business, from a deficiency 
 of that comprehensive intelligence which is requi- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 167 
 
 site to conduct the higher order of mercantile 
 transactions ; especially as her sons were ad- 
 mirably qualified by practice, example, and edu- 
 cation, to ease her of a task, which would appear 
 one of too much difficulty for an unlettered farm- 
 er’s wife. Such a supposition would be injurious 
 to this excellent woman. So far from this being 
 the case, she was still the moving spirit, the cliief 
 conductor of the establishment. Whenever any 
 difficulty arose that required an effort of inge- 
 nuity and sagacity, she was able in the homeliest 
 words to disentangle it so happily, that those who 
 heard her wondered that it should at all have 
 appeared to them as a difficulty. She was every- 
 where. In Peter’s farm-yard her advice was as 
 excellent and as useful as in her own shop. On 
 his farms she was the better agriculturist, and she 
 frequently set him right in his plans and specula- 
 tions for the ensuing year. 
 
 She herself was not ignorant of her sldll. 
 Many a time has she surveyed the scene about her 
 with an eye in which something like conscious 
 pride might be seen to kindle. On those occasions 
 she usually shook her head, and exclaimed, either 
 in soHloquy, or by way of dialogue, to some per- 
 son near her: — 
 
 ‘‘ Well, avourneen, all’s very right, an’ goin’ 
 an bravely; but I only hope that when Fm gone 
 I won’t be missed! ” 
 
 “ Missed,” Peter would reply, if he happened 
 to hear her; “oh, upon my credit” — he was a 
 man of too much consequence to swear “ by this 
 an’ by that ” now — “ upon my credit, Ellish, if 
 
168 IRELAND 
 
 you die soon, you’ll see the ginteel wife I’ll have 
 in your place.” 
 
 “Whisht, avourneen! Although you’re but 
 jokin’, I don’t like to hear it, a villish! No, in- 
 deed ; we wor too long together, P ether, and lived 
 too happily wid one another, for you to have the 
 heart to think of sich a thing! ” 
 
 “No, in troth, Ellish, I would be long sarry 
 to do it. It’s displasin’ to you, achree, an’ I won’t 
 say it. God spare you to us 1 It was you put the 
 bone in us, an’ that’s what all the country says, 
 big an’ little, young an’ ould; an’ God he knows 
 it’s truth, and nothin’ else.” 
 
 “ Indeed, no, thin, Pether, it’s not altogether 
 thruth, you desarve your full share of it. You 
 backed me well, acushla, in everything, an’ if you 
 had been a dhrinkin, idle, rollikin’ vagabone, what 
 ’ud signify all, that me or the likes o’ me could 
 do.” 
 
 “ Faith, an’ it was you made me what I am, 
 Elhsh; you tuck the soft side o’ me, you beauty; 
 an’ it’s well you did, for by this — ^hem, upon my 
 reputation, if you had gone to cross purposes 
 wid me, you’d find yourself in the wrong box. 
 An’, you phanix o’ beauty, you managed the 
 childhre, the crathurs, the same way — an’ a good 
 way it is, in throth.” 
 
 “ Pether, wor you ever thinkin’ o’ Father Mul- 
 cahy’s sweetness to us of late? ” 
 
 “No, thin, the sorra one o’ me thought of it. 
 Why, Ellish? ” 
 
 “ Didn’t you obsarve that for the last three or 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 1G9 
 
 four months he’s full of attintions to us? Every 
 Sunday he brings you up, an’ me, if Fd go, to 
 the althar, an’ keeps you there by way of showin’ 
 you respect. Pether, it’s not you, but your money 
 he respects; an’ I think there ought to be no 
 respect o’ persons in the chapel, any how. You’re 
 not a bit nearer God by bein’ near the althar; 
 for how do we know but the poorest crathur 
 there is nearer to heaven than we are! ” 
 
 “ Faith, sure enough, Ellish; but what deep 
 skame are you penethratin, now, you desaver? ” 
 “ I’d lay my life, you’ll have a proposial o’ mar- 
 riage from Father Mulcahy, atween our Dan an’ 
 Miss Granua. For many a day he’s hintin’ to 
 us, from time to time, about the great offers she 
 had; now what’s the rason, if she had these great 
 offers, that he didn’t take them? ” 
 
 “ Bedad, Ellish, you’re the greatest head-piece 
 in all Europe. Murdher alive, woman, what a 
 fine counsellor you’d make. An’ suppose he did 
 offer, Ellish, what ’ud you be sayin’ to him? ” 
 
 “ Why, that ’ud depind entirely upon what he’s 
 able to give her — they say he has money. It ’ud 
 depind, too, upon whether Dan has any likin’ for 
 her or not.” 
 
 ‘‘He’s often wid her, I know; an’ I needn’t 
 tell you, Ellish, that afore we wor spliced to- 
 gether, I was often wid somebody that I won’t 
 mintion. At all evints, he has made Dan put 
 the big O afore the Connell, so that he has him 
 now full namesake to the Counsellor; an’, faith, 
 that itself ^ud get him a wifeF 
 
170 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Well, the best way is to say nothin’, an’ to 
 hear nothin’, till his Reverence spakes out, an’ 
 thin we’ll see what can be done.” 
 
 Ellish’s sagacity had not misled her. In a few 
 months afterwards F ather Mulcahy was asked by 
 young Dan Connell to dine ; and as he and honest 
 Ellish were sitting together, in the course of the 
 evening, the priest broached the topic as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 “ Mrs. Connell, I think this whiskey is better 
 than my four-year old, that I bought at the auc- 
 tion the other day, although Dan says mine’s 
 better. Between ourselves, that Dan is a clever, 
 talented young fellow; and if he happens upon 
 a steady, sensible wife, there is no doubt but he 
 will die a respectable man. But, by the by, Mrs. 
 Connell, you’ve never tried my whiskey; and, 
 upon my credit, you must soon, for I Imow your 
 opinion would decide the question.” 
 
 “ Is it worth while to decide it, your Rever- 
 ence? I suppose the thruth is. Sir, that both is 
 good enough for any one; an’ I think that’s as 
 much as we want.” 
 
 Thus far she went, but never alluded to Dan, 
 judiciously throwing the onus of introducing that 
 subject upon the priest. 
 
 “Dan says mine’s better,” observed Father 
 Mulcahy; “and I would certainly give a great 
 deal for his opinion upon that or any other sub- 
 ject, except theology.” 
 
 “ You ought,” replied Ellish, “ to be a betther 
 judge of whiskey nor either Dan nor me; an’ 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 171 
 
 I’ll tell you why — you dhrink it in more places, 
 and can make comparishment one wid another; 
 but Dan an’ me is confined mostly to our own, 
 an’ of that same we take very little, an’ the less 
 the betther for people in business, or indeed for 
 anybody.” 
 
 “ Very true, Mrs. Connell! But for all that, 
 I won’t give up Dan’s judgment in anything 
 within his own line of business, still excepting 
 theology, for which he hasn’t the learning.” 
 
 “ He’s a good son, without tayoXogy — as good 
 as ever broke the world’s bread,” said Peter, 
 “ glory be to God! Although, for that matther, 
 he ought to be as well acquainted wid tay-o\ogy 
 as your Reverence, in regard that he sells more of 
 it nor you do.” 
 
 “ A good son, they say, Mrs. Connell, will 
 make a good husband. I wonder you don’t think 
 of settling him in life. It’s full time.” 
 
 “ Father, avourneen, we must lave that wdd 
 himself. I needn’t be telhn’ you, that it ’ud be 
 hard to find a girl able to bring what the girl 
 that ’ud expect Dan ought to bring.” 
 
 This was a staggerer to the priest, who re- 
 cruited his ingenuity by drinking Peter’s health, 
 and Ellish’s. 
 
 “ Have you nobody in your eye for him, Mrs. 
 Connell? ” 
 
 “Faith, I’ll engage she has,” replied Peter, 
 with a ludicrous grin — “ I’ll venture for to say 
 she has that/^ 
 
 “ Very right, Mrs. Connell ; it’s all fair. Might 
 
172 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 one ask who she is ; for, to tell you the truth, Dan 
 is a favourite of mine, and I must make it a point 
 to see him well settled.” 
 
 “ Why, your Reverence,” replied Peter again, 
 ‘‘ jist the one you mintioned.” 
 
 “Who? I? Why I mentioned nohodyf^ 
 
 “ An’ tJiafs the very one she has in her eye for 
 him, plase your Reverence — ha, ha, ha! What’s 
 the world widout a joke, Docthor? beggin’ your 
 pardon for makin’ so free wid you.” 
 
 “ Peter, you’re still a wag,” replied the priest; 
 “ but, seriously, Mrs. Connell, have you selected 
 any female of respectable connexions, as a likely 
 person to be a wife for Dan? ” 
 
 “ Indeed no, your Reverence; I have not. 
 Where could I pitch upon a girl — barrin’ a Prot- 
 estant, an’ that ’ud never do — ^who has a fortune 
 to meet what Dan’s to get? ” 
 
 The priest moved his chair a little, and drank 
 their healths a second time. 
 
 “ But you know, Mrs. Connell, that Dan 
 needn’t care so much about fortune, if he got a 
 girl of respectable connexions. He has an inde- 
 pendence himself.” 
 
 “ Thrue for you, father; but what right would 
 any girl have to expect to be supported by the 
 hard arnin’ of me an’ my husband, widout 
 bringin’ somethin’ forrid herself? You know. 
 Sir, that the fortune always goes wid the wife; 
 but am I to fortune off my son to a girl that has 
 nothin’ ? If my son, plase your Reverence, hadn’t 
 a coat to his back, or a guinea in his pocket — as. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 173 
 
 God be praised, he has both — but, supposin’ he 
 hadn’t, what right would he have to expect a girl 
 wid a handsom fortune to marry him? There’s 
 Paddy Neill, your sarvant-boy; now, if Paddy, 
 who’s an honest man’s son, axed your niece, 
 wouldn’t you be apt to lose your timper? ” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, Mrs. Connell, I think 
 your fire’s rather hot — allow me to draw back a 
 little. Mrs. Connell, your health again! — Mr. 
 Connell, your fire-side.” 
 
 Thank you, Docthor; but faith I think you 
 ought hardly to dhrink the same fire-side, becase 
 it appears to be rather hot for your Reverence, at 
 the present time — ha, ha, ha! Jokin’ still, Doc- 
 thor, we must be. Well, what harm! I wish we 
 may never do worse ! ” 
 
 “ And what fortune would you expect with a 
 girl of genteel connexions — a girl that’s accom- 
 plished, we’ll say in music, plain work, and Irish, 
 vernacularly? — hem! What fortune would you 
 be expecting with such a girl? ” 
 
 Why, Docthor, ahagur, the only music I’d 
 wish for my son’s wife is a good timper; an’ that’s 
 what their music-masthers can’t tache thim. The 
 plain work, although I don’t know what you 
 mane by it, sounds well enough; an’ as to Irish, 
 which-whackularly , if you mane our own ould 
 tongue, he may get thousands that can spake it 
 whackinly, an’ nothin’ else.” 
 
 “ You’re a wealthy woman, certainly, Mrs. 
 Connell, and what’s more, I’m not at all sur- 
 prised at it. Your health, once more, and long 
 
174 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 life to you! Suppose, however, that Dan got 
 a fitting wife, what would you expect as a proper 
 portion? I have a reason for asking.” 
 
 “Dan, plase your Reverence, will get four 
 thousand to begin the world wid; an’, as he’s to 
 expect none but a Catholic, I suppose if he gets 
 the fourth part of that, it’s as much as he ought 
 to look for.” 
 
 “ A thousand pounds ! — hut tut I The woman’s 
 beside herself. Why look about you, and try 
 where you can find a Catholic girl with a thou- 
 sand pounds fortune, except in a gentleman’s 
 family, where Dan could never think of going.” 
 
 “ That’s thrue, any how, your Reverence,” ob- 
 served Peter. — “A thousand pounds! Ellish! 
 you needn’t look for it. Where is it to be had 
 out of a gintleman’s family, as his Reverence 
 says thrue enough.” 
 
 “ An’ now, Docthor,” said Ellish, “ what ’ud 
 you think a girl ought to bring a young man 
 like Dan, that’s to have four thousand pounds? ” 
 
 “ I don’t think any Catholic girl of his own 
 rank in the county, could get more than a couple 
 of hundred.” 
 
 “ That’s one shillin’ to every pound he has,” 
 replied Ellish, almost instantaneously. “ But, 
 Father, you may as well spake out at wanst,” she 
 continued, for she was too quick and direct in all 
 her dealings to he annoyed by circumlocution; 
 “ you’re desairous of a match between Dan an’ 
 Miss Granua? ” 
 
 “ Exactly,” said the priest; “ and what is more, 
 I believe they are fond of each other. I know 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 175 
 
 Dan is attached to her, for he told me so. But, 
 now that we have mentioned her, I say that there 
 is not a more accomplished girl of her persuasion 
 in the parish we sit in. She can play on the bag- 
 pipes better than any other piper in the province, 
 for I taught her myself ; and I tell you that in 
 a respectable man’s wife a knowledge of music 
 is a desirable thing. It’s hard to tell, Mrs. Con- 
 nell, how they may rise in the world, and get into 
 fashionable company, so that accomplishments, 
 you persave, are good. She can make a shirt and 
 wash it, and she can write Irish. As for dancing, 
 
 I only wish you’d see her at a hornpipe. All 
 these things put together, along with her genteel 
 connexions, and the prospect of what I may be 
 able to lave her — I say your son may do worse.” 
 
 “ It’s not what you’d lave her, sir, but what 
 you’d give her in the first place, that I’d like to 
 hear. Spake up, your Reverence, an’ let us know 
 how far you will go.” 
 
 “ I’m afeard. Sir,” said Peter, “ if it goes to 
 a clane bargain atween yez, that Ellish will make 
 you bid up for Dan. Be sharp. Sir, or you’ll 
 have no chance; faix, you won’t.” 
 
 “ But, Mrs. Connell,” replied the priest, “ be- 
 fore I spake up, consider her accomplishments. 
 I’ll undertake to say, that the best bred girl in 
 Dublin cannot perform music in such style, or 
 on such an instrument as the one she uses. Let 
 us contemplate Dan and her after marriage, in i 
 an elegant house, and full business, the dinner ' 
 over, and they gone up to the drawing-room. 
 Think how agreeable and graceful it would be for 
 
176 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Mrs. Daniel O’Connell to repair to the sofa, 
 among a few respectable friends, and, taking up 
 her bag-pipes, set her elbow a-going, until the 
 drone gives tv/o or three broken groans, and the 
 chanter a squeak or two, like a child in the cholic, 
 or a cat that you had trampled on by, accident. 
 Then comes the real ould Irish music, that warms 
 the heart. Dan looks upon her graceful position, 
 until the tears of love, taste, and admiration are 
 coming down his cheeks. By and by, the toe of 
 him moves: here another foot is going; and, in 
 no time, there is a hearty dance, with a light heart 
 and a good conscience. You or I perhaps, drop 
 in to see them, and, of course, we partake of the 
 enjoyment.” 
 
 “ Divil a pleasanter,” said Peter: “ I tell you, 
 I’d like it well; an’, for my own part, if the de- 
 ludher here has no objection, Fm not goin’ to 
 spoil sport.” 
 
 Ellish looked hard at the priest; her keen blue 
 eye glittered with a sparkling light, that gave de- 
 cided proofs of her sagacity being intensely ex- 
 cited. 
 
 “ All that you’ve said,” she replied, “ is very 
 fine; but in regard o’ the bag-pipes, an’ Miss 
 Granua Mulcahy’s squeezin’ the music out o’ thim 
 — why, if it plased God to bring my son to the 
 staff an’ bag — a common beggar — ^indeed, in 
 that case. Miss Granua’s bagpipes might sarve 
 both o’ thim, an’ help, maybe, to get them a 
 night’s lodgin’ or so; but until that time comes, 
 if you respect your niece, you’ll burn her bag- 
 pipes, dhrone, chanther, an’ all. If you are for 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 177 
 
 a match, which I doubt, spake out, as I said, and 
 say what fortune you’ll pay down on the nail 
 wid her, otherwise we’re losin’ our time, an’ that’s 
 a loss one can’t make up.” 
 
 The priest, who thought he could have bantered 
 Ellish into an alliance, without pledging himself 
 to pay any specific fortune, found that it was 
 necessary for him to treat the matter seriously, 
 if he expected to succeed. He was certainly anx- 
 ious for the match; and as he really wished to 
 see his niece — who, in truth, was an excellent girl, 
 and handsome — well settled, he resolved to make 
 a stretch and secure Dan if possible. 
 
 “ Mrs. Connell,” said he, “ I will be brief with 
 you. The most I can give her is three hundred 
 pounds, and even that by struggling and bor- 
 rowing. I will undertake to pay it as you say — 
 on the nail! for I am really anxious that my niece 
 should be connected with so worthy and indus- 
 trious a family. What do you say? ” 
 
 Fm willin’ enough,” replied Peter. “ It’s 
 not asy to get that wid a Catholic girl.” 
 
 “ There’s some thruth in what you say, aroon, 
 sure enough,” observed Ellish ; ‘‘ an’ if his Rev- 
 erence puts another hundhre to it, why, in the 
 name of goodness, let them go together. If you 
 don’t choose that, Docthor, never breathe the sub- 
 ject to me agin. Dan’s not an ould man yit, an’ 
 has time enough to get wives in plenty.” 
 
 “ Come,” replied the priest, “ there’s my hand, 
 it’s a bargain ; although I must say there’s no re- 
 moving you from your point. I will give four 
 hundred, hook or crook; but I’ll have sad scram- 
 
 III— 12 
 
178 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 bling to get it together. Still I’ll make it good.” 
 “ Down on the nail? ” inquired Ellish. 
 
 “Ay! ay! Down on the nail,” replied the 
 priest. 
 
 “ Well, in the name o’ Goodness, a bargain 
 be it,” said Peter; “ but, upon my credit, Ellish, 
 I won’t have the bag-pipes burnt, any how. 
 Faith, I must hear an odd tune, now an’ thin, 
 when I call to see the childhre.” 
 
 “ Pether, acushla, have sinse. Would you wish 
 to see your daughter-in-law playin’ upon the bag- 
 pipes, when she ought to be mindin’ her business, 
 or attendin’ her childhre? No, your reverence, 
 the pipes must be laid aside. I’ll have no piperly 
 connexion for a son of mine.” 
 
 The priest consented to this, although Peter 
 conceded it with great reluctance. Further pre- 
 liminaries were agreed upon, and the evening 
 passed pleasantly, until it became necessary for 
 Mr. Mulcahy to bid them good night. 
 
 When they were gone, Peter and Ellish talked 
 over the matter between themselves in the fol- 
 lowing dialogue: 
 
 “ The fortune’s a small one,” said Ellish to her 
 husband ; “ an’ I suppose you wondher that I con- 
 sinted to take so little.” 
 
 “ Sure enough, I wondhered at it,” replied 
 Peter; “ but, for my own part, I’d give my son 
 to her widout a penny o’ fortune, in ordher to be 
 connected wid the priest ; an’ besides, she’s a fine, 
 handsome, good girl — ay, an’ his fill of a wife, if 
 she had but the shift to her back.” 
 
 “Four hundhre wid a priest’s niece, Pether, 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 179 
 
 is before double the money wid any other. Don’t 
 you know, that when they set up for themselves, 
 he can bring the custom of the whole parish to 
 them? It’s unknown the number o’ ways he can 
 sarve them in. Sure, at stations an’ weddins, 
 wakes, marriages, and funerals, they’ll all be 
 proud to let the priest know that they purchased 
 whatever they wanted from his niece an’ her hus- 
 band. Betther! — faix, four hundhre from him 
 is worth three times as much from another.” 
 
 “Glory to you, Ellish! — bright an’ cute for 
 ever! Why, I’d back you for a woman that 
 could buy an’ sell Europe, aginst the world. 
 Now, isn’t it odd that I never think of these long- 
 headed skames? ” 
 
 “Ay do you, often enough, Pether; but you 
 keep them to yourself, abouchal.” 
 
 “ Faith, I’m close, no doubt of it; an’ — but 
 there’s no use in sayin’ any more about it — you 
 said whatsomever came into my own head con- 
 sarnin’ it. Faith, you did, you phanix.” 
 
 In a short time the marriage took place. Dan, 
 under the advice of his mother, purchased a piece 
 of ground most advantageously located, as the 
 site of a mill, whereon an excellent one was built ; 
 and as a good mill had been long a desideratum 
 in the country, his success was far beyond his 
 expectations. Every speculation, in fact, which 
 Ellish touched, prospered. Fortune seemed to 
 take delight, either in accomplishing, or antici- 
 pating her wishes. At least, such was the gen- 
 eral opinion, although nothing could possibly be 
 more erroneous than to attribute her success to 
 
180 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 mere chance. The secret of all might be ascribed 
 to her good sense, and her exact knowledge of 
 the precise moment when to take the tide of for- 
 tune at its flow. Her son, in addition to the mill, 
 opened an extensive mercantile establishment in 
 the next town, where he had ample cause to bless 
 the instructions of his mother, and her foresight 
 in calculating upon the advantage of being mar- 
 ried to the priest’s niece. 
 
 Soon after his marriage, the person who had 
 for many years kept the head inn of the next 
 town died, and the establishment was advertised 
 for sale. Ellish was immediately in action. 
 Here was an opportunity of establishing the sec- 
 ond son in a situation which had enabled the late 
 proprietor of it to die nearly the richest man in 
 the parish. A few days, therefore, before that 
 specified for the sale, she took her featherbed car, 
 and had an interview with the executors of the 
 late proprietor. Her character was known, her 
 judgment and integrity duly estimated, and, per- 
 haps, what was the weightiest argument in her 
 favour, her purse was forthcoming to complete 
 the offer she had made. After some private con- 
 versation between the executors, her proposal was 
 accepted, and before she returned home, the head 
 inn, together with all its fixtures and furniture, 
 was her property. 
 
 The second son, who was called after his father, 
 received the intelligence with delight. One of 
 his sisters was, at his mother’s suggestion, ap- 
 pointed to conduct the house-keeping department. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 181 
 
 and keep the bar, a duty for which she was pretty 
 well qualified by her experience at home. 
 
 “ I will paint it in great style,” said Peter the 
 Younger. “ It must be a head Inn no longer; 
 I’ll call it a Hotel, for that’s the whole fashion.” 
 
 “ It wants little, avourneen,” said his mother; 
 “ it was well kep : some paintin’ an’ other improve- 
 ments it does want, but don’t be extravagant. 
 Have it clane an’ dacent, but, above all things, 
 comfortable, an’ the attindance good. That’s 
 what’ll carry you an — not a flourish o’ paintin’ 
 outside, an’ dirt, an’ confusion, an’ bad attindance 
 widin. Considher, Pether darlin’, that the man 
 who owned it last, feathered his nest well in it, 
 but never called it a Hotill. Let it appear on 
 the outside jist as your ould customers used to 
 see it; but improve it widin as much as you can, 
 widout bein’ lavish an it, or takin’ up the place 
 wid nonsense.” 
 
 “ At all evints. I’ll have a picture of the Lib- 
 erator over the door, and ‘ O’Connell ’ written 
 under it. It’s both our names, and besides it will 
 be ‘ killin’ two birds with one stone.’ ” 
 
 “No, avourneen. Let me advise you, if you 
 wish to prosper in life, to keep yourself out of 
 party-work. It only stands betune you an’ your 
 business; an’ it’s surely wiser for you to mind 
 your own affairs than the affairs of the nation. 
 There’s rason in everything. No man in trade 
 has a right, widout committin’ a sin, to neglect 
 his family for politics or parties. There’s Jack 
 Cummins that was doin’ well in his groceries, till 
 
182 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 he began to make speeches, an’ get up pubhc 
 meetins, an’ write petitions, an’ now he has nothin’ 
 to throuble him but politics, for his business is 
 gone. Every one has liberty to think as they 
 plase. We can’t expect Protestants to think as 
 we do, nor Protestants can’t suppose that we 
 ought to think as they’d wish; an’ for that same 
 rason, we should make allowance on both sides, 
 an’ not be like many we know, that have their 
 minds up, expectin’ they don’t know what, instead 
 of workin’ for themselves and their families as 
 they ought to do. Pether, won’t you give that 
 up, a villish? ” 
 
 “ I believe you’re right, mother. I didn’t see 
 it before in the light you’ve placed it in.” 
 
 “ Then, Pether, darlin’, lose no time in gettin’ 
 into your place — you an’ Alley; an’ faix, if you 
 don’t both manage it cleverly. I’ll never spake 
 to yez.” 
 
 Here was a second son settled, and nothing 
 remained but to dispose of their two daughters 
 in marriage to the best and most advantageous 
 offers. This, in consequence of their large for- 
 tunes, was not a matter of much difficulty. The 
 eldest. Alley, who assisted her brother to conduct 
 the Inn, became the wife of an extensive grazier, 
 who lived in an adjoining county. The younger, 
 Mary, was joined to Father Mulcahy’s nephew, 
 not altogether to the satisfaction of the mother, 
 who feared that two establishments of the same 
 kind, in the same parish, supported by the same 
 patronage, must thrive at the expense of each 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 183 
 
 other. As it was something of a love-match, 
 however, she ultimately consented. 
 
 “ Avourneen,” said she, “ the parish is big 
 enough, an’ has customers enough to support two 
 o’ them; an’ I’ll engage his Reverence will do 
 what he can for them both.” 
 
 In the mean time, neither she nor her husband 
 was dependent upon their children. Peter still 
 kept the agricultural department in operation; 
 and although the shop and warehouse were trans- 
 ferred to Mr. Mulcahy, in right of his wife, yet 
 it was under the condition of paying a yearly 
 sum to Mrs. Connell and her husband, ostensibly 
 as a provision, but really as a spur to their exer- 
 tions. A provision they could not want, for their 
 wealth still amounted to thousands, independ- 
 ently of the large annual profits arising out of 
 their farms. 
 
 For some time after the marriage of her young- 
 est daughter, Mrs. Connell took a very active 
 part in her son-in-law’s affairs. He possessed 
 neither experience, nor any knowledge of busi- 
 ness whatsoever, though he was not deficient in 
 education, nor in capacity to acquire both. This 
 pleased Mrs. Connell very much, who set herself 
 to the task of instructing him in the principles 
 of commercial life, and in the best methods of 
 transacting business. 
 
 “ The first rules,” said she to him, “ for you 
 to obsarve is these : tell truth : be sober ; be punc- 
 tual; rise early, persavere; avoid extravagance; 
 keep your word; an’ watch your health. Next: 
 
184 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 don’t be proud; give no offince; talk sweetly; be 
 ready to oblage, when you can do it widout in- 
 convanience, but don’t put yourself or your busi- 
 ness out o’ your ways to sarve any body. 
 
 “ Thirdly: keep an appearance of substance an’ 
 comfort about your place, but don’t go beyant 
 your manes in doin’ it ; when you make a bargain, 
 think what a correcther them you dale wid bears, 
 an’ whether or not you found them honest be- 
 fore, if you ever had business wid them. 
 
 “ When you buy a thing, appear to know your 
 own mind, an’ don’t be hummin’ an’ hawin’, an’ 
 higglin’, an’ longin’ as if your teeth wor watherin’ 
 afther it; but be manly, downright, an’ quick; 
 they’ll then see that you know your business, an’ 
 they won’t be keepin’ off an’ an, but will close 
 wid you at wanst. 
 
 “ Never drink at bargain makin’ ; an’ never pay 
 money in a public-house if you can help it; if you 
 must do it, go into an inn, or a house that you 
 know to be dacent. 
 
 “ Never stay out late in a fair or market; don’t 
 make a poor mouth; on the other hand, don’t 
 boast of your wealth; keep no low company; 
 don’t be rubbin’ yourself aginst your betthers, but 
 keep wid your aquils. File your loose papers an’ 
 accounts; an’ keep your books up to the day. 
 Never put off any thing that can be done, when 
 it ought to be done. Go early to bed ; but be the 
 last up at night, and the first in the mornin’, an’ 
 there’s no fear o’ you.” 
 
 Having now settled all her children in com- 
 fort and independence, with each a prospect of 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 185 
 
 rising still higher in the world, Mrs. Connell felt 
 that the principal duties devolving upon her had 
 been discharged. It was but reasonable, she 
 thought, that, after the toil of a busy life, her hus- 
 band and herself should relax a little, and enjoy 
 with lighter minds the ease for which they had 
 laboured so long and unremittingly. 
 
 “ Do you know what I’m thinldn’ of, Pether? ” 
 said she, one summer evening in their farm-yard. 
 
 ‘‘Know, is it?” replied Peter — “some long- 
 headed plan that none of us ’ud ever think of, 
 but that will stare us in the face the moment 
 you mintion it. What is it, you ould sprig o’ 
 beauty? ” 
 
 “ Why, to get a snug jauntin’-car for you an’ 
 me. I’d like to see you comfortable in your old 
 days, Pether. You’re gettin’ stiff, a hagur, an’ 
 will be good for nothin’, by an’ by.” 
 
 “ Stiff! Arrah, by this an’ by — my reputa- 
 tion, I’m younger nor e’er a one o’ my sons yet, 
 
 you eh? ” said Peter, pausing — “ Faith then 
 
 I dunna that. Upon my credit, I think, on sec- 
 ond thoughts, that a car ’ud be a mighty com- 
 fortable thing for me. Faith I do, an’ for you, 
 too, Ellish.” 
 
 “ The common car,” she continued, “ is slow an’ 
 throublesome, an’ joults the hfe out o’ me.” 
 
 “ By my reputation, you’re not the same 
 woman since you began to use it, that you wor 
 before at all. Why, it’ll shorten your life. The 
 pillion’s dacent enough; but the jauntin’-car 1 — 
 faix, it’s what ’ud make a fresh woman o’ you — 
 divil a lie in it.” 
 
186 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ You’re not puttin’ in a word for yourself 
 now Pether? ” 
 
 “ To be sure I am, an’ for both of us. I’d 
 surely be proud to see yourself an’ myself sittin’ 
 in our glory upon our own jauntin’-car. Sure 
 we can afford it, an’ ought to have it too. Bud- 
 an’-ager ! what’s the rason I didn’t think of it long 
 ago? ” 
 
 “ Maybe you did, acushla; but you forgot it. 
 Wasn’t that the way wid you, Pether? Tell the 
 thruth.” 
 
 “ Why, thin, bad luck to the lie in it, since 
 you must know. About this time twelve months 
 — no, faix, I’m wrong, it was afore Dan’s mar- 
 riage — I had thoughts o’ spakin’ to you about it, 
 but somehow it left my head. Upon my word, 
 I’m in airnest, Ellish.” 
 
 “Well, avick, make your mind asy; I’ll have 
 one from Dublin in less nor a fortnight. I can 
 thin go about of an odd time, an’ see how Dan 
 an’ Pether’s cornin’ an. It’ll be a pleasure to me 
 to advise an’ direct thim, sure, as far an’ as well 
 as I can. I only hope God will enable thim to 
 do as much for their childher, as he enabled us 
 to do for them, glory be to his name! ” 
 
 Peter’s eye rested upon her as she spoke: a 
 slight shade passed over his face, but it was the 
 symptom of deep feehng and affection, whose 
 current had run smooth and unbroken during the 
 whole life they had spent together. 
 
 “ Ellish,” said he, in a tone of voice that 
 strongly expressed what he felt, “ you wor one 
 o’ the best wives that ever the Almighty gev to 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 187 
 
 mortual man. You wor, avourneen — you wor, 
 you wor! ’’ 
 
 “ I intind, too, to begin an’ make my sowl a 
 little,” she continued; “we had so much to do, 
 Pether, aroon, that, indeed, we hadn’t time to 
 think of it all along; but now, that everytliing 
 else is settled, we ought to think about that, an’ 
 make the most of our time while we can.” 
 
 “ Upon my conscience, I’ve strong notions my- 
 self o’ the same thing,” replied Peter: “ An’ I’ll 
 back you in that, as well as in everything else. 
 Never fear, if we pull together, but we’ll bring 
 up the lost time. Faith, we will! Sowl, if you 
 set about it, let me see them that ’ud prevint your 
 goin’ to heaven! ” 
 
 “ Did Paddy Donovan get the bay filly’s foot 
 aised, Pether? ” 
 
 “He’s gone down wid her to the forge: the 
 poor crathur was very lame to-day.” 
 
 “That’s right; an’ let Andy Murtagh bring 
 down the sacks from Drumdough early to-mor- 
 row. That whate ought to go to the market on 
 Thursday, an’ the other stacks ought to be 
 thrashed out off hand.” 
 
 “ Well, well ; so it will be all done. Tare alive ! 
 if myself knows how you’re able to keep an eye 
 on everything. Come in, an’ let us have our 
 tayr 
 
 For a few months after this, Ellish was per- 
 fectly in her element. The jaunting-car was pro- 
 cured ; and her spirits seemed to be quite elevated. 
 She paid regular visits to both her sons, looked 
 closely into their manner of conducting business. 
 
188 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 examined their premises, and subjected every 
 fixture and improvement made or introduced 
 without her sanction, to the most rigorous scru- 
 tiny. In fact, what, between Peter’s farm, her 
 daughter’s shop, and the establishments of her 
 sons, she never found herself more completely 
 encumbered with business. She had intended 
 “ to make her soul,” but her time was so fully 
 absorbed by the affairs of those in whom she felt 
 so strong an interest, that she really forgot the 
 spiritual resolution in the warmth of her secular 
 pursuits. 
 
 One evening, about this time, a horse belong- 
 ing to Peter happened to fall into a ditch, from 
 which he was extricated with much difficulty by 
 the labourers. Ellish, who thought it necessary 
 to attend, had been standing for some time 
 directing them how to proceed; her dress was 
 rather thin, and the hour, which was about twi- 
 light, chilly, for it was the middle of autumn. 
 Upon returning home she found herself cold, 
 and inclined to shiver. At first she thought but 
 little of these symptoms; for having never had 
 a single day’s sickness, she was scarcely com- 
 petent to know that they were frequently the 
 forerunners of very dangerous and fatal mal- 
 adies. She complained, however, of slight ill- 
 ness, and went to bed without taking anything 
 calculated to check what she felt. Her suffer- 
 ings during the night were dreadful: high fever 
 had set in with a fury that threatened to sweep 
 the powers of life like a wreck before it. The 
 next morning the family, on looking into her 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 189 
 
 state more closely, found it necessary to send 
 instantly for a physician. 
 
 On arriving, he pronounced her to be in a dan- 
 gerous pleurisy, from which, in consequence of 
 her plethoric habit, he expressed but faint hopes 
 of her recovery. This was melancholy intelli- 
 gence to her sons and daughters; but to Peter, 
 whose faithful wife she had been for thirty years, 
 it was a dreadful communication indeed. 
 
 ‘'No hopes, Docthor!” he exclaimed, with a 
 bewildered air: “did you say no hopes. Sir? — 
 Oh ! no, you didn’t — you couldn’t say that there’s 
 no hopes! ” 
 
 “ The hopes of her recovery, Mr. Connell, are 
 but slender, — if any.” 
 
 “ Docthor, I’m a rich man, thanks be to God 
 
 an’ to ” he hesitated, cast back a rapid and 
 
 troubled look towards the bed whereon she lay, 
 then proceeded — “ no matther, I’m a rich man : 
 but if you can spare her to me. I’ll divide what 
 I’m worth in this world wid you: I will. Sir; an’ 
 if that won’t do. I’ll give up my last shillin’ to 
 save her, an’ thin I’d beg my bit an’ sup through 
 the counthry, only let me have her wid me.” 
 
 “ As far as my skill goes,” said the doctor, “ I 
 shall, of course, exert it to save her; but there 
 are some diseases which we are almost always able 
 to pronounce fatal at first sight. This, I fear, is 
 one of them. Still I do not bid you despair — 
 there is, I trust, a shadow of hope.” 
 
 “ The blessin’ o’ the Almighty be upon you, 
 Sir, for that word! The best blessing of the 
 heavenly Father rest upon you an’ yours for it! ” 
 
190 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ I shall return in the course of the day,” con- 
 tinued the physician; “ and as you feel the dread 
 of her loss so powerfully, I will bring two other 
 medical gentlemen of skill with me.” 
 
 “ Heavens reward you for that. Sir! The 
 heavens above reward you an’ them for it! Pay- 
 ment! — och, that signifies hut little; but you an’ 
 thim ’ll he well paid. Oh, Docthor, achora, thry 
 an’ save her! — Och, thry an’ save her! ” 
 
 “ Keep her easy,” replied the doctor, “ and let 
 my directions be faithfully followed. In the 
 mean time, Mr. Connell, be a man, and display 
 proper fortitude under a dispensation which is 
 common to all men in your state.” 
 
 To talk of resignation to Peter was an abuse 
 of words. The poor man had no more perception 
 of the consolations arising from a knowledge 
 of religion than a child. Plis heart sank with- 
 in him, for the prop on which his affections 
 had rested was suddenly struck down from un- 
 der them. 
 
 Poor Ellish was in a dreadful state. Her mal- 
 ady seized her in the very midst of her worldly- 
 mindedness ; and the current of her usual 
 thoughts, when stopped by the aberrations of 
 intellect peculiar to her illness, bubbled up, dur- 
 ing the temporary returns of reason, with a 
 stronger relish of the world. It was utterly im- 
 possible for a woman like her, whose habits of 
 thought, and the tendency of whose affections, 
 had been all directed towards the acquisition of 
 wealth, to wrench them for ever and at once from 
 the objects on which they were fixed. This, at 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 191 
 
 any time, would have been to her a difficult vic- 
 tory to achieve; but now, when stunned by the 
 stroke of disease, and confused by the pangs of 
 severe suffering, tortured by a feverish pulse and 
 a burning brain, to expect that she could experi- 
 ence the calm hopes of religion, or feel the sooth- 
 ing power of Christian sorrow, was utter folly. 
 ’Tis true, her life had been a harmless one: her 
 example, as an industrious and enterprising mem- 
 ber of society, was worthy of imitation. She was 
 an excellent mother, a good neighbour, and an 
 admirable wife; but the duties arising out of 
 these different relations of life, were all made 
 subservient to, and mixed up with, her great prin- 
 ciple of advancing herself in the world, whilst 
 that which is to come never engaged one moment’s 
 serious consideration. 
 
 When F ather Mulcahy came to administer the 
 rites of the church to Ellish, he found her in a 
 state of incoherency. Occasional gleams of rea- 
 son broke out through the cloud that obscured 
 her intellect, but they carried with them the marks 
 of a mind knit indissolubly to wealth and aggran- 
 disement. The same tenor of thought, and the 
 same broken fragments of ambitious speculation, 
 floated in rapid confusion through the tempests 
 of dehrium which swept with awful darkness over 
 her spirit. 
 
 “ Mrs. Connell,” said he, can you collect your- 
 self? Strive to compose your mind, so far as to 
 be able to receive the aids of religion.” 
 
 “ Oh, oh ! — ^my blood’s boilin’ ! Is that — is that 
 Father Mulcahy?” 
 
192 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “It is, dear: strive now to keep your mind 
 calm, till you prepare yourself for judgment.’’ 
 
 “ Keep up his head, Paddy — keep up his head, 
 or he’ll be smothered undher the wather an’ the 
 sludge. Here, Mike, take this rope : pull, man, — 
 pull, or the horse will be lost! Oh, my head! — 
 I’m boilin’ — I’m burnin’ ! ” 
 
 “ Mrs. Cornell, let me entreat you to remember 
 that you are on the point of death, and should 
 raise your heart to God, for the pardon and remis- 
 sion of your sins.” 
 
 “ Oh! Father dear, I neglected that, but I in- 
 tinded — I intinded — ^Where’s Pether? — bring, 
 bring — Pether to me ! ” 
 
 “ Turn your thoughts to God now, my dear. 
 Are you clear enough in your mind for confes- 
 sion? ” 
 
 “ I am, Father; I am avourneen. Come, come 
 here, Pether! Pether, I’m goin’ to lave you, 
 asthore machree ! I could part wid them all but 
 — but you!' 
 
 “ Mrs. Connell, for Heaven’s sake ” 
 
 “ Is this — is this — Father Mulcahy? Oh! I’m 
 iU— ill! 
 
 “ It is, dear; it is. Compose yourself and con- 
 fess your sins.” 
 
 “ Where’s Mary? She’ll neglect — neglect to 
 
 lay in a stock o’ linen, although I — I Oh, 
 
 Father, avourneen! won’t you pity me? I’m sick 
 — oh, I’m very sick!” 
 
 “ You are, dear — you are, God help you, very 
 sick, but you’ll be better soon. Could you con- 
 fess, dear? — do you think you could? ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 193 
 
 “ Oh, this pain — this pain ! — it’s killin’ me ! — 
 Pether — Pether, a suillish machree/^ have you 
 des — have you desarted me? ” 
 
 The priest, conjecturing that if Peter made 
 his appearance, she might feel soothed, and per- 
 haps sufficiently composed to confess, called him 
 in from the next room. 
 
 “ Here’s Peter,” said the priest, presenting 
 him to her view — ‘‘ Here’s Peter, dear.” 
 
 “ Oh! what a load is on me! — this pain — this 
 pain — is killin’ me — won’t you bring me Pether? 
 Oh, what will I do? Who’s there? ” 
 
 The mental pangs of poor Peter were, per- 
 haps, equal in intensity to those which she suf- 
 fered physically. 
 
 “ Ellish,” said he, in smothered sobs — “ Ellish, 
 acushla machree, sure I’m wid you here; here I’m 
 sittin’ on the bed wid you, aehora machree.” 
 
 ‘‘ Catch my hand, thin. Ah, Pether! won’t 
 you pity your Ellish? — Won’t you pity me — 
 won’t you pity me? Oh! this pain — this pain — 
 is killin’ me! ” 
 
 “ It is, it is, my heart’s delight — it’s killin’ 
 us both. Oh, Ellish, Ellish! I wish I was dead 
 sooner nor see you in this agony. I ever loved 
 you! — I ever an’ always loved you, avourneen 
 dheelish ; — but now I would give my heart’s best 
 blood, if it ’ud save you. Here’s Father 
 Mulcahy come.” 
 
 “ About the mon — about the money — Pether — 
 what do you intind — Oh! my blood — my blood’s 
 a-fire! — Mother o’ Heaven! — Oh! this pain is — 
 is takin’ me from all — all! — Rise me up! ” 
 
 III— 13 
 
194 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Here, my darlin’ — ^treasure o’ my heart — 
 here — I’m puttin’ your head upon my breast — 
 upon my breast, Ellish, ahagur. Marciful Vir- 
 gin — Father dear,” said Peter, bursting into 
 hitter tears — “her head’s like fire! Oh! Ellish, 
 Ellish, Elfish! — but my heart’s brakin’ to feel 
 this! Have marcy on her, sweet God — have 
 marcy on her! Bear witness. Father of heaven 
 — bear witness, an’ hear the vow of a brakin’ 
 heart. I here solemnly promise, before God, 
 to make, if I’m spared fife an’ health to do it, 
 a Station on my bare feet to Lough Derg, if 
 it plases you, sweet Father o’ pity, to spare her 
 to me this day! Oh! but the hand o’ God, 
 Father dear, is terrible! — feel her brow! — Oh! 
 but it’s terrible! ” 
 
 “ It is terrible,” said the priest; “ and terribly 
 is it laid upon her, poor woman! Peter, do not 
 let this scene be lost. Remember it.” 
 
 “Oh, Father dear, can I ever forget it? — 
 can I ever forget seein’ my darlin’ in sich 
 agony? ” 
 
 “ Pether,” said the sick woman, “ will you get 
 the car ready for to-mor — ^to-morrow — till I look 
 at that piece o’ land that Dan bought, before 
 he — he closes the bargain? ” 
 
 “Father, jewel!” said Peter, “can’t you get 
 the world banished out of her heart? Oh, I’d 
 give all I’m worth to see that heart fixed upon 
 God! I could bear to part wid her, for she must 
 die some time ; but to go wid this world’s thoughts 
 an’ timptations ragin’ strong in her heart — 
 mockin’ God, an’ hope, an’ religion, an’ every- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 195 
 
 tiling: — oh! that I can’t hear! Sweet Jasus, 
 change her heart! — Queen o’ Heaven, have pity 
 on her, an’ save her! ” 
 
 The husband wept with great sorrow as he 
 uttered these words. 
 
 “ Neither reasoning nor admonition can avail 
 her,” replied the priest; “she is so incoherent 
 that no train of thought is continued for a single 
 minute in her mind. I will, however, address 
 her again. Mrs. Connell, wiU you make a strug- 
 gle to pay attention to me for a few minutes? 
 Are you not afraid to meet God? You are 
 about to die! — prepare yourself for judgment.” 
 “Oh, Father dear! I can’t — I can’t — I am 
 af — afraid — Hooh! — hooh! — God! You must do 
 somethin’ for — for me! I ne-ver done anything 
 for myself.” 
 
 “ Glory be to God! that she has that much 
 sinse, any way,” exclaimed the husband. 
 “ Father, ahagur, I trust my vow was heard.” 
 
 “ Well, my dear — listen to me,” continued the 
 priest — “ can you not make the best confession 
 possible? Could you calm yourself for it? ” 
 
 “ Pether, avick machree — Pether,” — 
 
 “ Ellish, avourneen, I’m here! — my darlin’, I 
 am your vick machree, an’ ever was. Oh, 
 Father 1 my heart’s brakin’ ! I can’t bear to part 
 wid her. Father of heaven, pity us this day of 
 throuble! ” 
 
 “ Be near me, Pether; stay wid me — I’m very 
 lonely. Is this you keepin’ my head up? ” 
 
 “ It is, it is! I’ll never lave you till — till ” — 
 
196 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 ‘‘Is the carman come from Dublin wid — wid 
 the broad-cloth? 
 
 “Father of heaven! she’s gone back again!” 
 exclaimed the husband. “Father, jewel! have 
 you no prayers that you’d read for her? You 
 wor ordained for these things, an’ cornin’ from 
 you^ they’ll have more stringth. Can you do 
 nothin’ to save my darlin’? ” 
 
 “ My prayers will not be wanting,” said the 
 priest: “but I am watching for an interval of 
 sufficient calmness to hear her confession; and I 
 very much fear that she will pass in darkness. 
 At all events, I will anoint her by and by. In 
 the mean time, we must persevere a little longer ; 
 she may become easier, for it often happens that 
 reason gets clear immediately before death.” 
 
 Peter sobbed aloud, and wiped away the tears 
 that streamed from his cheeks. At this moment 
 her daughter and son-in-law stole in, to ascer- 
 tain how she was, and whether the rites of the 
 church had in any degree soothed or composed 
 her. 
 
 “ Come in, Denis,” said the priest to his 
 nephew, “ you may both come in. Mrs. Mul- 
 cahy, speak to your mother: let us try every 
 remedy that might possibly bring her to a sense 
 of her awful state.” 
 
 “ Is she raving still? ” inquired the daughter, 
 whose eyes were red with weeping. 
 
 The priest shook his head; — “ Ah, she is — she 
 is! and I fear she will scarcely recover her rea- 
 son before the judgment of heaven opens upon 
 her! ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 197 
 
 “ Oh thin may the Mother of Glory forbid 
 that!” exclaimed her daughter — “anything at 
 all but that! Can you do nothin’ for her, 
 uncle? ” 
 
 “ I’m doing all I can for her, Mary,” replied 
 the priest; “I’m watching a calm moment to 
 get her confession, if possible.” 
 
 The sick woman had fallen into a momentary 
 silence, during which she caught the bed-clothes 
 like a child, and felt them, and seemed to handle 
 their texture, but with such an air of vacancy 
 as clearly manifested that no corresponding as- 
 sociation existed in her mind. 
 
 The action was immediately understood by all 
 present. Her daughter again burst into tears; 
 and Peter, now almost choked with grief, press- 
 ing the sick woman to his heart, kissed her burn- 
 ing lips. 
 
 “ Father, jewel,” said the daughter, “ there it 
 is, and I feared it — the sign, uncle — the sign! 
 — don’t you see her gropin’ the clothes? Oh, 
 mother, darlin’, darlin’! — are we going to lose 
 you for ever? ” 
 
 “ Oh! Ellish, Ellish — won’t you spake one word 
 to me afore you go? Won’t you take one fare- 
 well of me — of ME, aroon asthore, before you 
 depart from us for ever!” exclaimed her hus- 
 band. 
 
 “ Feehng the bed-clothes,” said the priest, “ is 
 not always a sign of death; I have known many 
 to recover after it.” 
 
 “ Husht,” said Peter — “ husht! — Mary — 
 Mary! Come here — hould your tongues! Oh, 
 
198 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 it's past — it’s past! — it’s all past, an’ gone — all 
 hope’s over! Heavenly father! ” 
 
 The daughter after listening for a moment, 
 in a paroxysm of wild grief, clasped her mother’s 
 recumbent body in her arms, and kissed her lips 
 with a vehemence almost frantic. “ You won’t 
 go, my darlin’ — is it from your own Mary that 
 you’d go? Mary, that you loved best of all your 
 childhre ! — Mary, that you always said, an’ every 
 body said, was your own image! Oh, you won’t 
 go without one word, to say you know her! ” 
 
 “ For Heaven’s sake,” said Father Mulcahy, 
 “ what do you mean? — are you mad? ” 
 
 “ Oh! uncle dear! don’t you hear? — don’t you 
 hear? — listen, an’ sure you will — all hope’s gone 
 now — gone — gone! The dead rattle! — listen! 
 — the dead rattle’s in her throat! ” — 
 
 The priest bent his ear a moment, and dis- 
 tinctly heard the gurgling noise produced by 
 the phlegm, which is termed with wild poetical 
 accuracy, by the peasantry — the “ dead rattle,” 
 or “ death rattle,” because it is the immediate 
 and certain forerunner of death. 
 
 “True,” said the priest — “too true; the last 
 shadow of hope is gone. We must now make 
 as much of the time as possible. Leave the 
 room for a few minutes, till I anoint her. I will 
 then call you in.” 
 
 They accordingly withdrew, but in about fif- 
 teen or twenty minutes he once more summoned 
 them to the bed of the dying woman. 
 
 “ Come in,” said he, “ I have anointed her 
 — come in, and kneel down till we offer up a 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 199 
 
 Rosary to the Blessed Virgin, under the hope 
 that she may intercede with God for her, and 
 cause her to pass out of hfe happily. She was 
 calling for you, Peter, in your absence; you had 
 better stay with her.” 
 
 “ I will,” said Peter, in a broken voice, ‘‘ I’ll 
 stay nowhere else.” 
 
 “ An’ I’ll kneel at the bed-side,” said the 
 daughter. ‘‘ She was the kind mother to me, 
 and to us all; but to me in particular. ’Twas 
 with me she took her choice to live, when they 
 war all striving for her. Oh,” said she, taking 
 her mother’s hand between hers, and kneeling 
 down to kiss it “a Vahr dheelish!^^ did we 
 ever think to see you departing from us this 
 way! snapped away without a minute’s warning! 
 If it was a long sickness, that you’d be calm 
 and sinsible in; but to be hurried away into 
 eternity, and your mind dark! Oh, Vahr 
 dheelish, my heart is broke to see you this way ! ” 
 
 “Be calm,” said the priest; “be quiet till I 
 open the Rosary.” 
 
 He then offered up the usual prayers which 
 precede its repetition, and after having concluded 
 them, commenced what is properly called the 
 Rosary itself, which consists of fifteen Decades, 
 each Decade containing the Hail Mary repeated 
 ten times, and the Lord’s Prayer once. In this 
 manner the Decade goes round from one to 
 another, until, as we have said above, it is re- 
 peated fifteen times; or, in all the Ave Mafias 
 one hundred and sixty-five times, without varia- 
 tion. From the indistinct utterance, elevated 
 
200 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 voice, and rapid manner in which it is pro- 
 nounced, it certainly has a wild, and is more 
 strongly impressed with the character of a mystic 
 rite, or incantation, than with any other religious 
 ceremony with which we could compare it. 
 
 When the priest had repeated the first part, 
 he paused for the response; neither the husband 
 nor daughter, however, could find utterance. 
 
 “ Denis,” said he, to his nephew, “ do you 
 take up the next.” 
 
 His nephew complied ; and with much difficulty 
 Peter and his daughter were able to join in it, 
 repeating here and there a word or two, as well 
 as their grief and sobbings would permit them. 
 
 The heart must indeed have been an unfeel- 
 ing one, to which a scene like this would not 
 have been deeply touching and impressive. The 
 poor dying woman reclined with her head upon 
 her husband’s bosom; the daughter knelt at the 
 bed-side, with her mother’s hand pressed against 
 her bps, she herself convulsed with sorrow — ^the 
 priest was in the attitude of earnest supplica- 
 tion, having the stole about his neck, his face 
 and arms raised towards heaven — the son-in-law 
 was bent over a chair, with his face buried in his 
 hands. Nothing could exceed the deep, the 
 powerful expression of entreaty, which marked 
 every tone and motion of the parties, especially 
 those of the husband and daughter. They 
 poured an energy into the few words which they 
 found voice to utter, and displayed such a con- 
 centration of the faculties of the soul in their 
 wild unregulated attitudes, and streaming up- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 201 
 
 turned eyes, as would seem to imply that their 
 own salvation depended upon that of the be- 
 loved object before them. Their words, too, 
 were accompanied by such expressive tokens of 
 their attachment to her, that the character of 
 prayer was heightened by the force of the af- 
 fection which they bore her. When Peter, for 
 instance, could command himself to utter a word, 
 he pressed his dying wife to his bosom, and 
 raised his eyes to heaven in a manner that would 
 have melted any human heart ; and the daughter, 
 on joining occasionally in the response, pressed 
 her mother’s hand to her heart, and kissed it 
 with her lips, conscious that the awful state of 
 her parent had rendered more necessary the 
 performance of the two tenderest duties con- 
 nected with a cliild’s obedience — prayer and af- 
 fection. 
 
 When the son-in-law had finished his Decade, 
 a pause followed, for there was none now to 
 proceed but her husband or her daughter. 
 
 “ Mary, dear,” said the priest, “ be a woman; 
 don’t let your love for your mother prevent 
 you from performing a higher duty. Go on 
 with the prayer — you see she is passing fast.” 
 
 “I’ll try, uncle,” she replied — “I’ll try; but 
 — but — it’s hard, hard, upon me.” 
 
 She commenced, and by an imcommon effort 
 so far subdued her grief, as to render her words 
 intelligible. Her eyes, streaming with tears, 
 were fixed with a mixture of wildness, sorrow, 
 and devotedness, upon the countenance of her 
 mother, until she had completed her Decade. 
 
202 
 
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 Another pause ensued. It was now necessary, 
 according to the order and form of the Prayer, 
 that Peter should commence, and offer up his 
 supplications for the happy passage from life 
 to eternity of her who had been his inward idol 
 during a long period. Peter knew nothing 
 about sentiment, or the philosophy of sorrow; 
 but he loved his wife with the undivided power 
 of a heart in which nature had implanted her 
 strongest affections. He knew, too, that his 
 wife had loved him with a strength of heart 
 equal to his own. He loved her, and she de- 
 served his love. 
 
 The pause, when the prayer had gone round 
 to him, was long; those who were present at 
 length turned their eyes towards him, and the 
 priest, now deeply affected, cleared his voice, and 
 simply said, “ Peter,” to remind him that it was 
 his duty to proceed with the Rosary. 
 
 Peter, however, instead of uttering the prayer, 
 burst out into a tide of irrepressible sorrow. — 
 “ Oh!” said he, enfolding her in his arms, and 
 pressing his lips to hers : “ Elhsh, ahagur machree ! 
 sure when I think of all the goodness, an’ kind- 
 ness, an’ tendherness that you showed me — whin 
 I think of your smiles upon me, whin you wanted 
 me to do the right, an’ the innocent plans you 
 made out, to benefit me an’ mine 1 — Oh where was 
 your harsh word, a villish? — where was your 
 could brow, or your bad tongue? Nothin’ but 
 goodness — nothin’ but kindness, an’ love, an 
 wisdom, ever flowed from these lips! An’ now, 
 darlin’, pulse o’ my broken heart! these same 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 203 
 
 lips can’t spake to me — these eyes don’t know 
 me — these hands don’t feel me — nor your ears 
 doesn’t hear me! ” 
 
 “ Is — is — it you? "" replied his wife, feebly — 
 “ is it — YOU? — come — come near me — my heart 
 — my heart says it misses you — come near me! ” 
 
 Peter again pressed her in an embrace, and 
 in doing so, unconsciously received the parting 
 breath of a wife whose prudence and affection 
 had saved him from poverty, and, probably, 
 from folly or crime. 
 
 The priest, on turning round to rebuke Peter 
 for not proceeding with the prayer, was the ^irs^ 
 who discovered that she had died; for the grief 
 of her husband was too violent to permit him 
 to notice anything with much accuracy. 
 
 “ Peter,” said he, ‘‘ I beg your pardon ; let 
 me take the trouble of supporting her for a 
 few minutes, after which I must talk to you 
 seriously — very seriously.” 
 
 The firm, authoritative tone in which the priest 
 spoke, together with Peter’s consciousness that 
 he had acted wrongly by neglecting to join in 
 the rosary, induced him to retire from the bed 
 with a rebuked air. The priest immediately laid 
 back the head of Mrs. Connell on the pillow, 
 and composed the features of her lifeless face 
 with his own hands. Until this moment none 
 of them, except himself, knew that she was dead. 
 
 “ Now,” continued he, “ all her cares, and 
 hopes, and speculations, touching this world are 
 over — so is her pain; her blood will soon be cold 
 enough, and her head will ache no more. She is 
 
204 
 
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 dead. Grief is therefore natural; but let it be 
 the grief of a man, Peter. Indeed, it is less 
 painful to look upon her now, than when she 
 suffered such excessive agony. Mrs. Mulcahy, 
 hear me! Oh, it’s in vain! Well, well, it is but 
 natural; for it was an unexpected and a pain- 
 ful death! ” 
 
 The cries of her husband and daughter soon 
 gave intimation to her servants that her pangs 
 were over. From the servants it immediately 
 went to the neighbours, and thus did the circle 
 widen until it reached the furthest ends of the 
 parish. In a short time, also, the mournful 
 sounds of the church-bell, in slow and measured 
 strokes, gave additional notice that a Christian 
 soul had passed into eternity. 
 
 It is in such scenes as these that the Roman 
 Catholic clergy knit themselves so strongly into 
 the ‘affections of the people. All men are natu- 
 rally disposed to feel the offices of kindness and 
 friendship more deeply, when tendered at the 
 bed of death or of sickness, than under any 
 other circumstances. Both the sick-bed and the 
 house of death are necessarily the sphere of a 
 priest’s duty, and to render them that justice 
 which we will ever render, when and whereso- 
 ever it may be due, we freely grant that many 
 shining, nay, noble instances of Christian virtue 
 are displayed by them on such occasions. 
 
 When the violence of grief produced by 
 Ellish’s death had subsided, the priest, after 
 giving them suitable exhortations to bear the 
 affliction which had just befallen them with 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 205 
 
 patience, told Peter, that as God, through the 
 great industry and persevering exertions of her 
 who had then departed to another world, had 
 blessed him abundantly with wealth and sub- 
 stance, it was, considering the little time which 
 had been allowed her to repent in a satisfactory 
 manner for her transgressions, his bounden and 
 solemn duty to set aside a suitable portion of 
 that wealth for the delivery of her soul from 
 purgatory, where, he trusted, in the mercy of 
 God, it was permitted to remain. 
 
 “ Indeed, your Reverence,” replied Peter, “ it 
 wasn’t necessary to mintion it, considherin’ the 
 way she was cut off from among us, widout even 
 time to confess.” 
 
 “ But blessed be God,” said the daughter, “ she 
 received the ointment at any rate, and that of 
 itself would get her to purgatory.” 
 
 And I can answer for her,” said Peter, “ that 
 she intended, as soon as she’d get everything 
 properly settled for the childhre, to make her 
 sowl.” 
 
 “ Ah! good intentions,” said the priest, “ wont 
 do. I, however, have forewarned you of your 
 duty, and must now leave the guilt or the merit 
 of relieving her departed spirit, upon you and the 
 other members of her family, who are all bound to 
 leave nothing undone that may bring her from 
 pain and fire, to peace and happiness.” 
 
 “ Och ! och ! asthore, asthore 1 you’re lyin’ there 
 — an’, oh, Ellish, avourneen, could you think that 
 I — I — would spare money — trash — to bring you 
 to glory wid the angels o’ heaven! No, no. 
 
206 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 F ather dear. It’s good, an’ kind an’ thoughtful 
 of you to put it into my head; but I didn’t in- 
 tind to neglect or forget it. Oh, how will I live 
 wantin’ her. Father? When I rise in the 
 mornin’, a villish, where’ll be your smile and 
 your voice? We won’t hear your step, nor see 
 you as we used to do, movin’ pleasantly about 
 the place. No — you’re gone, avourneen — ^gone 
 — an we’ll see you and hear you no more ! ” 
 
 His grief was once more about to burst forth, 
 but the priest led him out of the room, kindly 
 chid him for the weakness of his immoderate 
 sorrow, and after making arrangements about 
 the celebration of mass for the dead, pressed his 
 hand, and bade the family farewell. 
 
 The death of Ellish excited considerable sur- 
 prise, and much conversation in the neighbour- 
 hood. Every point of her character was dis- 
 cussed freely, and the comparisons instituted 
 between her and Peter were any thing but flat- 
 tering to the intellect of her husband. 
 
 “ An’ so Ellish is whipped off, Larry,” said a 
 neighbour to one of Peter’s labouring men. 
 “ Faix, an’ the best feather in their wing is 
 gone.” 
 
 “ Ay, sure enough, Risthard, you may say that. 
 It was her cleverness made them what they are. 
 She was the best manager in the three king- 
 doms.” 
 
 “ Ah, she was the woman could make a bar- 
 gain. I only hope she hasn’t brought the luck 
 o’ the family away wid her! ” 
 
 “Why, man alive, she made the sons and 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 207 
 
 daughters as clever as herself — put them up to 
 everything. Indeed, it’s quare to think of how 
 that one woman brought them an, an’ ris them 
 to what they are! ” 
 
 ‘‘ They shouldn’t forget themselves as they’re 
 doin’, thin; for betune you an’ me, they’re as 
 proud as Turks, an’ God he sees it ill becomes 
 them — sits very badly on them itself, when every- 
 body knows that their father an’ mother begun 
 the world wid a bottle of private whiskey an’ 
 half a pound of smuggled tobaccy.” 
 
 “ Poor Pether will break his heart, any way. 
 Oh, man, but she was the good wife. I’m livin’ 
 wid them goin’ an seven year, an’ never hard 
 a cross word from the one to the other. It’s 
 she that had the sweet tongue all out, an’ did 
 manage him; but, afther all, he was worth the 
 full o’ the Royal George of her. Many a time 
 when some poor craythur ’ud come to ax whiskey 
 on score to put over some o’ their friends, or 
 for a weddin’, or a christenin’, maybe, an’ when 
 the wife ’ud refuse it, Pether ’ud send what 
 whiskey they wanted afther them, widout lettin’ 
 her know anything about it. An’, indeed, he 
 never lost anything by that; for if they wor to 
 sell their cow, he should be ped, in regard of 
 the kindly way he gave it to them.” 
 
 “ Well, we’ll see how they’ll manage now that 
 she’s gone; but Pether an’ the youngest daugh- 
 ther, Mary, is to be pitied.” 
 
 “ The sarra much; barrin’ that they’ll miss her 
 at first from about the place. You see she has 
 left them above the world, an’ full of it. 
 
208 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Wealth and substance enough may they thank 
 her for; and that’s very good comfort for sor- 
 sow, Risthard.” 
 
 “ Faith, sure enough, Larry. There’s no lie 
 in that, any way! ” 
 
 “Awouh! Lie! I have you about it.” 
 
 Such was the view which had been taken of 
 their respective characters through hfe. Yet 
 notwithstanding that the hearts of her acquaint- 
 ances never warmed to her — to use a significant 
 expression current among the peasantry — as they 
 did to Peter, still she was respected almost in- 
 voluntarily for the indefatigable perseverance 
 with which she pushed forward her own interests 
 through life. Her funeral was accordingly a 
 large one ; and the conversation which took place 
 at it, turning, as it necessarily did, upon her 
 extraordinary talents and industry, was highly 
 to the credit of her memory and virtues. In- 
 deed, the attendance of many respectable persons 
 of all creeds and opinions, gave ample proof 
 that the quahties she possessed had secured for 
 her general respect and admiration. 
 
 Poor Peter, who was an object of great com- 
 passion, felt himself completely crushed by the 
 death of his faithful partner. The reader 
 knows that he had hitherto been a sober, and, 
 owing to Ellish’s prudent control, an industrious 
 man. To thought or reflection he was not, how- 
 ever, accustomed; he had, besides, never re- 
 ceived any education; if his morals were correct, 
 it was because a hfe of active employment had 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 209 
 
 kept him engaged in pursuits which repressed 
 immorality, and separated him from those whose 
 society and influence might have been prejudi- 
 cial to him. He had scarcely known calamity, and 
 when it occurred he was prepared for it neither 
 by experience, nor a correct view of moral duty. 
 On the morning of his wife’s funeral, such was 
 his utter prostration both of mind and body, that 
 even his own sons, in order to resist the singular 
 state of collapse into which he had sunk, urged 
 him to take some spirits. He was completely 
 passive in their hands, and complied. This had 
 the desired effect, and he found himself able 
 to attend the funeral. When the friends of 
 Ellish assembled, after the interment, as is usual, 
 to drink and talk together, Peter, who could 
 scarcely join in the conversation, swallowed glass 
 after glass of punch with great rapidity. In 
 the mean time, the talk became louder and more 
 animated; the punch, of course, began to work, 
 and as they sat long, it was curious to observe 
 the singular blending of mirth and sorrow, sing- 
 ing and weeping, laughter and tears, which 
 characterised this remarkable scene. Peter, after 
 about two hours’ hard drinking, was not an ex- 
 ception to the influence of this trait of national 
 manners. His heart having been deeply agi- 
 tated, was the more easily brought under the 
 effects of contending emotions. He was natu- 
 rally mirthful, and when intoxication had stimu- 
 lated the current of his wonted humour, the in- 
 
 • fluence of this and his recent sorrow, produced 
 III— 14 
 
210 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 such an anomalous commixture of fun and grief 
 as could seldom, out of Ireland, be found check- 
 ering the mind of one individual. 
 
 It was in the midst of this extraordinary din 
 that his voice was heard commanding silence in 
 its loudest and best-humoured key : 
 
 “ Hould yer tongues,” said he; “ bad win to 
 yees, don’t you hear me wantin’ to sing ! Whist 
 wid yees. Hem — och — Rise up ’ — ^Why, thin, 
 Phil Callaghan, you might thrate me wid more 
 dacency, if you had gumption in you; I’m sure 
 no one has a betther right to sing first in this 
 company nor myself; an’ what’s more, I will 
 sing first. Hould your tongues! Hem!” 
 
 He accordingly commenced a popular song, 
 the air of which, though simple, was touchingly 
 mournful. 
 
 ** Och, rise up, Willy Reilly, an* come alongst wid me, 
 
 I’m goin’ for to go wid you, and lave this coun-ter-ee; 
 
 I’m goin’ to lave my father, his castles and free lands — 
 An’ away wint Willy Reilly, an’ his own Colleen Bawn. 
 
 “ Och, they wint o’er hills an’ mountains, and valleys that 
 was fair. 
 
 An’ fled before her father, as you may shortly hear; 
 
 Her father followed afther wid a well-chosen armed band, 
 Och, an’ taken was poor Reilly, an’ his own Collen Bawn.” 
 
 The simple pathos of the tune, the affection 
 implied by the words, and probably the misfor- 
 tune of Willy Reilly, all overcame him. He 
 finished the second verse with difficulty, and on 
 attempting to commence a third he burst into 
 tears. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 211 
 
 “Colleen bawn! (fair, or fair-haired, girl) — 
 Colleen bawn!” he exclaimed: “she’s lyin’ low 
 that was my colleen bawn! Oh, will ye hould 
 your tongues, an’ let me think of what has ha])- 
 pened me? She’s gone: Mary, avourneen, isn’t 
 she gone from us? I’m alone, an’ I’ll be always 
 lonely. Who have I now to comfort me? I 
 know I have good childhre, neighbours ; but 
 none o’ them, all of them, if they wor ten times 
 as many, isn’t aqual to her that’s in the grave. 
 Her hands won’t be about me — there was tin- 
 dherness in their very touch. An’, of a Sunday 
 mornin’, how she’d tie an my handkerchy, for 
 I never could rightly tie it an myself, the knot 
 was ever an’ always too many for me; but, och, 
 och, she’d tie it an so snug an’ purty wid her 
 own hands, that I didn’t look the same man! 
 The same song was her favourite. Here’s your 
 healths; an’ sure it’s the first time ever we wor 
 together that she wasn’t wid us : but now, avillish, 
 you’re voice is gone- — ^you’re silent an’ lonely in 
 the grave; an’ why shouldn’t I be sarry for the 
 wife o’ my heart that never angered me? Why 
 shouldn’t I? Ay, JNIary, asthore, machree, good 
 right you have to cry afther her; she was the 
 kind mother to you ; her heart was fixed in you ; 
 there’s her fatures on your face; her very eyes, 
 an’ fair hair, too, an’ I’ll love you, achora, ten 
 times more nor ever, for her sake. Another 
 favourite song of hers, God rest her, was ‘ Brian 
 O’Lynn.’ Throth an’ I’ll sing it, so I will, for 
 if she was livin’ she’d like it. 
 
212 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 * Och, Brian O’Lynn, he had milk an’ male, 
 A two-lugged porringer wantin’ a tail/ 
 
 Och, my head’s through other! The sarra one 
 o’ me I bleeve, hut’s out o’ the words, or, as 
 they say, there’s a hole in the ballad. Send 
 round the punch will ye? By the hole o’ my 
 coat, Parra Gastha, I’ll whale you widin an inch 
 of 3^our life, if you don’t dhrink. Send round 
 the punch, Dan; an’ give us a song, Parra 
 Gastha. Arrah, Paddy, do you remimber — ha, 
 ha, ha — upon my credit. I’ll never forget it, the 
 fun we had catchin’ Father Soolaghan’s horse, 
 the day he gave his shirt to the sick man in 
 the ditch. The Lord rest his sowl in glory — 
 ha, ha, ha — I’ll never forget it. Paddy, the 
 song, you thief? ” 
 
 “No, but tell them about that, Misther Con- 
 nell.” 
 
 “ Throth, an’ I will; but don’t be Mistherin 
 me. Faith, this is the height o’ good punch. 
 You see — ha, ha, ha! You see, it was one hard 
 summer afore I was marrid to Ellish — ^mavour- 
 neen, that you wor, asthore! Och, och, are we 
 parted at last? Upon my sowl, my heart’s 
 breakin’ — ^breakin’, (weeps) ; an’ no wondher! 
 But as I was sayin’ — all your healths! faith, it 
 is tip-top punch that — the poor man fell sick of 
 a faver, an’ sure enough, when it was known 
 what ailed him, the neighbours built a little shed 
 on the roadside for him, in regard that every 
 one was afeard to let him into their place. How- 
 somever — ha, ha, ha — Father Soolaghan was one 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 213 
 
 day ridin’ past upon his horse, an’ seein’ the 
 crathur lyin’ undher the shed, on a wishp o’ 
 sthraw, he pulls bridle, an’ puts the spake an 
 the poor sthranger. So, begad, it came out, 
 that the neighbours were very kind to him, an’ 
 used to hand over whatsomever they thought best 
 for him from the back o’ the ditch, as well as 
 they could. 
 
 “ ‘ poor fellow,’ said the priest, ‘ you’re 
 badly off for linen.’ 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ Thrue for you. Sir,’ said the sick man, ‘ I 
 never longed for anything so much in my life, 
 as I do for a clane shirt an’ a glass o’ whiskey.’ 
 
 “ ‘ The devil a glass o’ whiskey I have about 
 me, but you shall have the clane shirt, you poor 
 compassionate crathur,’ said the priest, stretchin’ 
 his neck up an’ down, to make sure there was 
 no one cornin’ on the road — ha, ha, ha! 
 
 “Well an’ good — ‘I have three shirts,’ says 
 his Reverence, ‘ but I have only one o’ them an 
 me, an’ that you shall have.’ 
 
 “ So the priest peels himself on the spot, an’ 
 lays his black coat and waistcoat afore him 
 acrass the saddle, thin takin’ off his shirt, he 
 threwn it acrass the ditch to the sick man. 
 Whether it was the white shirt, or the black 
 coat danglin’ about the horse’s neck, the divil 
 a one o’ myself can say, but any way, the baste 
 tuck fright, an’ made off wid Father Soolaghan, 
 in the state I’m telKn’ yez, upon his back — ha, 
 ha, ha! 
 
 “ Parra Gastha, here, an’ I war goin’ up at 
 the time to do a little in the distillin’ way for 
 
214 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Tom Duggan of Aidinasamlagh, an’ seen what 
 was goin’ an. So off we set, an’ we splittin’ 
 our sides laughin’ — ha, ha, ha — at the figure the 
 priest cut. However, we could do no good, an’ 
 he never could pull up the horse, till he came 
 full flight to his own house, opposite the pound 
 there below, and the whole town in convulsions 
 when they seen him. We gather up his clothes, 
 an’ brought them home to him, an’ a good piece 
 o’ fun we had wid him, for he loved the joke 
 as well as any man. Well, he was the good 
 an’ charitable man, the same Father Soolaghan; 
 but so simple that he got himself into fifty 
 scrapes, God rest him ! Och, och, she’s lyin' low 
 that often laughed at that, an’ I’m here — ay, I 
 have no one, no one that ’ud show me sich a 
 warm heart as she would, {weeps). However, 
 God’s will be done. I’ll sing yez a song she 
 liked : — 
 
 Och, Brian O’Lynn, he had milk an’ male, 
 
 A two-lugged porringer wantin’ a tail.’ 
 
 Musha, I’m out agin — ha, ha, ha! Why, I 
 b’lieve there’s pishthrogues an me, or I’d remem- 
 ber it. Rud-an-age, dhrink all of ye. Lie in 
 to the liquor, I say ; don’t spare it. Here, Mike, 
 send us up another gallon. Faith, we’ll make 
 a night of it. 
 
 ‘ Och, three maidens a milkin’ did go 
 An’ three maidens a milkin’ did go; 
 
 An’ the winds they blew high. 
 
 An’ the winds they blew low. 
 
 An’ they dashed their milkin’ pails to an’ fro.’ 
 
 All your healths, childhre! Neighbours, all your 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 215 
 
 healths! don’t spare what’s before ye. It’s long 
 since I tuck a jorum myself an — come, I say, 
 plase God, we’ll often meet this way, so we will. 
 Faith, I’ll take a sup from this forrid, wid a 
 blessin’. Dhrink, I say, dhrink! ” 
 
 By the time he had arrived at this pitch, he 
 was able to engross no great portion either of 
 the conversation or attention. Almost every one 
 present had his songs, his sorrows, his laughter, 
 or his anecdotes, as well as himself. Every 
 voice was loud; and every tongue busy. Intri- 
 cate and entangled was the talk, which, on the 
 present occasion, presented a union of all the 
 extremes which the lights and shadows of the 
 Irish character alone could exhibit under such 
 a calamity as that which brought the friends of 
 the deceased together. 
 
 Peter literally fulfilled his promise of taking 
 a jorum in future. He was now his own mas- 
 ter; and as he felt the loss of his wife deeply, 
 he unhappily had recourse to the bottle, to bury 
 the recollection of a woman, whose death left a 
 chasm in his heart, which he thought nothing 
 but the whiskey could fill up. 
 
 His transition from a life of perfect sobriety 
 to one of habitual, nay, of daily intoxication, w^as 
 immediate. He could not bear to be sober; and 
 his extraordinary bursts of affliction, even in his 
 cups, were often calculated to draw tears from 
 the eyes of those who witnessed them. He usu- 
 ally went out in the morning with a flask of 
 whiskey in his pocket, and sat dowm to weep be- 
 hind a ditch — ^where, however, after having 
 
216 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 emptied his flask, he might be heard at a great 
 distance, singing the songs which Ellish in her 
 life-time was accustomed to love. In fact, he 
 was generally pitied; his simplicity of character, 
 and his benevolence of heart, which was now 
 exercised without fear of responsibility, made 
 him more a favourite than he ever had been. 
 His former habits of industry were thrown aside ; 
 as he said himself, he hadn’t heart to work; his 
 farms were neglected, and but for his son-in- 
 law, would have gone to ruin. Peter himself 
 was sensible of this. 
 
 “ Take them,” said he, “ into your own hands, 
 Denis; for me, I’m not able to do anything more 
 at them; she that kep me up is gone, an’ I’m 
 broken down. Take them — take them into your 
 own hands. Give me my bed, bit, an’ sup, an’ 
 that’s all I want.” 
 
 Six months produced an incredible change in 
 his appearance. Intemperance, whilst it shat- 
 tered his strong frame, kept him in frequent 
 exuberance of spirits ; but the secret grief preyed 
 on him within. Artificial excitement kills, but 
 it never cures; and Peter, in the midst of his 
 mirth and jollity, was wasting away into a 
 shadow. His children, seeing him go down the 
 hill of life so rapidly, consulted among each other 
 on the best means of winning him back to 
 sobriety. This was a difficult task, for his powers 
 of bearing liquor were prodigious. He has 
 often been known to drink so many as twenty- 
 five, and sometimes thirty tumblers of punch, 
 without being taken off his legs, or rendered in- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 217 
 
 capable of walking about. His friends, on con- 
 sidering who was most likely to recall him to 
 a more becoming life, resolved to apply to his 
 landlord — the gentleman whom we have already 
 introduced to our readers. He entered warmly 
 into their plan, and it was settled, that Peter 
 should be sent for, and induced, if possible, to 
 take an oath against liquor. Early the follow- 
 ing day a liveried servant came down to inform 
 him that his master wished to speak with him. 
 
 “To be sure,” said Peter; “ divil resave the 
 man in all Europe I’d do more for than the same 
 gintleman, if it was only on account of the re- 
 gard he had for her that’s gone. Come, I’ll go 
 wid you in a minute.” 
 
 He accordingly returned with the flask in his 
 hand, saying, “ I never thravel widout a pocket- 
 pistol, John. The times, you see, is not overly 
 safe, an’ the best way is to be prepared! — ha, 
 ha, ha! Och, och! It houlds three half -pints.” 
 “ I think,” observed the servant, “ you had 
 better not taste that till after your return.” 
 “Come away man,” said Peter; “ we’ll talk 
 upon it as we go along: I couldn’t do readily 
 
 widout it. You hard that I lost Ellish? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied the servant, “ and I was very 
 sorry to hear it.” 
 
 “ Did you attind the berrin? ” 
 
 “ No, but my master did,” replied the man; 
 “ for, indeed, his respect for your wife was very 
 great, Mr. Connell.” 
 
 This was before ten o’clock in the forenoon, 
 and about one in the afternoon a stout country- 
 
218 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 man was seen approaching the gentleman’s 
 house, with another man bent round his neck, 
 where he hung precisely as a calf hangs round 
 the shoulders of a butcher, when he is carrying 
 it to his stall. 
 
 “ Good Heavens! ” said the owner of the man- 
 sion to his lady, “ what has happened to John 
 Smith, my dear? Is he dead? ” 
 
 “ Dead! ” said his lady, going in much alarm 
 to the drawing-room window: I protest I fear 
 
 so, Frank. He is evidently dead! For God’s 
 sake go down and see what has befallen him.” 
 
 Her husband went hastily to the hall-door, 
 where he met Peter with his burden. 
 
 “ In the name of Heaven, what has happened, 
 Connell? — ^what is the matter with John? Is he 
 living or dead? ” 
 
 “ First, plase your honour, as I have him on 
 my shouldhers, will you tell me where his bed 
 is?” replied Peter. “I may as well lave him 
 snug, as my hand’s in, poor fellow. The devil’s 
 bad head he has, your honour. Faith, it’s a 
 burnin’ shame, so it is an’ nothin’ else — to be 
 able to bear so little! ” 
 
 The lady, children, and servants, were now all 
 assembled about the dead footman, who hung, 
 in the mean time, very quietly round Peter’s 
 neck. 
 
 “ Gracious Heaven! Connell, is the man 
 dead? ” she inquired. 
 
 “ Faith, thin, he is. Ma’am, — for a while any 
 how; but, upon my credit, it’s a burnin’ shame, 
 so it is,” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 219 
 
 “ The man is drunk, my dear,” said her hus- 
 band — “ he’s only drunk.” 
 
 “ a burnin’ shame, so it is — to be able to 
 
 bear no more nor about six glasses, an’ the whiskey 
 good, too. Will you ordher one o’ thim to show 
 me his bed. Ma’am, if you plase,” continued 
 Peter, “while he’s an me? It’ll save throuble.” 
 “ Connell is right,” observed his landlord. — 
 “ Gallagher, show him John’s bed-room.” 
 
 Peter accordingly followed another servant, 
 who pointed out his bed, and assisted to place 
 the vanquished footman in a somewhat easier 
 position than that in which Peter had carried 
 him. 
 
 “ ConneU,” said his landlord, when he returned, 
 “ how did this happen? ” 
 
 “ Faith, thin, it’s a burnin’ shame,” said Con- 
 nell, “ to be able only to bear ” 
 
 “ But how did it happen? for he has been 
 hitherto a perfectly sober man.” 
 
 “ Faix, plase your honour, asy enough,” re- 
 plied Peter; “he begun to lecthur me about 
 dhrinkin’, so, says I, ‘ Come an’ sit down behind 
 the hedge here, an’ we’ll talk it over between us ; ’ 
 so we went in, the two of us, a-back o’ the ditch 
 — an’ he began to advise me agin dhrink, an’ 
 I began to tell him about her that’s gone. Sir. 
 Well, well! och, och! no matther! — So, Sir, one 
 story an’ one pull from the bottle, brought on 
 another, for divil a glass we had at all. Sir. 
 Faix, he’s a tindher-hearted boy, anyhow; for as 
 myself begun to let the tears down, whin the 
 bottle was near out, divil resave the morsel of 
 
220 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 him but cried afther poor Elhsh, as if she had 
 been his mother. Faix, he did! An’ it won’t 
 be the last sup we’ll have together, plase good- 
 ness! But the best of it was, Sir, that the 
 dhrunker he got, he abused me the more for 
 dhrinkin’. Oh, thin, but he’s the pious boy whin 
 he gets a sup in his head! Faix, it’s a pity ever 
 he’d be sober, he talks so much scripthur an’ de- 
 votion in his liquor! ” 
 
 “ Connell,” said the landlord, “ I am exceed- 
 ingly sorry to hear that you have taken so openly 
 and inveterately to drink as you have done, ever 
 since the death of your admirable wife. This, 
 in fact, was what occasioned me to send for you. 
 Come into the parlour. Don’t go, my dear ; per- 
 haps your influence may also be necessary. Gal- 
 lagher, look to Smith, and see that every atten- 
 tion is paid him, until he recovers the effects of 
 his intoxication.” 
 
 He then entered the parlour, where the fol- 
 lowing dialogue took place between him and 
 Peter : — 
 
 “ Connell, I am really grieved to hear that you 
 have become latterly so incorrigible a drinker; I 
 sent for you to-day, with the hope of being able 
 to induce you to give it up.” 
 
 “ Faix, your honour, it’s jist what I’d expect 
 from your father’s son — ^kindness, an’ dacency, 
 an’ devotion, wor always among yez. Divil re- 
 save the family in all Europe I’d do so much for 
 as the same family.” 
 
 The gentleman and lady looked at each other, 
 and smiled. They knew that Peter’s blarney was 
 
brrBilS aiorriBiT 
 
 .K A\ .51 .Z \)»‘l^u'J»'\ a iuo'\\ l)i'jMbo'<<\a5l 
 
Tramore Strand 
 
 Reproduced from a Paintinu by Francis ,S. Walker, R. H. A, 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 221 
 
 no omen of their success in the laudable design 
 they contemplated. 
 
 “ I thank you, Peter, for your good opinion ; 
 but in the meantime allow me to ask, what can 
 you propose to yourself by drinking so inces- 
 santly as you do? ” 
 
 “ What do I propose to myself by dhrinkin’, 
 is it? Why thin to banish grief, your honour. 
 Surely you’ll allow that no man has reason to 
 complain who’s able to banish the thief for two 
 shillins a-day. I reckon the whiskey at first cost, 
 so that it doesn’t come to more nor that at the 
 very outside.” 
 
 “ That is taldng a commercial view of affliction, 
 Connell; but you must promise me to give up 
 drinking.” 
 
 “ Why thin upon my credit, your honour aston- 
 ishes me. Is it to give up banishin’ grief? I 
 have a regard for you. Sir, for many a dalin 
 we had together; but for all that, faix, I’d be 
 miserable for no man, barrin’ for her that’s gone. 
 If I’d be so to oblage any one, I’d do it for your 
 family; for divil resave the family in all Eu- 
 rope ” 
 
 “ Easy, Connell — I am not to be palmed off 
 in that manner; I really have a respect for the 
 character which you bore, and wish you to re- 
 cover it once more. Consider that you are dis- 
 gracing yourself and your children by drinking 
 so excessively from day to day — indeed, I am 
 told, almost from hour to hour.” 
 
 “Augh! don’t believe the half o’ what you 
 hear. Sir. Faith, somebody has been dhrawin’ 
 
222 IRELAND 
 
 your honour out! Why I am never dhrunk, Sir; 
 faith, I’m not.” 
 
 “You will destroy your health, Connell, as 
 well as your character; besides, you are not to be 
 told that it is a sin, a crime against God, and 
 an evil example to society.” 
 
 “ Show me the man, plase your honour, that 
 ever seen me incapable. That’s the proof o’ the 
 thing.” 
 
 “ But why do you drink at all? It is not nec- 
 essary.” 
 
 “ An’ do you never taste a dhrop yourself. Sir, 
 plase your honour? I’ll be bound you do. Sir, 
 raise your little finger of an odd time, as well 
 as another. Eh, Ma’am? That’s cornin’ close 
 to his honour! An’ faix, small blame to him, 
 an’ a weeshy sup o’ the wine to the misthress her- 
 self, to correct the tindherness of her dilicate 
 appetite.” 
 
 “ Peter, this bantering must not pass : I think 
 I have a claim upon your respect and deference. 
 I have uniformly been your friend, and the 
 friend of your children and family, but more 
 especially of your late excellent, and exemplary 
 wife.” 
 
 “ Before God an’ man, I acknowledge that. 
 Sir — I do — I do. But, Sir, to spake sarious — 
 it’s thruth. Ma’am, downright — ^to spake sarious, 
 my heart’s broke, an’ every day it’s brakin’ more 
 an’ more. She’s gone. Sir, that used to manage 
 me; an’ now I can’t turn myself to anything, 
 barrin’ the dhrink — God help me! ” 
 
 “ I honour you, Connell, for the attachment 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 223 
 
 which you bear towards the memory of your wife, 
 but I utterly condemn the manner in which you 
 display it. To become a drunkard is to disgrace 
 her memory. You know it was a character she 
 detested.’’ 
 
 “ I know it all, Sir, an’ that you have thruth 
 an rason on your side ; but. Sir, you never lost a 
 wife that you loved; an’ long may you be so, I 
 pray the heavenly Father this day! Maybe if 
 you did, Sir, plase your honour, that, wid your 
 heart sinkin’ like a stone widin you, you’d thry 
 whether or not something couldn’t rise it. Sir, 
 only for the dhrink I’d be dead.” 
 
 “ There I totally differ from you, Connell. 
 The drink only prolongs your grief, by adding 
 to it the depression of spirits which it always 
 produces. Had you not become a drinker, you 
 would long before this have been once more a 
 cheerful, active, and industrious man. Your 
 sorrow would have worn away gradually, and 
 nothing but an agreeable melancholy — an affec- 
 tionate remembrance of your excellent wife — 
 would have remained. Look at other men.” 
 
 “ But where’s the man. Sir, had sich a wife to 
 grieve for as she was? Don’t be hard on me. 
 Sir. I’m not a dhrunkard. It’s thrue I dhrink 
 a great dale; but thin I can bear a great dale, 
 so that I’m never incapable.” 
 
 “ Connell,” said the lady, you will break 
 down your constitution, and bring yourself to an 
 earlier death than you would otherwise meet.” 
 ‘‘ I care very little, indeed, how soon I was 
 dead, not makin’ you. Ma’am, an ill answer.” 
 
224 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Oh fie, Connell, for you, a sensible man and 
 a Christian, to talk in such a manner! ” 
 
 “ Throth, thin, I don’t. Ma’am. She's gone, 
 an’ I’d be glad to folly her as soon as I could. 
 Yes, asthore, you’re departed from me! an’ now 
 I’m gone asthray — out o’ the right, an’ out o’ 
 the good! Oh, Ma’am,” he proceeded, whilst 
 the tears rolled fast down his cheeks, “ if you 
 knew her — ^her last words too — Oh, she was — 
 she was — but where’s the use o’ sayin’ what she 
 was? — I beg your pardon. Ma’am, — your hon- 
 our, Sir, ’ill forgive my want o’ manners, sure 
 I know it’s bad breedin’, but I can’t help it.” 
 “Well, promise,” said his landlord, “to give 
 up drink. Indeed, I wish you would take an 
 oath against it : you are a conscientious man, and 
 I know would keep it, otherwise I should not pro- 
 pose it, for I discountenance such oaths gener- 
 ally. Will you promise me this, Connell? ” 
 
 “ I’ll promise to think of it, your honour, — 
 aginst takin’ a sartin quantity, at any rate.” 
 
 “If you refuse it. I’ll think you are unmindful 
 of the good feeling which we have ever shown 
 your family.” 
 
 “ What? — do you think. Sir, I’m ungrateful 
 to you? That’s a sore cut. Sir, to make a villain 
 o’ me. Where’s the book? — I’ll swear this min- 
 ute. Have you a Bible, Ma’am? — I’ll show you 
 that I’m not mane, any way.” 
 
 “ No, Connell, you shall not do it rashly; you 
 must be cool and composed: hut go home, and 
 turn it in your mind,” she replied; “ and remem- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 225 
 
 ber, that it is the request of me and my husband, 
 for your own good/’ 
 
 “ Neither must you swear before me,” said his 
 landlord, “ but before ]\Ir. JNIulcahy, who, as it 
 is an oath connected with your moral conduct, 
 is the best person to be present. It must be 
 voluntary, however. Now, good bye, Connell, 
 and think of what we said; but take care never 
 to carry home any of my servants in the same 
 plight in which you put John Smith to-day.” 
 
 “ Faix thin. Sir, he had no business, wid your 
 honour’s livery upon his back, to begin lecthurin’ 
 me agin dhrinkin’, as he did. We may all do 
 very well. Sir, till the timptation crasses us — 
 but that’s what thries us. It thried him, but he 
 didn’t stand it — faix he didn’t! — ha, ha, ha! 
 Good mornin’. Sir — God bless you. Ma’am! 
 Divil resave the family in all Europe ” 
 
 “ Good morning, Connell — good morning ! — 
 Pray remember what we said.” 
 
 Peter, however, could not relinquish the whis- 
 key. His sons, daughters, friends, and neigh- 
 bours, all assailed him, but with no success. He 
 either bantered them in his usual way, or re- 
 verted to his loss, and sank into sorrow. This 
 last was the condition in which they found him 
 most intractable; for a man is never considered 
 to be in a state that admits of reasoning or argu- 
 ment, when he is known to be pressed by strong 
 gushes of personal feeling. A plan at length 
 struck Father Mulcahy, which he resolved to put 
 into immediate execution. 
 
 Ill— 15 
 
226 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Peter,” said he, “ if you do not abandon 
 drink, I shall stop the masses which I’m offering 
 up for the repose of your wife’s soul, and I will 
 also return you the money I received for saying 
 them.” 
 
 This was perhaps the only point on which 
 Peter was accessible. He felt staggered at such 
 an unexpected intimation, and was for some time 
 silent. 
 
 “ You will then feel,” added the priest, “ that 
 your drunkenness is prolonging the sufferings of 
 your wife, and that she is as much concerned in 
 your being sober, as you are yourself.” 
 
 “ I will give in,” rephed Peter; “ I didn’t see 
 the thing in that light. No — I will give it up;^ 
 but if I swear aginst it, you must allow me a 
 rasonable share every day, an’ I’ll not go bey ant 
 it, of coorse. The thruth is, I’d die soon if I 
 gev it up altogether.” 
 
 “We have certainly no objection against that,” 
 said the priest, “ provided you keep within what 
 would injure your health, or make you tipsy. 
 Your drunkenness is not only sinful but dis- 
 reputable; besides, you must not throw a slur 
 upon the character of your children, who hold 
 respectable and rising situations in the world.” 
 
 “ No,” said Peter, in a kind of soliloquy, “ I’d 
 lay down my life, avourneen, sooner nor I’d cause 
 you a minute’s sufferin’. Father Mulcahy, go 
 an wid the masses. I’ll get an oath drawn up, 
 an’ whin it’s done. I’ll swear to it. I know a 
 man that’ll do it for me.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 227 
 
 The priest then departed, quite satisfied with 
 having accomphshed his object; and Peter, in the 
 course of that evening, directed his steps to the 
 house of the village schoolmaster, for the pur- 
 pose of getting him to “ draw up ” the intended 
 oath. 
 
 “ Misther O’Flaherty,” said he, “ I’m cornin’ 
 to ax a requist of you an’ I hope you’ll grant 
 it to me. I brought down a sup in this flask, 
 an’ while we’re takin’ it, we can talk over what I 
 want.” 
 
 “ If it be anything widin the circumference 
 of my power, set it down, Misther Connell, as 
 already operated upon. I’d drop a pen to no 
 man at keepin’ Books by Double Enthry, which 
 is the Italian method invinted by Pope Gregory 
 the Great. The Three Sets bear a theological 
 ratio to the three states of a thrue Christian. 
 ‘The Waste-book,’ says Pope Gregory, ‘is this 
 world, the Journal is purgatory, an’ the Ledger 
 is heaven. Or it may be compared,’ he says, in 
 the priface of the work, ‘ to the three states of 
 the Catholic church — ^the church Militant, the 
 church Suffering, and the church Triumphant.’ 
 The lamin’ of that man was beyant the reach 
 of credibihty.” 
 
 “ Arra, have you a small glass, Masther? You 
 see, Misther O’Flaherty, it’s consarnin’ purga- 
 tory, this that I want to talk about.” 
 
 “ Nancy, get us a glass — oh, here it is! Thin 
 if it be, it’s a wrong enthry in the Journal.” 
 
 “Here’s your health, Masther! — Not forgettin’ 
 
228 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 you, Mrs. O’Flaherty. No, indeed, thin it’s not 
 in the Journal, but an oath I’m goin’ to take 
 aginst liquor.” 
 
 “ Nothin’ is asier to post than it is. We must 
 enter it undher the head of — let me see ! — ^it must 
 go in the spirit account, undher the head of 
 Profit an’ Loss. Your good health, Mr. Con- 
 nell! — Nancy, I dhrink to your improvement in 
 imperturbability! Yes, it must be enthered 
 undher the ” 
 
 “ Faix, undher the rose, I think,” observed 
 Peter; “ don’t you know the smack of it? You 
 see since I tuck to it, I like the smell o’ what I 
 used to squeeze out o’ the barley myself, long 
 ago. Mr. O’Flaherty, I only want you to dhraw 
 up an oath aginst liquor for me; but it’s not for 
 the books, good or bad. I promised to Father 
 Mulcahy, that I’d do it. It’s regardin’ my poor 
 Ellish’s sowl in purgatory.” 
 
 “ Nancy, hand me a slate an’ cutter. Faith, 
 the same’s a provident resolution; but how is it 
 an’ purgatory concatenated? ” 
 
 “ The priest, you see, won’t go an wid the 
 masses for her till I take the oath.” 
 
 “ That’s but wake logic, if you ped him for 
 thim.” 
 
 “Faix, an’ I did — an’ well, too; — but about 
 the oath? Have you the pencil? ” 
 
 “ I have; jist lave the thing to me.” 
 
 “ Asy, Masther — you don’t undherstand it yit. 
 Put down two tumblers for me at home.” 
 
 “ How is that, Misther Connell? — It’s mys- 
 terious, if you’re about to swear aginst liquor! ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 220 
 
 “ I am. Put down, as I said, two tumblers 
 for me at home. — Are they down?” 
 
 “ They are down; but ” 
 
 ‘‘ Asy! — very good! Put down two more for 
 me at Dan’s. Let me see ! — two more behind the 
 garden. Well! — put down one at Father Mul- 
 cahy’s; — two more at Frank M^Carroll’s of Kil- 
 clay. How many’s that? ” 
 
 “ Nine!!!” 
 
 “ Very good. Now put down one wid ould 
 OBartle Gorman, of Cargah; an’ two over wid 
 honest Roger M‘Gaugy, of Nurchasey. How 
 many have you now? ” 
 
 “Twelve in all!!!! But, Misther Connell, 
 there’s a demonstration badly wanted here: I 
 must confiss I was always bright, but at present 
 I’m as dark as Nox. I’d thank you for a taste 
 of explanation.” 
 
 “ Asy, man alive ! Is there twelve in all? ” 
 
 “ Twelve in all: I’ve calculated them.” 
 
 “Well, we’ll hould to that. Och, och! — I’m 
 sure, avourneen, afore I’d let you suffer one min- 
 ute’s pain, I’d not scruple to take an oath aginst 
 liquor, any way. He may go an wid the masses 
 now for you, as soon as he likes! Mr. O’Fla- 
 herty, will you put that down on paper, an’ I’ll 
 swear to it, wid a blessin’, to-morrow.” 
 
 “But what object do you wish to effectuate 
 by this? ” 
 
 “You see, ]\Iasther, I dhrink one day wid an- 
 other from a score to two dozen tumblers, an’ I 
 want to swear to no more nor twelve in the twen- 
 ty-four hours.” 
 
230 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “Why, there’s intelligibility in that ! — ^Wid 
 great pleasure, Mr. Connell, I’ll indite it. 
 Katty, tare me a lafe out o’ Brian Murphy’s copy 
 there.” 
 
 “ You see, Masther, it’s for EUish’s sake I’m 
 doin’ this. State that in the oath.” 
 
 “ I know it; an’ well she desarved that speci- 
 men of abstinence from you, Misther Connell. 
 Thank you! — Your health agin! an’ God grant 
 you grace an’ fortitude to go through wid the 
 same oath! — An’ so he will, or I’m grievously 
 mistaken in you.” 
 
 “ OATH AGAINST LIQUOR, 
 
 made by me, Cornelius O’Flaherty, Philomath, on behalf of 
 Misther Peter Connell, of the Cross-roads, Merchant, on 
 one part — and of the soul of Mrs. Ellish Connell, now in 
 purgatory, Merchantess, on the other. 
 
 I solemnly, and meritoriously, and soberly swear, that 
 a single tumbler of whiskey punch shall not cross my lips 
 during the twenty-four hours of the day, barring twelve. 
 
 the locality of which is as followeth: 
 
 ** Imprimis — Two tumblers at home 2 
 
 Secundo — Two more ditto at my son Dan’s 2 
 
 Tertio — Two more ditto behind my own garden .... 2 
 Quarto — One ditto at the Reverend Father Mulcahy’s 1 
 Quinto — Two more ditto at Frank M'Carroll’s, of 
 
 Kilclay 2 
 
 Sexto — One ditto wid ould Bartle Gorman, of Car- 
 
 gah 1 
 
 Septimo — Two more ditto wid honest Roger 
 M'Gaugy, of Nurchasey 2 
 
 12 
 
 N.B. — I except in case any Docthor of Physic might think 
 it right and medical to ordher me more for my health; or 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 231 
 
 in case I could get Father Mulcahy to take the oath off of 
 me for a start, at a wedding, or a christening, or at any 
 other meeting of friends where there’s drink. 
 
 his 
 
 Witness present, Peter X Connell. 
 
 Cornelius O’Flaherty, Philomath. mark. 
 
 June the 4<th, 18 — . 
 
 “ 2^^ I certify that I have made and calculated this oath 
 for Misther Pether Connell, Merchant, and that it is strictly 
 and arithmetically proper and correct. 
 
 “ Cornelius O’Flaherty, Philomath. 
 
 ** Dated this 4<th day of June, 18 — .” 
 
 “ I think, Misther O’Flaherty, it’s a dacent 
 oath, as it stands. Plase God I’ll swear to it 
 some time to-morrow evenin/^ 
 
 “ Dacent! Why I don’t wish to become eulo- 
 gistically addicted; but I’d back the same oath, 
 for both grammar and arithmetic, aginst any that 
 ever was drawn up by a lawyer — ay, by the great 
 Counsellor himself! — ^but faith, I’d not face liim 
 at a Vow, for all that; he’s the greatest man at 
 a Vow in the three kingdoms.” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you what I’m thinldn’, Masther — as 
 my hand’s in, mightn’t I as well take another 
 wid an ould friend o’ mine, Owen Smith, of 
 Lisbuy? He’s a dacent ould residenther, an’ 
 likes it. It’ll make the baker’s, or the long 
 dozen.” 
 
 “ Why, it’s not a bad thought; but won’t thir- 
 teen get into your head? ” 
 
 “ No, nor three more to the back o’ that. I 
 only begin to get hearty about seventeen ; so that 
 the long dozen, afther all, is best; for God he 
 
232 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 knows, I’ve a regard for Owen Smith this many 
 a year, an’ I wouldn’t wish to lave him out.” 
 
 “Very well — I’ll add it up to the other part 
 of the oath. 
 
 ‘ Octavo — One ditto out of respect for dacent Owen 
 Smith, of Lisbuy 1* 
 
 Now I must make the total amount thirteen, an’ 
 all will be right.” 
 
 “ Masther, have you a prayer-book widin? — 
 bekase if you have, I may as well swear it here, 
 an’ you can witness it.” 
 
 “ Katty, hand over the Spiritual Exercises — 
 a book aquil to the Bible itself for piety an’ de- 
 votion.” 
 
 “ Sure they say, Masther, any book that the 
 name o’ God is in, is good for an oath. Now, 
 wid the help o’ goodness, repate the words afore 
 me, an’ I’ll sware thim.” 
 
 O’Flaherty hemmed two or three times, and 
 complied with Peter’s wishes, who followed him 
 in the words until the oath was concluded. He 
 then kissed the book, and expressed himself much 
 at ease, as well, he said, upon the account of 
 Ellish’s soul, as for the sake of his children. 
 
 For some time after this, his oath was the 
 standing jest of the neighbourhood: even to this 
 day, Peter Connell’s oath against liquor is a prov- 
 erb in that part of the country. Immediately 
 after he had sworn, no one could ever perceive 
 that he violated it in the slightest degree ; indeed 
 there could be no doubt as to his literally ful- 
 filling it. A day never passed in which he did 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 233 
 
 not punctually pay a friendly visit to those whose 
 names were dotted down, with whom he sat, 
 pulled out his flask, and drank his quantum. In 
 the meantime the poor man was breaking down 
 rapidly; so much so, that his appearance gen- 
 erally excited pity, if not sorrow, among his 
 neighbours. His character became simpler every 
 day, and his intellect evidently more exhausted. 
 The inoffensive humour, for which he had been 
 noted, was also completely on the wane; his eye 
 waxed dim, his step feeble, but the benevolence 
 of his heart never failed him. Many acts of his 
 private generosity are well known, and still re- 
 membered with gratitude. 
 
 In proportion as the strength of his mind and 
 constitution diminished, so did his capacity for 
 bearing liquor. When he first bound liimself by 
 the oath not to exceed the long dozen, such was 
 his vigour, that the effects of thirteen tumblers 
 could scarcely be perceived on him. Tliis state 
 of health, however, did not last. As he wore 
 away, the influence of so much liquor was be- 
 coming stronger, until at length he found that it 
 was more than he could bear, that he frequently 
 confounded the names of the men, and the num- 
 ber of tumblers mentioned in the oath, and some- 
 times took in, in his route, persons and places 
 not to be found in it at all. This grieved him, 
 and he resolved to wait upon O’Flaherty for the 
 purpose of having some means devised of guiding 
 him during his potations. 
 
 “ Masther,” said he, “ we must thry an’ make 
 this oath somethin’ plainer. You see, whin I get 
 
234 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 confused, I’m not able to remimber things as I 
 ought. Sometimes, instid o’ one tumbler, I take 
 two at the wrong place; an’ sarra bit o’ me but 
 called in an’ had three wid ould Jack Rogers, 
 that isn’t in it at all. On another day I had a 
 couple wid honest Barny Casey, an my way 
 acrass to Bartle Gorman’s. I’m not what I was, 
 Masther, ahagur; so I’d thank you to dhraw it 
 out more clearer, if you can, nor it was.” 
 
 “I see, Mr. Connell; I comprehend wid the 
 greatest ase in life, the very plan for it. We 
 must reduce the oath to Geography, for I’m at 
 home there, bein’ a Surveyor myself. I’ll lay 
 down a map o’ the parish, an’ draw the houses 
 of your friends at their proper places, so that 
 you’ll never be out o’ your latitude at all.” 
 
 “ Faix, I doubt that, Masther — ha, ha, ha!” 
 replied Peter; “ I’m afeard I will, of an odd time, 
 for I’m not able to carry what I used to do; but 
 no matther: thry what you can do for me this 
 time, any how. I think I could bear the long 
 dozen still, if I didn’t make mistakes.” 
 
 O’Flaherty accordingly set himself to work; 
 and as his knowledge, not only of the parish, but 
 of every person and house in it, was accurate, he 
 soon had a tolerably correct skeleton map of it 
 drawn for Peter’s use. 
 
 “ Now,” said he, “ lend me your ears.” 
 
 “ Faix, I’ll do no sich thing,” replied Peter — 
 “ I know a thrick worth two of it. Lend you 
 my ears, inagh!^^ — catch me at it! You have 
 a bigger pair of your own nor I have — ha, ha, 
 ha!” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 235 
 
 “ Well, in other words, pay attintion. Now, 
 see this dot — that’s your own house.” 
 
 “ Put a crass there,” said Peter, “ an thin I’ll 
 know it’s the Crass-roads.” 
 
 “ Upon my reputation, you’re right; an’ that’s 
 what I call a good specimen of ingenuity. I’ll 
 take the hint from that, an’ we’ll make it a 
 Hieroglyphical as well as a Geographical oath. 
 Well, there’s a crass, wid two tumblers. Is that 
 clear? ” 
 
 “ It is, it is! Go an.” 
 
 “ Now here we draw a line to your son Dan’s. 
 Let me see; he keeps a mill, an’ sells cloth. Very 
 good. I’ll dhraw a mill-wheel an’ a yard-wand. 
 There’s two tumblers. Will you know that? ” 
 “I see it; go an, nothin’ can be clearer. So 
 far I can’t go asthray.” 
 
 “WeU, what next? Two behind your own 
 garden. What metaphor for the garden? Let 
 me see! — let me cogitate! A dragon — the Hes- 
 perides! That’s beyant you, A bit of a hedge 
 will do, an’ a gate.” 
 
 “ Don’t put a gate in, it’s not lucky. You 
 know when a man takes to dhrink, they say he’s 
 goin’ a grey gate, or a black gate, or a bad gate. 
 Put that out, an’ make the hedge longer, an’ 
 it’ll do — ^wid the two tumblers, though.” 
 
 “ They’re down. One at the Reverend Father 
 Mulcahy’s. How will we thranslate the priest? ” 
 “ Faix, I doubt that will be a difficquilt busi- 
 ness.” 
 
 “ Upon my reputation, I agree wid you in that, 
 especially whin he repates Latin. However, 
 
236 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 we’ll see. He writes P.P. afther his name; — 
 pee-pee is what we call the turkeys wid. What 
 ’u(^ you think o’ two turkeys? ” 
 
 “ The priest would like them roasted, but I 
 couldn’t undherstand that. No; put down the 
 sign o’ the horsewhip, or the cudgel; for he’s 
 handy, an’ argues well wid both?” 
 
 “ Good! I’ll put down the horsewhip first, an’ 
 the cudgel alongside of it; then the tumbler, an’ 
 there ’ill be the sign o’ the priest.” 
 
 “ Ay do, Masther, an’ faix the priest ’ill he 
 complate — there can be no mistakin’ him thin. 
 Divil a one but that’s a good thought ! ” 
 
 “ There it is in black an’ white. Who comes 
 next? Frank M‘ Carroll. He’s a farmer. I’ll 
 put down a spade an’ a harrow. Well, that’s 
 done — two tumblers.” 
 
 “ I won’t mistake that aither. It’s clear 
 enough.” 
 
 “ Bartle Gorman’s of Cargah. Bartle’s a little 
 lame, an’ uses a staff wid a cross on the end that 
 he houlds in his hand. I’ll put down a staff wid 
 a cross on it.” 
 
 “ Would there be no danger of me mistakin’ 
 that for the priest’s cudgel? ” 
 
 “ Divil the shghtest. I’ll pledge my knowl- 
 edge of geography, they’re two very different 
 weapons.” 
 
 “ Well, put it down — I’ll know it.” 
 
 “ Roger M‘Gaugy of Nurchasy. What for 
 him? Roger’s a pig-driver. I’ll put down a 
 pig. You’ll comprehend that? ” 
 
 “ I ought; for many a pig I sould him in my 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 237 
 
 day. Put down the pig; an’ if you could put 
 two black spots upon his back, I’d know it to 
 be one I sould him about four years agone — the 
 fattest ever was in the country — it had to be 
 brought home on a car, for it wasn’t able to walk 
 wid fat.” 
 
 “ Very good; the spots are on it. The last is 
 Owen Smith of Lisbuy. Now, do you see that 
 I’ve drawn a line from place to place, so that you 
 have nothing to do only to keep to it as you go. 
 What for Owen? ” 
 
 “Owen! Let me ?ee — Owen! Pooh! What’s 
 come over me that I’ve nothing for Owen? Ay! 
 I have it. He’s a horse-jockey; put down a grey 
 mare I sould him about five years agone.” 
 
 “ I’ll put down a horse ; but I can’t make a grey 
 mare wid black ink.” 
 
 “ Well, make a mare of her, any way.” 
 
 “ F aith, an’ that same puzzles me. Stop, I 
 have it; I’ll put a foal along wid her.” 
 
 “ As good as the bank. God bless you, Misther 
 O’Flaherty. I think this’ll keep me from mis- 
 takes. An’ now, if you’ll slip up to me afther 
 dusk, I’ll send you down a couple o’ bottles and 
 a flitch. Sure you desarve more for the throuble 
 you tuck.” 
 
 Many of our readers, particularly of our Eng- 
 lish readers, will be somewhat startled to hear, 
 that, except the change of names and places, 
 there is actually little exaggeration in the form 
 of tliis oath; so just is the observation, that 
 the romance of truth frequently far exceeds that 
 of fiction. 
 
238 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Peter had, however, over-rated his own 
 strength in supposing that he could bear the long 
 dozen in future; ere many months passed, he was 
 scarcely able to reach the half of that number 
 without sinking into intoxication. Whilst in this 
 state, he was in the habit of going to the grave- 
 yard in which his wife lay buried, where he sat, 
 and wept like a child, sang her favourite songs, 
 or knelt and off ered up his prayers for the repose 
 of her soul. None ever mocked him for this; on 
 the contrary, there was always some kind per- 
 son to assist him home. And as he staggered on, 
 instead of sneers and ridicule, one might hear 
 such expressions as these: — 
 
 “Poor Pether! he’s nearly off; an’ a dacent, 
 kind neighbour he ever was. The death of the 
 wife broke his heart — ^he never ris his head since.” 
 
 “ Ay, poor man! God pity him! He’ll soon 
 be sleepin’ beside her, beyant there, where she’s 
 lyin’. It was never known of Peter Connell that 
 he offinded man, woman, or child, since he was 
 born, barrin’ the gaugers, bad luck to thim, afore 
 he was marrid — but that was no offince. Sowl, 
 he was their match, any how. When he an’ the 
 wife’s gone, they won’t lave their likes behind 
 them. The sons are bodaghs — gintlemen, now; 
 an’ it’s nothin’ but dinners an’ company. Aha- 
 gur, that wasn’t the way their hard-workin’ 
 father an’ mother made the money that they’re 
 houldin’ their heads up wid such consequence 
 upon.” 
 
 The children, however, did not give Peter up 
 as hopeless. Father Mulcahy, too, once more 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 239 
 
 assailed him on his weak side. One morning, 
 when he was sober, nervous, and depressed, the 
 priest arrived, and finding him at home, addressed 
 him as follows: — 
 
 “ Peter, I’m sorry, and vexed, and angry, this 
 morning; and you are the cause of it.” 
 
 “How is that, your Reverence?” said Peter. 
 “ God help me,” he added, “ don’t be hard an me. 
 Sir, for I’m to be pitied. Don’t be hard on me, 
 for the short time I’ll be here. I know it won’t 
 be long — I’ll be wid her soon. Asthore machree, 
 we’ll be together, I hope, afore long — an’, oh! 
 if it was the wiU o’ God, I would be glad it was 
 afore night ! ” 
 
 The poor, shattered, heart-broken creature 
 wept bitterly, for he felt somewhat sensible of the 
 justice of the reproof which he expected from 
 the priest, as weU as undiminished sorrow for his 
 wife. 
 
 “ I’m not going to be hard on you,” said the 
 good-natured priest; “ I only called to tell you a 
 dream that your son Dan had last night about 
 you and his mother.” 
 
 “ About Ellish! Oh, for heaven’s sake, what 
 about her. Father, avourneen? ” 
 
 “ She appeared to him, last night,” replied 
 Father Mulcahy, “ and told him that your drink- 
 ing kept her out of happiness.” 
 
 “ Queen of heaven! ” exclaimed Peter, deeply 
 affected, “ is that true? Oh,” said he, dropping 
 on his knees, “ Father, ahagur machree, pardon 
 me — oh, forgive me! I now promise, solemnly 
 and seriously, to drink neither in the house nor 
 
240 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 out of it, for the time to come, not one drop at 
 all, good, bad, or indiiferent, of either whiskey, 
 wine, or punch — &amV one glass. Are you now 
 satisfied? an’ do you think she’ll get to happi- 
 ness?” 
 
 “ All will be weU, I trust,” said the priest. 
 “ I shall mention this to Dan and the rest, and 
 depend upon it, they, too, will be happy to hear 
 it.” 
 
 “ Here’s what Mr. O’Flaherty an’ myself made 
 up,” said Peter: “burn it. Father; take it out 
 of my sight, for it’s now no use to me.” 
 
 “ What is this at all? ” said Mr. Mulcahy, look- 
 ing into it. “Is it an oath? ” 
 
 “ It’s the Joggraphy of one I swore some time 
 ago; but it’s now out of date — I’m done wid it.” 
 The priest could not avoid smiling when he 
 perused it, and on getting from Peter’s lips an 
 explanation of the hieroglyphics, he laughed 
 heartily at the ingenious shifts they had made to 
 guide his memory. 
 
 Peter, for some time after this, confined him- 
 self to one glass, as he had promised; but he felt 
 such depression* and feebleness, that he ventured 
 slowly, and by degrees, to enlarge the “ glass ” 
 from which he drank. His impression touching 
 the happiness of his wife was, that as he had for 
 several months strictly observed his promise, she 
 had probably during that period gone to heaven. 
 He then began to exercise his ingenuity grad- 
 ually, as we have said, by using, from time to 
 time, a glass larger than the preceding one ; thus 
 receding from the spirit of his vow to the letter. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 211 
 
 and increasing the quantity of his drink from a 
 small glass to the most capacious tumbler he could 
 find. The manner in which he drank this was 
 highly illustrative of the customs which prevail 
 on this subject in Ireland. He remembered, that 
 in making the vow, he used the words, “ neither 
 in the house nor out of it; ” but in order to get 
 over this dilemma, he usually stood with one foot 
 outside the threshold, and the other in the house, 
 keeping himself in that position which would 
 render it difficult to determine whether he was 
 either out or in. At other times, when he hap- 
 pened to be upstairs, he usually thrust one half 
 of his person out of the window, with the same 
 ludicrous intention of keeping the letter of his 
 vow. 
 
 Many a smile this adroitness of his occasioned 
 to the lookers-on; but further ridicule was 
 checked by his wo-begone and afflicted look. He 
 was now a mere skeleton, feeble and tottering. 
 
 One night in the depth of winter he went into 
 the town where his two sons resided ; he had been 
 ill in mind and body during the day, and he 
 fancied that change of scene and society might 
 benefit him. His daughter and son-in-law, in 
 consequence of his illness, watched him so closely, 
 that he could not succeed in getting his usual 
 ‘‘ glass.” This offended him, and he escaped 
 without their knowledge to the son who kept the 
 inn. On arriving there, he went up stairs, and 
 by a douceur to the waiter, got a large tumbler 
 filled with spirits. The lingering influences of 
 a conscience that generally felt strongly on the 
 
242 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 side of moral duty, though poorly instructed, 
 prompted him to drink it in the usual manner, 
 by keeping one-half of his body, as nearly as he 
 could guess, out of the window, that it might 
 be said he drank it neither in nor out of the house. 
 He had scarcely finished his draught, however, 
 when he lost his balance, and was precipitated 
 upon the pavement. The crash of his fall was 
 heard in the bar, and his son, who had just come 
 in, ran, along with several others, to ascertain 
 what had happened. They found him, however, 
 only severely stunned. He was immediately 
 brought in, and medical aid sent for; but, though 
 he recovered from the immediate effects of the 
 fall, the shock it gave to his broken constitution, 
 and his excessive grief, carried him off in a few 
 months afterwards. He expired in the arms of 
 his son and daughter, and amidst the tears of 
 those who knew his simplicity of character, his 
 goodness of heart, and his attachment to the wife 
 by whose death that heart had been broken. 
 
 Such was the melancholy end of the honest and 
 warm-hearted Peter Connell, who, unhappily, 
 was not a sohtary instance of a man driven to 
 habits of intoxication and neglect of business by 
 the force of sorrow, which time and a well-reg- 
 ulated mind might otherwise have overcome. 
 We have held him up, on the one hand, as an 
 example of worthy imitation in that industry and 
 steadiness which, under the direction of his wife, 
 raised him from poverty to independence and 
 wealth; and, on the other, as a man resorting to 
 the use of spirituous liquors that he might be 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 243 
 
 enabled to support affliction — a course which, so 
 far from having sustained him under it, shattered 
 his constitution, shortened his life, and destroyed 
 his happiness. In conclusion, we wish our coun- 
 trymen of Peter’s class would imitate him in his 
 better qualities, and try to avoid his failings. 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE 
 
 One summer evening Mary Sullivan was sit- 
 ting at her own well-swept hearthstone, knitting 
 feet to a pair of sheep’s-grey stockings for Bart- 
 ley, her husband. It was one of those serene 
 evenings in the month of June, when the decline 
 of day assumes a calmness and repose, resembling 
 what we might suppose to have irradiated Eden, 
 when our first parents sat in it before their fall. 
 The beams of the sun shone through the windows 
 in clear shafts of amber light, exhibiting mil- 
 lions of those atoms which float to the naked eye 
 within its mild radiance. The dog lay barking 
 in his dream at her feet, and the grey cat sat 
 purring placidly upon his back, from which even 
 his occasional agitation did not dislodge her. 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan was the wife of a wealthy 
 farmer, and niece to the Bev. Felix O’Bourke; 
 her kitchen was consequently large, comfortable, 
 and warm. Over where she sat, jutted out the 
 “ brace ” well lined with bacon; to the right hung 
 a well-scoured salt-box, and to the left was the 
 jamb, with its little gothic paneless window to 
 admit the light. Within it hung several ash 
 rungs, seasoning for flail-sooples, or boulteens, 
 a dozen of eel-skins, and several stripes of horse- 
 skin, as hangings for them. The dresser was a 
 “ parfit white,” and well furnished with the usual 
 
 244 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 245 
 
 appurtenances. Over the door and on the 
 “ threshel,” were nailed, “for luck,” two horse- 
 shoes; that had been found by accident. In a 
 little “ hole ” in the wall, beneath the salt-box, lay 
 a bottle of holy water to keep the place purified ; 
 and against the cope-stone of the gable, on the 
 outside, grew a large lump of house-leek, as a 
 specific for sore eyes, and other maladies. 
 
 In the corner of the garden were a few stalks 
 of tansy “ to kill the thievin’ worms in the chil- 
 dhre, the crathurs,” together with a little Rose- 
 noble, Solomon’s Seal, and Bugloss, each for 
 some medicinal purpose. The “ lime wather ” 
 Mrs. Sullivan could make herself, and the “ bog 
 bane ” for the link roe,^^ or heart-burn, grew in 
 their o^vn meadow-drain; so that, in fact, she had 
 within her reach a very decent pharmacopoeia, 
 perhaps as harmless as that of the profession 
 itself. Lying on the top of the salt-box was a 
 bunch of fairy flax, and sewed in the folds of her 
 own scapular was the dust of what had once been 
 a four-leaved shamrock, an invaluable specific 
 “ for seein’ the good people,” if they happened 
 to come within the bounds of vision. Over the 
 door in the inside, over the beds, and over the 
 cattle in the out-houses, were placed branches of 
 withered palm, that had been consecrated by the 
 priest on Pahn Sunday; and when the cows hap- 
 pened to calve, this good woman tied, with her 
 own hands, a woollen thread about their tails, to 
 prevent them from being overlooked by evil eyes, 
 or elf -shot by the fairies, who seem to possess 
 a peculiar power over females of every species 
 
246 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 during the period of parturition. It is unneces- 
 sary to mention the variety of charms which she 
 possessed for that obsolete malady the colic, for 
 tooth-ach, head-achs, or for removing warts, and 
 taking motes out of the eyes; let it suffice to in- 
 form our readers that she was well stocked with 
 them; and that in addition to this, she, together 
 with her husband, drank a potion made up and 
 administered by an herb-doctor, for preventing 
 for ever the slightest misunderstanding or quar- 
 rel between man and wife. Whether it produced 
 this desirable object or not our readers may con- 
 jecture, when we add, that the herb-doctor, after 
 having taken a very liberal advantage of their 
 generosity, was immediately compelled to disap- 
 pear from the neighbourhood, in order to avoid 
 meeting with Bartley, who had a sharp look out 
 for him, not exactly on his own account, but “ in 
 regard,” he said, “that it had no effect upon 
 Mary, at all at all; ” whilst Mary, on the other 
 hand, admitted its efficacy upon herself, but main- 
 tained, “ that Bartley was worse nor ever afther 
 it.” 
 
 Such was Mary Sullivan, as she sat at her own 
 hearth, quite alone engaged as we have represented 
 her. What she may have been meditating on we 
 cannot pretend to ascertain; but after some time, 
 she looked sharply into the “ backstone,” or hob, 
 with an air of anxiety and alarm. By and by 
 she suspended her knitting, and listened with 
 much earnestness, leaning her right ear over to 
 the hob, from whence the sounds to which she 
 paid such deep attention proceeded. At length 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 247 
 
 she crossed herself devoutly, and exclaimed, 
 “ Queen of saints about us! — is it back ye are? 
 Well sure there’s no use in talkin’, bekase they 
 say you know what’s said of you, or to you — an’ 
 we may as well spake yez fair. — Hem — musha 
 yez are welcome back, crickets, avourneenee! I 
 hope that, not like the last visit ye ped us, yez 
 are cornin’ for luck now! Moolyeen died, any 
 way, soon afther your other kailyee^^ ye crathurs 
 ye. Here’s the bread, an’ the salt, an’ the male 
 for yez, an’ we wish ye well. Eh? — saints above, 
 if it isn’t listenin’ they are jist like a Christhien! 
 Wurrah, but ye are the wise an’ the quare cra- 
 thurs all out ! ” 
 
 She then shook a little holy water over the 
 hob, and muttered to herself an Irish charm or 
 prayer against the evils which crickets are often 
 supposed by the peasantry to bring with them, 
 and requested, still in the words of the charm, 
 that their presence might, on that occasion, rather 
 be a presage of good fortune to man and beast 
 belonging to her. 
 
 “ There now, ye dhonans ye, sure ye can’t 
 say that ye’re ill-thrated here, anyhow, or ever 
 was mocked or made game of in the same family. 
 You have got your hansel, an’ full an’ plenty of it ; 
 hopin’ at the same time that you’ll have no rason 
 in life to cut our best clothes from revinge. Sure 
 an’ I didn’t desarve to have my brave stuff long 
 body riddled the way it was, the last time ye wor 
 here, an’ only bekase little Barny, that has but 
 the sinse of a gorsoon, tould yez in a joke to pack 
 off wid yourselves somewhere else. Musha, never 
 
248 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 heed what the likes of him says; sure he’s but a 
 candy that doesn’t mane ill, only the bit o’ 
 divarsion wid yez.” 
 
 She then resumed her knitting, occasionally 
 stopping, as she changed her needles, to listen, 
 with her ear set, as if she wished to augur from 
 the nature of their chirping, whether they came 
 for good or evil. This, however, seemed to be 
 beyond her faculty of translating their language; 
 for after sagely shaking her head two or three 
 times, she knit more busily than before.^® 
 
 At this moment, the shadow of a person pass- 
 ing the house darkened the window opposite which 
 she sat, and immediately a tall female, of a wild 
 dress and aspect, entered the kitchen. 
 
 Gho manhy dhea ghud^ a ban cholir! the 
 blessin’ o’ goodness upon you, dacent woman,” 
 said Mrs. Sullivan, addressing her in those kindly 
 phrases so peculiar to the Irish language. 
 
 Instead of making her any reply, however, the 
 woman, whose eye glistened with a wild depth of 
 meaning, exclaimed in low tones, apparently of 
 much anguish, Hushty husht, dherum! husht, 
 husht, I say — let me alone — I will do it — will 
 you husht? I will, I say — I will — there now — 
 that’s it — be quiet, an’ I will do it — be quiet! ” 
 and as she thus spoke, she turned her face back 
 over her left shoulder, as if some invisible being 
 dogged her steps, and stood bending over her. 
 
 Gho manhy dhea ghud, a ban chohr, dherhum 
 areesht! the blessin’ o’ God on you, honest woman, 
 I say again,” said Mrs. Sullivan, repeating that 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 249 
 
 sacred form of salutation with which the peas- 
 antry address each other. “ ’Tis a fine evenin’, 
 honest w^oman, glory be to him that sent the same, 
 and amin! If it was cowld, I’d be axin’ you to 
 di’aw your chair in to the fire ; but, any way, won’t 
 you sit down?” 
 
 As she ceased speaking, the piercing eye of 
 the strange woman became rivetted on her with a 
 glare, which, whilst it startled Mrs. Sullivan, 
 seemed full of an agony that ahnost abstracted 
 her from external life. It was not, however, so 
 wholly absorbing as to prevent it from expressing 
 a marked interest, whether for good or evil, in 
 the woman who addressed her so hospitably. 
 
 “ Husht, now — husht,” she said, as if aside — 
 ‘‘ husht, won’t you — sure I may speak the thing 
 to her — you said it — there now, husht! ” And 
 then fastening her dark eyes on Mrs. Sullivan, 
 she smiled bitterly and mysteriously. 
 
 “ I know you well,” she said, without, however, 
 returning the blessing contained in the usual 
 reply to Mrs. Sullivan’s salutation — “ I know you 
 well, JMary Sullivan — husht, now, husht — yes, I 
 know you well, and the power of all that you 
 carry about you; but you’d be better than you 
 are — and that’s well enough now — ^if you had 
 sense to know — ah, ah, ah! — what’s this!” she 
 exclaimed abruptly, with three distinct shrieks, 
 that seemed to be produced by sensations of 
 sharp and piercing agony. 
 
 “ In the name of goodness, what’s over you, 
 honest woman?” inquired Mrs. Sullivan, as she 
 
250 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 started from her chair, and ran to her in a state 
 of alarm, bordering on terror — “ Is it sick you 
 are? ” 
 
 The woman’s face had got haggard, and its 
 features distorted; but in a few minutes they 
 resumed their peculiar expression of settled wild- 
 ness and mystery. “ Sick! ” she replied, licking 
 her parched lips, awirck, awirck! look! look!” 
 and she pointed with a shudder that almost con- 
 vulsed her whole frame, to a lump that rose on 
 her shoulders; this, be it what it might, was cov- 
 ered with a red cloak, closely pinned and tied 
 with great caution about her body — “ ’tis here! — 
 I have it ! ” 
 
 “ Blessed mother! ” exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, 
 tottering over to her chair, as finished a picture 
 of horror as the eye could witness, “ this day’s 
 Friday; the saints stand betwixt me an’ all harm! 
 Oh, holy Mary, protect me! Nhanim an airh/^ 
 in the name of the Father &;c., and she forthwith 
 proceeded to bless herself, which she did thirteen 
 times in honour of the blessed virgin and the 
 twelve apostles. 
 
 “ Ay, it’s as you see! ” replied the stranger, bit- 
 terly. “It is here — husht, now — ^husht, I say — 
 I will say the thing to her, mayn’t I? Ay, in- 
 deed, Mary Sullivan, ’tis with me always — 
 always. Well, well, no, I won’t, I won’t — easy. 
 Oh, blessed saints, easy, and I won’t! ” 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Sullivan had uncorked 
 her bottle of holy water, and plentifully bedewed 
 herself with it, as a preservative against this mys^ 
 terious woman and her dreadful secret. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 251 
 
 “ Blessed mother above! ” she ejaculated, “ the 
 Lianhan Sheet '' And as she spoke, with the 
 holy water in the palm of her hand, she advanced 
 cautiously, and with great terror, to throw it upon 
 the stranger and the unearthly thing she bore. 
 
 “ Don’t attempt it! ” shouted the other, in tones 
 of mingled fierceness and terror; “ do you want 
 to give me pain without keeping yourself any- 
 thing at all safer? Don’t you know it doesn’t 
 care about your holy water? But I’d suffer for 
 it, an’ perhaps so would you.” 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan, terrified by the agitated looks 
 of the woman, drew back with affright, and 
 threw the holy water with which she intended to 
 purify the other on her own person. 
 
 “ Why thin, you lost crathur, who or what are 
 you at all? — don’t, don’t — for the sake of all 
 the saints and angels of heaven, don’t come next 
 or near me — keep your distance — but what are 
 you, or how did you come to get that ‘ good 
 thing ’ you carry about wid you? ” 
 
 “ Ay, indeed! ” replied the woman bitterly, “ as 
 if I would or could tell you that! I say, you 
 woman, you’re doing what’s not right in asking 
 me a question you ought not let to cross your 
 lips — look to yourself, and what’s over you.” 
 The simple woman, thinking her meaning lit- 
 eral, almost leaped off her seat with terror, and 
 turned up her eyes to ascertain whether or not 
 any dreadful appearance had approached her, or 
 hung over her where she sat. 
 
 “ Woman,” said she, “ I spoke you kind an’ 
 fair, an’ I wish you well — but ” 
 
252 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ But what? ’’ replied the other — and her eyes 
 kindled into deep and profound excitement, ap- 
 parently upon very slight grounds. 
 
 “ Why — ^hem — nothin’ at all sure, only ” 
 
 ‘‘ Only what? ” asked the stranger, with a face 
 of anguish that seemed to torture every feature 
 out of its proper lineaments. 
 
 ‘‘ Dacent woman,” said Mrs. Sullivan, whilst 
 the hair began to stand with terror upon her head, 
 “ sure it’s no wondher in life that I’m in a per- 
 plexity, whin a Lianhan Shee is undher the one 
 roof wid me. ’Tisn’t that I want to know any- 
 thing at all about it — the dear forbid I should; 
 but I never hard of a person bein’ tormented 
 wid it as you are. I always used to hear the 
 people say that it thrated its friends well.” 
 
 “ Husht! ” said the woman, looking wildly over 
 her shoulder, “I’ll not tell: it’s on myself I’ll 
 leave the blame! Why, will you never pity me? 
 Am I to be night and day tormented? Oh, 
 you’re wicked and cruel for no reason! ” 
 
 “ Thry,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “ an’ bless your- 
 self; call on God.” 
 
 “ Ah! ” shouted the other, “ are you going to 
 get me killed? ” and as she uttered the words, a 
 spasmodic working which must have occasioned 
 great pain, even to torture, became audible in 
 her throat: her bosom heaved up and down, and 
 her head was bent repeatedly on her breast, as if 
 by force. 
 
 “ Don’t mention that name,” said she, “ in my 
 presence, except you mean to drive me to utter 
 distraction. I mean,” she continued, after con- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 253 
 
 siderable effort to recover her former tone and 
 manner — “ hear me with attention — I mean, 
 woman — you, Mary Sullivan — that if you men- 
 tion that holy name, you might as well keep 
 plunging sharp knives into my heart! Huslit! 
 peace to me for one minute, tormentor! Spare 
 me something, I’m in your power! ” 
 
 “ Will you ate anything? ” said Mrs. Sullivan; 
 ‘‘ poor crathur, you look like hunger an’ distress; 
 there’s enough in the house, blessed he them that 
 sent it! an’ you had betther thry an’ take some 
 nourishment, any way; ” and she raised her eyes 
 in a silent prayer of relief and ease for the un- 
 happy woman, whose unhallowed association had, 
 in her opinion, sealed her doom. 
 
 “Will I?— will I?— oh!” she replied, “may 
 you nev^r know misery for offering it! Oh, 
 bring me something — some refreshment — some 
 food — for I’m dying with hunger.” 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan, who, with all her superstition, 
 was remarkable for charity and benevolence, im- 
 mediately placed food and drink before her, 
 which the stranger absolutely devoured — taking 
 care occasionally to secrete under the protuber- 
 ance which appeared behind her neck, a portion 
 of what she ate. This, however, she did, not by 
 stealth, but openly; merely taking means to pre- 
 vent the concealed thing, from being, by any 
 possible accident, discovered. 
 
 When the craving of hunger was satisfied, she 
 appeared to suffer less from the persecution of 
 her tormentor than before; whether it was, as 
 Mrs. Sullivan thought, that the food with which 
 
254 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 she plied it, appeased in some degree its irritabil- 
 ity, or lessened that of the stranger, it was diffi- 
 cult to say; at all events, she became more 
 composed; her eyes resumed somewhat of a nat- 
 ural expression; each sharp ferocious glare, which 
 shot from them with such intense and rapid 
 flashes, partially disappeared; her knit brows 
 dilated, and part of a forehead, which had once 
 been capacious and handsome, lost the contrac- 
 tions which deformed it by deep wrinkles. Alto- 
 gether the change was evident, and very much 
 relieved Mrs. Sullivan, who could not avoid ob- 
 serving it. 
 
 “ It’s not that I care much about it, if you’d 
 think it not right o’ me, but it’s odd enough for 
 you to keep the lower part of your face muffled 
 up in that black cloth, an’ then your forehead, 
 too, is covered down on your face a bit? If 
 they’re part of the bargain /^ — and she shud- 
 dered at the thought — “ between you an’ any- 
 thing that’s not good — hem! — I think you’d do 
 well to throw thim off o’ you, an’ turn to thim 
 that can protect you from everything that’s bad. 
 Now a scapular would keep all the divils in hell 
 from one; an’ if you’d” 
 
 On looking at the stranger she hesitated, for 
 the wild expression of her eyes began to return. 
 
 “ Don’t begin my punishment again,” replied 
 the woman; “make no alius — don’t make men- 
 tion in my presence of anything that’s good. 
 Husht, — husht — it’s beginning — easy now — 
 easy! No,” said she, “ I came to tell you, that 
 only for my breaking a vow I made to this thing 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 255 
 
 upon me, I’d be happy instead of miserable with 
 it. I say, it’s a good thing to have, if the person 
 will use tliis bottle,” she added, producing one, 
 “ as I will direct them.” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t wish, for my part,” replied Mrs. 
 Sullivan, “ to have any thing to do wid it — 
 neither act nor part;” and she crossed herself 
 devoutly on contemplating such an unholy alli- 
 ance as that at which her companion hinted. 
 
 “ Mary Sullivan,’^ replied the other, “ I can 
 put good fortune and happiness in the way of 
 you and yours. It is for you the good is in- 
 tended; if you don’t get both, no other can,” and 
 her eyes kindled as she spoke like those of the 
 Pythoness in the moment of inspiration. 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan looked at her with awe, fear, and 
 a strong mixture of curiosity ; she had often heard 
 that the Lianhan Shee had, through means of 
 the person to whom it was bound, conferred 
 wealth upon several, although it could never ren- 
 der this important service to those who exercised 
 direct authority over it. She therefore experi- 
 enced something like a conflict between her fears 
 and a love of that wealth, the possession of which 
 was so plainly intimated to her. 
 
 “ The money,” said she, “ would he one thing, 
 but to have the Lianhan Shee planted over a 
 body’s shouldher — och! the saints preserve us! — 
 no, not for oceans of hard goold would I have it 
 in my company one minnit. But in regard to 
 the money — hem! — ^why, if it could be managed 
 widout havin’ act or part wid that thing, people 
 would do anything in rason and fairity.” 
 
256 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “You have this day been kind to me,” replied 
 the woman, “ and that’s what I can’t say of 
 many — dear help me! — ^husht! Every door is 
 shut in my face! Does not every cheek get pale 
 when I am seen? If I meet a fellow-creature on 
 the road, they turn into the field to avoid me; 
 if I ask for food, it’s to a deaf ear I speak; if I 
 am thirsty, they send me to the river. What 
 house would shelter me? In cold, in hunger, 
 in drought, in storm, and in tempest, I am alone 
 and unfriended, hated, feared, an’ avoided; 
 starving in the winter’s cold, and burning in 
 the summer’s heat. All this is my fate here; 
 and — oh ! oh ! oh ! — have mercy, tormentor — 
 have mercy! I will not hft my thoughts there 
 — I’ll keep the paction — but spare me now! ” 
 
 She turned round as she spoke, seeming to 
 follow an invisible object, or, perhaps, attempt- 
 ing to get a more complete view of the mysteri- 
 ous being which exercised such a terrible and 
 painful influence over her. Mrs. Sullivan, also, 
 kept her eye fixed upon the lump, and actually 
 believed that she saw it move. Fear of incur- 
 ring the displeasure of what it contained, and 
 a superstitious reluctance harshly to thrust a per- 
 son from her door who had eaten of her food, 
 prevented her from desiring the woman to de- 
 part. 
 
 “ In the name of Goodness,” she replied, “ I 
 will have nothing 'to do wid your gift. Prov- 
 idence, blessed be his name, has done well for 
 me an’ mine; an’ it mightn’t be right to go be- 
 yant what it has pleased him to give me.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 257 
 
 “ A rational sentiment ! — I mean there’s good 
 sense in what you say,” answered the stranger: 
 “ but you need not be afraid,” and she accom- 
 panied the expression by holding up the bottle 
 and kneeling: “now,” she added, “listen to me, 
 and judge for yourself, if what I say, when I 
 swear it, can be a lie.” She then proceeded to 
 utter oaths of the most solenrn nature, the pur- 
 port of which was to assure Mrs. Sulhvan that 
 drinking of the bottle would be attended with 
 no danger. 
 
 “ You see this little bottle, drink it. Oh, for 
 my sake and your own, drink it; it will give 
 wealth without end, to you, and to all belong- 
 ing to you. Take one-half of it before sun- 
 rise, and the other half when he goes down. 
 You must stand while drinking it, with your 
 face to the east, in the morning; and at 
 night, to the west. Will you promise to do 
 this?” 
 
 “ How would drinkin’ the bottle get me 
 money? ” inquired Mrs. Sullivan, who certainly 
 felt a strong tendency of heart to the wealth, 
 
 “ That I can’t tell you now, nor would you 
 understand it, even if I could ; but you will know 
 all when what I say is complied with.” 
 
 “ Keep your bottle, dacent woman. I wash 
 my hands out of it: the saints above guard me 
 from the timptation! I’m sure it’s not right, 
 for as I’m a sinner, ’tis gettin’ stronger every 
 minute widin me? Keep it! I’m loth to bid 
 any one that ett o’ my bread to go from 
 
 my hearth, but if you go. I’ll make it worth 
 III— 17 
 
258 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 your while. Saints above, what’s cornin’ over 
 me. In my whole life I never had such 
 a hankerin’ afther money! Well, well, but it’s 
 quare entirely!” 
 
 “ Will you drink it ! ” asked her companion. 
 ‘‘ If it does hurt or harm to you or yours, or 
 anything but good, may what is hanging over 
 me be fulfilled L” and she extended a thin, but, 
 considering her years, not ungraceful arm, in 
 the act of holding out the bottle to her kind 
 entertainer. 
 
 “ For the sake of all that’s good and gracious 
 take it without scruple — ^it is not hurtful, a 
 child might drink every drop that’s in it. Oh, 
 for the sake of all you love, and of all that 
 love you, take it!” and as she urged her, the 
 tears streamed down her cheeks. 
 
 “ No, no,” replied Mrs. Sullivan, “ it’ll never 
 cross my lips; not if it made me as rich as ould 
 Hendherson, that airs his guineas in the sun, 
 for fraid they’d get light by lyin’ past.” 
 
 “ I entreat you to take it? ” said the strange 
 woman. 
 
 “ Never, never! — once for all — I say, I won’t; 
 so spare your breath.” 
 
 The firmness of the good housewife was not, 
 in fact, to be shaken; so, after exhausting all 
 the motives and arguments with which she could 
 urge the accomplishment of her design, the 
 strange woman, having again put the bottle 
 into her bosom, prepared to depart. 
 
 She had now once more become calm, and 
 resumed her seat with the languid air of one 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 259 
 
 who has suffered much exhaustion and excite- 
 ment. She put her hand upon her forehead for 
 a few moments, as if collecting her faculties, or 
 endeavouring to remember the purport of their 
 previous conversation. A slight moisture had 
 broken through her skin, and altogether, not- 
 withstanding her avowed criminality in entering 
 into an unholy bond, she appeared an object of 
 deep compassion. 
 
 In a moment, her manner changed again, and 
 her eyes blazed out once more, as she asked 
 her alarmed hostess: — 
 
 “ Again, Mary Sullivan, will you take the 
 gift that I have it in my power to give you? 
 ay or no? speak, poor mortal, if you know what 
 is for your own good?” 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan’s fears, however, had overcome 
 her love of money, particularly as she thought 
 that wealth obtained in such a manner could not 
 prosper; her only objection being to the means 
 of acquiring it. 
 
 “ Oh! ” said the stranger, ‘‘ am I doomed never 
 to meet with any one who will take the promise 
 off me by drinking of this bottle. Oh! but I 
 am unhappy! What it is to fear — ah! ah! — and 
 keep Ms commandments. Had I done so in my 
 youthful time, I wouldn’t now — ah — merciful 
 mother, is there no relief? kill me, tormentor; 
 kill me outright, for surely the pangs of eternity 
 cannot be greater than those you now make me 
 suffer. Woman,” said she, and her muscles 
 stood out in extraordinary energy — “ woman, 
 Mary Sullivan — ay, if you should kill me — blast 
 
260 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 me — wKere I stand, I will say the word — woman 
 — ^you have daughters — ^teach them — to fear 
 — ” Having got so far, she stopped — ^her bosom 
 heaved up and down — ^her frame shook dread- 
 fully — ^her eye-balls became lurid and fiery — 
 her hands were clenched, and the spasmodic 
 throes of inward convulsion worked the white 
 froth up to her mouth; at length she suddenly 
 became like a statue, with this wild supernatural 
 expression intense upon her, and with an awful 
 calmness, by far more dreadful than excitement 
 could be, concluded by pronouncing in deep husky 
 tones, the name of God. 
 
 Having accomplished this with such a power- 
 ful struggle, she turned round with pale despair 
 in her countenance and manner, and with stream- 
 ing eyes slowly departed, leaving Mrs. Sullivan 
 in a situation not at all to be envied. 
 
 In a short time the other members of the 
 family, who had been out at their evening em- 
 ployments, returned. Bartley, her husband, 
 having entered somewhat sooner than his three 
 daughters from milking, was the first to come 
 in; presently the girls followed, and in a few 
 minutes they sat down to supper, together with 
 the servants, who dropped in one by one, after 
 the toil of the day. On placing themselves 
 about the table, Bartley as usual took his seat 
 at the head; but Mrs. Sullivan, instead of oc- 
 cupying hers, sat at the fire in a state of uncom- 
 mon agitation. Every two or three minutes she 
 would cross herself devoutly, and mutter such 
 prayers against spiritual influences of an evil 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 2G1 
 
 nature, as she could compose herself to remem- 
 ber. 
 
 “ Thin, why don’t you come to your supper, 
 ]\laiy,” said the husband, “ while the sowans are 
 warm? Brave and thick they are this night, 
 any way.” 
 
 His wdfe was silent, for so strong a hold had 
 the strange woman and her appalling secret upon 
 her mind, that it was not till he repeated his 
 question three or four times — raising his head 
 with surprise, and asking, “ Eh, thin Mary, 
 what’s come over you — is it unwell you are?” 
 — that she noticed what he said. 
 
 “Supper!” she exclaimed, “unwell! ’tis a 
 good right I have to be unwell, — I hope nothin’ 
 bad wdll happen, any way. Feel my face, Nan- 
 nie,” she added, addressing one of her daugh- 
 ters, “ it’s as cowld an’ wet as a lime-stone — 
 ay, an’ if you found me a corpse before you, 
 it wouldn’t be at all strange.” 
 
 There was a general pause at the seriousness 
 of this intimation. The husband rose from his 
 supper, and went up to the hearth where she 
 sat. 
 
 “Turn round to the light,” said he; “why, 
 Mary dear, in the name of wondher, what ails 
 you? for you’re like a corpse sure enough. 
 Can’t you tell us what has happened, or what 
 put you in such a state? Why, childhre, the 
 cowld sweat’s teemin’ off her! ” 
 
 The poor woman, unable to sustain the shock 
 produced by her interview with the stranger, 
 found herself getting more weak, and requested 
 
262 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 a drink of water; but before it could be put 
 to her lips, she laid her head upon the back 
 of the chair and fainted. Grief, and uproar, 
 and confusion, followed this alarming incident. 
 The presence of mind, so necessary on such oc- 
 casions, was wholly lost; one ran here, and an- 
 other there, all jostling against each other, with- 
 out being cool enough to render her proper as- 
 sistance. The daughters were in tears, and 
 Rartley himself was dreadfully shocked by see- 
 ing his wife apparently lifeless before him. 
 
 She soon recovered, however, and reheved 
 them from the apprehension of her death, which 
 they thought had actually taken place. 
 “ Mary,” said the husband, “ something quare 
 entirely has happened, or you wouldn’t be in this 
 state ! ” 
 
 “ Did any of you see a strange woman lavin^ 
 the house, a minute or two before ye came in? ” 
 she inquired. 
 
 “ No,” they replied, “ not a stim of any one 
 did we see.” 
 
 “Wurrah dheelish! No? — now is it possible 
 ye didn’t ? ” She then described her, but all de- 
 clared they had seen no such person. 
 
 “ Bartley, whisper,” said she, and beckoning 
 him over to her, in few words she revealed the 
 secret. The husband grew pale and crossed him- 
 self. “ Mother of Saints! childhre,” said he “ a 
 Lianhan Shee!^^ The words were no sooner 
 uttered, than every countenance assumed the pal- 
 lidness of death ; and every right hand was raised 
 in the act of blessing the person, and crossing 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 2G3 
 
 the forehead. The Lianhan Slice!! all ex- 
 claimed in fear and horror — “ This day’s Friday, 
 God betwixt us an’ harm! ” 
 
 It was now after dusk, and the hour had 
 already deepened into the darkness of a calm, 
 moonless, summer night; the hearth, therefore, 
 in a short time, became surrounded by a circle, 
 consisting of every person in the house ; the door 
 was closed and securely bolted; — a struggle for 
 the safest seat took place; and to Bartley’s shame 
 be it spoken, he lodged himself on the hob within 
 the jamb, as the most distant situation from 
 the fearful being known as the Lianhan Shee, 
 The recent terror, however, brooded over them 
 all; their topic of conversation was the myste- 
 rious visit, of which Mrs. Sullivan gave a pain- 
 fully accurate detail; whilst every ear of those 
 who composed her audience was set, and every 
 single hair of their heads bristled up, as if 
 awakened into distinct life by the story. Bartley 
 looked into the fire soberly, except when the cat, 
 in prowling about the dresser, electrified him 
 into a start of fear, wliich sensation went round 
 every link of the living chain about the hearth. 
 
 The next day the story spread through the 
 whole neighbourhood, accumulating in interest 
 and incident as it went. Where it received the 
 touches, embellishments, and emendations, with 
 which it w^as amplified, it would be difficult to 
 say; every one told it, forsooth, exactly as he 
 heard it from another; but indeed it is not im- 
 probable, that those through whom it passed, 
 were unconscious of the additions it had received 
 
264i 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 at their hands. It is not unreasonable to sup- 
 pose, that imagination in such cases often colours 
 highly without a premeditated design of false- 
 hood. F ear and dread, however, accompanied its 
 progress; such families as had neglected to keep 
 holy water in their houses borrowed some from 
 their neighbours ; every old prayer which had be- 
 come rusty from disuse, was brightened up — 
 charms were hung about the necks of cattle — 
 and gospels about those of children — crosses 
 were placed over the doors and windows; — no 
 unclean water was thrown out before sun-rise 
 or after dusk — 
 
 “ E’en those prayed now who never prayed before, 
 
 And those who always prayed, still prayed the more.” 
 
 The inscrutable woman who caused such 
 general dismay in the parish, was an object of 
 much pity. Avoided, feared, and detested, she 
 could find no rest for her weary feet, nor any 
 shelter for her unprotected head. If she was 
 seen approaching a house, the door and windows 
 were immediately closed against her; if met on 
 the way she was avoided as a pestilence. How 
 she lived no one could tell, for none would per- 
 mit themselves to know. It was asserted that 
 she existed without meat or drink, and that she 
 was doomed to remain possessed of life, the 
 prey of hunger and thirst, until she could get 
 some one weak enough to break the spell by 
 drinking her hellish draught, to taste which, they 
 said, would be to change places with herself, 
 and assume her despair and misery. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 2G5 
 
 There had lived in the country about six 
 months before her appearance in it, a man named 
 Stephenson. He was unmarried, and the last 
 of his family. This person led a solitaiy and 
 secluded life, and exhibited during the last 
 years of his existence strong symptoms of ec- 
 centricity, which for some months before his 
 death, assumed a character of unquestionable 
 derangement. lie was found one morning 
 hanging by a halter in his own stable, where 
 he had, under the influence of his malady, com- 
 mitted suicide. At this time the public press 
 had not, as now, familiarised the minds of the 
 people to that dreadful crime, and it was con- 
 sequently looked upon then with an intensity of 
 IioiTor, of which we can scarcely entertain any 
 adequate notion. His farm remained unoccu- 
 pied, for while an acre of land could be obtained 
 in any other quarter, no man would enter upon 
 such unhallowed premises. The house was 
 locked up, and it was currently reported that 
 Stephenson and the devil each night repeated 
 the hanging scene in the stable; and that when 
 the former was committing the “ hopeless sin,” 
 the halter slipped several times from the beam 
 of the stable-loft, when Satan came, in the shape 
 of a dark-complexioned man with a hollow 
 voice, and secured the rope imtil Stephenson’s 
 end was accomplished. 
 
 In this stable did the wanderer take up her 
 residence at night; and when we consider the 
 belief of the people in the night-scenes which 
 were supposed to occur in it, we need not be 
 
266 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 surprised at the new feature of horror which 
 this circumstance superadded to her character. 
 Her presence and appearance in the parish were 
 dreadful; a public outcry was soon raised 
 against her, which, were it not from fear of her 
 power over their lives and cattle, might have 
 ended in her death. None, however, had courage 
 to grapple with her, or to attempt expelling her 
 by violence, lest a signal vengeance might be 
 taken on any who dared to injure a woman that 
 could call in the terrible aid of the Lianhan 
 Shee, 
 
 In this state of feeling they applied to the 
 parish priest, who, on hearing the marvellous 
 stories related concerning her, and on question- 
 ing each man closely upon his authority, could 
 perceive, that, like most other reports, they were 
 to be traced principally to the imagination and 
 fears of the people. He ascertained, however, 
 enough from Bartley Sullivan to justify a be- 
 lief that there was something certainly uncom- 
 mon about the woman; and feeing of a cold, 
 phlegmatic disposition, with some humour, he de- 
 sired them to go home, if they were wise — ^he 
 shook his head mysteriously as he spoke — “ and 
 do the woman no injury, if they didn’t wish ” — 
 and with this abrupt hint he sent them about their 
 business. 
 
 This, however, did not satisfy them. In the 
 same parish lived a suspended priest, called 
 Father Philip O’Dallaghy, who supported him- 
 self, as most of them do, by curing certain dis- 
 eases of the people — miraculously! He had 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 267 
 
 no other means of subsistence, nor, indeed, did 
 he seem strongly devoted to life, or to the pleas- 
 ures it afforded. He was not addicted to those 
 intemperate habits which characterise “ Blessed 
 Priests ” in general; spirits he never tasted, nor 
 any food that could be termed a luxury, or even 
 a comfort. His communion with the people was 
 brief, and marked by a tone of severe contemp- 
 tuous misanthropy. He seldom stiired abroad 
 except during morning, or in the evening twi- 
 light, when he might be seen gliding amidst the 
 coming darkness, like a dissatisfied spirit. His 
 life was an austere one, and his devotional 
 practices were said to be of the most remorse- 
 ful character. Such a man, in fact, was calcu- 
 lated to hold a powerful sway over the prejudices 
 and superstitions of the people. This was true. 
 His power was considered almost unlimited, and 
 his life one that would not disgrace the highest 
 saint* in the calendar. There were not wanting 
 some persons in the parish who hinted that 
 Father Felix O’Rourke, the parish priest, was 
 himself rather reluctant to incur the displeasure, 
 or challenge the power of the Lianhan Shee, by 
 driving its victim out of the parish. The opinion 
 of theses persons was, in its distinct unvarnished 
 Ideality, that Father Felix absolutely showed the 
 white feather on this critical occasion — that he 
 became shy, and begged leave to decline being in- 
 troduced to this intractable pair — seeming to 
 intimate that he did not at all relish adding them 
 to the stock of his acquaintances. 
 
 Father Philip they considered as a decided con- 
 
268 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 trast to him on this point. His stern and severe 
 manner, rugged, and, when occasion demanded, 
 daring, they believed suitable to the qualities req- 
 uisite for sustaining such an interview. They 
 accordingly waited on him; and after Bartley 
 and his friends had given as faithful a report 
 of the circumstances as, considering all things, 
 could be expected, he told Bartley he would hear 
 from Mrs. Sullivan’s own lips the authentic nar- 
 rative. This was quite satisfactory, and what 
 was expected from him. As for himself, he ap- 
 peared to take no particular interest in the mat- 
 ter, further than that of allaying the ferment 
 and alarm which had spread through the parish. 
 
 “ Plase your Reverence,” said Bartley, “ she 
 came in to Mary, and she alone in the house, 
 and for the matther o’ that, I believe she laid 
 hands upon her, and tossed and tumbled the 
 crathur, and she but a sickly woman, through the 
 four corners of the house. Not that Mary lets 
 an so much, for she’s afeard; but I know from 
 her way, when she spakes about her, that it’s 
 thruth, your Reverence.” 
 
 ‘‘ But didn’t the Lianhan Shee/^ said one of 
 them, “ put a sharp-pointed knife to her breast, 
 wid a divilish intintion of makin’ her give the 
 best of atin’ ah’ dhrinkin’ the house afforded?” 
 “ She got the victuals, to a sartinty,” replied 
 Bartley, “ and ‘ overlooked ’ my woman for her 
 pains; for she’s not the picture of herself since.” 
 Every one now told some magnified and ter- 
 rible circumstance, illustrating the formidable 
 power of the Lianhan Shee. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 2G9 
 
 When they had finished, the sarcastic lip of 
 the priest curled into an expression of irony and 
 contempt; his brow which was naturally black 
 and heavy, darkened; and a keen, but rather a 
 ferocious-looking eye shot forth a glance, which, 
 while it intimated disdain for those to whom it 
 was directed, spoke also of a dark and troubled 
 spirit in himself. The man seemed to brook 
 with scorn the degrading situation of a religious 
 quack, to which some incontrollable destiny had 
 doomed him. 
 
 ‘‘ I shall see your wife to-morrow,” said he 
 to Bartley; “ and after hearing the plain ac- 
 count of what happened, I will consider what 
 is best to be done with this dark, perhaps un- 
 happy, perhaps guilty character; but whether 
 dark, or unhap}3y, or guilty, I, for one, should 
 not, and will not, avoid her. Go, and bring me 
 word to-morrow evening, when I can see her on 
 the following day. Begone!” 
 
 When they withdrew. Father Philip paced his 
 room for some time in silence and anxiety. 
 
 “Ay,” said he, “infatuated people! sunk in 
 superstition and ignorance, yet, perhaps, happier 
 in your degradation than those who, in the pride 
 of knowledge, can only look back upon a life 
 of crime and misery. What is a sceptic? What 
 is an infidel? Men who, when they will not 
 submit to moral restraint, harden themselves into 
 scepticism and infidelity, until, in the headlong 
 career of guilt, that which was first adopted to 
 lull the outcry of conscience, is supported by the 
 pretended pride of principle. Principle in a 
 
270 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 sceptic! Hollow and devilish lie! Would 1 
 have plunged into scepticism, had I not first 
 violated the moral sanctions of religion? Never. 
 I became an infidel, because I first became a 
 villain! Writhing under a load of guilt, that 
 which I wished might be true, I soon forced my- 
 self to think true: and now” — he here clenched 
 his hands and groaned — “ now — ay, now — and 
 hereafter — oh, that hereafter! Why can I not 
 shake the thoughts of it from my conscience? 
 Religion! Christianity! With all the hardness 
 of an infidel’s heart, I feel your truth; because, 
 if every man were the villain that infidelity would 
 make him, then indeed might every man curse 
 God for the existence bestowed upon him — as 
 I would, but dare not do. Yet why can I not 
 believe? — Alas! why should God accept an un- 
 repentant heart? Am I not a hypocrite, mocking 
 him by a guilty pretension to his power, and lead- 
 ing the dark into thicker darkness? Then these 
 hands — blood ! — broken vows — ha ! ha ! ha ! W ell, 
 go — let misery have its laugh, like the light that 
 breaks from the thunder-cloud. Prefer Voltaire 
 to Christ; sow the wind, and reap the whirlwind, 
 as I have done — ha, ha, ha ! Swim, world — swim 
 about me! I have lost the ways of Providence, 
 and am dark! She awaits me; but I broke the 
 chain that galled us: yet it still rankles — still 
 rankles ! ” 
 
 The unhappy man threw himself into a chair 
 in a paroxysm of frenzied agony. For more 
 than an hour he sat in the same posture, until 
 he became gradually hardened into a stiff, 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 271 
 
 lethargic insensibility, callous and impervious to 
 feeling, reason, or religion — an awful transition 
 from a visitation of conscience so terrible as that 
 which he had just suffered. At length he arose, 
 and by walking moodily about, relapsed into his 
 usual gloomy and restless character. 
 
 When Bartley went home, he communicated 
 to his wife Father Philip’s intention of calling 
 on the following day, to hear a correct account 
 of the Lianhan Shee. 
 
 “ Why, thin,” said she, “ I’m glad of it, for I 
 intinded myself to go to him, any way, to get 
 my new scapular consecrated. How-an’-ever, as 
 he’s to come. I’ll get a set of gospels for the 
 boys an’ girls, an’ he can consecrate all when 
 his hand’s in. Aroon, Bartley, they say that 
 man’s so holy that he can do anything — ay, melt 
 a body off the face o’ the earth, like snow off 
 a ditch. Dear me, but the power they have is 
 strange all out! ” 
 
 “ There’s no use in gettin’ him anything to 
 ate or dhrink,” replied Bartley; “he wouldn’t 
 take a glass o’ whiskey once in seven years. 
 Throth, myself thinks he’s a little too dhry; sure 
 he might be holy enough, an’ yet take a sup 
 of an odd time. There’s Father Felix, an’ 
 though we all know he’s far from bein’ so blessed 
 a man as him, yet he has friendship an’ neigh- 
 bourhness in him, an’ never refuses a glass in 
 rason.” 
 
 “ But do you know what I was tould about 
 Father Philip, Bartley? ” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you that afther I hear it, Mary, my 
 
272 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 woman ; you won’t expect me to tell what I don’t 
 know? — ^ha, ha, ha! ” 
 
 “ Behave, Bartley, an’ quit your jokin’ now, at 
 all evints; keep it till we’re talkin’ of somethin’ 
 else, an’ don’t let us be committin’ sin, maybe, 
 while we’re spakin’ of what we’re spakin’ about; 
 but they say it’s as thrue as the sun to the dial; 
 — the Lent afore last itself it was, — he never 
 tasted mate or dhrink durin’ the whole seven 
 weeks! Oh, you needn’t stare! it’s well known 
 by tliim that has as much sinse as you — no, not 
 so much as you’d carry on the point o’ this 
 knittin’-needle. Well, sure the housekeeper an’ 
 the two sarvants wondhered — faix, they couldn’t 
 do less — an’ took it into their heads to watch him 
 closely ; an’ what do you think — blessed be all the 
 saints above ! — what do you think they seen? 
 
 “The Goodness above knows; for me — I 
 don’t. ” 
 
 “ Why, thin, whin he was asleep they seen a 
 small silk thread in his mouth, that came down 
 through the ceilin’ from heaven, an’ he suckin’ 
 it, just as a child would his mother’s breast whin 
 the crathur ’ud be asleep: so that was the way 
 he was supported by the angels! An’ I remim- 
 ber myself, though he’s a dark, spare, yallow man 
 at all times, yet he never looked half so fat an’ 
 rosy as he did the same Lent! ” 
 
 “ Glory be to Heaven! Well, well — it is 
 sthrange the power they have! As for him, I’d 
 as lee meet St. P ether, or St. Pathrick himself, 
 as him; for one can’t but fear him, somehow.” 
 
 “ Fear him! Och, it ’ud be the pity o’ thim 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 273 
 
 that ’ud do anything to vex or anger that man. 
 Why, his very look ’ud Avither thim, till there 
 wouldn’t be the thrack^“ o’ thim on the earth; 
 an’ as for his curse, why it ’ud scorch thim to 
 ashes ! ” 
 
 As it was generally known that Father Philip 
 was to visit Mrs. Sullivan the next day, in or- 
 der to hear an account of the mystery which filled 
 the parish with such fear, a very great number 
 of the parishioners were assembled in and about 
 Bartley’s long before he made his appearance. 
 At length he was seen walking slowly down the 
 road, with an open book in his hand, on the pages 
 of which he looked from time to time. When 
 he approached the house, those who were stand- 
 ing about it assembled in a body, and, with one 
 consent, uncovered their heads, and asked his 
 blessing. His appearance bespoke a mind ill at 
 ease; his face was haggard, and his eyes blood- 
 shot. On seeing the people kneel, he smiled with 
 his usual bitterness, and, shaking his hand with 
 an air of impatience over them, muttered some 
 words, rather in mockery of the ceremony than 
 otherwise. They then rose, and blessing them- 
 selves, put on their hats, rubbed the dust off their 
 knees, and appeared to think themselves recruited 
 by a peculiar accession of grace. 
 
 On entering the house the same form was re- 
 peated ; and when it was over, the best chair was 
 placed for him by Mary’s own hands, and the 
 fire stirred up, and a line of respect drawn, 
 within which none was to intrude, lest he might 
 feel in any degree incommoded. 
 
 Ill— 18 
 
274 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ My good neighbour,” said he to Mrs. Sulli- 
 van, “ what strange woman is this, who has 
 thrown the parish into such a ferment? I’m 
 told she paid you a visit? Pray sit down.” 
 
 “ I humbly thank your Reverence,” said Mary, 
 curtseying lowly, “ but I’d rather not sit. Sir, 
 if you plase. I hope I know what respect 
 manes, your Reverence. Barny Bradagh, I’ll 
 thank you to stand up, if you plase, an’ his 
 Reverence to the fore, Barny.” 
 
 ‘‘I ax your Reverence’s pardon, an’ yours, 
 too, Mrs. Sullivan: sure we didn’t mane the dis- 
 respect, any how. Sir, plase your Reverence.” 
 
 “ About this woman, and the Lianhan Shee? 
 said the priest, without noticing Barny ’s 
 apology. “ Pray what do you precisely under- 
 stand by a Lianhan Shee? " 
 
 “ Why, Sir,” replied Mary, “ some sthrange 
 bein’ from the good people, or fairies, that sticks 
 to some persons. There’s a bargain. Sir, your 
 Reverence, made atween thim; an’ the divil. Sir, 
 that is, the ould boy — ^the saints about us! — ^has 
 a hand in it. The Lianhan Shee, your Rever- 
 ence, is never seen only by thim it keeps wid; 
 but — hem! — it always, wid the help of the ould 
 boy, conthrives. Sir, to make the person brake 
 the agreement, an’ thin it has thim in its power; 
 but if they donH brake the agreement, thin ifs 
 in their power. If they can get any body to 
 put in their place, they may get out o’ the bar- 
 gain; for they can, of a sartainty, give oceans 
 o’ money to people, but can’t take any themselves, 
 plase your Reverence. But sure, where’s the 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 275 
 
 use o’ me to be tellin’ your Reverence what you 
 know betther nor myself? — an’ why shouldn’t 
 you, or any one that has the power you have? ” 
 
 He smiled again at this in his own peculiar 
 manner, and was proceeding to inquire more par- 
 ticularly into the nature of the interview between 
 them, when the noise of feet, and sounds of 
 general alarm, accompanied by a rush of people 
 into the house, arrested his attention, and he 
 hastily inquired into the cause of the commotion. 
 Before he could receive a reply, however, the 
 house w^as almost crowded; and it was not with- 
 out considerable difficulty that, by the exertions 
 of Mrs. Sullivan and Bartley, sufficient order 
 and quiet were obtained to hear distinctly what 
 was said. 
 
 “ Plase your Reverence,” said several voices 
 at once, “ they’re cornin’, hot-foot, into the very 
 house to us! Was ever the likes seen! an’ they 
 must know right well. Sir, that you’re widin in 
 it.” 
 
 “ Who are coming? ” he inquired. 
 
 “ Why the woman. Sir an’ her good pet, the 
 Lianhan Shee, your Reverence.” 
 
 “ Well,” said he, “ but why should you all ap- 
 pear so blanched with terror? Let her come in, 
 and we shall see how far she is capable of in- 
 juring her fellow-creatures: some maniac,” he 
 muttered, in a low soliloquy, “ whom the villany 
 of the world has driven into derangement — some 
 
 victim to a hand like m . Well, they say 
 
 there is a Providence, yet such things are per- 
 mitted ! ” 
 
276 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ He’s sayin’ a prayer now,” observed one of 
 them ; “ haven’t we a good right to be thankful 
 that he’s in the place wid us while she’s in it, 
 or dear knows what harm she might do us — 
 maybe rise the wind! ” 
 
 As the latter speaker concluded, there was a 
 dead silence. The persons about the door 
 crushed each other backwards, their feet set out 
 before them, and their shoulders laid with violent 
 pressure against those who stood behind, for 
 each felt anxious to avoid all danger of contact 
 with a being against whose power even a blessed 
 priest found it necessary to guard himself by a 
 prayer. 
 
 At length a low murmur ran among the 
 people — “Father O’Rourke! — there’s Father 
 
 O’Rourke! — he has turned the corner after her, 
 an’ they’re both cornin’ in.” Immediately they 
 entered, but it was quite evident from the man- 
 ner of the worthy priest, that he was unac- 
 quainted with the person of this singular being. 
 When they crossed the threshold, the priest ad- 
 vanced, and expressed his surprise at the throng 
 of people assenibled. 
 
 “ Plase your Reverence,” said Bartley, “ thafs 
 the woman,” nodding significantly towards her 
 as he spoke, but without looking at her person, 
 lest the evil eye he dreaded so much might meet 
 his, and give him “ the blast.” 
 
 The dreaded female, on seeing the house in 
 such a crowded state, started, paused, and 
 glanced with some terror at the persons assem- 
 bled. Her dress was not altered since her last 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 277 
 
 visit; but her countenance, though more meagre 
 and emaciated, expressed but little of the un- 
 settled energj^ which then flashed from her eyes, 
 and distorted her features by the depth of that 
 mysterious excitement by which she had been 
 agitated. Her countenance was still muffled as 
 before, the awful protuberance rose from her 
 shoulders, and the same band which Mrs. Sulli- 
 van had alluded to during their interview, was 
 bound about the upper part of her forehead. 
 
 She had already stood upwards of two minutes, 
 during which the fall of a feather might be 
 heard, yet none bade God bless her — no kind 
 hand was extended to greet her — no heart 
 warmed in affection towards her; on the con- 
 trary, every eye glanced at her, as a being 
 marked with enmity towards God. Blanched 
 faces and knit brows, the signs of fear and 
 hatred, were turned upon her; her breath was 
 considered pestilential, and her touch paralysis. 
 There she stood, proscribed, avoided, and hunted 
 like a tigress, all fearing to encounter, yet wish- 
 ing to exterminate her! Who could she be? — 
 or what had she done, that the finger of the Al- 
 mighty marked her out for such a fearful weight 
 of vengeance? 
 
 Father Philip rose and advanced a few steps, 
 until he stood confronting her. His person was 
 tall, his features dark, severe, and solemn: and 
 when the nature of the investigation about to 
 take place is considered, it need not be wondered 
 at, that the moment was, to those present, one of 
 deep and impressive interest — such as a visible 
 
278 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 conflict between a supposed champion of God and 
 a supernatural being was calculated to excite. 
 
 “ Woman/’ said he, in his deep stern voice, 
 ‘‘tell me who and what you are, and why you 
 assume a character of such a repulsive and mys- 
 terious nature, when it can entail only misery, 
 shame, and persecution on yourself? I conjure 
 you, in the name of Him after whose image 
 you are created, to speak truly? ” 
 
 He paused, and the tall figure stood mute 
 before him. The silence was dead as death — 
 every breath was hushed — and the persons as- 
 sembled stood immoveable as statues! Still she 
 spoke not; but the violent heaving of her breast 
 evinced the internal working of some dreadful 
 struggle. Her face before was pale — it was 
 now ghastly; her lips became blue, and her eyes 
 wacant. 
 
 “Speak!” said he, “I conjure you in the 
 name of the power by whom you live! ” 
 
 It is probable that the agitation under which 
 she laboured was produced by the severe effort 
 made to sustain the unexpected trial she had to 
 undergo. 
 
 For some minutes her struggle continued; but 
 having begun at its highest pitch, it gradually 
 subsided until it settled in a calnmess which ap- 
 peared fixed and awful as the resolution of des- 
 pair. With breathless composure she turned 
 round, and put back that part of her dress which 
 concealed her face, except the band on her fore- 
 head, which she did not remove; having done 
 this, she turned again, and walked calmly to- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 279 
 
 wards Father Philip, with a deadly smile upon 
 her thin lips. When within a step of where he 
 stood, she paused, and rivetting her eyes upon 
 him, exclaimed — 
 
 “Who and what am I? The victim of in- 
 fidelity and you, the bearer of a cursed existence, 
 the scoff and scorn of the world, the monument of 
 a broken vow and a guilty life, a being scourged 
 by the scorpion lash of conscience, blasted by 
 periodical insanity, pelted by the winter’s storm, 
 scorched by the summer’s heat, withered by 
 starvation, hated by man, and touched into my 
 inmost spirit by the anticipated tortures of 
 future misery. I have no rest for the sole of 
 my foot, no repose for a head distracted by the 
 contemplation of a guilty life; I am the unclean 
 spirit which walketh to seek rest and findeth 
 none; I am — what you have made me! Behold,” 
 she added, holding up the bottle, “ this failed, 
 and I live to accuse you. But no, you are my 
 husband — though our union was but a guilty 
 form, and I will burv that in silence. You 
 thought me dead, and you flew to avoid punish- 
 ment — did you avoid it? No; the finger of God 
 has written pain and punishment upon your 
 brow. I have been in all characters, in all shapes, 
 have spoken with the tongue of a peasant, moved 
 in my natural sphere ; but my knees were 
 smitten, my brain stricken, and the wild malady 
 which banishes me from society has been upon 
 me for years. Such I am, and such I say, have 
 you made me. As for you, kind-hearted woman, 
 there was nothing in this bottle but pure water. 
 
280 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 The interval of reason returned this day, and 
 having remembered ghmpses of our conversation, 
 I came to apologise to you, and to explain the 
 nature of my unhappy distemper, and to beg a 
 little bread, which I have not tasted for two 
 days. I at times conceive myself attended by an 
 evil spirit, shaped out by a guilty conscience, 
 and this is the only familiar which attends me, 
 and by it I have been dogged into madness 
 through every turning of life. Whilst it lasts 
 I am subject to spasms and convulsive starts 
 which are exceedingly painful. The lump on my 
 back is the robe I wore when innocent in my 
 peaceful convent.’’ 
 
 The intensity of general interest was now 
 transferred to Father Philip; every face was 
 turned towards him, but he cared not. A solemn 
 stillness yet prevailed among all present. From 
 the moment she spoke, her eye drew his with the 
 power of a basilisk. His pale face became like 
 marble, not a muscle moved ; and when she ceased 
 speaking, his blood-shot eyes were stiU fixed upon 
 her countenance with a gloomy calmness like that 
 which precedes a tempest. They stood before 
 each other, dreadful counterparts in guilt, for 
 truly his spirit was as dark as hers. 
 
 At length he glanced angrily around him: — 
 “ Well,” said he, “ what is it now, ye poor in- 
 fatuated wretches, to trust in the sanctity of 
 man? Learn from me to place the same con- 
 fidence in God which you place in his guilty crea- 
 tures^ and you will not lean on a broken reed. 
 Father O’Rourke, you, too, witness my disgrace. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 281 
 
 but not my punishment. It is pleasant, no doubt, 
 to have a topic for conversation at your Con- 
 ferences; enjoy it. As for you, Margaret, if 
 society lessen misery, we may be less miserable. 
 But the band of your order, and the remem- 
 brance of your vow is on your forehead, like 
 the mark of Cain — tear it off, and let it not blast 
 a man who is the victim of prejudice still, nay 
 of superstition, as well as of guilt; tear it from 
 my sight.” His eyes kindled fearfully as he at- 
 tempted to pull it away by force. 
 
 She calmly took it off, and he immediately tore 
 it into pieces, and stamped upon the fragments 
 as he flung them on the ground. 
 
 “ Come,” said the despairing man — “ come — 
 there is a shelter for you, but no 'peace! — food, 
 and drink, and raiment, but no peace ! — no 
 pilvce! ” As he uttered these words, in a voice 
 that sank to its deepest pitch, he took her hand, 
 and they both departed to his own residence. 
 
 The amazement and horror of those who were 
 assembled in Bartley’s house cannot be described. 
 Our readers may be assured that they deepened 
 in character as they spread through the parish. 
 An undefined fear of this mysterious pair seized 
 upon the people, for their images were asso- 
 ciated in their minds with darkness and crime, 
 and supernatural communion. The departing 
 words of Father Philip rang in their ears: they 
 trembled, and devoutly crossed themselves, as 
 fancy again repeated the awful exclamation of 
 the priest — “ No peace! no peace! ” 
 
 When Father Philip and his unhappy asso- 
 
282 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 date went home, he instantly made her a sur- 
 render of his small property; but with difficulty 
 did he command sufficient calmness to accomplish 
 even this. He was distracted — ^his blood seemed to 
 have been turned to fire — ^he clenched his hands, 
 and he gnashed his teeth, and exhibited the wild- 
 est symptoms of madness. About ten o’clock he 
 desired fuel for a large fire to be brought into 
 the kitchen, and got a strong cord, which he 
 coiled, and threw carelessly on the table. The 
 family were then ordered to bed. About eleven 
 they were all asleep; and at the solemn hour of 
 twelve he heaped additional fuel upon the hving 
 turf, until the blaze shone with scorching light 
 upon everything around. Dark and desolating 
 was the tempest within him, as he paced, with 
 agitated steps, before the crackling fire. 
 
 “She is risen!” he exclaimed — “the spectre 
 of all my crimes is risen to haunt me through life! 
 I am a murderer — yet she lives, and my guilt is 
 not the less! The stamp of eternal infamy is 
 upon me — the finger of scorn will mark me out — 
 the tongue of reproach will sting me hke that 
 of the serpent — the deadly touch of shame will 
 cover me hke a leper — the laws of society will 
 crush the murderer, not the less that his wicked- 
 ness in blood has miscarried: after that comes the 
 black and terrible tribunal of the Almighty’s 
 vengeance — of his fiery indignation! Hush! — 
 What sounds are those? They deepen — they 
 deepen! Is it thunder? It cannot be the crack- 
 ling of the blaze! It is thunder! — but it speaks 
 only to my ear! Hush! — Great God, there is a 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 283 
 
 change in my voice! It is hollow and super- 
 natural! Could a change have come over me? 
 
 Am I living? Could I have Hah! — Could 
 
 I have departed? and am I now at length given 
 over to the worm that never dies? If it be at my 
 heart, I may feel it. God! — I am damned! 
 Here is a viper twined about my limbs, trying to 
 dart its fangs into my heart! Hah! — there are 
 feet pacing in the room, too, and I hear voices! 
 I am surrounded by evil spirits! Who’s there? 
 — ^What are you? — Speak! — They are silent! — 
 There is no answer! Again comes the thunder! 
 But perchance this is not my place of punish- 
 ment, and I will try to leave these horrible 
 spirits!” 
 
 He opened the door, and passed out into a 
 small green field that lay behind the house. The 
 night was calm, and the silence profound as 
 death. Not a cloud obscured the heavens; — the 
 light of the moon fell upon the stillness of the 
 scene around him, with all the touching beauty 
 of a moonlit midnight in summer. Here he 
 paused a moment, felt his brow, then his heart, 
 the palpitations of which fell audibly upon his 
 ear. He became somewhat cooler; the images 
 of madness which had swept through his stormy 
 brain disappeared, and were succeeded by a 
 lethargic vacancy of thought, which almost de- 
 prived him of the consciousness of his own iden- 
 tity. From the green field he descended me- 
 chanically to a little glen which opened beside it. 
 It was one of those delightful spots to which the 
 heart clingeth. Its sloping sides were clothed 
 
284 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 with patches of wood, on the leaves of which the 
 moonlight glanced with a soft lustre, rendered 
 more beautiful by their stillness. That side on 
 which the light could not fall, lay in deep shadow, 
 which occasionally gave to the rocks and small 
 projecting precipices an appearance of mon- 
 strous and unnatural life. Having passed 
 through the tangled mazes of the glen, he at 
 length reached its bottom, along which ran a 
 brook, such as in the description of the poet, — 
 
 ** In the leafy month of June, 
 
 Unto the sleeping woods all night, 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune.” 
 
 Here he stood, and looked upon the green wind- 
 ing margin of the streamlet — but its song he 
 heard not. With the workings of a guilty con- 
 science, the beautiful in nature can have no asso- 
 ciation. He looked up the glen, but its pictur- 
 esque windings, soft vistas, and wild underwood 
 minghng with gray rocks and taller trees, all 
 mellowed by the moon-beams, had no charms for 
 him. He maintained a profound silence — but it 
 was not the silence of peace or reflection. He 
 endeavoured to recall the scenes of the past day, 
 but could not bring them back to his memory. 
 Even the fiery tide of thought, which, like burn- 
 ing lava, seared his brain a few moments before, 
 was now cold and hardened. He could remem- 
 ber nothing. The convulsion, of his mind was 
 over, and his faculties were impotent and col- 
 lapsed. 
 
 In this state he unconsciously retraced his 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 285 
 
 steps, and had again reached the paddock ad- 
 joining his house, when, as he thought, the figure 
 of his paramour stood before him. In a moment 
 his former paroxysm returned, and with it the 
 gloomy images of a guilty mind, charged with 
 the extravagant horrors of brain-struck madness. 
 
 “What!” he exclaimed, “the band still on 
 your forehead! Tear it off!” 
 
 He caught at the form as he spoke, but there 
 was no resistance to his grasp. On looking again 
 towards the spot it had ceased to be visible. The 
 storm within him arose once more; he rushed 
 into the kitchen, where the fire blazed out with 
 fiercer heat; again he imagined that the thunder 
 came to his ears, but the thunderings which he 
 heard were only the voice of conscience. Again 
 his own footsteps and his voice sounded in his 
 fancy as the footsteps and voices of fiends, with 
 which his imagination peopled the room. His 
 state and his existence seemed to him a confused 
 and troubled dream ; he tore his hair — threw it on 
 the table — and immediately started back with a 
 hollow groan; for his locks, which but a few 
 hours before had been as black as the raven’s 
 wing, were now white as snow! 
 
 On discovering this, he gave a low but frantic 
 laugh. “Ha, ha, ha!” he exclaimed; “here is 
 another mark — here is food for despair. 
 Silently, but surely, did the hand of God work 
 this, as a proof that I am hopeless! But I will 
 bear it; I will bear the sight! I now feel myself 
 a main blasted by the eye of God himself! Ha, 
 ha, ha! Food for despair! Food for despair! ” 
 
286 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Immediately he passed into his own room, and 
 approaching the looking-glass beheld a sight 
 calculated to move a statue. His hair had be- 
 come literally white, but the shades of his dark 
 complexion, now distorted by terror and madness, 
 flitted, as his features worked under the influ- 
 ence of his tremendous passions, into an expres- 
 sion so frightful, that deep fear came over him- 
 self. He snatched one of his razors, and fled 
 from the glass to the kitchen. He looked upon 
 the fire, and saw the white ashes lying around its 
 edge. 
 
 “ Ha! ” said he, “ the hght is come! I see the 
 sign. I am directed, and I will follow it. There 
 is yet ONE hope. The immolation! I shall be 
 saved, yet so as by fire. It is for this my hair 
 has become white; — the sublime warning for my 
 self-sacrifice! The colour of ashes! — white — 
 white ! It is so ! — I will sacrifice my body in ma- 
 terial fire, to save my soul from that which is 
 eternal! But I had anticipated the Sign. The 
 self-sacrifice is accepted! ” 
 
 We must here draw a veil over that which en- 
 sued, as the description of it would be both un- 
 natural and revolting. Let it be sufficient to 
 say, that the next morning he was found burned 
 to a cinder, with the exception of his feet and 
 legs, which remained as monuments of, perhaps, 
 the most dreadful suicide that ever was committed 
 by man. His razor, too, was found bloody, and 
 several clots of gore were discovered about the 
 hearth; from which circumstances it was plain 
 that he had reduced his strength so much by loss 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 287 
 
 of blood, that when he committed himself to the 
 flames, he was unable, even had he been willing, 
 to avoid the flery and awful sacriflce of which lie 
 made himself the victim. If anything could 
 deepen the impression of fear and awe, already 
 so general among the people, it was the unparal- 
 leled nature of his death. Its circumstances are 
 yet remembered in the parish and county wherein 
 it occurred — for it is no fiction^ gentle reader! 
 and the titular bishop who then presided over the 
 diocese, declared, that while he lived, no person 
 bearing the unliappy man’s name should ever be 
 admitted to the clerical order. 
 
 The shock produced by his death struck the 
 miserable woman into the utter darkness of 
 settled derangement. She survived him some 
 years, but wandered about through the province, 
 still, according to the superstitious belief of the 
 people, tormented by the terrible enmity of the 
 Lianhan Shee. 
 
GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 Young Denis O’Shaughnessy was old 
 Denis’s son; and old Denis, like many great 
 men before him, was the son of his father and 
 mother in particular, and of a long line of re- 
 spectable ancestors in general. He was, more- 
 over, a great historian, a perplexing controversi- 
 alist, deeply read in Dr. Gallagher and Pastorini, 
 and equally profound in the history of Harry 
 the Eighth, and Luther’s partnership with the 
 devil. Denis was a tall man, who from his pecul- 
 iar appearance, and the nature of his dress, a 
 light drab-coloured frieze, was nicknamed the 
 Walking Pigeon-house; and truly on seeing him 
 at a distance, a man might naturally enough hit 
 upon a worse comparison. He was quite 
 straight, carried both arms hanging by his sides, 
 motionless and at their full length, hke the pen- 
 dulums of a clock that has ceased going. In his 
 head, neck, and chest there was no muscular 
 action visible; he walked, in fact, as if a milk-pail 
 were upon his crown, or as if a single nod of his 
 would put the planets out of order. But the 
 principal cause of the similarity lay in his round- 
 ness, which resembled that of a pump, running 
 to a point, or the pigeon-house aforesaid, which is 
 still better. 
 
 Denis, though a large man, was but a small 
 288 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 289 
 
 farmer, for he rented only eighteen acres of good 
 land. His family, however, like himself, was 
 large, consisting of thirteen children, among 
 whom Denis Junior stood pre-eminent. Idke 
 old Denis, he was exceedingly long-winded in 
 argument, pedantic as the schoolmaster who 
 taught him, and capable of taking a very com- 
 prehensive grasp of any tangible subject. 
 
 Young Denis’s display of controversial talents 
 was so remarkably precocious, that he contro- 
 verted his father’s statements upon all possible 
 subjects, with a freedom from embarrassment 
 which promised well for that most distinguished 
 trait in a controversialist — hardihood of counte- 
 nance. This delighted old Denis to the finger 
 ends. 
 
 “ Dinny, if he’s spared,” he would say, “ will 
 be a credit to us all yet. The sorra one of him 
 hut’s as manly as anything, and as long-headed 
 as a four-footed baste, so he is! Nothing daunts 
 or dashes him, or puts him to an amplush: but 
 he’ll look you in the face so stout an’ cute, an’ 
 never redden or stumble, whether he’s right or 
 wrong, that it does one’s heart good to see him. 
 Then he has such a laning to it, you see, that the 
 crathur ’ud ground an argument on any thing, 
 thin draw it out to a norration an’ make it as clear 
 as rock-water, besides insensing you so well into 
 the rason of the thing, that Father Finnerty him- 
 self ’ud hardly do it betther from the althar.” 
 
 The highest object of an Irish peasant’s am- 
 bition is to see his son a priest. Whenever a 
 
 farmer happens to have a large family, he 
 III— 19 
 
290 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 usually destines one of them for the church, if 
 his circumstances are at all such as can enable 
 him to afford the boy a proper education. This 
 youth becomes the centre in which all the affec- 
 tions of the family meet. He is cherished, 
 humoured in all his caprices, indulged in his boy- 
 ish predilections, and raised over the heads of 
 his brothers, independently of all personal or 
 relative merit in himself. The consequence is, 
 that he gradually becomes self-willed, proud, 
 and arrogant, often to an offensive degree; but 
 all this is frequently mixed up with a lofty bom- 
 bast, and an xmdercurrent of strong disguised 
 affection, that render his early life remarkably 
 ludicrous and amusing. Indeed, the pranks of 
 pedantry, the pretensions to knowledge, and the 
 humour with which it is mostly displayed, render 
 these scions of divinity, in their intercourse with 
 the people until the period of preparatory edu- 
 cation is completed, the most interesting and 
 comical class, perhaps, to be found in the king- 
 dom. Of these learned priesthngs young Denis 
 was undoubtedly a first-rate specimen. His 
 father, a man of no education, was, nevertheless, 
 as profound and unfathomable upon his favour- 
 ite subjects as a philosopher; but this profundity 
 raised him mightily in the opinion of the people, 
 who admired him the more the less they under- 
 stood him. 
 
 Now old Denis was determined that young 
 Denis should tread in his own footsteps; and, 
 sooth to say, young Denis possessed as bright a 
 talent for the dark and mysterious as the father 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 291 
 
 himself. No sooner had the son commenced 
 Latin with the intention of adorning the church, 
 than the father put him in training for contro- 
 versy. For a considerable time the laurels were 
 uniformly borne away by the veteran; but what 
 will not learning do? Ere long the son got as 
 far as syntax, about which time the father began 
 to lose groimd, in consequence of some ugly 
 quotations which the son threw into his gizzard, 
 and which unfortunately stuck there. By and 
 by the father receded more and more, as the son 
 advanced in his Latin and Greek, until, at length, 
 their encounters were only resorted to for the 
 purpose of showing off the son. 
 
 When young Denis had reached the age of 
 sixteen or seventeen, he was looked upon by his 
 father and his family, as well as by all their re- 
 lations in general, as a prodigy. It was amusing 
 to witness the delight with which the worthy man 
 would call upon his son to exhibit his talents, a 
 call to which the son instantly attended. This 
 was usually done by commencing a mock con- 
 troversy, for the gratification of some neighbour 
 to whom the father was anxious to prove the 
 great talents of his son. When old Denis got 
 the young so garth fairly in motion, he gently 
 drew himself out of the dispute, but continued 
 a running comment upon the son’s erudition, 
 pointed out his good things, and occasionally re- 
 sumed the posture of the controversialist to re- 
 inspirit the boy if he appeared to flag. 
 
 “ Denny, abouchal, will you come up till Phad- 
 rick Murray hears you arguin’ Scripther wid my- 
 
292 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 self, Dinny. Now, Phadrick, listen, but keep 
 your tongue sayin’ nothin’; jist lave us to our- 
 selves. Come up, Dinny, till you have a hate 
 at arguin’ wid myself.” 
 
 “ Fadher, I condimnate you at once — I con- 
 dimnate you as being a most ungrammatical 
 ould man, an’ not fit to argue wid any one that 
 knows Murray’s English Grammar, an’ more 
 espaciously the three concords of Lilly’s Latin 
 one; that is the cognation between the nomina- 
 tive case and the verb, the consanguinity between 
 the substantive and the adjective, and the blood- 
 relationship that irritates between the relative 
 and the antecedent.” 
 
 “ I tould you, Phadrick!! There’s the boy 
 that can rattle off the high English, and the 
 lamed Latin, jist as if he was born wid an Eng- 
 lish Dixonary in one cheek, a Latin Neksuggawn 
 in the other, an’ Doctor Gallagher’s Irish Sar- 
 mons nately on the top of his tongue between the 
 two.” 
 
 “Fadher, but that unfortunately I am afflicted 
 wid modesty, I’d blush crocus for ,your igno- 
 rance, as Virgil asserts in his Bucolics, ut Vir- 
 gilius ait in Bucolicis; and as Horatius, a book 
 that I’m well acquainted wid, says in another 
 place. Hue pertinent verba, says he, com- 
 modandi, comparandi, dandi, promittendi, sol- 
 vendi imperandi nuntiandi, fidendi, ohsequendi, 
 minandi irascendi, et Us contrariaf' 
 
 “ That’s a good boy, Dinny; but why would 
 you blush for my ignorance, avourneen? Take 
 care of yourself now, an’ spake deep, for I’ll out 
 
TRAITS AND STORIKS 
 
 2oa 
 
 ar^e you at the heel o’ the hunt, cute as you are.” 
 “ Why do I blush for your ignorance, is it? 
 why thin, I’m sure I have sound rasons for it: 
 only think of the gross persivarance wid which 
 you call that lamed work, the Lexicon in Greek, 
 a neck-suggan. Fadher never attimpt to argue 
 or display your ignorance wid me again. But, 
 moreover, I can probate you to be un ungram- 
 matical man, from your own modus of argu- 
 ment.” 
 
 “Go on, avourneen. Phadidck!!” 
 
 “ I’m listenin’. The sorra’s no match for his 
 cuteness, an’ one’s puzzled to think where he can 
 get it all.” 
 
 “ Why, you don’t know at all what I could do 
 by lamin’. It would be no throuble to me to 
 divide myself into two halves, an’ argue the one 
 agin the other.” 
 
 “ You would, in throth, Dinny.” 
 
 “ Ay, father, or cut myself acrass, an’ dispute 
 my head, maybe, agin my heels.” 
 
 “ Throth would you! ” 
 
 “ Or practise logic wid my right hand, and bate 
 that agin with my left.” 
 
 “ The sarra lie in it.” 
 
 “ Or read the Greek Tistament wid my right 
 eye, an’ thranslate it at the same time wid my 
 left, according to the Greek an’ English sides 
 of my face, wdd my tongue constrein’ it into 
 Irish, unknownst to both o’ them.” 
 
 “ Why, Denis, he must have a head like a bell 
 to be able to get into things.” 
 
 “ Throth an’ he has that, an’ ’ill make a noise 
 
294 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 in conthroversy yet, if he lives. Now, Dinny, 
 let us have a hate at histhory.” 
 
 “A hate at histhory? — wid all my heart; but 
 before we begin, I tell you that I’ll confound you 
 precipitately; for you see, if you bate me in the 
 English, I’ll scarify you wid Latin, and give you 
 a bang or two of Greek into the bargain. Och! 
 I wish you’d hear the sackin’ I gave Tom Reilly 
 the other day; rubbed him down, as the masther 
 says, wid a Greek towel, an’ whenever I compli- 
 mented him with the loan of a cut on the head, I 
 always gave him a plaster of Latin to heal it ; but 
 the sorra worse healin’ flesh in the world than 
 Tom’s is for the Latin, so I bruised a few Greek 
 roots and laid them to his caput so nate, that you’d 
 laugh to see him. Well is it histhory we are to 
 begin wid? If it is, come on — advance. I’m 
 ready for you — in protection — wid my guards 
 up.” 
 
 “ Ha, ha, ha! Well, if he isn’t the drollest 
 crathur, an’ so cute! But now for the histhory. 
 Can you prove to me, upon a clear foundation, 
 the differ atween black an’ white, or prove that 
 Phadrick Murray here, long life to him, is an 
 ass? Now, Phadrick, listen, for you must decide 
 betune us.” 
 
 “ Orra, have you no other lamin’ than that to 
 argue upon ? Sure if you call upon me to decide, 
 I must give it agin Dinny. Why, my judgment 
 won’t be worth a hap’orth, if he makes an ass of 
 me!” 
 
 “ What matther how you decide, man alive, if 
 he proves you to be one ; sure that’s all we want. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 295 
 
 Never heed shakin’ your head — listen an’ it will 
 be well worth your while. Why, man, you’ll 
 know more nor you ever knew or suspected be- 
 fore, when he proves you to be an ass.” 
 
 “ In the first place, fadher, you’re ungram- 
 matical in one word; instead of sayin’ ‘prove,’ al- 
 ways say probate, or probe; the word is de- 
 scindid, that is, the ancisthor of it is, proho, a 
 deep Greek w ord — proho, prohas, prob-ass, that 
 is to say, I’m to probe Phadrick here to be an ass. 
 Now, do you see how pat I brought that in? 
 That’s the way, Phadrick, I chastise my fadher 
 with the languages.” 
 
 “ In throth it is ; go an, avick. Phadrick! ” 
 
 “ I’m listenin’.” 
 
 “Phadrick, do you know the differ atween 
 black an’ white? ” 
 
 “ Atween black an’ w^hite? Hut, gorsoon, to 
 be sure I do.” 
 
 “ Well, an’ what might it be, Phadrick, my 
 lamed Athiop? What might it be, I negoti- 
 ate?” 
 
 “Why, thin, the differ atween them is This, 
 Dinny, that black is — let me see — why — that 
 black is not red — nor yallow — nor brown — nor 
 green — nor purple — nor cutbeard — nor a heather 
 colour — nor a grogram” 
 
 “ Nor a white? ” 
 
 “ Surely, Dinny, not a white, abouchal; don’t 
 think to come over me that way.” 
 
 “ But I want to know what colour it is, most 
 lamed sager.” 
 
 “All rasonable, Dinny. Why, thin, black is 
 
296 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 — let me see — ^hut, death alive ! — it’s — a — a — 
 why, it’s black, an’ that’s all I can say about it; 
 yes, faix, I can — black is the colour of Father 
 Curtis’s coat.” 
 
 “ An’ what colour is that, Phadrick? ” 
 
 “ Why, it’s black, to be sure.” 
 
 “ Well, now, what colour is white, Phadrick? ” 
 “ Why, it’s a snow-colour : for all the world the 
 colour of snow.” 
 
 “ White is? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Ay, is it.” 
 
 “ The dear help your head, Phadrick, if that’s 
 all you know about snow. In England, man, 
 snow is an Oxford grey, an’ in Scotland a pepper 
 an’ salt, an’ sometimes a cutbeard, when they get 
 a hard winther. I found that much in the Greek, 
 any way, Phadrick. Thry agin, you imigrant. 
 I’ll give you another chance — what colour is 
 white? ” 
 
 “ Why, thin, it’s — white — an’ nothin’ else. 
 The sorra one but you’d puzzle a saint wid your 
 long-headed screwtations from books.” 
 
 “ So, Phadrick, your preamble is, that white is 
 white, an’ black is black? ” 
 
 “ Asy, avick. I said, sure enough, that white 
 is white ; but the black I deny — I said it was the 
 colour of Father Curtis’s black coat.” 
 
 “ Oh, you barbarian of the world, how I scorn 
 your profundity an’ emotions! You’re a dis- 
 grace to the human sex by your superciliousness 
 of knowledge, an’ your various quotations of 
 ignorance. Ignorantia, Phadrick, is your date, 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 297 
 
 an’ superscription. Now, stretch out your ears, 
 till I probate, or probe to you the diff'er at ween 
 black an’ white.” 
 
 “ Phadrick!! ” said the father. 
 
 “ I’m listenin’.” 
 
 “ Now, Phadrick, here’s the griddle, an’ here’s 
 a clane plate. Do you see them here beside one 
 another? ” 
 
 “ I’m lookin’ at them.” 
 
 “ Now, shut your eyes.” 
 
 “ Is that your way, Denis, of judgin’ col- 
 ours? ” 
 
 “ Shut your eyes, I say, till I give you ocular 
 demonstration of the differ atween these two re- 
 spectable colours.” 
 
 “ Well, they’re shut.” 
 
 “ An’ keep them so. Now, what differ do 
 vou see atween them? ” 
 
 “ The sorra taste, man alive; I never seen any- 
 thing in my whole life so clearly of a colour as 
 they are both this minute.” 
 
 “ Don’t you see now, Phadrick, that there’s 
 not the smallest taste o’ differ in them, an’ that’s 
 accordin’ to Euclid.” 
 
 ‘‘ Sure enough, I see the divil a taste o’ differ 
 atween the two.” 
 
 “Well, Phadrick, that’s the point settled. 
 There’s no discrimination at all atween black an’ 
 white. They’re both of the same colour — so 
 long as you keep your eyes shut.” 
 
 “ But if a man happens to open his eyes, 
 Dinny? ” 
 
298 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ He has no right to open them, Phadrick, if 
 he wants to prove the truth of a thing. I should 
 have said probe — but it does not significate.” 
 
 “ The heavens mark you to grace, Dinny. 
 You did that in brave style. Phadrick, ahagur, 
 he’ll make the darlin’ of an arguer whin he gets 
 the robes an him.” 
 
 “ I don’t deny that; he’ll be aquil to the best 
 o’ thim: still Denis, I’d rather, whin I want to 
 pronounce upon colours, that he’d let me keep 
 my eyes open.” 
 
 “ Ay, but he did it out o’ the books, man alive; 
 an’ there’s no goin’ beyant thim. Sure he could 
 prove it out of the Divinity, if you went to that. 
 An’ what is still more, he could, by shuttin’ your 
 eyes, in the same way prove black to be white, an’ 
 white black, jist as asy.” 
 
 “ Surely myself doesn’t doubt it. I suppose, 
 by shuttin’ my eyes, the same lad could prove 
 anything to me.” 
 
 “ But, Dinny, avourneen, you didn’t prove 
 Phadrick to be an ass yit. Will you do that by 
 histhory, too, Dinny, or by the norrations of Illo- 
 cution? ” 
 
 “Father, I’m surprised at your gross imper- 
 ception. Why, man, if you were not a rari avis 
 of somnolency, a man of most frolicsome deter- 
 minations, you’d be able to see that I’ve proved 
 Phadrick to be an ass already.” 
 
 “ Throth, I deny that you did; there wasn’t a 
 word about my bein’ an ass, in the last discoorse. 
 It was all upon the differ atween black an’ 
 white.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 299 
 
 “ Oh, how I scorn your griivity, imin! l^no- 
 rantiaj as I said, is your date an’ superscription; 
 an’ when you die, you ought to go an’ engage a 
 stone-cutter to carve you a head-stone, an’ make 
 him write on it. Hie jacct Ignorantius lledi- 
 vivus. An’ the translation of that is, accordin’ 
 to Publius Virgilius Maro — ‘here lies a quadru- 
 ped who didn’t know the differ atween black an’ 
 white.’ ” 
 
 “ Well, by the livin’, Dinny, I dunna where 
 you get all this deep readin’.” 
 
 “ Sure he gets it all in the Dixonary.” 
 
 “ Bedad, that Dixonary must be a fine book 
 entirely, to thim that can undherstand it.” 
 
 “ But, Dinny, will you tell Phadrick the Case 
 of Conscience atween Barny Branagan’s two 
 goats an’ Parra Ghastha’s mare? ” 
 
 “ Fadher, if you were a grammarian I’d casti- 
 gate your incompatability as it desarves — I’d lay 
 the scourge o’ syntax upon you, as no man ever 
 got it since the invintion o’ the nine parts of 
 speech. By what rule of logic can you say that 
 aither Barny Branagan’s goats or Parra 
 Ghastha’s mare had a conscience? I tell you it 
 wasn’t they had the conscience, but the divine 
 who decided the difficulty. Phadrick, lie down 
 till I illusthrate.” 
 
 “ How is that, Dinny? I can hear you sit- 
 tin’.” 
 
 “ Lie down, you reptile, or I shall decline the 
 narration altogether.” 
 
 “ Arra, lie down, Phadrick; sure he only wants 
 to show you the rason o’ the thing.” 
 
300 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “Well, well; I’m down. Now Dinny, don’t 
 let your feet be too lamed, if you plase.” 
 
 “ Silence! — taceto! you reptile. Now, Phad- 
 rick, here, on this side o’ you, lies Barny Brana- 
 gan’s field; an’ there, on that side, lies a field of 
 Parra Ghastha’s; you’re the ditch o’ mud betuxt 
 them.” 
 
 “ The ditch o’ mud! Faix that’s dacent! ” 
 
 “ Now here, on Barny Branagan’s side, feeds 
 Parra Ghastha’s mare; an’ there, on Parra Ghas- 
 tha’s side, feed Barny Branagan’s goats. Do 
 you comprehend? Do you insinuate? ” 
 
 “ I do — I do. Death ahve! there’s no use in 
 punchin’ my sides wid your feet that way.” 
 
 “ Well, get up now an’ set your ears.” 
 
 “ Now listen to him, Phadrick! ” 
 
 “ It was one night in winter, when all nature 
 shone in the nocturnal beauty of tenebrosity : the 
 sun had set about three hours before; an’, ac- 
 cordin’ to the best logicians, there was a dearth 
 of light. It’s the general opinion of philoso- 
 phers — that is, of the soxmdest o’ them — that 
 when the sun is down the moon an’ stars are 
 usually up; an’ so they were on the night that 
 I’m narratin’ about. The moon was, wid great 
 respect to her character, night-walkin’ in the sky ; 
 and the stars vegetated in celestial genuflexion 
 around her. Nature, Phadrick, was in great 
 state; the earth was undher our feet, an’ the sky 
 above us. The frost, too, was hard, Phadrick, 
 the air keen, an’ the grass tendher. All things 
 were enrobed wid verisimihtude an’ scrupulosity. 
 In this manner was the terraqueous part of our 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 301 
 
 system, when Parra Ghastha’s mare, after havin’ 
 taken a cowld collation on Barny Branagan’s 
 grass, was returnin’ to her master’s side o’ the 
 merin ; an’ Barny Branagan’s goats, havin’ tasted 
 the sweets of Parra Ghastha’s cabbages, were on 
 their way acrass the said merin to their own side. 
 Now it so happened that they met exactly at a 
 narrow gap in the ditch behind Rosha Halpin’s 
 house. The goats, bein’ coupled together, got 
 one on each of the rift, wid the rope that coupled 
 them extended acrass it. The mare stood in the 
 middle of it, so that the goats were in the way of 
 the mare, an’ the mare in the way of the goats. 
 In the mean time they surveyed one another wid 
 great composure, but had neither of them the po- 
 liteness to stir, until Rosha Halpin came sud- 
 denly out, an’ emptied a vessel of untransparent 
 wather into the ditch. The mare, who must have 
 been an animal endowed wid great sensibility of 
 soul, stooped her head suddenly at the noise ; an’ 
 the goats, who were equally sentimental, gave a 
 start from nervishness. The mare, on raisin’ her 
 head came in contact wid the cord that united the 
 goats ; an’ the goats, havin’ lost their commandin’ 
 position, came in contact wid the neck o’ the 
 mare. Quid multis? They pulled an’ she 
 pulled, an’ she pulled an’ they pulled, until at 
 length the mare was compelled to practise the 
 virtue of resignation in the ditch, wid the goats 
 about her neck. She died by suspinsion; but the 
 mettlesome ould crathur, wid a love of justice 
 that did her honour, hanged the goats in requital ; 
 for they departed this vale of tears on the moun- 
 
302 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 tain side along wid her, so that they had the sat- 
 isfaction of dyin’ a social death together. — Now, 
 Phadrick, you quadruped, the case of conscience 
 is, whether Parra Ghastha has a right to make 
 restitution to Barny Branagan for the loss of his 
 goats, or Barny Branagan to Parra Ghastha for 
 the loss of his mare? ” 
 
 Bedad, that’s a puzzler! ” 
 
 “ Isn’t it, Phadrick? But wait till you hear 
 how he’ll clear it up! Do it for Phadrick, 
 Dinny.” 
 
 “ Yis, Phadrick, I’ll illusthrate your intellects 
 by divinity. You see, Phadrick, you’re to sup- 
 pose me to be in the chair, as confessor. Very 
 well — or valde, in the lamed languages — Parra 
 Ghastha comes to confess to me, an’ tells me that 
 Barny Branagan wants to be paid for his goats. 
 I tell him it’s a disputed point, an’ that the price 
 o’ the goats must go to the church. On the other 
 hand, Barny Branagan tells me that Parra 
 Ghastha wishes to be paid for his mare. I say 
 again, it’s a disputed point, an’ that the price of 
 the mare must go to the church — the amount of 
 the proceeds to be applied in prayer towards the 
 benefit of the parties, in the first instance, an’ of 
 the faithful in general afterwards.” 
 
 “ Phadrick!!!” 
 
 “ Oh, that I may never, but he bates the 
 globe! ” 
 
 Denny’s character is a very common one in the 
 remote parts of Ireland, where knowledge is 
 novelty, and where the slightest tinge of learn- 
 ing is looked upon with such reverence and ad- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 ;i03 
 
 miration, as can be properly understood only by 
 those who have an opportunity of witnessing it. 
 Indeed, few circumstances prove the great moral 
 influence which the Irish priesthood possesses 
 over the common people more forcibly, than tlie 
 extraordinary respect paid by the latter to such 
 as are designed for the “ mission.” The mo- 
 tnent the determination is made, an incipient 
 sanctity begins, as it were, to consecrate the 
 young priest; and a high opinion of his learning 
 and talents to be entertained, no matter how dull 
 he may be so far as honest nature is concerned. 
 Whatever he says is sure to have some hidden 
 meaning in it, that would be highly edif}dng, 
 if they themselves understood it. But their own 
 humility comes in here to prop up his talents; 
 and whatsoever perplexity there may be in the 
 sense of what he utters, is immediately attributed 
 to learning altogether beyond their depth. 
 
 Love of learning is a conspicuous principle in 
 an Irish peasant; and in no instance is it seen 
 to greater advantage, than when the object of 
 it appears in the “ makins of a priest.” Among 
 all a peasant’s good and evil qualities, this is not 
 the least amiable. How his eye will dance in his 
 head with pride, when the young priest thunders 
 out a line of Virgil or Homer, a sentence from 
 Cicero, or a rule from Syntax! And with what 
 complacency and affection will the father and 
 relations of such a person, when sitting during a 
 winter evening about the hearth, demand from 
 him a translation of what he repeats, or a gram- 
 matical analysis, in which he must show the de- 
 
304 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 pendencies and relations of word upon word — 
 the concord, the verb, the mood, the gender, and 
 the case, into every one and all of which the 
 learned youth enters with an air of oracular im- 
 portance, and a polysyllabicism of language that 
 fails not in confounding them with astonishment 
 and edification. Neither does Paddy confine 
 himself to Latin or Greek, for his curiosity in 
 hearing a little upon all known branches of hu- 
 man learning is boundless. When a lad is de- 
 signed for the priesthood, he is, as if by a species 
 of intuition, supposed to know more or less of 
 everything — astronomy, fluxions, Hebrew, Ara- 
 bic, and the black art, are subjects upon which 
 he is frequently expected to dilate; and vanity 
 scruples not, under the protection of their igno- 
 rance, to lead the erudite youth through what 
 they believe to be the highest regions of imagi- 
 nation, or the profoundest depths of science and 
 philosophy. 
 
 It is, indeed, in those brilliant moments, when 
 the young priest is launching out in full glory 
 upon some topic of which he knows not a syllable, 
 that it would be a learned luxury to catch him. 
 These flights, however, are very pardonable, when 
 we consider the importance they give him in the 
 eyes of his friends, and reflect upon that lofty 
 and contemptuous pride, and those delectable 
 sensations which the appearance of superior 
 knowledge gives to the pedant, whether raw or 
 trained, high or low, in this profession or the 
 other. It matters little that such a feeling di- 
 lates the vanity in proportion to the absence of 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 305 
 
 real knowledge or good sense; it is not real, but 
 affected knowledge, we are writing about. Pride 
 is confined to no condition; nor is the juvenile 
 pedantry of a youth upon the hob of an Irish 
 chimney-corner much different from the pride 
 which sits upon the brow of a worthy Lord 
 Mayor, freshly knighted, lolling with strained 
 dignity beside his honourable brother, the mace, 
 during a city procession ; or of a Lady Mayoress, 
 when she reads upon a dead wall her owm name 
 flaming in yellow capitals, at the head of a sub- 
 scription ball; or, what is better still, the con- 
 temptuous glance which, while about to open the 
 said ball, her ladyship throws at that poor crea- 
 ture — the Sheriff’s wife. 
 
 In addition, however, to the enjoyment of this 
 assumption of profound learning which charac- 
 terises the young priest, a different spirit, con- 
 siderably more practical, often induces him to 
 hook in other motives. The learning of Denis 
 O’Shaughnessy, for instance, blazed with peculiar 
 lustre whenever he felt himself out at elbows; 
 for the logic with which he was able to prove 
 the connection between his erudition and a wool- 
 len-draper’s shop, was, like the ignorance of 
 those who are to be saved, invincible. Whenever 
 his father considered a display of the son’s pow- 
 ers in controversy to be capital, Denis, who knew 
 the mollia tempora fandi, applied to him for a 
 hat. Whenever he drew a heretic, as a person 
 who will be found hereafter without the wedding 
 garment, and clinched the argument with half a 
 dozen quotations from syntax or Greek gram- 
 
 III— 20 
 
306 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 mar, he uniformly came down upon the father 
 for a coat, the cloth of which was fine in pro- 
 portion to the web of logic he wove during the 
 disputation. Whenever he seated himself in the 
 chair of rhetoric, or gave an edifying homily on 
 prayer, with such eloquence as rendered the 
 father’s admiration altogether inexpressible, he 
 applied for a pair of small-clothes; and if, in 
 the excursiveness of his vigorous imagination he 
 travelled anywhere beyond the bounds of common 
 sense, he was certain to secure a pair of shoes. 
 
 This, of course, did not escape the satirical ob- 
 servation of the neighbours, who commented 
 upon the circumstance with that good humour 
 which renders their mother-wit so pleasant and 
 spicy. The scenes where many of these displays 
 took place, varied according to the occurrence of 
 those usual incidents which diversify country life. 
 Sometimes old Denis’s hearth was selected; at 
 others, a neighbouring wakehouse, and not unfre- 
 quently the chapel-green, where, surrounded by 
 a crowd of eager listeners, the young priest and 
 his Latin would succeed in throwing the hedge- 
 schoolmaster and his problems completely into 
 the shade. 
 
 The father’s pride, on these occasions, always 
 prompted him to become the aggressor; but he 
 only did this to draw out the talents of his son 
 to more advantage. Never was man foiled with 
 less regret than old Denis; nor did ever man 
 more bitterly repent those little touches of vanity, 
 which sometimes induced him, when an oppor- 
 tunity of prostrating Denny arrived, to show 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 807 
 
 what he could have done, hy giving the son’s 
 argument an unexpected brainblow. These acci- 
 dental defeats always brought the son more than 
 he lost by them; for the fatlier usually made him 
 a peace-offering in the shape of pocket-money, 
 books, or clothes. The great amusement of the 
 peasantry around the chapel-green of a Sunday, 
 was to hear the father and son engaged in argu- 
 ment: and so simple was the character of both, 
 that their acquaintances declared they could 
 know by the state of young Denis’s coat, and the 
 swaggering grasp with which old Denis held his 
 staff, that an encounter was about to take place. 
 
 “ Young O’Shaughnessy’s gettin’ bare,” they 
 wmdd observe; “there’ll be hard arguin’ till he 
 gets the clothes. He’s puttin’ in for a black 
 coat now, he’s so grave. Go on, Denny,” they 
 would say again: “more powxr an’ a dacenter 
 sleeve to your elbow. Stick to him ! — very good ! 
 — that’s a clincher! — you’re gone beyond the 
 skirts, Denny! — let him pocket that lamin’! 
 Dinis, you’re bate, body and slaves !^^ — you’re 
 no match for the gorsoon, Dinis. Good agin, 
 abouchal! — that’s puttin’ the collar on it!” — 
 And so on, varying the phrase according to the 
 whim of the moment. 
 
 Nothing gave the father greater pleasure than 
 these observations, although the affected earnest- 
 ness with which he encountered the son, and his 
 pretended indignation at those who affirmed him 
 to have been beaten, were highly amusing to the 
 bystanders. 
 
 Such discussions were considered highly edify- 
 
308 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 ing and instructive by them, and they were some- 
 times at a loss whether to give the palm of in- 
 genuity and eloquence to the father or Denny. 
 The reader, however, must not suppose that the 
 contemptuous expressions scattered over Denny’s 
 rhetorical flourishes, when discussing these points 
 with his father, implied want of reverence or 
 affection — far from it. On the contrary, the 
 father always hked him the better for them, inas- 
 much as they proved Denny’s vast superiority 
 over liimself. They were, therefore, only the 
 licenses and embellishments of discussion, tol- 
 erated and encouraged by him to whom they 
 were applied. 
 
 Denny at length shot up to the stature of a 
 young man, probably about eighteen; and dur- 
 ing the two last years of his school studies, 
 he presented a considerable, if not a decid- 
 edly marked change in his character and ex- 
 ternal appearance. His pride became more 
 haughty, and the consciousness of his learning, 
 and of the influence annexed to the profession 
 for which he was intended, put itself forth with 
 less discussion but more energy. His manners 
 and attitude became constrained; the expression 
 of his face began to darken, and to mould itself 
 into a stiff, gloomy formality, that was strongly 
 calculated to conceal the natural traits of his 
 character. His dress, too, had undergone a great 
 improvement; for instead of wearing shop blue 
 or brown, he wore good black broad-cloth, had a 
 watch in his fob, a respectable hat, and finer 
 linen. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 309 
 
 This change, now necessary in consequence of 
 his semiclerical character, influenced him through 
 every relation of life. His nearest friends, 
 whilst their pride in him increased, fell off to 
 a more respectable distance ; and his deportment, 
 so far from being that of the good-humoured 
 Bobadil of polemics and pedantry upon all known 
 and unknown subjects, became silent and solemn, 
 chequered only during the moments of family 
 conviviality by an excessive flow of that pleasant 
 and still incomprehensible learning, for the pos- 
 session of which he had so honestly earned him- 
 self a character. ^luch of his pedantry was now 
 lopped off, it is true, because the pride of his 
 station prevented him from entering into discus- 
 sions with the people. It cost him, however, 
 some trouble to overcome his early tendencies; 
 nor, after all, can it be affirmed that he alto- 
 gether succeeded in eradicating them. Many a 
 grave shrug, and solemn wink, and formal nod, 
 had he to answer for, when his foot touched the 
 debatable land of controversy. Though con- 
 trary to the keeping and dignity of his position 
 in life, yet did honest Denny then get desper- 
 ately significant, and his face amazingly argu- 
 mentative. Many a pretender has he fairly 
 annihilated by a single smile of contempt that 
 contained more logic than a long argument from 
 another man. In fact, the whole host of rhetor- 
 ical figures seemed breaking out of his face. By 
 a solitary glance of his eye he could look a man 
 into a dilemma, and practice a sorites, or a home- 
 made syllogism, by the various shiftings of his 
 
310 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 countenance, as clearly as if he had risen to the 
 full flight of his former bombast. He had, in 
 short, a primd facie disposition to controversy; 
 his nose was set upon his face in a kind of firm 
 defiance against infidels, heretics, and excorn- 
 municated persons ; and when it curled with con- 
 tempt of another, or with pride in the power that 
 slumbered in itself, it seemed to give the face 
 from which it projected, and the world at large, 
 the assurance of a controversialist. Nor did his 
 negative talents rest here: a twist of his mouth 
 to the right or left ear, was nicely shaded away 
 into a negative or affirmative, according as he 
 intended it should be taken; and when he used 
 his pocket-handkerchief, he was certain, though 
 without uttering a syllable, to silence his oppo- 
 nent, so contemptuously did his intonations rout 
 the arguments brought against him. The sig- 
 nificance and force of all these was heightened 
 by the mystery in which they were wrapped; for 
 whenever unbending decorum constrained him to 
 decline the challenges of the ignorant, with whom 
 discussion would now be degradation, what could 
 he do to soothe his vanity, except, as the poet says, 
 with folded arms and a shaking of the head to 
 exclaim — W ell, well, we know; or, xve could, an 
 if we would; or, if we list to speak; or, there he 
 an if they might which left the imaginations 
 of his hearers at liberty to conceive more fully 
 of those powers which his modesty declined ex- 
 hibiting. For some time before he got abso- 
 lutely and finally into black, even his father gave 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 311 
 
 up his accustomed argaiment in despair. The 
 son had become an adept in all the intricacies 
 and obscurities of Latin, and literally over- 
 whelmed the old man with small inundations of 
 that language, which though, like all inunda- 
 tions, rather muddy, yet were they quite suffi- 
 cient to swxep the worthy veteran before them. 
 
 Young Denis O’Shaughnessy w^as now pretty 
 nearly finished at school, that is to say, almost 
 fit for Maynooth; his studies, though higher, were 
 less assiduous ; his leisure was consequently 
 greater; and it is well known, that a person of 
 his character is never asked to work, except it 
 be his own pleasure to labour a day or two, by 
 way of amusement. He might now be seen 
 walking of a warm day along the shady sides 
 of the hedges with a book in his hand, or stretched 
 listlessly upon the grass, at study; or sauntering 
 about among the neighbouring workmen, with 
 his fore-finger between the leaves of his book, a 
 monument of learning and industry. 
 
 It is not to be supposed, however, that Denis, 
 who was an Irishman of eighteen, handsome and 
 well made, could be altogether insensible to 
 female beauty, and the seductive charms of the 
 sex. During his easy saunterings — or, as the 
 Scotch say, “ daunerings ” — along the roads 
 and about the green hedges, it often happened 
 that he met a neighbour’s daughter, and Denis, 
 who, as a young gentleman of breeding, was 
 bound to be courteous, could not do less than 
 accost her with becoming urbanity. 
 
312 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Good mornin’, Miss Norah,” we will suppose 
 him to say, when meeting a good-looking, arch 
 girl of his acquaintance. 
 
 “ Good morrow, Mr. O’Shaughnessy. I hope 
 you’re well. Sir.” 
 
 “ Indeed I am, at present, in superlatively 
 ecclesiastical health. Miss Norah. I hope all 
 your family are well? ” 
 
 ‘‘ All very well, I thank you. Sir, barrin’ my- 
 self.” 
 
 “ An’ pray what’s the matther wid you. Miss 
 Norah? I hope ” (with an exceeding grave but 
 complacent smile) “you’re not affected wid the 
 amorous passion of love?” 
 
 “ Oh, that ’ud be telhn’, Mr. O’Shaughnessy! 
 But supposin’ I am, what ought I to do ? ” 
 
 “ That’s really a profound question. Miss 
 Norah. But though I cannot tell you what to 
 do, I can tell you what I think.” 
 
 “ An’ what is that. Sir? ” 
 
 “ Why, Miss Norah, that he who is so beatified 
 as to secure you in the matrimonial paction — 
 compactum it is in the lamed languages — ^in 
 other words — to condescend to your capacity — 
 he who is married to you will be a happy man. 
 There is a juvenility about your eyes, and an 
 efflorescence of amaranthine odoriferousness 
 about your cheeks and breath, that are enough 
 to communicate the centrifugal motion to any 
 brain adorned with the slightest modicum of sen- 
 timent.” 
 
 “ He who marries me will be a happy man! ” 
 she exclaimed, repeating these expressions, prob- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 313 
 
 ably because they were the only words she un- 
 derstood, “ I hope so, Misther O’Shaughness}^ 
 Rut, sure enough, who’d expect to hear sich soft 
 talk from the makins of a priest! Very well. 
 Sir! Upon my word I’ll be tellin’ Father Fin- 
 nerty that you do be spakin’ up to the girls! — 
 Now!!” 
 
 “No, no. Miss Norah; you wouldn’t do that 
 merely for my sayin’ that you’re the handsomest 
 girl in the parish. Father Finnerty himself 
 might say as much, for it would be nothing but 
 veracity — nothing but truth. Miss Norah.” 
 
 “Ay! but he wouldn’t be pattin’ me on the 
 cheek! Be asy, Mr. O’Shaughnessy ; there’s 
 Darby Brady lookin’ at you, an’ he’ll be tellin’ ! ” 
 
 “Where?” said Denis, starting. 
 
 The girl replied only by an arch laugh. 
 
 “ Upon my classicality. Miss Norah, you’re a 
 rogue; there’s nobody lookin’, you seraphim! ” 
 
 “ Then there’s a pair of us rogues, Misther 
 Dinis.” 
 
 “No, no, Miss Norah; I was only feeling your 
 cheek as a philosophical experiment. Philoso- 
 phers often do it, in order to make out an 
 hypothesis.” 
 
 “ JMisther Dinis, if I’m not marrid till you’re 
 a priest, won’t you say the words for me for 
 nothing? ” 
 
 “ So long as you ask it wid such a brilliant 
 smile, jNIiss Norah, do you think that any edu- 
 cated young man, who has read about beauty 
 an’ sentimentality in books, could refuse you? 
 But you know. Miss Norah, that the clergyman 
 
314 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 who marries a couple has always the right of 
 kissing the bride. Now I wouldn’t claim my 
 right then; but it might be possible by a present 
 
 compromise to — to . What would you 
 
 think, for instance, to give me that nowf 
 
 “ To give you what? ” 
 
 “ Why the indeed it’s but a slight recom- 
 
 pense, the — k — the salutation — the kiss. You 
 know what tasting the head means? ” 
 
 “ Faix, Misther Dinis, you’re a great rogue. 
 Who’d think it indeed? Sure enough, they say 
 smooth wather runs deep ! Why one ’ud suppose 
 butther wouldn’t melt in your mouth to look at 
 you ; an’ yet you want to be toyin’ wid the girls ! 
 Indeed an’ faix, it’s a great shame for the likes 
 o’ you, that’s bint on Maynooth, to be thinkin’ 
 of coortin’ at all. But wait! Upon my word. 
 I’ll have a fine story agin you, plase goodness 1 ” 
 
 This latter threat the mischievous girl threw 
 out with a grave face, in order to bring Denis 
 into a more ridiculous dilemma; for she saw 
 clearly that he laboured under a heavy struggle 
 between timidity and gallantry. The ruse suc- 
 ceeded. Denis immediately changed his tone, 
 and composed his face into a grave admonitory 
 aspect, nearly equal to a homily on prudence and 
 good conduct. 
 
 “ Miss Norah,” said he, “ perhaps I acted 
 wrong in carrying my trial of your disposition 
 too far. It’s a thing, however, which we who 
 are intended for the church are ordered to do, 
 that we may be able to make out what are called 
 in this very book you see wid me, cases of con- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 315 
 
 science. But the task is now over, Miss Norah; 
 and, in requital for your extrame good nature, 
 I am bound to administer to you a slight lecture 
 on decorum. 
 
 “In the first place, attend your duties regu- 
 larly. I will soon be goin’ to Maynooth; an’ as 
 you are one of the girls for whom I have the 
 greatest regard, I will expect on my return to 
 hear a good account of you. It is possible that 
 you will be introduced in my absence to the hon- 
 ours of matrimony; but even so, I know that 
 peace, an’ taciturnity, an’ submission will be your 
 most signal qualifications. You will then be in 
 a situation equal to that of the Roman matron. 
 As for us. Miss Norah, we are subject to the 
 dilapidations of occasional elevation. The am- 
 brosia of sentiment lies in our path. We care 
 not for the terrestriahties of life, when separated 
 from the great principle of the poet — 
 
 ‘ Omnia vincit amor, et nos cedamus amori.’ 
 
 That’s Hebrew, Miss Norah! ” 
 
 “ They say you know a power of lamin’, Mis- 
 ther Dinis.” 
 
 “ Yes, I know the seven languages; but what 
 is all that compared to the cardinal virtues? 
 This world is a mere bird of passage. Miss 
 Norah; and it behoves us to be ever on the wing 
 for futurity and premeditation. Now will you 
 remember the excellent moral advice I have given 
 you? ” 
 
 “ Indeed I will, sir,” replied the roguish minx, 
 tripping away, “ particularly that you promised 
 
316 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 to marry me for nothin’ if I’d give you a kiss! ” 
 
 ‘‘ Give up everything like levity, Miss Norah. 
 Attend your du ” — 
 
 “You’re a fool, Misther O’Shaughnessy! 
 Why didn’t you take the kiss, an’ spare the king’s 
 English? ” 
 
 On making this observation she redoubled her 
 pace, and left Denis now perfectly sensible that 
 he was a proper subject for her mirth. He 
 turned about, and called after her — 
 
 “ Had I known that you were only in jocosity. 
 Miss Norah, upon my classicality, I’d have given 
 you the k — 
 
 He now perceived that she was beyond hear- 
 ing, and that it was unnecessary to finish the 
 sentence. 
 
 These accidental meetings between Denis and 
 the pretty daughters of the neighbouring farm- 
 ers, were, somehow, very frequent. Our hero, 
 however, was always extremely judicious in tem- 
 pering his gallantry and moral advice to his 
 young female acquaintances. In the beginning 
 of the conversation he was sly and complimen- 
 tary, afterwards he became more insinuating, 
 then more direct in his praises of their beauty; 
 but as his timidity on the point of character was 
 known, the mischief-loving girls uniformly 
 ended with a threat of exposing him to the priest, 
 to his friends, or to the neighbours, as the whim 
 directed them. This brought him back to his 
 morality again; he immediately commenced an 
 exhortation touching their religious duties, thus 
 hoping to cover, by a trait more becoming his 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 317 
 
 future destination, the little harmless badinage 
 in which he had indulged. 
 
 The girls themselves frequently made him the 
 topic of conversation, a proof that he was not 
 altogether indifferent to them. In these little 
 conclaves he came very well off. Among them 
 all it was admitted, “ that there was a rogue in 
 his coat; ” but this was by no means uttered in 
 a tone of voice that betrayed any disrelish to 
 him. On the contrary, they often said — and 
 many of them with an involuntary sigh — that 
 “he was too purty to be made a priest of;” 
 others, that “ it was a pity to make a priest of 
 so fine a young man;” others, again, that “if 
 he must be a priest, the colleens would be all 
 flockin’ to hear his sarmons.” There was one, 
 however, among them who never mentioned him 
 either in praise or censure ; but the rapid 
 changes of her expressive countenance gave 
 strong indications to an observing eye, that his 
 name, person, and future prospects were 
 capable of exciting a deep and intense interest 
 in her heart. 
 
 At length he began to appear on horseback; 
 and as he had hitherto been in the habit of tak- 
 ing that exercise bare-backed, now he was re- 
 solved to get into a saddle, and ride like a gen- 
 tleman. Henceforth he might be seen mounted 
 upon one of his father’s horses, quite erect, and 
 with but one spur, which was, in fact, the only 
 spur, except the whiskey bottle, that had been in 
 the family for three generations. This w^as 
 used, he declared, for no other purpose in life 
 
318 IRELAND 
 
 than that of “ stimulating the animal to the true 
 clerical trot.” 
 
 From the moment he became a mounted man, 
 he assumed an air of less equivocal command in 
 the family; and not only to his own relations 
 was this authority manifested, but to his more 
 distant acquaintances, and, in short, to the whole 
 parish. The people now began to touch their 
 hats to him, which act of respect he returned as 
 much in imitation of the parish priest as pos- 
 sible. They also began to ask him what o’clock 
 it was, and Denis, with a peculiar condescension, 
 balanced still with becoming dignity, stopped, 
 pulled out his watch, and told the hour, after 
 which he held it for a few seconds to his ear with 
 an experienced air, then put it in a dignified 
 manner in his fob, touched the horse with the 
 solitary spur, put himself more erect, and pro- 
 ceeded with — as he himself used to say, when 
 condemning the pride of the curate — “ all the 
 lordliness of the parochial priest.” 
 
 The notions which the peasantry entertain of 
 a priest’s learning are as extravagant as they are 
 amusing, and such, indeed, as would be too much 
 for the pedantic vanity inseparable from a half- 
 educated man to disclaim. The people are suf- 
 ficiently reasonable, however, to admit grada- 
 tions in the extent of knowledge acquired by 
 their pastors; but some of the figures and illus- 
 trations which they use in estimating their com- 
 parative merits are highly ludicrous. I remem- 
 ber a young man, who, at the age of twenty- 
 two, set about preparing himself for the church. 
 
32ioH £ io srfJ oi bsiomoi*! airtaQ 
 
 ^VA'l ^t«5 ^nwotO, «» wo-i^ ^nji\:ji3. 
 
Denis Promoted to the Dignity of a Horse 
 
 Etching from cm Original Drawing by Phiz 
 

 
 ^ .*■ 
 
 
 
 W m 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 319 
 
 He lived in the bosom of a mountain, whose 
 rugged breast he cultivated with a strength pro- 
 portioned to the difficulty of subduing it. He 
 was a powerful young fellow, quiet and inof- 
 fensive in his manners, and possessed of great 
 natural talents. It was upon a Monday morn- 
 ing, in the month of June, that the school-room 
 door opened a foot and a half wider than usual, 
 and a huge colossal figure stalked in, with a kind 
 of bashful laugh upon his countenance, as if con- 
 scious of the disproportion betwixt his immense 
 size and that of the other schoolboys. His 
 figure, without a syllable of exaggeration, was 
 precisely such as I am about to describe. His 
 height six feet, his shoulders of an enormous 
 breadth, his head red as fire; his body-coat made 
 after the manner of his grandfather’s — the skirts 
 of it being near his heels — and the buttons be- 
 hind little less than eighteen inches asunder. 
 The pockets were cut so low, that when he 
 stretched his arm to its full length, his fingers 
 could not get further than the flaps; the breast 
 of it was about nine inches longer than was nec- 
 essary, so that when he buttoned it, he appeared 
 all body. He wore no cravat, nor was his shirt 
 collar either pinned or buttoned, but lay open as 
 if to disclose an immense neck and chest scorched 
 by the sun into a rich and healthy scarlet. His 
 chin was covered with a sole of red dry bristles 
 that appeared to have been clipped about a fort- 
 night before; and as he wore neither shoe nor 
 stocking, he exhibited a pair of legs to which 
 Rob Roy’s were drumsticks. They gave proof 
 
320 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 of powerful strength, and the thick fell of bristly 
 hair with which they were covered, argued an 
 amazing hardihood of constitution and tremen- 
 dous physical energy. 
 
 “ Sure, Masther, I’m cornin’ to school to 
 you ! ” were the first words he uttered. 
 
 Now there ran beneath the master’s solemnity 
 of manner, a broad but shallow under-current 
 of humour which agreed but poorly with his 
 pompous display of learning. On this occasion 
 his struggle to retain the grave and overcome the 
 ludicrous, was unavailing. The startling fact 
 thus uncouthly announced by so grotesque a can- 
 didate for classical knowledge, occasioned him 
 to receive the intelligence with more mirth than 
 was consistent with good-breeding. His pupils, 
 too, who were hitherto afraid to laugh aloud, on 
 observing his countenance dilate into an ex- 
 pression of laughter which he could not conceal, 
 made the roof of the house ring with their 
 mirth. 
 
 “Silence, gintlemen!” said he, legit e, per- 
 
 legite, et relegite — study, gintlemen, study — 
 pluck the tree of knowledge, I say, while the 
 fruit is in season. Denny O’Shaughnessy, what 
 are you facetious for? Quid rides, Dionysi? 
 And so, Pether — ^is Pether your pronomen — quo 
 nomine gowdes? Silence, boys! — perhaps he 
 was at Latin before, and we’ll try him — quo 
 nomine gowdes, Pethre? ’’ 
 
 A stare of awkward perplexity was the only 
 reply he could get from the colossus he ad- 
 dressed. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 321 
 
 “ And so you’re fished up from the Streights 
 at last, Pether? ” 
 
 “ Sir, my name’s not Pether. My father’s 
 name is Paddy Doorish, but my own is Franky. 
 I w^as born in Lisnagh; but we lived double as 
 long as I can mind in the Mountain Bar.” 
 “And, Franky, what put Latin into your 
 head?” 
 
 “ There was no Latin put into my head; I’m 
 cornin’ to you for that.” 
 
 “ And, you graceful sprig of juvenility, have 
 you the conscience to think that I’d undhertake 
 to fill what you carry on your showlders on the 
 same terms that I’d take for replenishing the 
 head of a rasonable youth? Would you be so 
 unjust in all the principles of correct erudition 
 as to expect that, my worthy Man-mountain? ” 
 “ I don’t expect it,” said Frank; “ all that’s in 
 your head wouldn’t fill a corner of mine, if you 
 go accordin’ to size; but I’ll pay you for tachin’ 
 me as much as you know yourself, an’ the more 
 I larn the less pains you’ll have wid me.” 
 
 Franky, however, made an amazing progress 
 — so very rapid, indeed, that in about three years 
 from that day he found himself in Maynooth, and 
 in three years more was an active curate, to 
 whom that very teacher appeared as slavishly 
 submissive as if he had never ridiculed his vul- 
 garity or ungainly dimensions. Poor Frank, 
 however, in consequence of the rapid progress 
 he made, and of the very short interval which 
 elapsed from the period of his commencing Latin 
 until that of his ordination, was assigned by the 
 
 III— 21 
 
322 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 people the lowest grade in learning. The term 
 used to designate the rank which they supposed 
 him to hold, was both humorous and expressive. 
 
 “ Franky,” they would say, “is no finished 
 priest in the lamin’; he's hut a scowdherj" 
 
 Now a scowdher is an oaten cake laid upon a 
 pair of tongs placed over the greeshaugh, or em- 
 bers, that are spread out for the purpose of bak- 
 ing it. In a few minutes the side first laid down 
 is scorched: it is then turned,, and the other side 
 is also scorched; so that it has the appearance 
 of being baked, though it is actually quite raw 
 within. It is a homely, but an exceedingly apt 
 illustration, when applied to such men as Frank. 
 
 “ Poor Frank,” they would observe, “ is but a 
 scowdher — the sign of the tongs — No. 11, is upon 
 him; so that it is asy known he never was laid 
 to the muddha arranf ^'^ — that is to say, properly 
 baked — or duly and thoroughly educated. 
 
 Denis, however, to resume more directly the 
 thread of our narrative, on finding himself 
 mounted, took an inveterate prejudice against 
 walking. There was something, he thought, far 
 more dignified in riding than in pacing slowly 
 upon the earth, like a common man who had not 
 the justification of Latin and Greek for becom- 
 ing an equestrian. Besides this accomplishment, 
 there were also many other habits to be broken 
 off, and more genteel ones to be adopted in their 
 place. These were all suggested by his rising 
 pride; and, in sooth, they smacked strongly of 
 that adroitness with which the Irish priest, and 
 every priest, contrives to accomplish the purpose 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 323 
 
 of feeding well through the ostensible medium of 
 a different motive. 
 
 lie accordingly took his father aside one morn- 
 ing, after he had eaten a more meagre breakfast 
 ihan usual, and, after licking his lips, addressed 
 him in these words: — 
 
 I think, father, that upon considerating the 
 consequence to which I am now entitled, and the 
 degree of respectability which, in my own per- 
 son — in propria persona — I communicate to the 
 vulgarians with whom I am connected — I call 
 them vulgarians from no derogatory motive; but 
 you will concede 3"ourself, that the}^ are igno- 
 rant of the lamed languages, an’ consequently^ 
 though dacent enough, still in reference to Latin 
 an’ Greek, but vulgarians. Well! Q^uid mnltis? 
 — I say, that taking all these things into specu- 
 lation, looking at them — vehiti in speculum — it 
 is neither dacent nor becoming that I should ate 
 in the manner I have done, as vulgarly as them- 
 selves — that I should ate, I say, any^ longer with- 
 out knife and fork. Neither, I announce, shall 
 I in future drink my milk any^ longer, as I have, 
 with all humility, done hitherto, out of a noggin ; 
 nor continue to disrobe my potatoes any longer 
 without a becoming instrument. I must also 
 have better viands to consume. You are not to 
 be informed that I am in that situation of life, 
 in which, from my education and other accom- 
 plishments, I must be estimated as duly qualified 
 to ate beef and mutton instead of bacon, an’ to 
 have my tay breakfast instead of stirabout, 
 which, in polite society, is designated porridge. 
 
324 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 You know yourself, and must acknowledge, that 
 I’m soon likely to confer distinction and pre-emi- 
 nence upon the poor illiterate, but honest crea- 
 tures, with whom I am associated in the bonds 
 of blood-relationship. If I were a dunce, or a 
 booby, or a leather-head, the case might be dif- 
 ferent; but you yourself are well acquainted with 
 my talents at logic or conthroversy ; an’ I have 
 sound rasons and good authority, which I could 
 quote, if necessary, for proving that nothing in- 
 creases the weight of the brain, and accelerates to 
 gravity and sohdity more than good feeding. 
 Pay attention, therefore to my words, for I ex- 
 pect that they will be duly observed : — buy me a 
 knife and fork; and when I get them, it’s not to 
 lay them past to rust, you consave. The beef 
 and mutton must follow; and in future I’m re- 
 solved to have my tay breakfast. There are 
 geese, and turkeys, and pullets enough about the 
 yard, and I am bent on accomplishing myself 
 in the art of carving them. I’m not the man 
 now to be placed among the other riff-raff of 
 the family over a basket of potatoes, wid a black 
 clerical coat upon me, and a noggin of milk under 
 my arm ! I tell you the system must be changed : 
 the schoolmaster is abroad, and I’ll tolerate such 
 vulgarity no longer. Now saddle the horse till I 
 ride across the bog to Pether Rafferty’s Station, 
 where I’m to sarve mass: plase heaven. I’ll soon 
 be able to say one myself, and give you all a lift 
 in spirituals — ehem!” 
 
 Throth, Dinny, I b’lieve you’re right, avick; 
 and ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 325 
 
 Vick me no longer, father — that’s another 
 thing I forgot. It’s full time that I should be 
 sirred; and if my own relations won’t call me 
 Sir instead of Dinny, it’s hardly to be expected 
 that strangers will do it. I wish to goodness 
 you had never stimgatised me wid so vulgar an 
 epithet as Dinny. The proper word is Diony- 
 sius; and, in future. I’ll expect to be called Mis- 
 ther Dionysius.” 
 
 “ Sure, I or your mother needn’t be sirrin" you, 
 Dinny? ” 
 
 “ I haven’t made up my mind as to whether 
 I’ll demand that proof of my respectability from 
 you and my mother, or not; but on this I’m im- 
 movable, that instead of Dinny, you must, as I 
 said, designate me Dionysius.” 
 
 “Well, well, avourneen, I suppose only it’s 
 right you wouldn’t be axin’ us; but I’m sure your 
 poor mother will never be able to get her tongue 
 about Dionnisis, it’s so long and lamed a word.” 
 “ It is a lamed word, no doubt; but she must 
 persevere until she’s able to masther it. I 
 wouldn’t for three tenpennies that the priest 
 would hear one of you call me Dinny; it would 
 degradate me very much in his estimation. At 
 all events, if my mother cannot manage the 
 orthography of Dionysius, let it be Denis, or any- 
 thing but that signature of vulgarity, Dinny. 
 Now, father, you won’t neglect to revale what 
 I’ve ordered to the family? ” 
 
 “No, indeed, I will not, avick — I mane Dion- 
 nisis, avourneen — I’ll tell them everything as you 
 ordhered; but as to Dionnisis, I’m cock sure that 
 
326 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 poor Mave will never be able to get her ould 
 tongue about so newfangled a piece of lamin’ 
 as that is. Well, well, this knowledge bates the 
 world! ” 
 
 When the horse was saddled, and Dionysius on 
 his way with all due pomp to the Station, old 
 Denis broke the matter to his wife. 
 
 “ Mave, achora,” said he, “ I have sthrange 
 news to tell you : sure Dionnisis is goin’ to make 
 himself a gintleman.” 
 
 ‘‘ Sure what? ” 
 
 “ Dionnisis, our son Dionnisis, is goin’ to make 
 himself a gintleman; he’ll ate no longer widout 
 a knife and fork.” 
 
 “Saints about us!” exclaimed Mave, rising 
 and looking with alarm into her husband’s face — 
 “ saints about us, Denis, what is’t ails you? Sure 
 there would be nothin’ wrong wid you about the 
 head, Denis? or may be it’s a touch of a faver 
 you’ve got, out riddling that corn bareheaded, 
 yistherday? I remimber the time my aunt 
 Bridget tuck the scarlet faver, she began to rave 
 and spake foolish in the same way.” 
 
 “ Why, woman, if your aunt Bridget had a 
 faver made up of all the colours in the rainbow, 
 I tell you I’m spakin’ sinsel Our son Dionnisis 
 proved himself a gintleman out in the garden 
 wid me about an hour ago.” 
 
 “ I suppose so, Denis,” she replied, humouring 
 him, for she was still doubly convinced that he 
 laboured under some incipient malady, if not un- 
 der actual insanity; “ an’ what son is this^ Dinny? 
 I’ve never heard of him before.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 327 
 
 “Our son Denis, woman alive! You must 
 know he’s not to be called Dinny or Dinis any 
 more, but Dionnisis; he’s to begin atin’ wid a 
 knife an’ fork to-morrow ; we must get him beef 
 and mutton, and a tay breakfast. He says it’s 
 not fair play in any one that’s so deep read in 
 the lamin’ as he is, to ate like a vulgarian, or to 
 peel his phaties wid his fingers, an’ him knows so 
 much Latin an’ Greek; an’ my sowl to happi- 
 ness but he’ll stick to the gintlemanly way of 
 livin’, so far as the beef, an’ mutton, and tay is 
 consarned.” 
 
 “He will! An’, Dinis O’Shaughnessy, who 
 has a betther right to turn gintleman, nor the 
 gorsoon that studied for that? Isn’t it proud 
 you ought to be that he has the spirit to think 
 of sich things? ” 
 
 “ I’ll engage, Mave, on that point you’ll find 
 him spirited enough; for my part, I don’t be- 
 grudge him what he wants; but I heard the peo- 
 ple say, that no man’s a gintleman who’s not Col- 
 lege-hred; and you know he’s not that yet.” 
 
 “You forget that he has gentle blood in his 
 veins, Denis. There was a day when my family, 
 the Magennises, held their heads up ; and Kolum- 
 kill says that the same time is to come back agin to 
 all the ould families. Who knows if it’s alto- 
 gether from himself he’s takin’ to the beef an’ 
 mutton, but from propliecy; he knows what he’s 
 about. I’ll warrant him. For our part, it’s not 
 right for us to cross him in it; it’s for the good 
 of the church, no doubt, an’ we might lose more 
 by a blast upon the corn or the cattle, than he’d 
 
328 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 ate the other way. That’s my dhrame out that 
 I had last night about him. I thought we were 
 all gather somewhere that I can’t rightly renum- 
 ber; but anyhow there was a great sight of peo- 
 ple in it, an’ high doins goin’ an in the atin’ way. 
 I looked about me, an’ seen ever so many priests 
 dressed all like the Protestant clargy; our Dinis 
 was at the head of them, wid a three-cocked hat, 
 an’ a wig upon him; he was cuttin’ up beef an’ 
 mutton at the rate of a weddin’, an’ dhrinkin’ 
 wine in metherfuls. 
 
 “ ‘ Musha, Dinis,’ says myself, ‘ what’s all this 
 for? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Why,’ says he, ‘ it’s all for the good of the 
 church an’ the faithful. I’m now Archbishop of 
 the county,’ says he ; ‘ the Protestants are all ban- 
 ished, an’ we are in their place.’ 
 
 “ The sorra one o’ myself all this time but 
 thought he was a priest still ; so says I, ‘ Dinny, 
 you’re a wantin’ to anoint Paddy Diarmud, who’s 
 given over, an’ if you don’t make haste, you won’t 
 overtake him? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ He must wait then till mornin’,’ says Dinny; 
 ‘ or if he chooses to die against my will, an’ the 
 will o’ the church, let him take the quensequences. 
 We’re wealthy now.’ 
 
 “ I was so much frightened at the kind of voice 
 that he spoke to me in, that I awoke; an’ sure 
 enough, the first thing I heard was the fizzin’ o’ 
 bacon on the pan. I wondered who could be up 
 so early, an’ puttin’ my head through the door, 
 there was Dinny busy at it, wid an ould knife in 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 329 
 
 one hand, an’ an iron skiver in the other, imitatin’ 
 a fork. 
 
 “ ‘ What are you doin’ so early, Dinny? ’ 
 says I. 
 
 “ ‘ I’m practisin’,’ says he. 
 
 “ ‘ What for? ’ says I. 
 
 “ ‘ Oh, I’m practisin’,’ says he, back again, ‘ go 
 to bed; I’m practisin’ for the church, an’ the Sta- 
 tion that’s to be in Pether Rafferty’s to-day.’ 
 
 “Now, Dinny, between you an’ me, that 
 dhrame didn’t come for nothin’. So give the 
 gorsoon his way, an’ if he chooses to be a gintle- 
 man, why let him; he’ll be the more honour to 
 thim that reared him.” 
 
 “ Thrue for you, indeed, Mave; he always had 
 a high spirit ever since he was intinded for the 
 roheSj and would have his own way and will in 
 whatever he took into his head, right or wrong, 
 as cleverly as if he had the authority for it.” 
 
 “ An’ so he ought, seein’ he wasn’t to be slavin’ 
 at the spade, like the rest o’ the family. The 
 ways o’ them that have great lamin’ as he has, 
 isn’t like other people’s ways — they must be 
 humoured, and have their own will, otherwise 
 what ’ud they be betther than their neighbours? ” 
 
 The other arrangements laid down by Denis, 
 touching his determination not to be addressed 
 so familiarly by his brothers and sisters, were 
 next discussed in this conversation, and of course, 
 the same prejudice in his favour was manifested 
 by his indulgent parents. The whole code of his 
 injunctions was subsequently disclosed to the 
 
330 
 
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 family in all its extent and rigour. Some of 
 them heard it with surprise, and others with that 
 kind of dogged indignation evinced by those who 
 are in some degree prepared for the nature of 
 the communication about to be laid before them. 
 Altogether the circumstances in which it placed 
 them were peculiar and embarrassing. The 
 Irish peasant can seldom bear to have the tender- 
 ness of domestic affection tampered with, whether 
 from pride, caprice, or any other motive not re- 
 lated to his prejudices. In this instance the 
 strongest feelings of the O’Shaughnessys were 
 brunted, as it were in hostile array against each 
 other; and although the moral force on each side 
 was nearly equal, still the painful revulsion pro- 
 duced by Denis’s pride, as undervaluing their 
 affection, and substituting the cold forms of arti- 
 ficial life for the warmth of honest hearts like 
 theirs, was, in the first burst of natural fervour, 
 strongly, and somewhat indignantly expressed. 
 
 Denis had been their pride, the privileged per- 
 son among them — the individual whose talents 
 were to throw lustre upon a nameless and un- 
 known family; the future priest — the embryo 
 preacher of eminence — ^the resistless controver- 
 sialist — the holy father confessor — and perhaps, 
 for with that vivacity of imagination peculiar to 
 the Irish, they cauld scarcely limit his exaltation 
 — perhaps the bishop of a whole diocese. Had 
 not the Lord Primate himself been the son of 
 as humble a man? “ And who knows,” said his 
 youngest and fairest sister, who of all the family 
 was most devoted to him, “ but Dinny might yet 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 331 
 
 be a primate? ’’ And as she spoke, the tear of 
 aifection, pride, and enthusiasm glistened in her 
 eye. Denis, therefore, had been much, even in 
 his youth, to their simple hearts, and far more to 
 their hopes and expectations, than he was in all 
 the pride of his petty polemics; but when he, 
 before whose merits, both real and imaginary, 
 every heart among them bowed as before the 
 shrine of a tutelar saint, turned round, ere the 
 destined eminence he aimed at was half attained, 
 and laid upon their fervent affection the icy chain 
 of pride and worldly etiquette — the act was felt 
 keenly and unexpectedly as the acute spasm of 
 some sudden malady. 
 
 The father and mother, however, both de- 
 fended him with great warmth; and by placing 
 his motives in that point of view which agreed 
 best with their children’s prejudices, they eventu- 
 ally succeeded in reconciling his brothers and sis- 
 ters in some degree to the necessity of adopting 
 the phraseology he proposed — that they might 
 treat him with suitable respect in the eye of the 
 world. 
 
 “ It’s proud of him we ought to be,” said his 
 father, ‘‘ and delighted that he has sich a risin’ 
 spirit; an’ sure the more respect is paid to him, 
 the greater credit he will be to ourselves.” 
 
 “ But, sure he has no right,” said his eldest 
 brother, “to be settin’ up for a gintleman till 
 he’s priested. *I’m willin’ enough to Sir him, 
 only that it cuts me more than I’ll say, to think 
 that I must be callin’ the boy that I’d spill the 
 last dhrop of my blood for, afther the manner 
 
332 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 of a sthranger; and besides,” he added, “ I’m not 
 clear but the neighbours will be passin’ remarks 
 upon us, as they did when you and he used to 
 be arguin’.” 
 
 “I’d like to see them that ’ud turn it into a 
 joke,” said his father; “ I would let them know 
 that Dinis O’Shaughnessy’s dog is neither to be 
 made or meddled wid in a disrespectful manner, 
 let alone his son. We are not widout friends and 
 connections that ’ud take our quarrel upon them 
 in his defince, if there was a needcessity for it; 
 but there will not, for didn’t my heart lep the 
 other day to my throat wid delight, when I saw 
 Larry Neil put his hand to his hat to him, cornin’ 
 up the Esker upon the mare; and may I never 
 do an ill turn, if he didn’t answer the bow to 
 Larry, as if he was the priest of the parish 
 already. It’s the wondher of the world how he 
 picks up a jinteel thing any how, an’ ever did, 
 since he was the hoith o’ that.” 
 
 “ Why,” said the mother, “ what a norration 
 yez rise about thratin the boy as every one like 
 him ought to be thrated. Wait till ye see him 
 a parish priest, and then ye’ll be cornin’ round 
 him to get your daughters to keep house for him, 
 and your sons edicated and made priests of; but 
 now that the child takes a ginteel relish for beef 
 and mutton, and wants to be respected, ye are 
 mane an’ low spirited enough to grumble about 
 it.” 
 
 “ No, mother,” said his youngest sister, burst- 
 ing into tears, “ I’d beg it for him, sooner nor 
 he should want; but I can’t bear to be callin’ my 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 333 
 
 brother Dinny — Si ?' — like a stranger. It looks 
 as if I didn’t love him, or as if he was forgettin’ 
 us, or carin’ less about us nor he used to do.” 
 
 This, in fact, was the root and ground of the 
 opposition which Denis’s plan received at the 
 hands of his relations ; it repressed the cordial and 
 affectionate intercourse which had hitherto sub- 
 sisted between them; but the pride of life, and, 
 what is more, the pride of an office which ought 
 always to be associated with humility, had got 
 into his heart; the vanity of learning, too, thin 
 and shallow though it was, inflated him ; and the 
 effect of both was a gradual induration of feel- 
 ing — an habitual sense of his own importance, 
 and a notion of supreme contempt for all who 
 were more ignorant than himself. 
 
 After the first impression of pain and mortifi- 
 cation had passed away from the minds of his 
 brothers and sisters, it was, however, unanimously 
 admitted that he was right ; and ere long, no other 
 feeling than one of good-humour, mingled with 
 drollery, could be perceived among them. They 
 were clearly convinced, that he claimed no more 
 from strangers than was due to him; but they 
 certainly were not prepared to hear that he had 
 brought the exaction of personal respect so com- 
 pletely and unexpectedly home to themselves as 
 he had done. The thing, too, along with being 
 unreasonable, was awkward and embarrassing in 
 the extreme; for there is a kind of feeling among 
 brothers and sisters, which, though it cannot be 
 described, is very trying to their delicacy and 
 shamefacedness under circumstances of a similar 
 
334 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 nature. In humble life you will see a married 
 woman who cannot call her husband after his 
 Christian name; or a husband, who, from some 
 extraordinary restraint, cannot address his wife, 
 except in that distant manner which the principle 
 I allude to dictates, and habit confirms. 
 
 Denis, however, had overcome this modesty, 
 and felt not a whit too shamefaced to arrogate 
 to his own learning and character, the most un- 
 hesitating manifestation of their deference and 
 respect, and they soon scrupled not to pay it. 
 
 The night of that evening was pretty far ad- 
 vanced, when a neighbour’s son, named Condy 
 Callaghan, came to inform the family that Denis, 
 when crossing the bog on his way home, had rode 
 into a swamp, from which he found much diffi- 
 culty in extricating himself, but added, “ the mare 
 is sunk to the saddle-skirts, and cannot get out 
 widout men and ropes.” In a short time a suffi- 
 cient number of the neighbours were summoned 
 together, and proceeded to the animal’s relief. 
 Denny’s importance, as well as his black dress, 
 was miserably tarnished; he stood, however, with 
 as dignified an air as possible, and, in a bombastic 
 style, proceeded to direct the men as to the best 
 manner of relieving her. 
 
 “ Asy, Dinny,” said his brother, with a good- 
 humoured but significant smile — “ laming may 
 be very good in its place; in the mane time, lave 
 the business in our hands rather than in your 
 own head — or if you have e’er a scrap of Greek 
 or Latin that ’ud charm ould Sobersides out, 
 where was the use of sendin’ for help? ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 ;i;i5 
 
 “ I say,” replied Denis, highly offended, “ I’ll 
 not tolerate vulgarity any longer; you must larn 
 to address me in a more polite style. If the 
 animal — that purblind quadruped — walked into 
 the mire, by Avhat logic can you produce an asso- 
 ciation between her blindness and my knowledge 
 of Latin and Greek? But why do I degradate 
 m}^ own consequence by declaiming to you an 
 eulogium upon logic? It’s only throwing pearls 
 before swine.” 
 
 “ I didn’t mane to offind you,” replied the 
 warm-hearted brother; “I meant you no offince 
 in what I said, so don’t take it ill — we’ll have 
 Sobersides out in no time — and barrin’ an’ extra 
 rubbin’ down to both of you, neither will be the 
 worse, I hope.” 
 
 “ As to what you hope or despair, Brian, it 
 could produce no other impression on the subtilty 
 of my fancy, than pity for the man who could 
 compare me — considering the brilliancy of my 
 career, and the extent of my future speculations 
 — to a quadruped like Sobersides, by asserting 
 that I, as well as she, ought to be rubbed down! 
 And were it not that I confront the offince with 
 your own ignorance, I would expose you before 
 the townland in which we stand ; ay, to the whole 
 parish — but I spare you, out of respect to my 
 own consequence.” 
 
 “ I ax your pardon,” said the brother, “ I won’t 
 offind you in the same way again. What I said, 
 I said to you as I though a brother might — I ax 
 your pardon!” 
 
 There was a slight agitation approaching to a 
 
336 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 tremor in his brother’s voice, that betokened sor- 
 row for his own impropriety in too familiarly 
 addressing Denis, and perhaps regret that so 
 slight and inoffensive a jest should have been so 
 harshly received in the presence of strangers, by 
 a brother who had in reality been his idol. He 
 reflected upon the conversation held on that morn- 
 ing in the family, touching Denny’s prerogative 
 in claiming a new and more deferential deport- 
 ment from them all ; and he could not help feeling 
 that there was in it a violation of some natural 
 principle long sacred to his heart. But the all- 
 pervading and indefinite awe felt for that sacer- 
 dotal character into which his brother was about 
 to enter, subdued all, and reconciled him to 
 those inroads upon violated Nature, despite her 
 own voice, loudly expressed as it was in his 
 bosom. 
 
 When the family was once more assembled 
 that night, Denis addressed them in a tone, which 
 implied that the odium theologicum had not pre- 
 vented the contrition expressed by his brother 
 from altogether effacing from his mind the traces 
 of his offence. 
 
 “ Unworthy of respect,” he proceeded, “as it 
 appears by some of my relations I am held,” and 
 he glanced at his brother, “ yet I beg permission 
 to state, that our worthy parochial priest, or I 
 should rather say, the Catholic Rector of this 
 parish, is of a somewhat different habit of thought 
 or contemplation. I dined with him to-day — 
 ehem — dined with him upon an excellent joint of 
 mutton — I say, father — the mutton was good — 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 337 
 
 and with his proud pertinacious curate, whom I 
 do not at all relish; whether, as Homer says — I 
 enumerate his scurrilous satire, or his derogatory 
 insinuations. His parochial pastor and spiritual 
 superior is a gentleman, or as Horace says, homo 
 f actus ad unguem — which is paraphrastically 
 every inch a gentleman — or more hterally a gen- 
 tleman to the tops of his fingers — ehem — hem — 
 down to the very nails — as it were. 
 
 “ Well — having discussed that — observatis ob- 
 servandis, quoad sacerdotem — having passed my 
 eulogium upon Father Finnerty — upon my word 
 and credit though, punch is prima facie drink — 
 and father, that brings me to remember an omis- 
 sion which I committed in my dialogue with you 
 this morning. I forgot to say, that after my 
 dinner, in the manner I expounded to you, it will 
 be necessary to have a tumbler of punch — for as 
 Father Finnerty says, there is nothing which so 
 effectually promotes the organs of digestion. 
 Now, my introduction of this, in the middle of 
 my narrative, is what the hypercritics call a Par- 
 enthesis, which certainly betrays no superficial 
 portion of literary perusal on my part, if you 
 could at all but understand it as well as Father 
 Finnerty, our worthy parochial incumbent does. 
 As for the curate, should I ever come to au- 
 thority in the Irish hierarchy, I shall be strongly 
 disposed to discountenance him; if it were only 
 for his general superciliousness of conduct. So 
 there’s another clause disposed of. 
 
 “ Well — to proceed — I say I have intelli- 
 gence regarding myself, that will be by no 
 
 III— 22 
 
338 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 means unsavoury to you all. Father Fin- 
 nerty and I had, about an hour before din- 
 ner this day, a long and tedious conver- 
 sation, the substance of which was my future 
 celebrity in the church. He has a claim on 
 the Bishop, which he stated .to me will be 
 exercised in my favour, although there are several 
 candidates for it in this parish, not one of whom, 
 however, is within forty-five degrees of being so 
 well qualified for college as myself. Father, is 
 there not a jar — an amphora — as that celebrated 
 satirist Juvenile, has it — an amphora — in the 
 chimly-brace, filled with liquor — get it, and let us 
 inter animosity — 111 not be long a member of 
 the domestic circle with you — so, upon the basis 
 of the communication I have to make, let us, as 
 I said, become sextons to animosity and care. 
 ‘Dionysius,’ said Father Finnerty, addressing 
 me, which shows, at all events, that I am not so 
 unimportant as some of my friends would sup- 
 pose — ‘ Dionysius/ said he inter nos — ‘ between 
 you and me, I believe I have it in my power to 
 send up a candidate to Maynooth. ’Tis true, 
 I never make a promise — nunquam facio votunt, 
 except in certain cases, or in other words, Diony- 
 sius, eocceptis excipiendis — in which is the essence, 
 as it were, of a proper vow.’ In the mean time 
 he proceeded — ‘ With regard to your prospects 
 in the church, I can only say in the first place, 
 and I say it with much truth and sincerity — that 
 Fm badly off for a horse; that, however, is, as I 
 said, inter nos — sub sigillo. The old garran I 
 have is fairly worn out — and, not that I say it. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 339 
 
 your father has as pretty a colt as there is within 
 the bounds — intra terminos imrochii mei, within 
 the two ends of my parish : verhum sat — 
 which is I’m sure you are a sensible and 
 discreet young* man. Your father, Diony- 
 sius, is a parishioner whom I regard and es- 
 teem to the highest degree of comparison, 
 and you will be pleased to report my 
 eulogium to himself and to his dacent family — 
 and proud may they be of having so brilliant 
 a youth among them as you are — ehem! ’ 
 
 “ Now, you may all think that this was plain 
 conversation; but I had read too much for that. 
 In fact, it was logic — complate, convincing logic, 
 every word of it. So I responded to him in what 
 is called in the books, the argumentum ad 
 crumenam; although I question but it ought to 
 be designated here the ai'gumentum ad hestiam. 
 Said I, ‘ Father Finnerty, the colt, my paternal 
 property, which you are pleased to eulogise so 
 highly, is a good one; it was designed for my- 
 self when I should come out on the mission ; how- 
 ever, I will undertake to say, if you get me into 
 Maynooth, that my father on my authority will 
 lend you the colt to-morrow, and the day of his 
 claiming it will be dependent upon the fulfil- 
 ment of your promise or votum.’ 
 
 " Signatum et sigillatum est/ — said he, for 
 indeed the best part of the discussion was con- 
 ducted in Latin; ‘ and now,’ he continued, ‘ my 
 excellent Dionysius, nothing remains but that 
 
 the colt be presented ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Lent,’ I responded, correcting him, you 
 
340 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 see, even although he was the priest — lentf said 
 I ; ‘ and your Reverence will be good enough to 
 give the votum before one or two of my friends.’ 
 
 He looked at me sharply, not expecting to 
 find such deep logic in one he conjectured to 
 be but a tyro, 
 
 “ ‘ You will be a useful man in the church,’ 
 he added, ‘ and you deserve to be pushed on at 
 all events. In the mean time tell your fattier 
 that I’ll ride up and breakfast with him to- 
 morrow, and he can have a friend or two to talk 
 over the comyactum! 
 
 “ So, father, there’s the state of the question 
 at present; the accomplishment of the condition 
 is dependent upon yourself.” 
 
 My readers may perceive that Denis, although 
 a pedant, was not a fool. It has been said that 
 no man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre ; but I 
 think the truth of the sentiment contained in 
 that saying is questionable. Denis, on the con- 
 trary, was nowhere so great a man as in his own 
 chimney-corner, surrounded by his family. It 
 was there he was learned, accomplished, pro- 
 found; next to that he was great among those 
 who, although not prejudiced in his favour by 
 the bonds of affection, were too ignorant to dis- 
 cover those literary pranks which he played off,^ 
 because he knew he could do so without detec- 
 tion. The basis, however, of his character was 
 shrewd humour and good sense; and even at the 
 stage of life which we have just described, it 
 might have been e\ddent to a close observer, that, 
 when a proper knowledge of his own powers. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 341 
 
 joined to a further acquaintance with the world, 
 should enable him to cast off the boyish as- 
 sumption of pedantry, a man of a keen ready 
 intellect, and considerable penetration, would 
 remain. 
 
 Many of my readers may be inclined to ex- 
 claim, that the character of Denny is not to be 
 found in real life; but they are mistaken who 
 think so. They are not to suppose that Denis 
 O’Shaughnessy was the same person in his in- 
 tercourse with intelligent men and scholars, that 
 he appeared among the illiterate peasantry, or 
 his own relations. Far from it. With the 
 former, persons like him are awkward and bash- 
 ful, or modest and unassuming, according to 
 the bent of their natural disposition. With 
 scholars Denis made few pretensions to superior 
 knowledge; but on the contrary, took refuge, if 
 he dreaded a scrutiny into his acquirements, in 
 the humblest acknowledgment of his limited 
 reading, and total unacquaintance with those 
 very topics on which he was, under other circum- 
 stances, in the habit of expatiating so fluently. 
 In fact, were I to detail some of the scenes of 
 his exhibitions as they were actually displayed, 
 then I have no doubt I might be charged with 
 colouring too highly. 
 
 When Denis had finished the oration from the 
 chimney-corner, delivered with suitable gesticu- 
 lation while he stood drying himself at the fire 
 after the catastrophe of the swamp, a silence of 
 some minutes followed. The promise of the colt 
 made to the priest with such an air of authority. 
 
342 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 was a finale which the father did not expect, and 
 by which he was not a little staggered. 
 
 “ I could like it all very well,’' replied the 
 father, “ save an’ except givin’ away the coult 
 that’s worth five-an’-twenty guineas, if he’s worth 
 a ’crona-hawn. To tell the blessed thruth, Dinis, 
 if you had settled the business widout thaty I’d 
 be betther plased.” 
 
 “ Just exercise your contemplation upon it for 
 a short period,” replied Denis, “ and you will 
 perceive that I stipulated to lend him before wit- 
 nesses; and if Father Finnerty does not matricu- 
 late me into Maynooth, then do you walk down 
 some brilliant morning or other, and take your 
 baste by the head, direct yourself home, hold the 
 bridle as you proceed, and by the time you’re 
 at the rack, you’ll find the horse at the manger. 
 I have now stated the legality of the matter, and 
 you may act as your own subtilty of perception 
 shall dictate. I have laid down the law, do you 
 consider the equity.” 
 
 “ Why,” said the father, ‘‘ if I thought he 
 would get you into ” 
 
 “Correct, quite correct: the cardinal point 
 there is the if. If he does, give him the horse; 
 but if not, reclaim the quadruped without hesi- 
 tation. I am not to be kept back, if profundity 
 and erudition can substantiate a prospect. Still, 
 father, the easiest way is the safest, and the 
 shortest the most expeditious.” 
 
 The embarrassing situation in which the other 
 members of the family were placed, imposed upon 
 them a profound silence, in reference to the sub- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 343 
 
 ject of conversation. Yet, while Denny de- 
 livered the aforesaid harangue from the chimney- 
 corner, every eye was fixed upon him with an 
 expression of pride and admiration which es- 
 caped not his own notice. Their deportment to- 
 wards him was affectionate and respectful; but 
 none of them could so far or so easily violate 
 old habits as to address him according to his 
 own wishes; they therefore avoided addressing 
 him at all. 
 
 The next morning Father Finnerty paid them 
 his purposed visit, and, as he had promised, ar- 
 rived in time for breakfast. A few of Denis’s 
 relations were assembled, and in their presence 
 the arrangements respecting the colt and Denny’s 
 clerical prospects were privately concluded. So 
 far everything was right; the time of Denny’s 
 departure for Maynooth was to be determined 
 by the answer which Father Finnerty should re- 
 ceive from the bishop; for an examination must, 
 of course, take place, which was to be conducted 
 by the prelate, or by some other clergyman ap- 
 pointed for .that purpose. This and the neces- 
 sary preparation usual on such occasions, were 
 the only impediments in the way of his departure 
 for Maynooth, a place associated with so many 
 dreams of that lowly ambition which the humble 
 circumstances of the peasantry permit them to 
 entertain. 
 
 The Irish people, I need scarcely observe, are 
 a poor people; they are, also, very probably for 
 the same reason, an imaginative people; at all 
 events, they are excited by occurrences which 
 
344 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 would not produce the same vivacity of emotion 
 which they experience, upon any other people 
 in the world. This, after all, is but natural; a 
 long endurance of hunger will render the coarsest 
 food delicious; and, on the contrary, when the 
 appetite is glutted with the richest viands, it re- 
 quires a dish whose flavour is proportionably high 
 and spicy to touch the jaded palate. It is so 
 with our moral enjoyments. In Ireland, a very 
 simple accession to their hopes or comforts pro- 
 duces an extraordinary elevation of mind, and so 
 completely unlocks the sluices of their feelings, 
 that every consideration is lost in the elation of 
 the moment. At least it was so in Denis O’ 
 Shaughnessy’s family upon this occasion. 
 
 No sooner had Father Finnerty received the 
 colt, and pledged himself that Denny should 
 have the place in Maynooth that was then vacant, 
 than a tumultuous expression of delight burst 
 from his family and relations. Business was 
 then thrown aside for the day; the house was 
 scoured and set in order, as if it were for a 
 festival; their best apparel was put on; every eye 
 was bright, every heart throbbed with a delight- 
 ful impulse, whilst kindness and hilarity beamed 
 from their faces. In a short time they all separa- 
 ted themselves among their neighbours to com- 
 municate the agreeable tidings; and the latter, 
 with an honest participation in their happiness, 
 instantly laid aside their avocations and flocked 
 to Denis O’ Shaughnessy’s, that they might con- 
 gratulate him and his friends upon what was 
 considered the completion of their hopes. When 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 315 
 
 the day was more advanced, several of Denny’s 
 brothers and sisters returned, and the house was 
 nearly filled with their acquaintances and rela- 
 tions. Ere one o’clock had passed they were all 
 assembled, except old Denis, of whom no person 
 could give any intelligence. Talk, loud laugh- 
 ter, pure poteen, and good-humour, all circulated 
 freely; the friendly neighbour unshaved, and 
 with his Sunday coat thrown hastily over his 
 work-day apparel, drank to Denny’s health, and 
 wished that he might “ bate all Maynewth out 
 of the face; an’ sure there’s no doubt of that, 
 any how — doesn’t myself remimber him puttin’ 
 the explanations to Pasthorini before he was the 
 bulk o’ my fist? ” His brothers and sisters now 
 adopted with enthusiasm the terms of respect 
 which he had prescribed for them through his 
 father; he was Sirred and Misthered^ and all but 
 Reverenced, with a glow of affectionate triumph 
 which they strove not to conceal. He was also 
 overwhelmed with compliments of all hues and 
 complexions : one reminded him of the victory he 
 obtained over a hedge-schoolmaster who came one 
 Sunday a distance of fifteen miles to sack him in 
 English Grammar on the chapel-green; but as 
 the man was no classical scholar, “ Sure,” ob- 
 served his neighbour, “ I remember well that he 
 couldn’t get a word out of Misther Denis’s head 
 there but Latin; so that the poor crathur, afther 
 travellin’ fifteen long miles, had to go home 
 agin, the show o’ the world, widout undher- 
 standin’ a sintence of the larnin’ that was put an 
 liim; an’ so here’s wishin’ you health, Misther 
 
346 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Dinis, agra, an’ no fear in life but you’ll be the 
 jewel at the prachin’, Sir, plase Goodness! ” 
 Another reminded him of “ how often he 
 proved Phaidrick Murray to be an ass, and 
 showed him how he couldn’t make out the differ 
 atween black an’ white.” 
 
 “ Sure, an’ he did,” said Phadrick, scratching 
 his head, for he was one of the first at the house; 
 
 “ an’ no wondher, wid his long-headed screw- 
 tations from the books. Throth, his own father 
 was the best match, barrin’ F ather Lawdher that 
 was broke of his bread, he ever met wid, till 
 he got too many for him by the Latin an’ Greek.” 
 This allusion to old Denis occasioned his ab- 
 sence to be noticed. 
 
 “ Can nobody tell where Denis More is? ” said 
 the wife; “ my gracious, but it’s quare he should 
 be from about the place this day, any way. 
 Brian, mavourneen, did you see him goin’ any 
 where? ” 
 
 “ No,” said Brian, “ but I see him cornin’ 
 down there carry in’ some aitables in a basket.” 
 Brian had scarcely ended when his father 
 entered, bearing beef and mutton, as aforesaid, 
 both of which he deposited upon the kitchen table, 
 with a jerk of generosity and pride, that seemed 
 to say, as he looked significantly at Denny — 
 and, in fact, as he did say afterwards — “ Never 
 spare, Dinny; ate like a gintleman; make your- , 
 self as bright an’ ginteel as you can; you won’t 
 want for beef an’ mutton! ” 
 
 Old Denis now sat down, and, after wiping 
 the perspiration from his forehead, took the glass 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 347 
 
 of poteen which the wife handed him: he held 
 it between liis finger and thumb for a moment, 
 glanced around him upon the happy faces pres- 
 ent, then laid it down again, fixed his eyes upon 
 his son, and cast them once more upon the com- 
 pany. The affectionate father’s heart was full; 
 his breast heaved, and the large tears rolled slowly 
 down his cheeks. By a strong effort, however, 
 he mastered his emotion; and taking the glass 
 again, he said in a broken voice: — 
 
 “Neighbours! — God bless yez! — God bless 
 
 yez! — Dinny — Dinny — I ” 
 
 The last words he pronounced with difficulty; 
 and drinking off his glass, set it down empty 
 upon the table. He then rose up, and shook his 
 neighbours by the hand — 
 
 “ I am,” said he, “ a happy man, no doubt of 
 it, an’ we’re all happy; an’ it’s proud any father 
 might be to hear the account of his son, that I 
 did of mine, as I was convoyin’ Father Finnerty 
 a piece o’ the way home. ‘ Your son,’, says he, 
 when he took that bit of a coult out o’ my hand, 
 ‘ will be an honour to you all. I tell you,’ says 
 he, ‘ that he’s nearly as good a scholar as my- 
 self, an’ spakes Latin not far behind my own; 
 an’ as for a pracher,’ says he, ‘ I can tell you 
 that he’ll be hard farther nor any man I know.’ 
 He tould me them words wid his own two lips. 
 An’ surely, neighbours,” said he, relapsing into 
 strong feeling, “ you can’t blame me for bein’ 
 both proud an’ happy of sich a son.” 
 
 My readers, from the knowledge already 
 given them of Denny’s character, are probably 
 
348 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 disposed to think that his learning was thrown 
 out on this occasion in longer words and more 
 copious quotations than usual. This, however, 
 was not the case; so far from that, he never 
 displayed less pedantry, nor interspersed his 
 conversation with fewer scraps of Latin. In 
 fact, the proceedings of the day appeared to 
 atfect him with a tone of thought, decidedly at 
 variance with the exuberance of joy experienced 
 by the family. He was silent, moody, and 
 evidently drawn by some secret reflection from 
 the scene around him. He held a book in his 
 hand, into which he looked from time to time, 
 with the air of a man who balances some con- 
 tingency in his mind. At length, when the con- 
 versation of those who were assembled became 
 more loud and boisterous, he watched an opportu- 
 nity of gliding out unperceived; having accom- 
 plished this, he looked cautiously about him, and 
 finding himself not observed, he turned his steps 
 to a glen which lay about half a mile below his 
 father’s house. 
 
 At the lowest skirt of this little valley, pro- 
 tected by a few spreading hawthorns, stood a 
 small white farm-house, more immediately shaded 
 by a close row of elder, or boor-tree, which hung 
 over one of the gables, and covered the garden 
 gate, together with a neat grassy seat, that was 
 built between the gate and the gable. It was im- 
 peiwious to sun and rain : one of those pretty spots 
 which present themselves on the road-side in the 
 country, and strike the eye with a pleasing notion 
 of comfort; especially when, during a summer 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 349 
 
 shower, the cocks and hens of the little yard are 
 seen by the traveller who takes sheltpr under 
 it, huddled up in silence, the white dust quite 
 dry, whilst the heavy shower patters upon the 
 leaves above, and upon the dark drenched road 
 beside him. 
 
 Under the shade of this sat an interesting 
 girl, aged about seventeen, named Susan Connor. 
 She was slender, and not above the middle size; 
 but certainly, in point of form and feature, such 
 as might be called beautiful — handsome she 
 unquestionably was; but be that as it may, with 
 this rustic beauty the object of Denis’s stolen 
 visit was connected. She sat knitting under the 
 shade of elder which we have described, a sweet 
 picture of innocence and candour. Our hero’s 
 face, as he approached her, was certainly a tine 
 study for any one who wished to embody the sad 
 and the ludicrous. Desperate was the conflict 
 between pedantry and feeling which he experi- 
 enced. His manner appeared more pompous 
 and affected than ever; yet was there blended 
 with the flush of approaching triumph as a candi- 
 date, such woe-begone shades of distress flitting 
 occasionally across his features, as rendered his 
 countenance inscrutably enigmatical. 
 
 When the usual interchange of preliminary 
 conversation had passed, Denis took his seat be- 
 side her on the grassy bench; and after looking 
 in several directions, and giving half a dozen 
 hems, he thus accosted her : — 
 
 “ Susan, cream of my affections, I may 
 venture to conjecture that the fact, or factum. 
 
350 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 of my being the subject of a fama clamosa to- 
 day, has not yet reached your ears? ” 
 
 “ Now, Denis, you are at your deep laming 
 from the books again. Can’t you keep your 
 reading for them that undherstands it, an’ not be 
 spakin’ so Englified to a simple girl like me? ” 
 
 “ There is logic in that same, however. Do 
 you know, Susan, I have often thought that, pro- 
 vided always you had resaved proper instruction, 
 you would have made a first-rate classical 
 scholar.” 
 
 “ So you tould me, Denis, the Sunday evening 
 we exchanged the promise. But sure when you 
 get me, I can larn it. W on’t you tache me, Denis ?” 
 
 She turned her laughing eyes archly at him 
 as she spoke, with a look of joy and affection: 
 it was a look, indeed, that staggered for the 
 moment every ecclesiastical resolution within him. 
 He returned her glance, and ran over the features 
 of her pure and beautiful countenance for some 
 minutes; then, placing his open hand upon his 
 eyes, he seemed buried in reflection. At length 
 he addressed her : — 
 
 “ Susan, I am thinking of that same Sunday 
 evening on which we exchanged the hand- 
 promise. I say, Susan , — dimidium animce mece — 
 I am in the act of meditating upon it ; and sorry 
 am I to be compel — to be under the neces — to be 
 reduced, I say — that is redactus in the lamed 
 
 langua : in other words — or terms, indeed, is 
 
 more elegant — in other terms, then, Susan, I fear 
 that what I just now alluded to, touching the 
 fama clamosa which is current about me this day. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 351 
 
 will render that promise a. rather premature one 
 on both our parts. Some bachelors in my situa- 
 tion might be disposed to call it foolish, but I 
 entertain a reverence — a veneration for the feel- 
 ings of the feminine sex, that inclines me to use 
 the mildest and most classical language in 
 divulging the change that has taken place in my 
 fortunes since I saw you last.’’ 
 
 “ What do you mane, Denis? ” inquired Susan, 
 suddenly ceasing to knit, and fixing her eyes 
 upon him with a glance of alarm. 
 
 “ To be plain, Susy, I find that Maynooth is 
 my destination. It has been arranged between 
 my father and Docthor Finnerty, that I must 
 become a labourer in the vineyard; that is, that 
 I must become a priest, and cultivate the grape. 
 It’s a sore revelation to make to an amorous 
 maiden ; but destiny will be triumphant : — 
 
 Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.” 
 
 The poor girl suddenly laid down the work on 
 which she had been engaged, her face became the 
 colour of ashes, and the reply she was about to 
 make died upon her lips. She again resumed her 
 stocking, but almost instantly laid it down a 
 second time, and appeared wholly unable either 
 to believe or comprehend what he said. 
 
 “ Denis,” she at length asked, “ did you say 
 that all is to be over between us? ” 
 
 “ That was my insinuation,” replied Denis. 
 “ The fact is, Susy, that destiny is adverse; clean 
 against our union in the bonds of matrimonial 
 ecstasy. But, Susy, my charmer, I told you be- 
 
352 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 fore that you were not destitute of logic, and I 
 hope you will bear this heavy visitation as becomes 
 a philosopher.” 
 
 “Bear it, Denis! How ought I to bear it, 
 after your saying and swearing, too, that neither 
 father, nor mother, nor priest, nor any body else 
 would make you desart me? ” 
 
 “ But, Susan, my nightingale, perhaps you are 
 not aware that there is an authority in existence 
 to which father, mother, and all must knuckle 
 down. That is the church, Susan. Reflect — 
 dulce decus meum — that the power of the church 
 is able to loose and unloose, to tie and untie, to 
 forgive and to punish, to raise to the highest 
 heaven, or to sink to the profoundest Tartarus. 
 That power, Susan, thinks proper to claim your 
 unworthy and enamoured swain as one of the 
 brightest Colossuses of her future glory. The 
 Irish hierarchy is plased to look on me as a 
 luminary of almost superhuman brilliancy and 
 coruscation: my talents she pronounces to be of 
 the first magnitude; my eloquence classical and 
 overwhelming, and my learning only adorned by 
 that poor insignificant attribute denominated by 
 philosophers unfathomability 1 — hem! — hem! ” 
 
 “ Denis,” replied the innocent girl, “ you 
 sometimes speak that I can undherstand you ; but 
 you oftener spake in a way that I can hardly 
 make out what you say. If it’s a thing that my 
 love for you, or the solemn promise that passed 
 between us, would stand in your light, or prevint 
 you from higher things as a priest, I am willing 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 353 
 
 to — to — to give you up, whatever I may suffer. 
 But you know yourself, that you brought me on 
 from time to time undher your promise, that 
 nothing would ever lead you to lave me in sor- 
 row an’ disappointment. Still, I say, that 
 
 But, Denis, is it thrue that you could lave me 
 for any thing? 
 
 The innocent confidence in his truth expressed 
 by the simplicity of her last question, staggered 
 the young candidate; that is to say, her words, 
 her innocence, and her affection sank deeply into 
 his heart. 
 
 “ Susan,” he replied, “ to tell the blessed truth, 
 I am fairly dilemma’d. My heart is in your 
 favour; but — but — hem — you don’t know the 
 prospect that is open to me. You don’t know the 
 sin of keeping back such a — a — a — galaxy as I 
 am from the church. I say, you don’t know the 
 sin of it. Thafs the difficulty. If it was a 
 common case it would be nothing! but to keep 
 back a person like me — a rara avis in terris — from 
 the priesthood, is a sin that requires a great dale 
 of interest with the Pope to have absolved.” 
 
 “Heaven above forgive me!” exclaimed the 
 artless girl. “ In that case I wouldn’t for the 
 riches of the wide earth stand between you and 
 God. But I didn’t know that before, Denis; and 
 if you had tould me, I think, sooner than get 
 into sich a sin I’d struggle to keep down my 
 love for you, even although my heart should 
 break.” 
 
 “ Poor darling,” said Denis, taking her passive 
 
354 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 hand in his, and would it go so hard with you? 
 Break your heart! Do you love me so well as 
 that, Susan? ” 
 
 Susan’s eyes turned on liim for a moment, 
 and the tears which his question drew forth gave 
 it a full and a touching reply. She uttered not 
 a word, but after a few deep sobs wiped her 
 eyes, and endeavoured to compose her feelings. 
 
 Denis felt the influence of her emotions; he 
 remained silent for a short time, during which, 
 however, ambition drew in the background all 
 those dimly splendid visions that associate them- 
 selves with the sacerdotal functions, in a country 
 where the people place no bounds to the spiritual 
 power of their pastors. 
 
 “Susan,” said he, after a pause, “ do you know 
 the difference between a Christian and a ha- 
 then? ” 
 
 “ Between a Christian an’ a hathen? Why 
 aren’t hathens all sinners? ” 
 
 “ Very right. Faith, Susan, you would have 
 shone at the classics. You see, dilecta cordis mei, 
 or, cordi meo, for either is good grammar — ^you 
 see, Susan, the difference between a Christian 
 and a hathen is this: — a Christian bears disap- 
 pointments with fortitude — ^with what is denomi- 
 nated Christian fortitude; whereas, on the con- 
 trary, a hathen doesn’t bear disappointments at 
 all. Now, Susan, it would cut me to the heart 
 to find that you would become a hathen on this 
 touching and trying occasion.” 
 
 “ I’ll pray to God, Denis. Isn’t that the way 
 to act under afflictions? ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 335 
 
 “ Decidedly. There is no other legitimate 
 mode of quelling a heart-ache. And, Susan, 
 when you go to supplication you are at liberty 
 to mention my name — no, not yet; but if I were 
 once consecrated you might. However, it is bet- 
 ter to sink this; say nothing about me when you 
 pray, for, to tell you truth, I believe you have 
 as much influence above — super astra — as I have. 
 There is one argument which I am anxious to 
 press upon you. It is a very simple but a very 
 respectable one after all. I am not all Ireland. 
 You will And excellent good husbands even in 
 this parish. There is, as the old proverb says, 
 as good flsh in the say as ever were caught. Do 
 you catch one of them. For me, Susan, the 
 vineyard claims me; I must, as I said, cultivate 
 the grape. We must, consequently — hem! — we 
 must — hem! hem! — consequently strive to forget 
 — hem! — I say, to forget each other. It is a 
 trial — I know — a desperate visitation, poor fawn, 
 upon your feelings; but, as I said, destiny will 
 be triumphant. What is decreed, is decreed — I 
 must go to Maynooth.” 
 
 Susan rose, and her eyes flashed with an in- 
 dignant sense of the cold-blooded manner in 
 which he advised her to select another husband. 
 She was an ilflterate girl, but the purity of her 
 feeling supplied the delicacy which reading and 
 a knowledge of more refined society would have 
 given her. 
 
 “ Is it from your lips, Denis,” she said, “ that 
 I hear sich a mane and low-minded an advice? 
 Or do you think that with my weak, and I now 
 
356 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 see, foolish heart, settled upon you, I could turn 
 round and fix my love upon the first that might 
 axe me? Denis, you promised before God to be 
 mine, and mine only; you often said and swore 
 that you loved me above any human being; but 
 I now see that you only intended to lead me 
 into sin and disgrace, for indeed, and before God, 
 I don’t think — I don’t — I don’t — believe that 
 you ever loved me.” 
 
 A burst of grief, mingled with indignation 
 and affliction, followed the words she had uttered. 
 Denis felt himself called on for a vindication, 
 and he was resolved to give it. 
 
 ‘‘ Susan,” he returned, ‘‘ your imagination is 
 erroneous. iBy all the classical authors that ever 
 were written, you are antipodially opposed to 
 facts. What harm is there, seeing that you and 
 I can never be joined in wedlock — what harm is 
 there, I say, in recommending you another 
 hush ” 
 
 Susan would hear no more. She gathered up 
 her stocking and ball of thread, placed them in 
 her apron, went into her father’s house, shut and 
 bolted the door, and gave way to violent grief. 
 All this occurred in a moment, and Denis found 
 himself excluded. 
 
 He did not wish, however, to part from her in 
 anger; so, after having attempted to look through 
 the keyhole of the door, and applied his eye in 
 vain to the window, he at length spoke. 
 
 “ Is there anybody within but yourself, 
 Susy?” 
 
 He received no reply. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 357 
 
 “ I say, Susy — dilecta juventutis mece — 
 touching the recommendation — now don’t be 
 ciying — touching the recommendation of another 
 husband, by all the classics that ever were mis- 
 translated, I meant nothing but the purest of 
 consolation. If I did, may I be reduced to 
 primeval and aboriginal ignorance! But you 
 know yourself, that they never prospered who 
 prevented a rara avis like me from entering the 
 church — from labouring in tbe vineyard, and 
 cultivating the grape. Don’t be hathenisb; but 
 act with a philosophy suitable to so dignified an 
 occasion — Farewell! Made vii'tute, and be 
 firm. I swear again by all the class ” 
 
 The appearance of a neighbour caused him to 
 cut short his oath. Seeing that the man ap- 
 proached the house, he drew oif, and returned 
 home, more seriously affected by Susan’s agita- 
 tion than he was willing to admit even to himself. 
 
 This triumph over his affection was, in fact, 
 only the conquest of one passion over another. 
 His attachment to Susan Connor was certainly 
 sincere, and ere the prospects of his entering 
 jNIaynooth were unexpectedly brought near him, 
 by the interference of Father Finnerty, his 
 secret purpose all along had been to enter with 
 her into the state of matrimony, rather than into 
 the church. Ambition, however, is beyond all 
 comparison the most powerful principle of hu- 
 man conduct, and so Denny found it. Although 
 his unceremonious abandonment of Susan ap- 
 peared heartless and cruel, yet it was not effected 
 on his part without profound sorrow and re- 
 
358 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 morse. The two principles, when they began to 
 struggle in his heart for supremacy, resembled 
 the rival destinies of Csesar and Mark Anthony. 
 Love declined in the presence of ambition; and 
 this, in proportion as all the circumstances cal- 
 culated to work upon the strong imagination of 
 a young man naturally fond of power, began to 
 assume an appearance of reality. To be in the 
 course of a few years a bond fide priest; to possess 
 unlimited sway over the fears and principles of 
 the people; to be endowed with spiritual gifts 
 to he knew not what extent; and to enjoy him- 
 self as he had an opportunity of seeing Father 
 Finnerty and his curate do, in the full swing of 
 convivial pleasure, upon the ample hospitality of 
 those who, in addition to this, were ready to kiss 
 the latchet of his shoes — were, it must be ad- 
 mitted, no inconsiderable motives in influencing 
 the conduct of a person reared in an humble con- 
 dition of life. The claims of poor Susan, her 
 modesty, her attachment, and her beauty — were 
 all insufficient to prevail against such a host of 
 opposing motives; and the consequence, though 
 bitter, and subversive of her happiness, was a 
 final determination on the part of Denny, to ac- 
 quaint her, with a kind of ex-officio formality, 
 that all intercourse upon the subject of their 
 mutual attachment must cease between them. 
 Notwithstanding his boasted knowledge, how- 
 ever, he was ignorant of sentiment, and accord- 
 ingly confined himself, as I have intimated, to a 
 double species of argument; that is to say, first, 
 the danger and sin of opposing the wishes of the 
 
TRAITS AND STORIDS 
 
 359 
 
 church which had claimed him, as he said, to 
 labour in the vineyard; and secondly, the un- 
 doubted fact, that there were plenty of good hus- 
 bands besides himself in the world, from some 
 one of which, he informed her, he had no doubt, 
 she could be accommodated. 
 
 In the meantime, her image, meek, and fair, 
 and uncomplaining, would from time to time 
 glide into his imagination; and the melody of her 
 voice send its music once more to his vacillating 
 heart. He usually paused then, and almost con- 
 sidered himself under the influence of a dream; 
 but ambition, with its train of shadowy honours, 
 would immediately present itself, and Susan was 
 again forgotten. 
 
 When he rejoined the company, to whom he 
 had given the slip, he found them all gone, ex- 
 cept about six or eight whom his father had com- 
 pelled to stop for dinner. His mind was now 
 much lighter than it had been before his inter- 
 view with Susan, nor were his spirits at all de- 
 pressed by perceiving that a new knife and fork 
 lay glittering upon the dresser for his own par- 
 ticular use. 
 
 “ Why, thin, where have you been all this 
 time,” said the father, “ an’ we wantin’ to know 
 whether you’d like the mutton to be boiled or 
 roasted? ” 
 
 “ I was soliloquising in the glen below,” re- 
 plied Denny, once more resuming his pedantry, 
 “ meditating upon the transparency of all human 
 events; but as for the beef and mutton, I advise 
 you to boil the beef, and roast the mutton, or 
 
360 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 vice versa, to boil the mutton, and roast the beef. 
 But I persave my mother has anticipated me, 
 and boiled them both with that flitch of bacon 
 that’s playing the vagrant in the big pot there. 
 Tria juncta in uno, as Horace says in the 
 Epodes, when expatiating upon the Roman Em- 
 perors — ehem! ” 
 
 “ Misther Denis,” said one of those present, 
 “ maybe you’d tell us upon the watch, what the 
 hour is, if you plase. Sir; myself never can know 
 right at all, except by the shadow of the sun 
 from the corner of our own gavel.” 
 
 “ Why,” replied Denis, pulling it out with 
 much pomp of manner, “ it’s just half -past two 
 to a quarter of a minute, and a few seconds.” 
 
 “ Why thin what a quare tiling entirely a 
 watch is,” the other continued; “ now what makes 
 you hould it to your ear, Misther Denis, if you 
 plase? ” 
 
 “ The efficient cause of that, Larry, is, that 
 the drum of the ear, you persave — the drum of 
 the ear — is enabled to catch the intonations pro- 
 duced by the machinery of its internal operations 
 — otherwise the fact of applying it to the ear 
 would be unnecessary— altogether unnecessary.” 
 “Dear me! see what it is to have the knowl- 
 edge, any way! But isn’t it quare how it moves 
 of itself like a livin’ crathur? How is that, 
 Misther Denis? ” 
 
 “ Why, Larry, — ehem — you see the motions 
 of it are — that is — the works or operations, are 
 all continually going; and sure it is from that 
 explanation that we say a watch goes well. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 30 1 
 
 That’s more than you ever knew before, Larry.” 
 
 “ Indeed it surely is, Sir, an’ is much oblaged 
 to you, Misther Denis; sure if I ever come to 
 wear a watch in my fob. I’ll know something 
 about it, anyhow.” 
 
 For the remainder of that day Denis was as 
 learned and consequential as ever; his friends, 
 when their hearts were opened by his father’s 
 hospitality, all promised him substantial aid in 
 mone}% and in presents of such articles as they 
 supposed might be serviceable to him in Ma}- 
 nooth. Denny received their proffers of sup- 
 port with suitable dignity and gratitude. A 
 scene of bustle and preparation now commenced 
 among them, nor was Denny himxSelf the least 
 engaged; for it somehow happened, that not- 
 withstanding his profound erudition, he felt it 
 necessary to read night and day in order to pass 
 with more eclat the examination which he had to 
 stand before the bishop ere his appointment to 
 Majmooth. This ordeal was to occur upon a 
 day fixed for the purpose, in the ensuing month ; 
 and indeed Denis occupied as much of the inter- 
 vening period in study as his circumstances would 
 permit. His situation was, at this crisis, cer- 
 tainly peculiar. Every person related to him in 
 the shghtest degree contrived to revive their re- 
 lationship; his former schoolfellows, on hearing 
 that he was actually destined to be of the church, 
 renewed their acquaintance with him, and those 
 who had been servants to his father, took the lib- 
 erty of speaking to him upon the strength of that 
 fact. No child, to the remotest shade of affinity. 
 
362 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 was born, for which he did not stand godfather; 
 nieces and nephews thickened about him, all with 
 remarkable talents, and many of them, partic- 
 ularly of the nieces, said to be exceedingly gen- 
 teel — very thrifty for their ages, and likely to 
 make excellent housekeepers. A strong likeness 
 to himself was also pointed out in the features of 
 his nephews, one of whom had his born nose — 
 another his eyes — and a third again had his brave 
 high-flown way with him. In short, he began to 
 feel some of the inconveniences of greatness ; and, 
 like it, to be surrounded by cringing servility 
 and meanness. When he went to chapel he was 
 beset, and followed from place to place, by a 
 retinue of friends who were all anxious to secure 
 to themselves the most conspicuous marks of his 
 notice. It was the same thing in fair or market; 
 they contended with each other who should do 
 him most honour, or afford to him and his father’s 
 immediate family the most costly treat, ac- 
 companied by the grossest expressions of flat- 
 tery. Every male infant born among them was 
 called Dionysius; and every female one Susan, 
 after his favourite sister. All this, to a lad like 
 Denis, already remarkable for his vanity, was 
 very trying; or rather, it absolutely turned his 
 brain, and made him probably as finished a speci- 
 men of pride, self-conceit, and domineering ar- 
 rogance, mingled with a kind of lurking humor- 
 ous contempt for his cringing relations, as could 
 be displayed in the person of some shallow but 
 knavish prime minister, surrounded by his selfish 
 sycophants, whom he encourages and despises. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 3G3 
 
 At home he was idolised — overwhelmed witli 
 respect and deference. The slightest intimation 
 of his wish was a command to them ; the beef, and 
 fowl, and mutton, were at hand in all the variety 
 of culinary skill, and not a soul in the house durst 
 lay a hand upon his knife and fork but himself. 
 In the morning*, when the family were to be seen 
 around the kitchen table at their plain but sub- 
 stantial breakfast, Denis was lording it in soli- 
 tary greatness over an excellent breakfast of tea> 
 and eggs in another room. 
 
 It was now, too, that the king’s English, as 
 well as the mutton, was carved and hacked to 
 some purpose; epithets prodigiously long and 
 foreign to the purpose were pressed into his con- 
 versation, for no other reason than because those 
 to whom he spoke could not understand them ; but 
 the principal portion of his time was devoted to 
 study. The bishop, he had heard, was a sound 
 scholar, and exceedingly scrupulous in recom- 
 mending any to Maynooth, except such as were 
 well versed in the preparatory course. Inde- 
 pendently of this, he was anxious, he said, to dis- 
 tinguish him.self in his examination, and, if pos- 
 sible, to sustain as high a character with the bishop 
 and his fellow-students, as he did among the 
 peasantry of his own neighbourhood. 
 
 At length the day approached. The bishop^s 
 residence was not distant more than a few hours’ 
 ride, and he would have sufficient time to arrive 
 there, pass his examination, and return in time 
 for dinner. On the eve of his departure, old 
 Denis invited Father Finnerty, liis curate, and 
 
364 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 about a dozen relations and friends, to dine with 
 him the next day; when — Denis having sur- 
 mounted the last obstacle to the accomplishment 
 of his hopes — their hearts could open without a 
 single reflection to check the exuberance of their 
 pride, hospitahty, and happiness. 
 
 I have often said to my friends, and I now re- 
 peat it in print, that after all, there is no people 
 bound up so strongly to each other by the ties 
 of domestic life, as the Irish. On the night 
 which preceded this joyous and important day, a 
 spirit of silent but tender affection dwelt in every 
 heart of the O’Shaughnessys. The great point 
 of interest was Denis. He himself was serious, 
 and evidently laboured under that strong anx- 
 iety so natural to a youth in his circumstances. 
 A Roman Catholic bishop, too, is a personage 
 looked upon by the people with a kind of feeling 
 that embodies in it awe, reverence, and fear. 
 Though, in this country, an humble man possess- 
 ing neither the rank in society, outward splen- 
 dour, nor the gorgeous profusion of wealth and 
 pomp which characterise a prelate of the Estab- 
 lished Church; yet it is unquestionable that the 
 gloomy dread, and sense of formidable power 
 with which they impress the minds of the submis- 
 sive peasantry, immeasurably surpass the more 
 legitimate influence which any Protestant digni- 
 tary could exercise over those who stand, with re- 
 spect to him, in a more rational and independent 
 position. 
 
 It was not surprising that Denis, who prac- 
 tised upon ignorant people that petty despotism 
 
TKAITS AND STORIES 
 
 3G5 
 
 for which he was so remarkable, should now, on 
 coming in contact with great spiritual authority, 
 ado 2 )t his own princi|)les, and relaj^se from the 
 proud i^edant into the cowardly slave. True it 
 is that he j^resented a most melancholy sjDecimen 
 of independence in a crisis where moral courage 
 was so necessary: but his dread of the coming 
 day w^as judiciously locked up in his own bosom. 
 His silence and aj)prehension w^ere imputed to 
 the workings of a mind learnedly engaged in ar- 
 ranging the vast stores of knowledge with which 
 it was so abundantly stocked; his moody picture 
 of the bishop’s brow; his reflection that he was 
 going before so sacred a person, as a candidate 
 for the church, with his heart yet redolent of 
 earthly affection for Susan Connor; his appre- 
 hension that the bisho 2 )’s spiritual scent might 
 sagaciously smell it out, were all put down by the 
 family to the credit of uncommon learning, 
 wdiich, as his mother observed truly, “ often makes 
 men do quare things.” His embarrassments, 
 however, in as much as they were ascribed by 
 them to wrong causes, endeared him more to their 
 hearts than ever. Because he spoke little, 
 neither the usual noise nor bustle of a large fam- 
 ily disturbed the silence of the house : every word 
 was uttered that evening in a low tone, at once 
 expressive of tenderness and respect. The fam- 
 ily sup|)er was tea, in compliment to Denis ; and 
 they all partook of it with him. Nothing hum- 
 bles the mind, and gives the natural feelings 
 their full play, so well as a struggle in life, or the 
 appearance of its approach. 
 
366 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Denis/’ said the father, ‘‘ the time wiU come 
 when we won’t have you at all among us; hut, 
 thank goodness, you’ll be in a betther place.” 
 
 Denis heard him not, and consequently made 
 no reply. 
 
 “ They say Maynewth’s a tryin’ place, too,” 
 he continued, “ an’ I’d be sorry to see him pulled 
 down to an atomy, like some of the scarecrows 
 that come out of it. I hope you’ll bear it bet- 
 ther.” 
 
 “ Do you speak to me? ” said Denis, awaking 
 out of a reverie. 
 
 “ I do, Sir/^ replied the father; and as he ut- 
 tered the words the son perceived that his eyes 
 were fixed upon him with an expression of affec- 
 tionate sorrow and pride. 
 
 The youth was then in a serious mood, free 
 from the dominion of that learned mania under 
 which he had so frequently signalised himself: 
 the sorrow of his father, and a consciousness of 
 the deep affection and unceasing kindness which 
 he had ever experienced from him, joined to a 
 recollection of their former friendly disputes and 
 companionship, touched Denny to the quick. 
 But the humility with which he applied to him. 
 the epithet Sir, touched him most. What! 
 thought he — ought my affectionate father to be 
 thrown to such a distance from a son, who owes 
 everything to his love and goodness! The 
 thought of his stooping so humbly before him 
 smote the boy’s heart, and the tears glistened in 
 his eyes. 
 
 “ Father,” said he, “ you have been kind and 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 3G7 
 
 good to me, beyond my deserts; surely then I 
 eannot bear to bear you address me in that man- 
 ner, as if we were both strangers. Nor while I 
 am with you, shall any of you so address me. 
 Remember that I am still your son and their 
 brother.’’ 
 
 The natural affection displayed in this speech 
 soon melted the whole family into tears — not ex- 
 cepting Denis himself, who felt that grief which 
 we experience when about to be separated for the 
 first time from those we love. 
 
 “ Come over, avourneen,” said his mother, dry- 
 ing her eyes wdth the corner of her check apron; 
 “ come over, acushla machree, an’ sit beside me ; 
 sure although we’re sorry for you, Denis, it’s 
 proud our hearts are of you, an’ good right we 
 have, a suilish! Come over, an’ let me be near 
 you as long as I can, any way.” 
 
 Denis placed himself beside her, and the proud 
 mother drew his head over upon her bosom, and 
 bedewed his face with a gush of tears. 
 
 “ They say,” she observed, “ that it’s sinful to 
 shed tears when there’s no occasion for grief; but 
 I hope it’s no sin to cry when one’s heart is full 
 of somethin’ that brings them to one’s eyes, 
 whether they will or not.” 
 
 “ Mave,” said the father, Fll miss him more 
 nor any of you; but sure he’ll often send letters 
 to us from Maynewth, to tell us how he’s gettin’ 
 on; an’ we’ll be proud enough, never fear.” 
 
 “ You’ll miss me, Denis,” said his favourite 
 sister, who was also called Susan; “for you’ll 
 find no one in Maynewth that will keep your 
 
368 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 linen so white as I did: but never fear, I’ll be 
 always knittin’ you stockins; an’ every year I’ll 
 make you half-a-dozen shirts, an’ you’ll think 
 them more natural nor other shirts, when you 
 know they came from your own home — from 
 them that you love! Won’t you, Denis? ” 
 
 ‘‘I will, Susy; and I will love the shirts for 
 the sake of the hands that made them.” 
 
 “ And I won’t allow Susy Connor to help me 
 as she used to do ; they’ll be all Alley’s sewin’ and 
 mine.” 
 
 “ The poor colleen — listen to her! ” exclaimed 
 the affectionate father: “ indeed you will, Susy; 
 ay, and hem his cravats, that we’ll send him ready 
 made an’ all.” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Denis, “ but as to Susy Connor 
 — ^hem — ^why, upon considera — ^he — hem — ^upon 
 second thoughts, I don’t see why you should pre- 
 vent her from helping you; she’s a neighbour’s 
 daughter, and a weU-wisher, of whose prosperity 
 in life I’d always wish to hear.” 
 
 “ The poor girl’s very bad in her health, for 
 the last three weeks,” observed his other sister. 
 Alley : “ she has lost her appetite, an’ is cast down 
 entirely in her spirits. You ought to go an’ see 
 her, Denis, before you set out for the college, if 
 it was only on her dacent father’s account. 
 When I was tellin’ her yisterday that you wor to 
 get the bishop’s letter for Maynewth to-morrow, 
 she was in so poor a state of health that she nearly 
 fainted. I had to give her a drink of wather, 
 and sprinkle her face with it. Well, she’s a purty 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 369 
 
 I 
 
 crathur an’ a good girl, an’ was always that, dear 
 knows! ” 
 
 “ Denis achree,” said his mother, somewhat 
 alarmed, “ are you any way unwell? Why your 
 heart’s batin’ like a new catched chicken! Are 
 you sick, acushla; or are you used to this? ” 
 
 “ It won’t signify,” replied Denis, gently rais- 
 ing himself from his mother’s arms, “ I will sit 
 up, mother; it’s but a sudden stroke or two of 
 tremor cordis, produced probably by having my 
 mind too much upon one object.” 
 
 “ I tliink,” said his father, “ he will be the bet- 
 ther of a little drop of the poteen made into 
 punch, an’ for that matter we can all take a sup 
 of it ; as there’s no one here but ourselves, we will 
 have it snug an’ comfortable.” 
 
 Nothing resembles an April day more than the 
 general disposition of the Irish people. When 
 old Denis’s proposal for the punch was made, 
 the gloom which hung over the family — originat- 
 ing, as it did, more in joy than in sorrow — soon 
 began to disappear. Their countenances gradu- 
 ally brightened, by and by mirth stole out, and 
 ere the punch had accomplished its first round, 
 laughter, and jest, and good-humour — each, 
 in consequence of the occasion, more buoyant 
 and vivacious than usual, were in full play. 
 Denis himself, when animated by the unexcised 
 liquor, threw off his dejection, and ere the night 
 was half spent, found himself in the highest 
 region of pedantry. 
 
 “ I would not,” said he, “ turn my back upon 
 
 III— 24 
 
370 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 any other candidate in the province, in point of 
 preparatory excellence and ardency of imagina- 
 tion. I say, sitting here beside you, my worthy 
 and logical father, I would not retrograde from 
 any candidate for the honours of the Catholic 
 Church in the pro\dnce — in the kingdom — in 
 Europe; and it is not improbable but I might 
 progradiate another step, and say Christendom 
 at large. And now what’s a candidate ? Father, 
 you have some apprehension in you, and are a 
 passable second-hand controversialist — ^what’s a 
 candidate? Will you tell me? ” 
 
 “ I give it up, Denis; but you’ll tell us.” 
 
 “ Yes, I will tell you. Candidate signifies a 
 man dressed in fustian; it comes from candidus, 
 which is partly Greek, partly Latin, and partly 
 Hebrew. It was the learned designation for 
 Irish linen, too, which in the time of the Romans 
 was in great request at Rome ; but it was changed 
 to signify fustian, because it was found that 
 everything a man promised on becoming a can- 
 didate for any office, turned out to be only fustian 
 when he got it.” 
 
 “ Denis, avourneen,” said his mother, “ the 
 greatest comfort myself has is to be thinkin’ that 
 when you’re a priest, you can be sayin’ masses 
 for my poor sinful sowl.” 
 
 “Yes, there is undoubtedly comfort in that re- 
 flection; and depend upon it, my dear mother, 
 that I’ll be sure to clinch your masses in the 
 surest mode. I’ll not fly over them like Camilla 
 across a field of potato oats, without discommod- 
 ing a single walk, as too many of my worthy 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 371 
 
 brethren — I mane as too many of those whose 
 worthy brother I will soon be — do in this pres- 
 ent year of grace. I’m no fool at the Latin, but, 
 as I’m an unworthy candidate for Maynooth, I 
 cannot even understand every fifteenth word 
 they say when reading mass, independently of 
 the utter scorn with which they treat those two 
 scholastic old worthies, called Syntax and Pros- 
 ody.” 
 
 “ Denis,” said the father, “ nothing would give 
 me greater delight than to be present at your first 
 mass, an’ your first sarmon; and next to that 
 would I like to be stumpin’ about wid a dacent 
 staff in my hand, maybe wid a bit of silver on the 
 head of it, takin’ care of your place when you’d 
 have a parish.” 
 
 “ At all events, if you’re not with me, father. 
 I’ll keep you comfortable wherever you’ll be, 
 whether in this world or the other; for, plase 
 goodness. I’ll have some influence in both. — 
 When I get a parish, however, it is not improb- 
 able that I may have occasion to see company; 
 the neighbouring gentlemen will be apt to relish 
 my society, particularly those who are addicted 
 to conviviality; and our object will be to render 
 ourselves as populous as possible; now, whether 
 in that case it would be compatible — but never 
 fear, father, wliilst I have the means, you or one 
 of the family shall never want.” 
 
 “Will you let the people be far behind in their 
 dues, Denis? ” inquired Brian. 
 
 “No, no — leave that point to my management. 
 Depend upon it. I’ll have them like mice before 
 
372 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 me — ready to run into the first augerhole they 
 meet. I’ll collect lots of oats, and get as much 
 yarn every year as would clothe three regiments 
 of mihtia, or for that matther, of dragoons. I’ll 
 appoint my stations, too, in the snuggest farmers’ 
 houses in the parish, just as Father Finnerty, our 
 worthy parochial priest, ingeniously contrives to 
 do. And, to revert secondarily to the collection 
 of the oats. I’ll talk liberally to the Protestant 
 Boddaghs ; give the Presbyterians a learned 
 homily upon civil and religious freedom; make 
 hard hits with them at that Incubus, the Estab- 
 lished Church; and, never fear, but I shall fill 
 bag after bag with good corn from many of both 
 creeds.” 
 
 “ That,” said Brian, “ will be givin’ them the 
 bag to hould in airnest.” 
 
 “No, Brian, but it will be makin’ them fill the 
 bag when I hold it, which will be better still.” 
 
 “ But,” said Susan, “ who’ll keep house for 
 you? You know that a priest can’t live widout a 
 housekeeper.” 
 
 “ That, Susy,” replied Denis, “ is, and will be 
 the most difficult point on which to accomplish 
 anything like a satisfactory determination. I 
 have nieces, enough, however. There’s Peter 
 Finnegan’s eldest daughter, Mary, and Hugh 
 Tracy’s Ailsey — (to whom he added about a 
 dozen and a half more) — together with several 
 yet to be endowed with existence, all of whom 
 will be brisk candidates for the situation.” 
 
 “ I don’t think,” replied Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, 
 “ that you’ll ever get any one who’d be more com- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 373 
 
 fortable about you nor your own ould mother. 
 What do you think of taldn’ myself, Denis? ’’ 
 
 “ Ay, hut consider the accomplishments in the 
 cidinary art — in re vel in arte culiriaria — which 
 will be necessary for my housekeeper to know. 
 How would you, for instance, dress a dinner for 
 the bishop if he happened to pay me a visit, as 
 you may be certain he will? How would you 
 make pies and puddings, and disport your fancy 
 through all the varieties of roast and boil? How 
 would you dress a fowl that it would stand upon 
 a dish as if it was going to dance a hornpipe? 
 How would you amalgamate the different genera 
 of wine with boiling fluid and crystallized sac- 
 charine matter? How would you dispose of the 
 various dishes upon the table according to high 
 life and mathematics? Wouldn’t you be too old 
 to bathe my feet when I’d he unwell? Wouldn’t 
 you be too old to bring me my whey in the morn- 
 ing as soon as I’d awake, perhaps with a severe 
 head-ache, after the plenary indulgence of a 
 clerical compotation? Wouldn’t you be too old 
 to sit up till the middle of the nocturnal hour, 
 awaiting my arrival home? Wouldn’t you 
 be ” 
 
 “ Hut, tut, that’s enough, Denny, I’d never do 
 at all. No, no, but I’ll sit a clane dacent ould 
 woman in the corner upon a chair that you’ll get 
 made for me. There I’ll he wid my pipe and to- 
 bacco, smokin’ at my aise, chattin’ to the sarvints, 
 and sometimes discoorsin’ the neighhours that’ll 
 come to inquire for you, when they’ll he sittin’ in 
 the kitchen waitin’ till you get through your 
 
374 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 office. Jist let me have that, Dinny achora, and 
 I’ll he as happy as the day’s long.” 
 
 “ And I on the other side,” said his father, nat- 
 urally enough struck with the happy simplicity 
 of the picture which his wife drew, “ on the other 
 side, Mave, a snug, dacent ould man, chattin’ to 
 you across the fire, proud to see the bishop an’ 
 the gintlemen about him. An’ I wouldn’t ax to 
 be taken into the parlour at all, except, maybe, 
 when there would be nobody there but yourself, 
 Denis; an’ that your mother an’ I would go into 
 the parlour to get a glass of punch, or if it could 
 be spared, a little taste of wine for novelty.” 
 
 “ And so you shall both of you — you, father, 
 at one side of the hob, and my mother here at the 
 other, the king and queen of my culinarian do- 
 minions. But practise taciturnity a little — I’m 
 visited by the muse, and must indulge in a strain 
 of vocal melody — hem — ’tis a few lines of my 
 own composure, the offspring of a moment of 
 inspiration by the nine female Heliconians ; but 
 before I incipiate, here’s to my own celebrity to- 
 morrow, and afterwards all your healths ! ” 
 
 He then proceeded to sing in his best style a 
 song composed, as he said, by himself, but which, 
 as the composition was rather an eccentric one, 
 we decline giving. 
 
 “ Denis,” said his brother, “ you’ll have great 
 sport at the Stations.” 
 
 “ Yes, Brian, most inimitable specimen of fra- 
 ternity, I do look into the futurity of a station 
 with great complacency. Hem — in the morning 
 I rise up in imagination, and after reading part 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 375 
 
 of my office, I and my curate — ego et coadjutor 
 mens — or if I get a large parish, perhaps I and 
 my two curates — ego et coadjutores mei — order 
 our horses, and of a fine calm summer morning 
 w^e mount them as gracefully as three throopers. 
 The sun is up, and of coorse the moon is down, 
 and the glitter of the light, the sparkling of the 
 dew, the canticles of the birds, and the melodi- 
 ous cawing of the crows in Squire Grimshaw’s 
 rookery ” 
 
 “ Why, Denis, is it this parish you’ll have? ” 
 
 “ Silence, silence, till I complate my rural ideas 
 — in some gentleman’s rookery at all events; the 
 thrush here, the blackbird there, the corn-craik 
 chanting its varied note in another place, and so 
 on. In the meantime we reverend sentimental- 
 ists advance, gazing with odoriferous admiration 
 upon the prospect about us, and expatiating in 
 the purest of Latin upon the beauties of unso- 
 phisticated nature. When we meet the peasants 
 going out to their work, they put their hands to 
 their hats for us; but as I am known to be the 
 parochial priest, it is to me the salutation is di- 
 rected, which I return with the air of a man who 
 thinks nothing of such things; but, on the con- 
 trary, knows them to be his due. The poor crea- 
 tures of curates, you must know, don’t presume 
 to speak of themselves, but simply answer when- 
 ever I condescend to propose conversation, for 
 I’ll keep them down, never fear. In this edify- 
 ing style we proceed — I a few steps in advance, 
 and they at a respectful distance behind me, the 
 heads of their horses just to my saddle skirts — 
 
376 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 my clerical boots as brilliant as the countenance 
 of Phoebus, when decked with rosy smiles, theirs 
 more subordinately polished, for there should be 
 gradations in all things, and humility is the first 
 of virtues in a Christian curate. My bunch of 
 goold sales stands out proudly from my anterior 
 rotundity, for by this time, pjase God, I’ll be get- 
 ting frolicsome and corpulent; they with only a 
 poor bit of ribbon, and a single two-penny kay, 
 stained with verdigrace. In the meantime, we 
 come within sight of the wealthy farmer’s house, 
 wherein we are to hold the edifying solemnity of 
 a station. There is a joyful appearance of study 
 and bustle about the premises; the peasantry are 
 flocking towards it, dressed in their best clothes; 
 the proprietors of the mansion itself are running 
 out to try if we are in appearance, and the very 
 smoke disports itself hilariously in the air, and 
 bounds up as if it was striving to catch the first 
 glimpse of the clargy. When we approach, the 
 good man — pater- familias — comes out to meet 
 us, and the good woman — mater- familias — comes 
 curtseying from the door to give us the head 
 millia failtha. No sooner do we persave our- 
 selves noticed, than out comes the Brev- 
 iary, and in a moment we are at our morning 
 devotions. I being the rector, am particularly 
 grave and dignified. I do not speak much, but 
 am rather sharp, and order the curates, whom I 
 treat however with great respect before the peo- 
 ple, instantly to work. This impresses those who 
 are present with awe and reverence for us all, es- 
 pecially for Father O’Shaughnessy himself — 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 377 
 
 (that’s me.) — I then take a short turn or two 
 across the floor, silently perusing my office, after 
 which I lay it aside and relax into a little conver- 
 sation with the people of the house, to show that 
 I can conciliate by love as readily as I can im- 
 press them with fear; for, you see, divide et im- 
 pcra is as aptly applied to the passions as to max- 
 ims of state policy — ehem. I then go to my 
 tribunal, and first hear the man and woman and 
 family of the house, and afther them the other 
 penitents according as they can come to me. 
 
 “ Thus we go on absolving in great style, till 
 it is time for the matutinal meal — vulgarly 
 called breakfast; when the whiskey, eggs, toast, 
 and tea as strong as Hercules, with ham, fowl, 
 beef-steaks, or mutton-chops, all pour in upon us 
 in the full tide of hospitality. Helter-skelter, 
 cut and thrust, right and left, we work away, till 
 the appetite reposes itself upon the cushion of re- 
 pletion: and off we go once more, full and warm, 
 to the delicate employment of adjudicating upon 
 sin and transgression, until dinner comes, when, 
 having despatched as many as possible — for the 
 quicker we get through them the better — we set 
 about despatching what is always worth a ship- 
 load of such riff-raff — videlicet, a good and ex- 
 tensive dinner. Oh, ye pagan gods of eating 
 
 and drinking, Bacchus and let me see who 
 
 the presiding deity of good feeding was in the 
 Olympian synod — as I’m an unworthy candidate 
 I forget that topic of learning; but no matter, 
 non constat. Oh, ye pagan professors of ating 
 and drinking, Bacchus, Epicurus, and St. Heli- 
 
378 
 
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 ogabalus, Anthony of Padua, and Paul the 
 Hermit, who poached for his own venison, St. 
 Tuck, and St. Tak’em, St. Drinkem, and St. 
 Eatem, with all ye other reverend worthies, who 
 bore the blushing honours of the table thick upon 
 your noses, come and inspire your unworthy can- 
 didate, while he essays to chant the praises of a 
 Station dinner I 
 
 ‘‘ Then, then, does the priest appropriate to 
 himself his due share of enjoyment. Then does 
 he, like Elias, throw his garment of inspiration 
 upon his coadjutors. Then is the goose cut up, 
 and the farmer’s distilled Latin is found to be 
 purer and more edifying than the distillation of 
 Maynooth. 
 
 * Drink deep, or taste not that Pierian spring, 
 
 A little learning here’s a dangerous thing.’ 
 
 And so it is, as far as this inspiring language is 
 concerned. A station dinner is the very pinnacle 
 of a priest’s happiness. There is the fun and 
 frolic; then does the lemon- juice of mirth and 
 humour come out of their reverences, like secret 
 writing, as soon as they get properly warm. The 
 song and the joke, the laugh and the leer, the 
 shaking of hands, the making of matches, and 
 the projection of weddings, — och, I must con- 
 clude, or my brisk fancy will dissolve in the de- 
 luding vision! Here’s to my celebrity to-mor- 
 row, and may the Bishop catch a Tarthar in your 
 son, my excellent and logical father! — as I tell 
 you among ourselves he will do. Mark me, I 
 say it, but it’s inter nos, it won’t go further; but 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 379 
 
 should he trouble me with profundity, may be I’ll 
 make a ludihrium of him.” 
 
 “ But you forget the weddings and christen- 
 ings, Denis ; you’ll have great sport at them too.” 
 “ I can’t remember three things at a time, 
 Brian: but you are mistaken, however, I had 
 them snug in one corner of my cranium. The 
 weddings and the christenings! do you think I’ll 
 have nothing to do in them, you stultus, you? ” 
 
 “ But, Denis, is there any harm in the priests’ 
 enjoying themselves, and they so holy as we know 
 they are? ” inquired his mother. 
 
 “ Not the least in life; considering what severe 
 fasting, and great praying they have; besides it’s 
 necessary for them to take something to put the 
 sins of the people out of their heads, and that’s 
 one reason why they are often jolly at Stations.” 
 “ My goodness, what light Denis can throw 
 upon anything! ” 
 
 “ Not without deep study, mother; but let us 
 have another portion of punch each, afther which 
 I’ll read a Latin De Profundis, and we’ll go to 
 bed. I must be up early to-morrow ; and, Brian, 
 you’ll please to have the black mare saddled and 
 my spur brightened as jinteely as you can, for I 
 must go in as much state and grandeur as possi- 
 ble.” Accordingly, in due time, after hearing 
 the De Profundis, which Denis read in as sonor- 
 ous a tone, and as pompous a manner, as he could 
 assume, they went to bed for the night, to dream 
 of future dignities for their relative. 
 
 When Denis appeared the next morning, it 
 was evident that the spirit of prophecy in which 
 
380 
 
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 he had contemplated the enjoyments annexed to 
 his ideal station on the preceding night, had de- 
 parted from him. He was pale and anxious, as 
 in the early part of the previous evening. At 
 breakfast, his very appetite treacherously aban- 
 doned him, despite the buttered toast and eggs 
 which his mother forced upon him with such ten- 
 der assiduity, in order, she said, to make him 
 stout against the Bishop. Her solicitations, how- 
 ever, were vain; after attempting to eat to no 
 purpose, he arose and began to prepare himself 
 for his journey. This, indeed, was a work of 
 considerable importance, for, as they had no look- 
 ing-glass, he was obliged to dress himself over a 
 tub of water, in which, since truth must be told, 
 he saw a very cowardly visage. In due time, 
 however, he was ready to proceed upon his 
 journey, apparelled in a new suit of black 
 that sat stiffly and awkwardly upon him, 
 crumpled in a manner that enabled any per- 
 son, at a glance, to perceive that it was worn for 
 the first time. 
 
 When he was setting out, his father ap- 
 proached him with a small jug of holy water in 
 his hand, “ Denis,’’ said he, “ I think you won’t 
 be the worse of a sprinkle of this ; ” and he ac- 
 cordingly was about to shake it with a little 
 brush over his person, when Denis arrested his 
 hand. 
 
 “ Easy, father,” he replied, “ you don’t remem- 
 ber that my new clothes are on. I’ll just take a 
 little with my fingers, for you know one drop is 
 as good as a thousand.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 381 
 
 “ I know that,” said the father, “ but on the 
 other hand you know it’s not lucky to refuse it.” 
 
 “ I didn’t refuse it,” rejoined Denis, “ I surely 
 took a quantum suff. of it with my own hand.” 
 
 “ It was very near a refusal,” said the father, < 
 in a disappointed and somewhat sorrowful tone; 
 
 ‘‘ but it can’t be helped now. I’m only sorry you 
 put it and quantum suff, in connexion at all. 
 Quantum suff, is what Father Finnerty says, 
 when he will take no more punch; and it doesn’t 
 argue respect in you to make as little of a jug 
 of holy wather as he does of a jug of punch.” 
 
 “ I’m sorry for it too,” replied Denis, who was 
 every whit as superstitious as his father; “and 
 to atone for my error, I desire you will sprinkle 
 me all over with it — clothes and all.” 
 
 The father complied with this, and Denis was 
 setting out, when his mother exclaimed, “ Blessed 
 be them above us, Denis More! Look at the 
 boy’s legs! There’s luck! Why one of his 
 stockins has the wrong side out, and it’s upon the 
 right leg too! Well, this will be a fortunate day 
 for you, Denis, any way; the same thing never 
 happened myself, but something good followed 
 it.” 
 
 This produced a slight conflict between Denis’s 
 personal vanity and superstition; but on this oc- 
 casion superstition prevailed: he even felt his 
 spirits considerably elevated by the incident, 
 mounted the mare, and after jerking himself 
 once or twice in the saddle, to be certain that all 
 was right, he touched her with the spur, and set 
 out to be examined by the Bishop, exclaiming as 
 
382 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 he went, “ Let his lordship take care that I don’t 
 make a ludibrium of him.” 
 
 The family at that moment all came to the 
 door, where they stood looking after, and admir- 
 ing him, until he turned a corner of the road, and 
 left their sight. 
 
 Many were the speculations entered into dur- 
 ing his absence, as to the fact, whether or not he 
 would put down the bishop in the course of the 
 examination ; some of them holding that he could 
 do so if he wished; but others of them denying 
 that it was possible for him, inasmuch as he had 
 never received holy orders. 
 
 The day passed, but not in the usual way, in 
 Denis More O’Shaughnessy’s. The females of 
 the family were busily engaged in preparing for 
 the dinner, to which Father Finnerty, his curate, 
 and several of their nearest and wealthiest friends 
 had been invited ; and the men in clearing out the 
 stables and other offices for the horses of the 
 guests. Pride and satisfaction were visible on 
 every face, and that disposition to cordiality and 
 to the oblivion of everything unpleasant to the 
 mind, marked, in a prominent manner, their con- 
 duct and conversation. Old Denis went, and 
 voluntarily spoke to a neighbour, with whom he 
 had not exchanged a word, except in anger, for 
 some time. He found him at work in the field, 
 and advancing with open hand and heart, he 
 begged his pardon for any offence he might have 
 given him. 
 
 ‘‘ My son,” said he, “ is goin’ to Maynooth; and 
 as he is a boy that we have a good right to be 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 383 
 
 proud of, and as our friends are coinin’ to ate 
 their dinner wid us to-day, and as — as my heart 
 is too full to bear ill will against any livin’ sowl, 
 let alone a man that I know to be sound at the 
 heart, in spite of all that has come between us — I 
 say. Darby, I forgive you, and I expect pardon 
 for my share of the offence. There’s the hand 
 of an honest man — let us be as neighbours ought 
 to be, and not divided into parties and factions 
 against one another, as we have been too long. 
 Take your dinner wid us to-day, and let us hear 
 no more about ill-will and unkindness.” 
 
 “ Denis,” said his friend, “ it ill becomes you to 
 spake first. ’Tis I that ought to do that, and to 
 do it long ago too; but you see, somehow, so long 
 as it was to be decided by blows between the fam- 
 ilies, I’d never give in. Not but that I might do 
 so, but my sons, Denis, wouldn’t hear of it. 
 Throth I’m glad of this, and so will they too; for 
 only for the honour and glory of houldin’ out, we 
 might be all friends through other long ago. 
 And I’ll tell you what, we couldn’t do better, the 
 two factions of us, nor join and thrash them 
 Haigneys that alwa^^s put between us.” 
 
 “ No, Darby, I tell you, I bear no ill-will, no 
 bad thoughts agin any born Christian this day, 
 and I won’t hear of that. Come to us about five 
 o’clock: we’re to have Father Finnerty, and 
 Father Molony, his curate: all friends, man, all 
 friends; and Denny, God guard him this day, 
 will be home, afther passin’ the Bishop, about 
 four o’clock.” 
 
 ‘‘ I always thought that gorsoon would come to 
 
384 
 
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 somethin’. Why it was wondlierful how he used 
 to discoorse upon the chapel-green, yourself and 
 himself : but he soon left you behind. And how 
 he sealed up poor ould Dixon, the parish dark’s 
 mouth, at Barny Boccagh’s wake. God rest his 
 soul ! It was talkin’ about the Protestant church 
 they wor. ‘ Why,’ said Misther Denis, ‘ you ould 
 termagant, can you tell me who first discovered 
 your church ? ’ The dotin’ ould crathur began of 
 hummin’ and hawin’, and advisin’ the boy to have 
 more sense. ‘ Come,’ said he, ‘ you ould canticle, 
 can you answer? But for fear you can’t. I’ll 
 answer for you. It was the divil discovered it, 
 one fine mornin’ that he went out to get an ap- 
 petite, bein’ in delicate health.’ Why, Denis, 
 you’d tie all that wor present wid a rotten 
 sthraw.” 
 
 “ Darby, I ax your pardon over agin for what 
 came between us; and I see now betther than I 
 did, that the fault of it was more mine nor yours. 
 You’ll be down surely about five o’clock? ” 
 
 “ I must go and take this beard off o’ me, and 
 clane myself; and I may as well do that now: 
 but I’ll be down, never fear.” 
 
 “In throth the hoy was always bright! — ha, 
 ha, ha! — and he sobered Dixon? ” 
 
 “ Had him like a judge in no time.” 
 
 “ Oh, he could do it — he could do that, at all 
 times. God be wid you, Darby, till I see you in 
 the evenin’.” 
 
 “ Bannaglit lhath, Denis, an’ I’m proud we’re 
 as we ought to be.” 
 
 About four o’clock, the expected guests began 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 385 
 
 to assemble at Denis’s; and about the same hour 
 one might perceive Susan O’Shaughnessy run- 
 ning out to a stile a little above the house, where 
 she stood for a few minutes, with her hand shad- 
 ing her eyes, looking long and intensely tow^ards 
 the direction from which she expected her brother 
 to return. Hitherto, however, he could not he 
 discovered in the distance, although scarcely five 
 minutes elapsed during the intervals of her ap- 
 pearance at the stile to watch him. Some horse- 
 men she did notice; but after straining her eyes 
 eagerly and anxiously, she was enabled only to 
 report, with a dejected air, that they were their 
 own friends coming from a distant part of the 
 parish, to be present at the dinner. At length, 
 after a long and eager look, she ran in with an 
 exclamation of delight, saying — 
 
 “Thank goodness, he’s cornin’ at last; I see 
 somebody dressed in black ridin’ down the upper 
 end of Tim Marly’s horeen, an’ I’m sure an’ 
 certain it must be Denis, from his dress! ” 
 
 “ I’ll warrant it is, my colleen,” replied her 
 father; “he said he’d be here before the dinner 
 would he ready, an’ it’s widin a good hour of 
 that. I’ll thry myself.” 
 
 He and his daughter once more went out ; but, 
 alas! only to experience a fresh disappointment. 
 Instead of Denis, it was Father Finnerty who, it 
 appeared, felt as anxious to be in time for din- 
 ner, as the young candidate himself could have 
 done. He was advancing at a brisk trot, not 
 upon the colt which had been presented to him, 
 
 hut upon his old nag, which seemed to feel as 
 III— 25 
 
386 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 eager to get at Denis’s oats, as its owner did to 
 taste his mutton. 
 
 “ I see, Susy, we’ll have a day of it, plase 
 goodness,” observed Denis to the girl: “here’s 
 Father Finnerty, and I wouldn’t for more nor 
 I’ll mention that he had staid away; and I hope 
 the cowjuther will come as well as himself. Do 
 you go in, aroon, and tell them he’s cornin’, and 
 I’ll go and meet him.” 
 
 Most of Denis’s friends were now assembled, 
 dressed in their best apparel, and raised to the 
 highest pitch of good humour; for no man who 
 knows the relish with which Irishmen enter into 
 convivial enjoyments, can be ignorant of the re- 
 markable flow of spirits which the prospect of an 
 abundant and hospitable dinner produces among 
 them. 
 
 Father Finnerty was one of those priests who 
 constitute a numerous species in Ireland; reg- 
 ular, but loose and careless in the observances of 
 his church, he could not he taxed with any posi- 
 tive neglect of pastoral duty. He held his sta- 
 tions at stated times and places, with great ex- 
 actness, but when the severer duties annexed to 
 them were performed, he relaxed into the boon 
 companion, sang his song, told his story, 
 laughed his laugh, and occasionally danced his 
 dance, the very beau ideal of a rough, shrewd, 
 humorous divine, who, amidst the hilarity of con- 
 vivial mirth, kept an eye to his own interest, and 
 sweetened the severity with which he exacted his 
 “ dues ” by a manner at once jocose and familiar. 
 If a wealthy farmer had a child to christen, his 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 387 
 
 reverence declined baptizing it in the chapel, hut 
 as a proof of his marked respect for its parents, 
 he and his curate did them the honour of perform- 
 ing the ceremony at their own house. If a mar- 
 riage was to be solemnized, provided the parties 
 were wealthy, he adopted the same course, and 
 manifested the same flattering marks of his par- 
 ticular esteem for the parties, by attending at 
 their residence; or if they preferred the pleasure 
 of a journey to his own house, he and his curate 
 accompanied them home from the same motives. 
 This condescension, whilst it raised the pride of 
 the parties, secured a good dinner and a pleasant 
 evening’s entertainment for the priests, enhanced 
 their humility exceedingly, for the more they en- 
 joyed themselves, the more highly did their 
 friends consider themselves honoured. This 
 mode of life might, one would suppose, lessen 
 their importance and that personal respect which 
 is entertained for the priests by the people; but 
 it is not so — the priests can, the moment such 
 scenes are ended, pass, with the greatest apti- 
 tude of habit, into the hard gloomy character of 
 men who are replete with profound knowledge, 
 exalted piety, and extraordinary power. The 
 sullen frown, the angry glance, or the mysterious 
 allusion to the omnipotent authority of the church, 
 as vested in their persons, joined to some unin- 
 telligible dogma, laid down as their authority, are 
 always sufficient to check an^dhing derogatory 
 towards them, which is apt to originate in the 
 unguarded moments of conviviality. 
 
 “ Plase your Reverence, I’ll put him up my- 
 
388 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 self,” said Denis to Father Finnerty, as he took 
 his horse by the bridle, and led him towards the 
 stable, “ and how is my cowlt doin’ wid you. 
 Sir?” 
 
 “ Troublesome, Denis ; he was in a bad state 
 when I got him, and he’ll cost me nearly his price 
 before I have him thoroughly broke.” 
 
 “ He was pretty well broke wid me, I know,” 
 replied Denis, “ and I’m af ear’d you’ve given 
 jhim into the hands of some one that knows little 
 about horses. Mave,” he shouted, passing the 
 kitchen door, “ here’s Father Finnerty — go in 
 Docthor, and put big Brian Buie out o’ the cor- 
 ner; for goodness’ sake Eockimnicate him from 
 the hob — an’ sure you have power to do that any 
 way.” 
 
 The priest laughed, but immediately assuming 
 a grave face, as he entered, exclaimed — 
 
 “ Brian Buie, in the name of the forty-seventh 
 proposition of Euclid’s Elements — in the name 
 of the cube and square roots — of Algebra, Math- 
 ematics, Fluxions, and the doctrine of all essen- 
 tial spirits that admit of proof — in the name of 
 Nebuchadanezar the divine, who invented the con- 
 venient scheme of taking a cold collation under 
 a hedge — by the power of that profound branch 
 of learning, the Greek Digamma — by the author- 
 ity of true Latin, primo, of Beotian Greek, 
 secundo, and of Arabian Hebrew, tertio; which 
 is, when united by the skill of profound erudi- 
 tion, primo, secundo, tertio; or, being reversed by 
 the logic of illustration, tertio, secundo, primo. 
 Commando te in nomine hotteli potheeni honi 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 389 
 
 drinkandi his cedihus, Jiac node, inter amicos ex- 
 cellentissimi amici mei, Dio7iisii CT Shaughnessy , 
 quern hehnavavi ex excellentissimo colto ejus, 
 causa pcdantissimi filii ejus, designati cede sice, 
 patri, sed nequaquam deo, nec naturce, nec ingenio; 
 — commando te inquam, Bernarde Buie, surgere, 
 stare, ambulare, et decedere e cornei'o isto vet 
 hohho, quo nunc sedes! Yes, I command thee, 
 Brian Buie, who sit upon the hob of my worthy 
 and most excellent friend and parishioner, Denis 
 O’Shaughnessy, to rise, to stand up before your 
 spiritual superior, to walk down from it, and to 
 tremble as if you were about to ’sink into the earth 
 to the neck, but no further; — before the fulmina- 
 tions of him who can wield the thunder of that 
 mighty Salmoneus, his holiness the Pope, succes- 
 sor to St. Peter, who left the servant of the Cen- 
 turion earless, — I command and objurgate thee, 
 sinner as thou art, to vacate your seat on the hob 
 for the man of sanctity, whose legitimate pos- 
 session it is, otherwise I shall send you like that 
 worthy archbishop, the aforesaid Nebuchadane- 
 zar, to live upon leeks for seven years in the 
 renowned kingdom of Wales, where the leeks 
 may be seen to this day! Presto! ” 
 
 These words, pronomiced with a grave face, in 
 a loud, rapid, and sonorous tone of voice, startled 
 the good people of the house, who sat mute and 
 astonished at such an exordium from the worthy 
 pastor ; but no sooner had he uttered Brian Buie’s 
 name, giving him, at the same time, a fierce and 
 authoritative look, than the latter started to his 
 feet, and stepped down in a kind of alarm to- 
 
390 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 wards the door. The priest immediately placed 
 his hand upon his shoulder in a mysterious man- 
 ner, exclaiming — 
 
 “ Don’t be alarmed, Brian, I have taken the 
 force of the anathema otf you; your power to sit, 
 or stand, or go where you please, is returned 
 again. I wanted your seat, and Denis desired 
 me to excommunicate you out of it, which I did, 
 and you accordingly left it without your own 
 knowledge, consent, or power; I transferred you 
 to where you stand, and you had no more 
 strength to resist me, than if you were an infant 
 not three hours in the world!” 
 
 ‘‘ I ax God’s pardon, an’ your Reverence’s,” 
 said Brian, in a tremour, “ if I have given offince. 
 Now, bless my soul! what’s this? As sure as I 
 stand before you, neighbours, I know neither 
 act nor part of how I wafe brought from the hob 
 at all — neither act nor part ! Did any of yez see 
 me lavin’ it ; or how did I come here — can ye tell 
 me?” 
 
 “ Paddy,” said one of his friends, ‘‘ did you 
 see him? ” 
 
 “ The sorra one o’ me seen him,” replied 
 Paddy : “ I was looldn’ at his Reverence, sthrivin’ 
 to know what he was sayin’.” 
 
 “ Pether, did you?” another inquired. 
 
 “ Me! I never seen a stim of him till he was 
 standin’ alone on the flure ! Sure, when he didn’t 
 see or find himself goin’, how could another see 
 him? ” 
 
 “Glory be to God!” exclaimed Mave; “one 
 ought to think well what they say, when they 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 391 
 
 spake of the clargy, for they don’t know what 
 it may bring down upon them, sooner or later! ” 
 
 “ Our Denis will be able to do that yet,” said 
 Susan to her elder sister. 
 
 ‘‘ To be sure he will, girsha, as soon as he’s 
 ordained — every bit as well as Father Finnerty,” 
 replied Mary. 
 
 The young enthusiast’s countenance bright- 
 ened as her sister spoke: her dark ej^e became 
 for a minute or two fixed upon vacancy, during 
 which it flashed several times ; until, as the images 
 of her brother’s future glory passed before her 
 imagination, she became wrapt — ^Iier lip quiv- 
 ered — her cheek flushed into a deeper colour, and 
 the tears burst in gushes from her eyes. 
 
 The mother, who was now engaged in welcom- 
 ing Father Finnerty — a duty which the priest’s 
 comic miracle prevented her from performing 
 sooner — did not perceive her daughter’s agitation, 
 nor, in fact, did any one present understand its 
 cause. Whilst the priest was taking Brian 
 Buie’s seat, she went once more to watch the 
 return of Denis; and while she stood upon the 
 stile, her father, after having put up the horse, 
 entered the house, “ to keep his Reverence com- 
 pany.” 
 
 “ An’ pray, Docthor,” he inquired, “ where is 
 Father Molony, that he’s not wid you? I hope 
 he won’t disappoint us; he’s a mighty pleasant 
 gintleman of an evenin’, an’, barrin’ your Rev- 
 erence, I don’t know a man tells a better story.” 
 
 “ He entreated permission from me this 
 morning,” replied Father Finnerty, “ and that 
 
392 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 was leave to pay a visit to the Bishop; for what 
 purpose I know not, unless to put in a word in 
 season for the first parish that becomes vacant.” 
 
 “ Tbroth, an’ he well desarves a parish,” re- 
 plied Denis ; “ an’ although we’d be loath to part 
 wid him, still we’d be proud to hear of his pro- 
 motion.” 
 
 “ He’ll meet Denis there,” observed Susan, 
 who had returned from the stile: “he’ll be apt 
 to be present at his trial wid the Bishop; an’ 
 maybe he’ll be home along wid him. I’ll go an’ 
 thry if I can see them agin; ” and she flew out 
 once more to watch their return. 
 
 “Now, Father Finnerty,” said an uncle of 
 Denis’s, “ you can give a good guess at what a 
 dacent parish ought to be worth to a parish 
 priest? ” 
 
 “ Mrs. O’Shaughnessy,” said the priest, “ is 
 that fat brown goose suspended before the fire, 
 of your own rearing? ” 
 
 “ Indeed it is, plase your Reverence ; but as 
 far as good male an’ phaties could go for the 
 last month, it got the benefit of them.” 
 
 “ And pray, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, have you 
 many of the same kidney? I only ask for infor- 
 mation, as I said to Peery Hacket’s wife, the last 
 day I held the Station in Peery’s. There was 
 just such another goose hanging before the fire; 
 but, you must know, the cream of the joke was, 
 that I had been after coming from the confes- 
 sional, as hungry as a man could conveniently 
 wish himself ; and seeing the brown fat goose 
 before the fire, just as that is, why my teeth. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 393 
 
 Mave, began to get lachrymose. Upon my 
 Priesthood, it was such a goose as a priest’s corpse 
 might get up on its elbow to look at, and exclaim, 
 avourneen 7nacliree, it’s a thousand pities that 
 I’m not living, to have a cut at you! ’ — ha, ha, ha! 
 God be good to old Friar Hennessy, I have that 
 joke from him. 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ Well, Mrs. Hacket,’ says I, as I was airing 
 my fingers at the fire, ‘ I dare say you haven’t 
 another goose like this about the house? Now 
 tell me, like an honest woman, have you any of 
 the same kidney? — I only ask for information.’ 
 Mrs. Hacket, however, told me she believed 
 there might be a few of the same kind straggling 
 about the place, but said nothing further upon 
 it, until the Saturday following, when her son 
 brings me down a pair of the fattest geese I 
 ever cut up for my Sunday’s dinner. Now, Mrs. 
 O’Shaughnessy, wasn’t that doing the thing 
 dacent? 
 
 “ Well, well, Docthor,” said Denis, “ that was 
 all right ; let Mave alone, an’ maybe she’ll be apt 
 to find out a pair that will match Mrs. Hacket’s. 
 Not that I say it, but she doesn’t like to be out- 
 done in anything.” 
 
 “ Docthor, I was wishin’ to know. Sir,” contin- 
 ued the uncle of the absent candidate, “ what the 
 value of a good parish might be.” 
 
 “ I think, Mave, there’s a discrepancy between 
 the goose and tne shoulder of mutton. The fact 
 is, that if it be a disputation between them, as to 
 which will be roasted first, I pronounce that the 
 goose will have it. It’s now, let me see, half past 
 
394 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 four o’clock, and, in my opinion, it will take a 
 full half hour to bring up the mutton. So Mave, 
 if you’ll be guided by your priest, advance the 
 mutton towards the fire about two inches, and 
 keep the little girsJia basting steadily, and then 
 you’ll be sure to have it rich and juicy.” 
 
 “ Docthor, wid submission, I was wantin’ to 
 know what a good parish might be ” 
 
 “ Mike Lawdher, if I don’t mistake, you ought 
 to have good grazing down in your meadows at 
 Ballinard. What will you be charging for a 
 month or two’s grass for this colt I’ve bought 
 from my dacent friend, Denis O’Shaughnessy, 
 here? And, Mike, be rasonable upon a poor 
 man, for we’re all poor, being only tolerated by 
 the state we live under, and ought not, of coorse, 
 to be hard upon one another.” 
 
 “ An’ what did he cost you, Docthor? ” replied 
 Mike, answering one question by another ; “ what 
 did you get for him, Denis? ” he continued, re- 
 ferring for information to Denis, to whom, on 
 reflection, he thought it more decorous to put 
 the question. 
 
 Denis, however, felt the peculiar delicacy of 
 his situation, and looked at the priest, whilst the 
 latter, under a momentary embarrassment, looked 
 significantly at Denis. His Reverence, however, 
 was seldom at a loss. 
 
 ‘‘ What would you take him to be worth, 
 Mike?” he asked; “remember he’s but badly 
 trained, and I’m sure it will cost me both money 
 and trouble to make anything dacent out of 
 him.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 395 
 
 “If you got liim somewhere between five and 
 twenty and thirty guineas, I would say you have 
 good value for your money, plase your Rever- 
 ence. What do you say, Denis — am I near it? ” 
 “ Why, Mike, you know as much about a horse 
 as you do about the Pentateuch or Paralipome- 
 non. Five and twenty guineas, indeed! I hope 
 you won’t set your grass as you would sell your 
 horses.” 
 
 “ Why, thin, if your Reverence ped ready 
 money for him, I maintain he was as well worth 
 twenty guineas as a thief’s worth the gallows ; an’ 
 you know. Sir, I’d be long sorry to differ wid 
 you. Am I near it now, Docthor? ” 
 
 “ Denis got for the horse more than that,” 
 said his Reverence, “ and he may speak for him- 
 self.” 
 
 “ Thrue for you. Sir,” replied Denis; “ I surely 
 got above twenty guineas for him, an’ I’m well 
 satisfied wid the bargain.” 
 
 “ You hear that now, Mike — you hear what he 
 says.” 
 
 “ There’s no goin’ beyant it,” returned Mike; 
 “ the proof o’ the puddin’ is in the atin’, as we’ll 
 soon know, Mave — eh, Docthor? ” 
 
 “ I never knew Mave to make a bad one,” said 
 the priest, “ except upon the day Friar Hennessy 
 dined with me here — my curate was sick, and I 
 had to call in the Friar to assist me at confes- 
 sion; however, to do Mave justice, it was not her 
 fault, for the Friar drowned the pudding, which 
 was originally a good one, with a deluge of 
 strong whisky. 
 
396 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ ‘ It’s too gross,’ said the facetious Friar, in 
 his loud strong voice — ‘ it’s too gross, Docthor 
 Finnerty, so let us spiritualise it, that it may be 
 Christian atin’, fit for pious men to digest,’ and 
 then he came out with his thundering laugh — 
 oigh, oigh, oigh, oigh! but he had consequently 
 the most of the pudding to himself, an’ indeed 
 brought the better half of it home in his saddle- 
 bags.” 
 
 “ Faix, an’ he did,” said Mave, “ an’ a fat 
 goose that he coaxed Mary to kill for him un- 
 knownst to us all, in the course o’ the day.” 
 
 “ How long is he dead, Docthor? ” said Denis; 
 “ God rest him any way, he’s happy! ” 
 
 “ He died in the hot summer, now nine years 
 about June last; and talking about him, reminds 
 me of a trick he put on me about two years before 
 his death. He and I had not been on good terms 
 for long enough before that time; but as the 
 curate I had was then sickly, and as I wouldn’t 
 be allowed two, I found that it might be con- 
 venient to call in the Friar occasionally, a regu- 
 lation he did not at all relish, for he said he could 
 make far more by questing and poaching about 
 among the old women of the parish, with whom 
 he was a great favourite, in consequence of the 
 Latin hymns he used to sing for them, and the 
 great cures he used to perform — a species of de- 
 votion which neither I nor my curate had time 
 to practise. So, in order to renew my intimacy, 
 I sent him a bag of oatmeal and a couple of 
 flitches of bacon, both of which he readily ac- 
 cepted, and came down to me on the following 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 397 
 
 day to borrow three guineas. After attempting 
 to evade him — for, in fact, I had not the money 
 to spare — he at length succeeded in getting them 
 from me, on the condition that he was to give 
 my curate’s horse and mine a month’s grass, by 
 way of compensation, for I knew that to expect 
 payment from him was next to going for piety 
 to a parson. 
 
 “ ‘ I will,’ said he, ‘ give your horses the run 
 of my best field ’ — for he held a comfortable bit 
 of ground ; ‘ but,’ he added, ‘ as you have been 
 always cutting at me about my principle, I must 
 insist, if it was only to convince you of my giner- 
 osity, that you’ll lave the choosing of the month 
 to myself.’ 
 
 “ As I really wanted an assistant at the time, 
 in consequence of my curate’s illness, he had me 
 bound, in some degree, to his own will. I ac- 
 cordingly gave him the money; but from that 
 till the day of his death, he never sent for our 
 horses, except when there was a foot and a half 
 of snow on the ground, at which time he was 
 certain to despatch a messenger for him, ‘ with 
 Father Hennessy’s compliments, and he re- 
 quested Doctor Finnerty to send the horses to 
 Father Hennessy’s field, to ate their month’s 
 grass.’ ” 
 
 “ But is it true, Docthor, that his face was 
 shinin’ after his death? ” 
 
 “ True enough, and to my own knowledge, 
 long before that event.” 
 
 “ Dear me,” exclaimed Mave, ‘‘ he was a holy 
 man afther all! ” 
 
398 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Undoubtedly he was,” said the priest; “ there 
 are spots in the sun, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy — we 
 are not all immaculate. There never was one 
 sent into this world without less or more sin upon 
 them. Even the saints themselves had venial 
 touches about them, but nothing to signify.” 
 
 “ Docthor,” said the uncle, pertinaciously ad- 
 hering to the original question, “ you have an 
 opportunity of knowin’ what a good parish might 
 be worth to a smart, active priest? For the sake 
 
 of a son of mine that I’ve some notion of ” 
 
 “ By the by, I wonder Denis is not here before 
 now,” exclaimed his Reverence, lending a deaf 
 ear to Mike O’Shaughnessy’s interrogatory. 
 
 Old Denis’s favourite topic had been started, 
 and he accordingly launched out upon it with all 
 the delight and ardour of a fond father. 
 
 “ Now, Docthor dear, before us all — an’ sure 
 you know as well as I do, that we’re all friends 
 together — ^what’s your downright opinion of 
 Denis ? Is he as bright as you tould me the other 
 mornin’ he was? ” 
 
 “ Really, Denis O’Shaughnessy,” replied his 
 Reverence, “ it’s not pleasant to me to be pressed 
 so often to eulogise a young gintleman of whose 
 talents I have so frequently expressed my opin- 
 ion. Is not once sufficient for me to say what 
 I’ve said concerning him? But, as we are all 
 present, I now say and declare, that my opinion 
 of Denis O’Shaughnessy, jun., is decidedly 
 peculiar — decidedly. — Come, girshah, keep bast- 
 ing the mutton, and never heed my boots — ^turn 
 it about and baste the back of it better.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 399 
 
 “ God be thanked,” exclaimed the delighted 
 father, “ sure it’s a comfort to hear that, any how 
 — afther all the pains and throuhle we’ve taken 
 wid him, to know it’s not lost. Why, that bo}" 
 was so smart, Docthor, that, may I never sin, 
 wiien he went first to the Latin, but — an’ this is 
 no he, for I have it from his own lips — when he’d 
 look upon liis task two or three times over night, 
 he’d weaken wid every word of it, pat off the 
 book, the next mornin’. And how do you think 
 he got it? Why, the crathur, you see, used to 
 dhrame that he was readin’ it off, and so he used 
 to get it that way in his sleep! ” 
 
 At this moment Darby Moran, Denis’s old foe, 
 entered, and his reception was cordial, and, if the 
 truth were known, almost magnanimous on the 
 part of Denis. 
 
 “ Darby Moran,” said he, “ not a man, barrin’ 
 his Reverence here, in the parish we sit in, that 
 I’m prouder to see on my flure — give me 
 your hand, man alive, and JNIave and all of ye 
 welcome him. Everything of what you know is 
 buried between us, and you’re bound to welcome 
 him, if it was only in regard of the handsome 
 way he spoke of our son this day — here’s my own 
 chair. Darby, and sit down.” 
 
 “ Throth,” said Darby, after shaking hands 
 with the priest and greeting the rest of the com- 
 pany, “ the same boy no one could spake ill of ; 
 and, although we and his people were not upon 
 the best footin’, still the sarra one o’ me but 
 alw^ays gave him his due.” 
 
 “ Indeed, I believe you. Darby,” said his 
 
400 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 father; “but are you comfortable? draw your 
 chair nearer the fire — the evenin’s gettin’ cowld.” 
 
 “ I’m very well, Denis, I thank you; — nearer 
 the firel Faix, except you want to have me 
 roasted along wid that shoulder of mutton and 
 goose, I think I can’t go much nearer it.” 
 
 “ I’m sorry, you warn’t in sooner. Darby, till 
 you’d hear what Docthor Finnerty here — God 
 spare him long among us — said of Denis a while 
 ago. Docthor, if it wouldn’t be makin’ too free, 
 maybe you’d oblage me wid repatin’ it over 
 again? ” 
 
 “ I can never have any hesitation,” replied the 
 priest, “ in repeating anything to his advantage 
 — I stated. Darby, that young Misther 
 O’Shaughnessy was a youth of whom my opin- 
 ion was decidedly peculiar — ^keep basting, child, 
 you’re forgetting the goose now; did you never 
 see a priest’s boots before? ” 
 
 “ An’ nobody has a better right to know nor 
 yourself, wherever lamin’ and education’s con- 
 sarned,” said the father. 
 
 “ Why, it’s not long since I examined him my- 
 self ; I say it sitting here, and I believe every one 
 that hears me is present; and during the course 
 of the examination I was really astonished. The 
 translations, and derivations, and conjugations, 
 and ratiocinations, and variations, and investiga- 
 tions that he gave, were all the most remarkably 
 original I ever heard. He would not be con- 
 tented with the common sense of a passage; but 
 he’d keep hunting, and hawking, and fishing 
 about for something that was out of the ordinary 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 401 
 
 course of reading, that I was truly struck with 
 his eccentric turn of genius.” 
 
 “ You think he’ll pass the Bishop with great 
 credit, Docthor? ” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you what I think, Denis — which is 
 going further than I went yet — I think that if 
 he were the Bishop, and the Bishop the candidate 
 for Maynooth, that his lordship would have but 
 a poor chance of passing. There’s the pinnacle 
 of my eulogium upon him; and now, to give my 
 opinion on another important subject; I pro- 
 nounce both the goose and mutton done to a turn. 
 As it appears that Mrs. O’Shaughnessy has every 
 other portion of the dinner ready, I move that 
 we commence operations as soon as possible.” 
 “But Denis, Docthor? it would be a pleasure 
 to me to have him, poor fellow, wid all his 
 throuble over, and his mind at ase; maybe if we 
 wait a weeshy while longer, Docthor, that he’ll 
 come, and you know Father Molony too is to 
 come yet, and some more of our friends.” 
 
 “If the examination was a long one, I tell you 
 that Misther O’Shaughnessy may not be here this 
 hour to come; and you may be sure, the Bishop, 
 meeting such a bright boy, wouldn’t make it a 
 short one. As for Father JMolony, he’ll be here 
 time enough, so I move again that we attack the 
 citadel.” 
 
 “ Well, well, never say it again — the sarra one 
 o’ me will keep it back, myself bein’ as ripe as any 
 of you, barrin’ his Reverence, that we’re not to 
 take the foreway of in anything. Ha! ha! ha! ” 
 Whilst Mave and her daughters were engaged 
 
 III— 56 
 
402 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 in laying dinner, and in making all the other 
 arrangements necessary for their comfort, the 
 priest took Denis aside, and thus addressed 
 him : — 
 
 “ Denis, I need scarcely remark, that this meet- 
 ing of our friends is upon no common occasion; 
 that it’s neither a wedding, nor a Station, nor a 
 christening, but a gathering of relations for a 
 more honourable purpose than any of them, ex- 
 cepting the Station, which you know is a religious 
 rite, I just mention this privately, lest you 
 might not be properly on your guard, and to pre- 
 vent any appearance of maneness; or — in short, 
 I hope you have abundance of everything ; I hope 
 you have, and that not for your own sake, so 
 much as for that of your son. Remember your 
 boy, and what he’s designed for, and don’t let 
 the dinner or its concomitants be discreditable to 
 him; for, in fact, it’s his dinner, observe, and not 
 yours.” 
 
 “ I’m thankful, I’m deeply thankful, an’ for 
 ever oblaged to your Reverence for your kind- 
 ness; although widout at all makin’ little of it, 
 it wasn’t wanted here ; never fear, Docthor, 
 there’ll be lashings and lavins.” 
 
 “ Well, but make that clear, Denis; here now 
 are near two dozen of us, and you say there are 
 more to come, and all the provision I see for them 
 is a shoulder of mutton, a goose, and sometliing 
 in that large pot on the fire, which I suppose is 
 hung beef.” 
 
 “ Thrue for you. Sir, hut you don’t know that 
 we’ve got a tarin’ fire down in the barn, where 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 403 
 
 there’s two geese more and two shouldliers of 
 mutton to help what you seen — not to mintion a 
 great big puddin’, an’ lots of other things. Sure 
 you might notice JMave and the girls lainnin’ in 
 an’ out to attind the cookin’ of it.” 
 
 “Enough, Denis, that’s sufficient; and now, 
 between you and me, I say your son will be the 
 load-star of Maynooth, which out-tops anything 
 I said of him yet.” 
 
 “ There’s a whole keg of whiskey, Docthor.” 
 
 “ I see nothing to prevent him from being a 
 Rishop; indeed, it’s almost certain, for he can’t 
 he kept back.” 
 
 “ I only hope your Reverence will be livin’ 
 when he praches his first sermon. I have the 
 dam of the coult still, an’ a wink’s as good as a 
 nod, please your Reverence.” 
 
 “ A strong letter in his favour to the President 
 of Maynooth will do him no harm,” said the 
 priest. 
 
 They then joined their other friends, and in a 
 few minutes an excellent dinner, plain and abun- 
 dant, was spread out upon the table. It con- 
 sisted of the usual materials which constitute an 
 Irish feast in the house of a wealthy farmer, 
 whose pride it is to compel every guest to eat so 
 long as he can swallow a morsel. There were 
 geese and fowl of all kinds — shoulders of mut- 
 ton, laughing-potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and cab- 
 bage, together with an immense pudding, boiled 
 in a clean sheet, and ingeniously kept together 
 with long straws drawn through it in all direc- 
 tions. A lord or duke might be senseless enough 
 
404 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 to look upon such a substantial yeoman-like meal 
 with a sneer; but with all their wealth and ele- 
 gance, perhaps they might envy the health and 
 appetite of those who partook of it. When Fa- 
 ther Finnerty had given a short grace, and the 
 operations of the table were commenced, Denis 
 looked round him with a disappointed air, and 
 exclaimed, 
 
 “Father Finnerty, there’s only one thing, in- 
 deed I may say two, a wantin’ to complate our 
 happiness — I mean Denis and Father Molonyl 
 What on earth does your Reverence think can 
 keep them? ” 
 
 To this he received not a syllable of reply, nor 
 did he consider it necessary to urge the question 
 any further at present. Father Finnerty ’s pow- 
 ers of conversation seemed to have abandoned 
 him; for although there were some few expres- 
 sions loosely dropped, yet the worthy priest main- 
 tained an obstinate silence. 
 
 At length, in due time, he began to let fall an 
 occasional remark, impeded considerably by hic- 
 cups, and an odd Deo Gratias, or Laus Deo, 
 uttered in that indecisive manner which indicates 
 the position of a man who debates within himself, 
 whether he ought to rest satisfied or not. 
 
 At this moment the trampling of a horse was 
 heard approaching the door, and immediately 
 every one of Denis’s family ran out to ascertain 
 whether it was the young candidate. Loud and 
 clamorous was their joy on finding that they were 
 not mistaken; he was alone, and, on arriving at 
 the door, dismounted slowly, and received their 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 405 
 
 welcomes and congratulations with a philosophy 
 which perplexed them not a little. The scene of 
 confusion which followed his entrance into the 
 house could scarcely be conceived : every hand was 
 thrust out to welcome him, and every tongue loud 
 in wishing him joy and happiness. The chairs 
 and stools were overturned as they stood in the 
 way of those who wished to approach him ; plates 
 fell in the bustle, and wooden trenchers trundled 
 along the ground; the dogs, on mingling with 
 the crowd that surrounded him, were kicked 
 angrily from among them by those who had not 
 yet got shaking hands with Denis. Father Fin- 
 nerty, during this commotion, kept his seat in the 
 most dignified manner; but the moment it had 
 subsided, he stretched out his hand to Denis, ex- 
 claiming, 
 
 ‘‘ Mr. O’Shaughnessy, I congratulate you 
 upon the event of this auspicious day ! I wish j^ou 
 joy and happiness! ” 
 
 “ So do we all, over and over agin! ” they ex- 
 claimed; “a proud gintleman he may be this 
 night ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ I thank you, Father Finnerty,” said Denis, 
 
 and I thank you all! ” 
 
 “ Denis avourneen,” said his mother, “ sit down 
 an’ ate a hearty dinner; you must be both tired 
 and hungry, so sit down, avick, and when you’re 
 done you can tell us all.” 
 
 Bonum concilium, mi chare Dionysi — the ad- 
 vice is good, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and I myself 
 will, in honour of this day, although I have 
 already dined, just take another slice; ” and as he 
 
406 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 spoke he helped himself. “ Anything to honour 
 a friend,” he continued; “ hut, by the by, before 
 I commence, I will try your own prescription, 
 Denis — a whetter of this poteen at intervals. 
 Hoch, that’s glorious stuff- — pure as any one of 
 the cardinal virtues, and strong as fortitude, 
 which is the champion of them all.” 
 
 Denis, during these pleasant observations of 
 the priest, sat silent, with a countenance pale and 
 apparently dejected. When his mother had 
 filled his plate, he gently put it away from him; 
 but poured out a little spirits and water, which 
 he drank. 
 
 “I cannot eat a morsel,” said he; ‘‘mother, 
 don’t press me, it’s impossible. We are all as- 
 sembled here — friends, neighbours, and relations 
 — I’ll not disguise the fact — but the truth is, I 
 have been badly treated this day; I have been, 
 in the most barefaced manner, rejected by the 
 Bishop, and a nephew of Father Molony’s 
 elected in my place.” 
 
 The effect which this disclosure produced upon 
 the company present, especially upon his own 
 family, utterly defies description. His father 
 hastily laid down his glass, and his eyes opened 
 to the utmost stretch of their lids; his mother let 
 a plate fall which she was in the act of handing 
 to one of her daughters, who was about to help 
 a poor beggar at the door; all convivial enjoy- 
 ment was suspended; the priest laid down his 
 knife and fork, and fixed his large eyes upon 
 Denis, with his mouth full; his young sister, 
 Susan, flew over to his side, and looked intensely 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 407 
 
 into his countenance for an explanation of what 
 he meant, for she had not properly understood 
 him. 
 
 “ Rejected! ” exclaimed the priest — “ rejected! 
 Young man, I am your spiritual superior, and I 
 command you, on this occasion, to practise no 
 jocularity whatsoever — I lay it upon you as a 
 religious duty to be serious and candid, to speak 
 truth, and inform us at once whether what you 
 have advanced be true or not? ” 
 
 “ I wish,” said Denis, “ that it was only joc- 
 ularity on my part; but I solemnly assure you 
 all that it is not. The Bishop told me that I 
 suffered myself to be misled as to my qualifica- 
 tions for entrance; he says it will take a year and 
 a half’s hard study to enable me to matriculate 
 with a good grace. I told him that your Rever- 
 ence examined me, and said I was well prepared ; 
 and he said to me in reply, that your Reverence 
 was very little of a judge as to my fitness.” 
 
 “ Very well,” said the priest, “ I thank his lord- 
 ship; ’tis true, I deserved that from him; but it 
 can’t be helped. I see, at all events, how the land 
 lies. Denis O’Shaughnessy, I pronounce you to 
 be, in the first place, an extremely stultified and 
 indiscreet young man; and, in the next place, as 
 badly treated, and as oppressed a candidate for 
 Maynooth as ever entered it. I pronounce you, 
 in the face of the world, right well prepared for 
 it ; but I see now who is the spy of the diocese — 
 oh, oh, thank you, Misther Molony — I now re- 
 mimher, that he is related to his lordship through 
 the beggarly clan of the M ’s. But wait a 
 
408 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 little; if I have failed here, thank Heaven I have 
 interest in the next diocese, the Bishop of which 
 is my cousin, and we will yet have a tug for it.” 
 
 The mother and sisters of Denis were now 
 drowned in tears ; and the grief of his sister Susan 
 was absolutely hysterical. Old Denis’s brow be- 
 came pale and sorrowful, his eye sunk, and his 
 hand trembled. His friends all partook of this 
 serious disappointment, and sat in silence and 
 embarrassment around the table. Young Denis’s 
 distress was truly intense: he could not eat a 
 morsel; his voice was tremulous with vexation; 
 and, indeed, altogether the aspect of those present 
 betokened the occurrence of some grievous afflic- 
 tion. 
 
 “ Well,” said Brian, Denis’s elder brother, “ I 
 only say this, that it’s a good story for him to tell 
 that he is a Bishop, otherwise I’d think no more 
 of puttin’ a bullet through him from behind a 
 hedge, than I would of shootin’ a cur dog.” 
 
 “ Don’t say that, Brian,” said his mother; “ bad 
 as it is, he’s one of our clargy, so don’t spake dis- 
 respectful of him ; sure a year is not much to wait, 
 an’ the next time you go before him it won’t be 
 in his power to keep you back. As for Father 
 Molony, we wish him well, but undher the roof 
 of this house, except at a Station, or something 
 else of the kind, he will never sit, barrin’ I thought 
 he was either dhry or hungry, that I wouldn’t 
 bring evil upon my substance by refusin’ him.” 
 
 “ And that w^as his lordship’s character of 
 me? ” inquired the priest once more with chagrin. 
 
 “If that was not, perhaps you will find it in 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 409 
 
 this letter,” replied Denis, handing him a written 
 communication from the Bishop. Father Fin- 
 nerty hastily broke open the seal, and read 
 silently as follows: — 
 
 " To the Rev. Father Finnerty, peace, and benediction. 
 
 “ Rev. Sir, 
 
 “ I feel deep indignation at hearing the diselosure made 
 to me this day by the bearer, touehing your negotiation 
 with him and his family, concerning a horse, as the value 
 paid by them to you for procuring the use of my influence 
 in his favour; and I cannot sufficiently reprobate such a 
 transaction, nor find terms strong enough in which to con- 
 demn the parties concerned in it. Sir, I repeat it, that 
 such juggling is more reprehensible on your part than on 
 theirs, and that it is doubly disrespectful to me, to suppose 
 that I could be influenced by any thing but merit in the 
 candidates. I desire you will wait upon me to-morrow, 
 when I hope you may be able to place the transaction in 
 such a light as will raise you once more to the estimation 
 in which I have always held you. There are three other 
 candidates, one of whom is a relation of your excellent 
 curate’s; but I have as yet made no decision, so that the 
 appointment is still open. In the mean time, I command 
 you to send back the horse to his proper owner, as soon 
 after the receipt of this as possible, for O’Shaughnessy 
 must not be shackled by any such stipulations. I have now 
 to ask your Christian forgiveness for having, under the 
 influence of temporary anger, spoken of you before this 
 lad with disrespect. I hereby make restitution, and beg 
 that you will forgive me, and remember me by name in 
 your prayers, as I shall also name you in mine. 
 
 “ I am, &c. 
 
 — James M.” 
 
 When Father Finnerty read this letter, his 
 countenance gradually assumed an expression of 
 the most irresistible humour; nothing could be 
 
410 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 more truly comic than the significant look he 
 directed at each individual of the O’Shaughnes-- 
 sys, not omitting even the httle boy who had 
 basted the goose, whom he patted on the head 
 with that mechanical abstraction resulting from 
 the occurrence of something highly agreeable. 
 The cast of his features was now the more ludi- 
 crous, when contrasted with the rueful visage he 
 presented on hearing the manner in which his 
 character had been delineated by the Bishop. At 
 length he laid himself back in his chair, and put- 
 ting his hands to his sides, fairly laughed out 
 loudly for near five minutes. 
 
 “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Dionysius, Dionysius, 
 but you are the simple and unsophisticated youth 1 
 Oh, you hocaun of the wide earth, to come home 
 with a long face upon you, telling us that you 
 were rejected, and you not rejected.” 
 
 “Not rejected! — not rejecet! — not rejeckset! 
 — not raxjaxet! ” they all exclaimed, attempting 
 to pronounce the word as well as they could. 
 
 “For the sake of heaven above us, Docthor, 
 don’t keep us in doubt one minute longer,” said 
 old Denis. 
 
 “ Follow me,” said the priest, becoming in- 
 stantly grave, “ follow me, Dionysius; follow me 
 Denis More, and Brian, all follow — follow me, 
 I have news for you ! My friends, we’ll be back 
 instantly.” 
 
 They accordingly passed into another room, 
 where they remained in close conference for about 
 a quarter of an hour, after which they re-entered 
 in the highest spirits. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 411 
 
 “ Come,” said Denis, “ Pether, go over, 
 abouchal, to Andy Bradagh’s for Larry Cassidy 
 the piper — fly like a swallow, Pether, an’ don’t 
 come without him. Mave, achora, all’s right. 
 Susy, you darlin’, dhry your eyes, avourneen, all’s 
 right. Nahours, friends — All, fill — I say all’s 
 right still. ]\Iy son’s not disgraced, nor he won’t 
 be disgraced whilst I have a house over my head, 
 or a beast in my stable. Docthor, reverend Doc- 
 thor, drink; may I never sin, but you must get 
 merry, an’ dance a ^ cut-along ^ wid myself, when 
 the music comes, and you must thrip the ‘ priest 
 in his boots ’ wid Susy here afther. Excuse me, 
 nabours — Docthor, you won’t blame me, there’s 
 both joy and sorrow in these tears, I have had 
 a good family of childhre, an’ a faithful wife; an’ 
 Mave, achora, although time has laid his mark 
 upon you, as well as upon myself, and the locks 
 are grey that wor once as black as a raven: yet, 
 Mave, I seen the day, an’ there’s many livin’ to 
 prove it — ay, Mave, I seen the day when you wor 
 worth lookin’ at — the wild rose of Lisbuie she 
 was called, Docthor. Well, Mave, I hope that 
 my eyes may be closed by the hands I loved an’ 
 love so well — an’ that’s your own, agrah machree, 
 an’ Denis’s.” 
 
 “ Whisht, Denis asthore,” said Mave, wiping 
 her eyes, “ I hope I’ll never see that day. Afther 
 seein’ Denis here, what we all hope him to be, the 
 next thing I wish is, that I may never live to 
 see my husband taken away from me, acushla; no, 
 I hope God will take me to himself before that 
 comes.” 
 
412 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 There is something touching in the burst of 
 pathetic aiFection which springs strongly from 
 the heart of a worthy couple, when, seated among 
 their own family, the feelings of the husband and 
 the father, the wife and the mother, overpower 
 them. In this case, the feeling is always deep 
 in proportion to the strength and purity of do- 
 mestic aff ection ; still it is checked by the melan- 
 choly satisfaction, that our place is to be filled 
 by those who are dear to us. 
 
 “ But now,” said the priest, “ that the scent lies 
 still warm, let me ask you, Dionysius, how the 
 Bishop came to understand the compactum? 
 
 “ I really cannot undertake to say,” replied 
 Denis; “ but if any man has an eye like a basileus 
 he has. On finding. Sir, that there was some 
 defect in my responsive powers, he looked keenly 
 at me, closing his piercing eyes a little, and in- 
 quired upon what ground I had presented myself 
 as a candidate. I would have sunk the compac- 
 tum altogether, but for the eye. I suspended 
 and hesitated a little, and at length told him that 
 there was an understanding — a — a — kind of — in 
 short, he squeezed the whole secret out o’ me 
 gradationally. You know the result! ” 
 
 “ Ah, Dionysius, you are yet an unfledged 
 bird; but it matters little. All will be rectified 
 soon.” 
 
 “ Arrah, Dinis,” inquired his mother, “ was it 
 only takin’ a rise out of us you wor all the time? 
 Throth myself ’s not the betther of the fright you 
 put me into.” 
 
 “No,” replied Denis, “ the Bishop treated me 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 413 
 
 harshly I thought : he said I was not properly fit. 
 ‘ You might pass,’ said he, ‘ upon a particular 
 occasion, or under peculiar circumstances; but it 
 will take at least a year and a half’s study, to 
 enable you to enter Maynooth as I would wish 
 you. You may go home again,’ said he; ‘at 
 present I have dismissed the subject.’ 
 
 “After this, on meeting Father Molony, he 
 told me that his cousin had passed, and that he 
 would be soon sent up to Maynooth: so I con- 
 cluded all hope was over with me; but I didn’t 
 then know what the letter to Father Finnerty 
 contained. I now see that I may succeed still.” 
 
 “ You may and shall, Denis; but no thanks to 
 Father Molony for that: however, I shall keep 
 my eye upon the same curate, never fear. Well, 
 let that pass, and now for harmony, conviviality, 
 and friendship. Gentlemen, fill your glasses — 
 I mean your respective vessels. Come, Denis 
 More, let that porringer of yours be a brimmer. 
 Ned Hanratty, charge your noggin. Darby, 
 although your mug wants an ear, it can hold the 
 full of it. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, that old family 
 cruiskeen ought to be with your husband: but 
 no matther — 7ion constat — Eh? Dionysi? Intel- 
 ligisne? 
 
 “ Intelligo, dominef^ 
 
 “ Here then is health, success, and prosperity 
 to Mr. Dionysius O’Shaughnessy, jun.! May 
 he soon be on the Retreat in the vivacious walls 
 of that learned and sprightly seminary, May- 
 nooth On the Retreat, I say, getting fat 
 upon half a meal a day for the first week, fasting 
 
414 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 tightly against the grain, praying sincerely for 
 a set-in at the king’s mutton, and repenting thor- 
 oughly of his penitence! ” 
 
 “Well, Docthor, that is a toast. Denis, have 
 you nothing to say to that? Won’t you stand 
 up an’ thank his Reverence, any how? ” 
 
 “ I am really too much oppressed with relaxa- 
 tion,” said Denis, “ to return thanks in that florid 
 style which would become my pretensions. I can- 
 not, however, but thank Father Finnerty for his 
 ingenious and learned toast, which does equal 
 honour to his head and heart, and I might super- 
 add, to his intellects also; for in drinking toasts, 
 my friends, I always elaborate a distinction be- 
 tween strength of head and strength of intellect. 
 I now thank you all for having in so liberal a 
 manner drunk my health ; and in grateful return, 
 I request you will once more fill your utensils, 
 and learnedly drink — long life and a mitre to the 
 Reverend Father Finnerty, of the Society of St. 
 Dominick, Doctor of Divinity and Parochial 
 Priest of this excellent parish! — Propino tihi salu- 
 tem^ Doctor doctissime^ reverendissime, et sane- 
 tissime; nee non omnibus amicis hie congregatis! 
 
 The priest’s eye, during this speech, twinkled 
 with humour; he saw clearly that Denis thor- 
 oughly understood the raillery of his toast, and 
 that the compliment was well repaid. On this 
 subject he did not wish, however, to proceed fur- 
 ther, and his object now was, that the evening 
 should pass off as agreeably as possible. 
 
 Next morning Father Finnerty paid Denis a 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 415 
 
 timely visit, having first, as he had been directed, 
 sent home the colt a little after day-break. They 
 then took an early breakfast, and after about half 
 an hour’s further deliberation, the priest, old 
 Denis, and his son — the last mounted upon the 
 redoubtable colt — proceeded to the Bishop’s resi- 
 dence. His lordship had nearly finished break- 
 fast, which he took in his study; but as he was 
 engaged with his brother, the barrister, who slept 
 at his house the night before, in order to attend 
 a public meeting on that day, he could not be 
 seen for some time after they arrived. At length 
 they were admitted. The Right Reverend Doc- 
 tor was still seated at the breakfast table, dressed 
 in a morning gown of fine black stuff, such as 
 the brothers of the Franciscan order of monks 
 usually wear, to which order he belonged. He 
 wore black silk stockings, gold knee-buckles to 
 his small-clothes, a rich ruby ring upon his finger, 
 and a small gold cross, set with brilliants, about 
 his neck. This last was not usually visible; but 
 as he had not yet dressed for the day, it hung 
 over his vest. He sat, or rather lolled back in 
 a stuffed easy chair, one leg thrown indolently 
 over the other. Though not an old man, he wore 
 powder, which gave him an air of greater rever- 
 ence; and as his features were sharp and intelh- 
 gent, his eye small but keen, and his manner 
 altogether impressive and gentlemanly, if not 
 dignified, it was not surprising that Father Fin- 
 nerty’s two companions felt awed and embar- 
 rassed before him. Nor was the priest himself 
 
416 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 wholly free from that humbling sensation which 
 one naturally feels when in the presence of a 
 superior mind in a superior station of hfe. 
 
 “Good morning to your lordship!” said the 
 priest, ‘‘ I am exceedingly happy to see you look 
 so well. Counsellor, your most obedient ; I hope, 
 Sir, you are in good health ! ” 
 
 To this both gentlemen replied in the usual 
 common-place terms. 
 
 “ Docthor,” continued the priest, “ this is a 
 worthy dacent parishioner of mine, Denis 
 O’Shaughnessy; and this is his son who has the 
 honour to be already known to your lordship.” 
 “ Sit down, O’Shaughnessy,” said the bishop, 
 “ take a seat, young man.” 
 
 “ I humbly thank your lordship,” replied Denis 
 the elder, taking a chair as he spoke, and laying 
 his hat beside him on the carpet. 
 
 The son, who trembled at the moment from 
 head to foot, did not sit as he was asked, but the 
 father, after giving him a pluck, said in a whis- 
 per, “ Can’t you sit when his lordship bids you.” 
 He then took a seat, but appeared scarcely to 
 know whether he sat or stood. 
 
 “ By the by. Doctor, you have improved this 
 place mightily,” continued Father Finnerty, 
 “ since I had the pleasure of being here last. I 
 thought I saw a green-house peeping over the 
 garden-wall.” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied the Bishop, “ I am just begin- 
 ning to make a collection of shrubs and flowers 
 upon a small scale. I believe you are aware that 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 417 
 
 tending and rearing flowers, Mr. Finnerty, is a 
 favourite amusement with me.” 
 
 “ I believe I have a good right to know as 
 
 much, Dr. M replied Mr. Finnerty. “If 
 
 I don’t mistake, I sent you some specimens for 
 your garden that were not contemptible. And 
 if I don’t mistake again, I shall be able to send 
 your lordship a shrub that would take the pearl 
 off a man’s eye only to look at it. And what’s 
 more, it’s quite a new comer; not two years in 
 the country.” 
 
 “ Pray how is it called, Mr. Finnerty? ” 
 
 “ Upon my credit. Doctor, with great respect, 
 I will tell you nothing more about it at present. 
 If you wish to see it, or to know its name, or 
 to get a slip of it, you must first come and eat 
 a dinner with me. And, Counsellor, if you, too, 
 could appear on your own behalf, so much the 
 better.” 
 
 “ I fear I cannot, Mr. Finnerty, but I dare 
 say my brother will do himself the pleasure of 
 dining with you.” 
 
 “ It cannot be for at least six weeks, Mr. Fin- 
 nerty,” said the Bishop. “ You forget that the 
 confirmations begin in ten days ; but I shall have 
 the pleasure of dining with you when I come to 
 confirm in your parish.” 
 
 “ Phoo 1 Why, Doctor, that’s a matter of 
 course. Couldn’t your lordship make it con- 
 venient to come during the week, and bring the 
 Counsellor here with you? Don’t say no, Coun- 
 sellor; I’ll have no demurring.” 
 
 Ill— 27 
 
418 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Mr. Finnerty,” said the Bishop, “ it is im- 
 possible at present. My brother goes to Dublin 
 to-morrow, and I must go on the following day 
 to attend the consecration of a chapel in the 
 metropolis.” 
 
 “ Then upon my credit, your lordship will get 
 neither the name nor description of my Fucia, 
 until you earn it by eating a dinner, and drinking 
 a glass of claret with the Rev. Father Finnerty. 
 Are those hard terms, Counsellor? — Ha! ha! ha! 
 I’m not the man to be put off a thing, I assure 
 you.” 
 
 ‘ Mr. Finnerty,” said the Bishop, smiling at, 
 but not noticing the worthy priest’s blunder about 
 the Fucia, “ if possible, I shall dine with you 
 soon; but at present it is out of my power to 
 appoint a day.” 
 
 “ Well, well. Doctor, make your own time of 
 it; and now for the purport of our journey. 
 Denis O’Shaughnessy here, my lord, is a warm 
 respectable parishioner of mine — a man indeed 
 for whom I have a great regard. He is reported 
 to have inherited from his worthy father, two 
 horns filled with guineas. His grandmother, as 
 he could well inform your lordship, was born with 
 a lucky caul upon her, which caul is still in the 
 family. Isn’t it so, Denis? ” 
 
 ‘‘ My lord, in dignity, it’s thruth,” replied 
 Denis, “ and from the time it came into the family 
 they always thruv, thanks be to goodness ! ” 
 
 The lawyer sat eyeing the priest and Denis 
 alternately, evidently puzzled to comprehend 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 419 
 
 what such a remarkable introduction could lead 
 to. 
 
 The Bishop seemed not to be surprised, for his 
 features betrayed no change whatsoever. 
 
 “ Having, therefore, had the necessary means 
 of educating a son for the church, he has accord- 
 ingly prepared this young man with much anx- 
 iety and expense for ^laynooth.” 
 
 “ Plase your lordship,” said Denis, “ Docthor 
 Finnerty is clothin’ it betther than I could do. 
 My heart is fixed upon seein’ him what we all 
 expect him to be, your lordship.” 
 
 “ Mr. Finnerty,” observed the Bishop, “ you 
 seem to be intimately acquainted with O’Shaugh- 
 nessy’s circumstances ; you appear to take a warm 
 interest in the family, particularly in the success 
 of his son.” 
 
 “Undoubtedly, my lord; I am particularly 
 anxious for his success.” 
 
 “ You received my letter yesterday? ” 
 
 “ I am here to-day, my lord, in consequence 
 of having received it. But, by the by, there was, 
 under favour, a slight misconception on the part 
 of your ” 
 
 “ What misconception, Sir? ” 
 
 “ Why, my lord — Counsellor, this is a — a — 
 kind of charge his lordship is bringing against 
 me, under a slight misconception. My lord, the 
 fact is, that I didn’t see what ecclesiastical right 
 I had to prevent Denis here from disposing of 
 
 his own property to ” 
 
 “ I expect an apology from you, Mr. Finnerty, 
 
420 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 but neither a defence nor a justification. An 
 attempt at either will not advance the interests 
 of your young friend, believe me.” 
 
 “ Then I have only to say that the wish ex- 
 pressed in your lordship’s letter has been complied 
 with. But wait awhile, my lord,” continued the 
 priest, good-humouredly, “ I shall soon turn the 
 tables on yourself.” 
 
 “ How is that, pray? ” 
 
 “ Why, my lord, the horse is in your stable, and 
 Denis declares he will not take him out of it.” 
 
 “ I have not the slightest objection to that,” 
 replied the Bishop, “ upon the express condition 
 that his son shall never enter Maynooth.” 
 
 “For my part,” observed Mr. Finnerty, “I 
 leave the matter now between your lordship and 
 O’Shaughnessy himself. You may act as you 
 please. Doctor, and so may he.” 
 
 “ Mr. Finnerty, if I could suppose for a mo- 
 ment that the suggestion of thus influencing me 
 originated with you, I would instantly deprive 
 you of your parish, and make you assistant to 
 your excellent curate, for whom I entertain a 
 sincere regard. I have already expressed my 
 opinion of the transaction alluded to in my letter. 
 You have frequently offended me, Mr. Finnerty, 
 by presuming too far upon my good temper, and 
 by relying probably upon your own jocular dis- 
 position. Take care. Sir, that you don’t break 
 down in some of your best jokes. I fear that 
 under the guise of humour, you frequently avail 
 yourself of the weakness, or ignorance, or sim- 
 phcity, of your parishioners. I hope, Mr. Fin- 
 
a'9l§B3 
 
 \oii’i\i'!^0 «ft wo-<\ b^OMbo't'\^5l 
 
Eagle’s Nest, Killarney 
 
 Reproduced from an Original Photograph 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 421 
 
 nerty, that while you laugh at the jest, they don’t 
 pay for it.” 
 
 The priest here caught the Counsellor’s eye, 
 and gave him a dry wink, not unperceived, how- 
 ever, by the Bishop, who could scarcely repress a 
 smile. 
 
 “ You should have known me better, Mr. Fin- 
 nerty, than to suppose that any motive could 
 influence me in deciding upon the claims of candi- 
 dates for Maynooth, besides their own moral char- 
 acter and literary acquirements. So long as I 
 live, this, and this alone, shall be the rule of my 
 conduct, touching persons in the circumstances 
 of young O’Shaughnessy.” 
 
 “ My gracious lord,” said Denis, “ don’t be 
 angry wid Mr. Finnerty. I’ll bear it all, for it 
 was my fau’t. The horse is mine, and say what 
 you will, out of your stable I’ll never bring him. 
 I think, wid great sibmission, a man may do 
 what he pleases wid his own.” 
 
 “ Certainly,” said the Bishop! “ my consent to 
 permit your son to go to Maynooth is my own. 
 Now this consent I will not give if you press that 
 mode of argument upon me.” 
 
 ‘‘ My Reverend Lord, as heaven’s above me, 
 I’d give all I’m worth to see the boy in May- 
 nooth. If he doesn’t go afther all our hopes, 
 I’d break my heart.” He was so deeply affected 
 that the large tears rolled down his cheeks as he 
 spoke. 
 
 “Will your Lordship buy the horse?” he 
 added; “ I don’t want him, and you, maybe, do? ” 
 “ I do not want him,” said the Bishop, “ and 
 
422 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 if I did, I would not, under the present circum- 
 stances, purchase him from you.’^ 
 
 Then my boy won’t get in, your lordship. 
 And you’ll neither buy the horse, nor take him 
 as a present. My curse upon him for a horse! 
 The first thing I’ll do when I get home will be 
 to put a bullet through him, for he has been an 
 unlucky thief to us. Is my son aquil to the 
 others that came to pass your lordship?” asked 
 Denis. 
 
 “ There is none of them properly qualified,” 
 said the Bishop. “ If there be any superiority 
 among them your son has it. He is not without 
 natural talent, Mr. Finnerty; his translations are 
 strong and fluent, but ridiculously pedantic. 
 That, however, is perhaps less his fault than the 
 fault of those who instructed him.” 
 
 “Are you anxious to dispose of the horse?” 
 said the Counsellor. 
 
 “ A single day, sir, he’ll never pass in my 
 stable,” said Denis ; “ he has been an unlucky 
 baste to me an’ mine, an’ to all that had anything 
 to do wid him.” 
 
 “ Pray what age is he? ” 
 
 “ Risin’ four, sir; ’deed I believe he’s four all 
 out, an’ a purty devil’s clip he is, as you’d wish 
 to see.” 
 
 “ Come,” said the Counsellor, rising, “ let us 
 have a look at him. Mr. Finnerty, you’re an ex- 
 cellent judge; will you favour me with your 
 opinion? ” 
 
 The priest and he, accompanied by the two 
 O’Shaughnessys, passed out to the stable yard, 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 423 
 
 where their horses stood. As they went, Father 
 Fimierty whispered to O’Shaiighnessy : — 
 
 “ Now, Denis, is your time. Strike while the 
 iron is hot. Don’t take a penny! — don’t take a 
 fraction! Get into a passion, and swear you’ll 
 shoot him unless he accepts him as a present. If 
 he does, all’s right ; he can twine the Bishop round 
 his finger.” 
 
 “I see, Sir,” said Denis; “I see! Let me 
 alone for managin’ him.” 
 
 The barrister was already engaged in examin- 
 ing the horse’s mouth, as is usual, when the priest 
 accosted him with — 
 
 “ You are transgressing etiquette in this in- 
 stance, Counsellor. You know the proverb — 
 never look a gift horse in the mouth.” 
 
 “ How, Mr. Finnerty? — a gift horse! ” 
 
 “His Reverence is right!” exclaimed Denis: 
 “ the sorra penny ever will cross my pocket for 
 the same horse. You must take him as he stands, 
 sir, barrin’ the bridle an’ saddle, that’s not my 
 own.” 
 
 “ He will take no money,” said the priest. 
 
 “ Nonsense, my dear sir! Why not take a fair 
 price for him? ” 
 
 “ Divil the penny will cross my pocket for 
 him, the unlucky thief!” replied the shrewd 
 farmer, 
 
 “ Then in that case the negotiation is ended,” 
 replied the barrister. “ I certainly will not ac- 
 cept him as a present. Why should I? What 
 claim have I on Mr. O’Shaughnessy? ” 
 
 “ I don’t want you to take him,” said Denis; 
 
424 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ I want nobody to take him; but I know the 
 dogs of the parish’ll be pickin’ his bones afore 
 night. You may as well have him, Sir, as not.” 
 
 “ Is the man serious, Mr. Finnerty? ” 
 
 “ I never saw a man in my life having a more 
 serious appearance, I assure you,” said the priest. 
 
 “ By Jove it’s a queer business,” rephed the 
 other: “a most extraordinary affair as I ever 
 witnessed! Why, it would be madness to de- 
 stroy such a fine animal as that 1 The horse is an 
 excellent one! However, I shall certainly not 
 accept him, until I ascertain whether I can pre- 
 vail upon the Bishop to elect his son to this 
 vacancy. If I can make the man no return for 
 him, I shall let him go to the dogs.” 
 
 “ Go up and set to work,” said the priest; “ but 
 remember that tace is Latin for a candle. Keep 
 his lordship in the dark, otherwise this scion is 
 ousted.” 
 
 “ True,” said the other. “ In the mean time 
 bring them into the parlour, until I try what 
 can be done.” 
 
 “ Take the Bishop upon the father’s affection 
 for him,” said the priest. 
 
 “ You are right. I am glad you mentioned 
 it.” 
 
 “ The poor man will break his heart,” said the 
 priest. 
 
 “ He will,” responded the Counsellor, smiling. 
 
 “ So will the mother, too,” said the priest, with 
 an arch look. 
 
 “ And the whole family,” replied the Coun- 
 sellor. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 425 
 
 “ Go up instantly,” said the priest; “ you have 
 often got a worse fee.” 
 
 “ And, perhaps, with less prospect of success,” 
 said the other. “ Gentlemen, have the goodness 
 to walk into the parlour for a few minutes, while 
 I endeavour to soften my brother a little, if I 
 can, upon this untoward business.” 
 
 When the priest and his two friends entered 
 the parlour, which was elegantly furnished, they 
 stood for a moment to survey it. Old Denis, 
 however, was too much engaged in the subject 
 which lay nearest his heart to take pleasure in 
 anything else; at least until he should hear the 
 priest’s opinion upon the posture of affairs. 
 
 “What does your Reverence think?” said 
 Denis. 
 
 “ Behave yourself,” replied the pastor. “ None 
 of your nonsense! You know what I think as 
 well as I do myself.” 
 
 “ But will Dionnisis pass? — Will he go to 
 Maynooth? ” 
 
 “ Will you go to your dinner to-day, or to your 
 bed to-night? ” 
 
 “ God be praised! Well, Docthor, wait till we 
 see him off, then I’ll be spakin’ to you! ” 
 
 “ No,” said the priest; “ but wait till you take 
 a toss upon this sofa, and then you will get a 
 taste of ecclesiastical luxury.” 
 
 “ Ay,” said Denis, “ but would it be right o’ 
 me to sit in it? Maybe it’s consecrated.” 
 
 “ Faith, you may swear that; but it is to the 
 ease and comfort of his lordship! Come, man, 
 sit down, till you see how you’ll sink in it.” 
 
426 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “ Oh, murdher! ” exclaimed Denis, ‘‘ where am 
 I at all? Docthor dear, am I in sight? Do you 
 see the crown o’ my head, good or bad? Oh, 
 may I never sin, but that’s great state! — Well, 
 to be sure! ” 
 
 “ Ay,” said the priest, “ see what it is to be a 
 bishop in any church! The moment a man be- 
 comes a bishop, he fastens tooth and nail upon 
 luxury, as if a mitre was a dispensation for en- 
 joying the world that they have sworn to re- 
 nounce. Dionysius, look about you! Isn’t this 
 worth studying for? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied the hitherto silent candidate, 
 “ if it was perusal on the part of his lordship that 
 got it.” 
 
 “ Upon my credit, a shrewd observation! Ah, 
 Dionysius, merit is overlooked in every church, 
 and in every profession; or perhaps — hem! — 
 ehem! — perhaps some of your reverend friends 
 might be higher up! I mean nobody; but if 
 sound learning, and wit, and humour, together 
 with several other virtues which I decline enu- 
 merating, could secure a mitre, why mitres might 
 be on other brows.” 
 
 ‘‘ This is surely great state,” observed the can- 
 didate; “and if it be a thing that I matricu- 
 late 
 
 “ And yet,” said the priest, interrupting him, 
 “ this same bishop — who is, no doubt, a worthy 
 man, but who has no natural ear for a jest — was 
 once upon a time the priest of an indifferent 
 good parish, like myself; ay, and a poor, cow- 
 ardly, culprit-looking candidate, ready to sink 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 427 
 
 into the earth before his bishop, like you.” 
 “Me cowardly!” said the candidate: “I de- 
 cline the insinuation altogether. It was nothing 
 but veneration and respect, which you know we 
 should entertain for all our spiritual supe- 
 riors.” 
 
 “ That’s truth decidedly; though, at the same 
 time, your nerves were certainly rather entangled, 
 like a ravelled hank. But no matter, man; we 
 have all felt the same in our time. Did you 
 observe how I managed the bishop? ” 
 
 “ I can’t say I did,” replied the candidate, who 
 felt hurt at the imputation of cowardice, before 
 his father; “ but I saw. Sir, that the bishop man- 
 aged you.” 
 
 “ Pray for a longer vision, Dionysius. I tell 
 you that no other priest in the diocese could have 
 got both you and me out of the dilemma in which 
 we stood but myself. He has taken to the study 
 of weeds and plants in his old days; and I, who 
 have a natural taste for botany, know it is his 
 weak side. I tell you, he would give the right 
 of filling a vacancy in Maynooth any day in the 
 year, for a rare plant or flower. So much for 
 your knowledge of human nature. You’ll grant 
 I managed the Counsellor?” 
 
 “ Between my father and you. Sir, things look 
 well. We have not, however, got a certificate of 
 success yet.” 
 
 Patientia fit levior ferendo ! — Have patience, 
 man. Wait till we see the Counsellor! ” 
 
 He had scarcely uttered the last words when 
 that gentleman entered. 
 
428 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “Well, Counsellor,” said the priest, “is it a 
 hit? ” 
 
 “ Pray what is your Christian name, Mr. 
 O’Shaughnessy? ” inquired the lawyer of young 
 Denis. 
 
 “ My Christian name. Sir,” replied Denis, “ is 
 Di-o-ny-si-us O’Shaughnessy. That, Sir, is the 
 name by which I am always appellated.” 
 
 “ That’s quite sufficient,” said the other. “ I 
 shall be with you again in a few minutes.” 
 
 “ But won’t you give us a hint, my good Sir, 
 as to how the land lies? ” said the priest, as the 
 lawyer left the room. 
 
 “ Presently, Mr. Finnerty, presently.” 
 
 “ Intelligisne, Dionisi? 
 
 Vioo, Domine, Quid sentisf 
 “ Quid sentis! No, hut it was good fortune 
 sent us. Don’t you persave, Dionysius, and you, 
 Denis — don’t you know, I say, that this letter 
 of admission couldn’t be written except the 
 Bishop knew his name in full? Unlucky 1 
 Faith if ever a horse was lucky this is he.” 
 
 “ I declare, Docthor,” said the father, “ I can 
 neither sit nor stand, nor think of any one thing 
 for a minute, I’m so much on the fidgets to know 
 what the Bishop ’ill say.” 
 
 “ I also,” said Dionysius, “ am in a state of 
 evaporation and uncertainty touching the same 
 point. However, this I can affirm with veracity, 
 that if I am rejected, my mind is made up to 
 pursue an antithetical course of life altogether. 
 If he rejects me now, he will never reject me 
 again.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 429 
 
 “ Musha, how — Denny — Dionnisis, avick? 
 
 What do you mane? ” said the father. 
 
 “ I will give,” said the son, “ what is desig- 
 nated a loose translation of my meaning to JVIr. 
 Finnerty here, if I find that I am excluded on 
 this occasion.” 
 
 “ And if you do succeed,” said the priest, “ I 
 would advise you to hire a loose translator dur- 
 ing the remainder of your residence among us; 
 for upon my veracity, Dionysius, the king’s 
 English will perform hard duty until you enter 
 Maynooth. Not a word under six feet will be 
 brought into the ranks — grenadiers every one of 
 them, not to mention the thumpers you will 
 coin.” 
 
 “ Come, Docthor Finnerty,” said our candi- 
 date, pulling up a little, “ if the base Latin which 
 you put into circulation were compared with my 
 English thumpers, it would be found that of the 
 two, I am more legitimate and etymological.” 
 
 “ I shall be happy to dispute that point with 
 you another time,” said the priest, “ when we can 
 — Silence, here comes the Counsellor.” 
 
 “ Mr. O’Shaughnessy,” said the lawyer, ad- 
 dressing the candidate, “ allow me to congratulate 
 you on your success! Your business is accom- 
 plished. The Bishop is just finishing a letter for 
 you to the President of Maynooth. I assure you, 
 I feel great pleasure at your success.” 
 
 “ Accept my thanks. Sir,” said Denis, whose 
 eye was instantly lit up with delight — “ accept my 
 most obsequious thanks to the very furthest ex- 
 tent of my gratitude.” 
 
430 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 The Barrister then shook hands with old Denis. 
 “ O’Shaughnessy,” said he, “ I am very happy 
 that I have had it in my power to serve you and 
 your son.” 
 
 “ Counsellor,” said Denis, seizing his hand in 
 both his — “ Counsellor, ahagur machree — Coun- 
 sellor, oh, what — ^what — can I say! Is he — ^is it 
 possible — is it thruth that my boy is to go to 
 Maynewth this time? Oh, if you knew, hut 
 knew, the heavy, dead weight you tuck off o’ 
 my heart! Our son not cast aside — not dis- 
 graced! — for what else would the people think it? 
 The horse ! — a poor bit of a coult — a poor unsig- 
 nified animal! To the devil wid him! What is 
 he compared to the joy an’ delight of this min-‘‘ 
 ute? Take him. Sir; take him — an’ if he was 
 worth his weight in goold, I vow to Heaven above 
 me, I’d not think him too good. Too good! — 
 no, nor half good enough for you. God remim- 
 ber this to you ! an’ he will, too. Little you know 
 the happiness you have given us. Counsellor! 
 Little you know it. But no matther! An’ you, 
 too. Father Finnerty, helped to bring this about. 
 But sure you were ever an’ always our friend! 
 Well, no matther — no matther! God will reward 
 you both.” 
 
 “ My brother wishes to see Mr. Finnerty and 
 your son,” said the barrister; “I think they 
 had better go up to him. He is anxious to get 
 a slip of your shrub, Mr. Finnerty.” 
 
 “ Ah, I thought so,” said the priest — “ I 
 thought as much.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 431 
 
 The Bishop, on their re-appearance, presented 
 Denis with the long wished-for letter. He then 
 gave him a suitable exhortation with reference 
 to the serious and responsible duties for which 
 he was about to prepare himself. After con- 
 cluding his admonition, he addressed Father 
 Finnerty as follows: 
 
 “ Now Mr. Finnerty, this matter has ended 
 in a manner satisfactory, not only to your young 
 friend, but to yourself. You must promise me 
 that there shall be no more horse-dealing. I do 
 not think jockeying of that description either 
 creditable or just. I am unwilling to use harsher 
 language, but I could not conscientiously let it 
 pass without reproof. In the next place, will 
 you let me have a slip of that flowering shrub 
 you boast of ? ” 
 
 “ Doctor,” said the priest, ‘‘ is it possible you 
 ask it of me? Why, I think your lordship 
 ought to know that it’s your own, as is every plant 
 and flower in my garden that you fancy. Do 
 you dine at home to-morrow, my Lord? ” 
 
 “ I do,” said the Bishop. 
 
 ‘‘Well, then, I shall come up with a slip or 
 two of it, and dine with you. I know the situa- 
 tion in which it grows best; and knowing this, 
 I will put it down with my own hands. But I 
 protest, my lord, against your allowing me to be 
 traced in the business of the shrub at all, other- 
 wise I shall have the whole county on my back.” 
 
 “Be under no apprehension of that, Mr. 
 Finnerty. I shall be happy if you dine with 
 
432 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 me; but bring it with you. How did you come 
 to get it so early after its appearance in this 
 country? ” 
 
 “ I got it from head quarters, Doctor — from 
 one of the best botanists in the three kingdoms; 
 certainly from the best Irish botanist hving — 
 my friend, Mr. Mackay, of the College Botanic 
 Gardens. My lord, I wish you good morning; 
 but before I go, accept my thanks for your kind- 
 ness to my young friend. I assure you he will 
 be a useful man; for he is even now no in- 
 different casuist.” 
 
 “ And I, my lord,” said Denis, “ return you 
 my most grateful — hem — my most grateful — 
 and — most supercilious thanks for the favour — 
 the stupendous favour you have conferred upon 
 me.” 
 
 “ God bless you, my dear child,” returned the 
 bishop ; “ but if you be advised by me, speak 
 more intelligibly. Use plain words, and discard 
 all difficult and pedantic, expressions. God 
 bless you! Farewell!” 
 
 On coming down, they found old Denis in 
 the stable-yard in rather a ridiculous kind of har- 
 ness. The saddle that had been on the colt was 
 strapped about him with the bridle, for both had 
 been borrowed from a neighbour. 
 
 ‘‘ Dionnisis an’ I must both ride the same 
 horse,” said he, “ an’ as we have two saddles, I 
 must carry one of them.” 
 
 An altercation then ensued as to which should 
 ride foremost. The son, now in high glee, in- 
 sisted on the father’s taking the seat of honour; 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 433 
 
 but the father would not hear of this. The 
 lad was, in his opinion, at least semi-clerical, 
 and to ride behind would he a degradation to 
 so learned a youth. They mounted at length, 
 the son foremost, and the father on the crupper, 
 the saddle strapped about him, with the stirrups 
 dangling by the horse’s flanks. Father Fin- 
 nerty, who accompanied them, could not, how- 
 ever, on turning from the bishop’s grounds into 
 the highway, get a word out of them. The truth 
 is, both their hearts were full; both were, there- 
 fore, silent, and thought every minute an hour 
 until they reached home. 
 
 This was but natural. A man may conceal 
 calamity or distress even from his dearest friends; 
 for who is there who wishes to be thrust back 
 from his acknowledged position in life? Or who, 
 when he is thrust back, will not veil his mis- 
 fortunes or his errors with the guise of indif- 
 ference or simulation? In good fortune we act 
 differently. It is a step advanced; an elevation 
 gained; there is nothing to fear, or to be ashamed 
 of, and we are as strongly prompted by vanity 
 to proclaim it to the world, as we are by pride 
 to ascribe its occurrence to our own talents or 
 virtues. There are other and purer motives for 
 this. The affections will not be still; they seek 
 the hearts to which they tend; and having found 
 them, the mutual interchange of good takes 
 place. Father Finnerty — ^whose heart, though 
 a kind one, had, probably, been too long out of. 
 practice to remember the influence and working 
 of the domestic affections — could not compre- 
 
 III— 28 
 
434 IRELAND 
 
 hend the singular conduct of the two O’Shaugh- 
 nessys. 
 
 “What the devil is the matter with you?” 
 he inquired. “ Have you lost the use of your 
 speech? ” 
 
 “ Push an, avourneen,” said the father to 
 Denis — “ push an ; lay the spur to him. Isn’t 
 your spur on the right foot? ” 
 
 “ Most certainly,” said Denis, now as pedantic 
 as ever — “ most certainly it is. You are not 
 to be informed that our family spur is a right- 
 foot spur.” 
 
 “ Well, then, Pether Gallagher’s spur that I 
 have an is a left-foot spur, for it’s an my left 
 foot.” 
 
 “ You are a bright pair,” said the priest, some- 
 what nettled at their neglect of him — “ you are 
 a bright pair, and deeply learned in spurs. 
 Can’t you ride asier? ” 
 
 “ Never heed him,” said the father in a 
 whisper; “ do you give the mare the right spur, 
 an’ I’ll give her the left. Push an! That’s 
 it.” 
 
 They accordingly dashed forward, Denis 
 plying one heel, and the father another, until 
 the priest found himself gradually falling be- 
 hind. In vain he plied hoth spurs; in vain he 
 whipped, and wriggled on the saddle, and 
 pressed forward his hack. Being a priest’s 
 horse, the animal had been accustomed for the 
 last twelve years to a certain jog-trot-pace, be- 
 yond which it neither would nor could go. On 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 435 
 
 finding all his efforts to overtake them unsuc- 
 cessful, he at last shouted after them. 
 
 “ Do you call that gratitude, my worthy 
 friends? To lave me creeping over the ups and 
 downs of this villanous road without company? ” 
 
 “ Lay an, aroon,” said the father. “ Let us 
 get home. Oh, how your poor mother will die 
 wid joy, an’ Susy, an’ Nanny, an’ Brian, an’ 
 Michael, an’ Dick, an’ Lanty, an’ all o’ them. 
 Glor}^ be to Heaven! what a meetin’ we’ll have! 
 An’ the nabours, too! Push an, avick ma- 
 chree.” 
 
 “My curse upon you. Friar Henessy!” ex- 
 claimed the priest, in a soliloquy, “ it was you 
 who first taught this four-footed snail to go 
 like a thief to the gallows. I wish to Heaven 
 you had palmed him on some one else, for many 
 a dinner I have lost by him in my time. Is that 
 your gratitude, gentlemen? Do I deserve this? ” 
 
 “ What is he sayin’? ” said the father. 
 
 “ He is declaiming about gratitude,” rephed 
 Denis. 
 
 “ Lav an’ her,” said the father. “ Poor 
 Mave! ’’ 
 
 “ Such conduct does you credit,” shouted the 
 priest. “ It’s just the way of the world. You 
 have got what you wanted out of me, an’ now 
 you throw me off. However, go on.” 
 
 “ What’s that? ” said the father again. 
 
 “ He is desiring us to go on,” replied the son. 
 
 “ Then, in the name o’ Goodness, do so, 
 avourneen. Susy will die downright.” 
 
436 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “Where am I do dine to-day?” shouted the 
 priest, in a louder voice. “ I say, where am I 
 to come in for my dinner, for I’m not expected 
 at home, and my curate dines out? ” 
 
 “ I can’t hear him,” said the father. 
 
 “He says the curate dines out ; an’ he wants 
 to know if he’s to dine with us.” 
 
 “ Throth, an’ he won’t ; not that we begrudge 
 it to him; but for this day the sarra one we’ll 
 have but our own relations. Push an. An’ 
 Brian, too, poor fellow, that was always so 
 proud of you!” 
 
 They had now reached the top of an ascent 
 on the road, whilst the priest toiled up after 
 them. In a few minutes they began to descend, 
 and consequently were out of his sight. 
 
 No description of mine could give an adequate 
 perception to the reader of what was felt by the 
 family on hearing that the object of Denis’s 
 hopes, and their owm proud ambition, was at 
 length accomplished. The Bishop’s letter was 
 looked at, turned in every direction, and the seal 
 inspected with a kind of wonderful curiosity, 
 such as a superstitious person would manifest 
 on seeing or touching some sacred relic. The 
 period appointed for his departure now de- 
 pended upon the despatch with which they could 
 equip him for college. But until this event 
 should arrive, his friends lost no opportunity 
 of having him among them. Various were the 
 treats he got in fair and market. Proud were 
 his relations when paying him the respect which 
 he felt right sincere pleasure in receiving. The 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 43T 
 
 medium between dignity and humility which he 
 hit off in these scenes, was worthy of being re- 
 corded; but, to do him justice, his forte lay in 
 humility. He certainly condescended with a 
 ffrace, and made them feel the honour done them 
 by his vouchsafing to associate with such poor 
 creatures, as if he were one of themselves. To 
 do them also justice, they appeared to feel his 
 condescension; and, as a natural consequence, 
 were ready to lick the very dust under his feet, 
 considering him, as they did, a priest in every- 
 thing but ordination. 
 
 Denis, besides his intercourse with humble 
 relatives, was now asked to dine with the 
 neighbouring clergymen, and frequently made 
 one at their parties. In the beginning, his high 
 opinion and awe of the clerical character, kept 
 him remarkably dull and sheepish. Many an 
 excellent joke was cracked at liis expense; and 
 often did he ask himself what Phadrick Murray, 
 his father’s family, or his acquaintances in 
 general, would say, if they saw his learning and 
 his logic so villanously degraded. In proportion, 
 however, as conviviality developed among his 
 reverend friends many defects, opinions, and 
 failings, which he never suspected them to pos- 
 sess, so did he begin to gather courage and 
 facility of expression. By degrees he proceeded 
 modestly from the mild and timid effort at wit, 
 to the steadier nerve of moderate confidence; an- 
 other step brought him to the indifference of a 
 man who can bear an unsuccessful attempt at 
 pleasantry, without being discomposed; the third 
 
438 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 and last stage advanced him to downright as- 
 surance, which having reached, he stopped at 
 nothing. From this forward he began to re- 
 tort upon his clerical companions, who found 
 that the sheepish youth whom they had often 
 made ridiculous, possessed skill, when properly 
 excited, to foil them at their own weapons. He 
 observed many things in their convivial meetings. 
 The holy man, whom his flock looked upon as 
 a being of the highest sanctity, when lit up into 
 fun and frolic, Denis learned to estimate at his 
 just value. He thought, besides, that a person 
 resolved to go to heaven, had as good a chance 
 of being saved by the direct mercy of God, as 
 through the ministration of men, whose only 
 spiritual advantage over himself consisted in 
 the mere fact of being in orders. To be sure, 
 he saw the usual exceptions among them that 
 are to be found among every other class; but 
 he drew his conclusions from the general rule. 
 All this, however, failed in removing that funda- 
 mental principle of honest superstition in which 
 he had been trained. The clergymen whom he 
 saw were only a few of those who constituted the 
 great body of the church ; but when the long and 
 sanctified calendar of saints and miracles opened 
 upon him, there still remained enough to throw 
 a dim and solemn charm of shadowy pomp 
 around the visions of a mind naturally imagina- 
 tive. 
 
 Messengers were once more sent abroad, to 
 inform their friends of his triumph, who, on as- 
 certaining that his journey was fixed for an early 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 439 
 
 day, lost no time in pouring in, each with some 
 gift suited to their circumstances. Some of these 
 were certainly original, the appropriateness hav- 
 ing been in every case determined by the wealth 
 or poverty, ignorance or knowledge, of those who 
 offered them. Some poor relation, for instance, 
 brought him a shirt or two of materials so coarse, 
 that to wear it in a college would be out of the 
 question; others offered him a pair of brogues, 
 much too vulgar for the society he was about to 
 enter; others, again, would present him with 
 books — for it is not at all uncommon to find in 
 many illiterate Irish families half-a-dozen old 
 volumes of whose contents they are ignorant, ly- 
 ing in a dusty corner, where they are kept till 
 some young scion shall be sufficiently instructed 
 to peruse them. The names of these were 
 singular enough. One presented him with “The 
 Necessity of Penance;” another with “Laugh 
 and be Fat; ” a third with the “ Key of Para- 
 dise; ” a fourth with “Hell Open;” a fifth 
 handed liim a copy of the “ Irish Rogues and 
 Rapparees;” a sixth gave him “Butler’s Lives 
 of Saints; ” a seventh “ The Necessity of Fast- 
 ing; ” an eighth “ The Epicure’s Fade Mecuinf' 
 The list ran on very ludicrously. Among them 
 were the “ Garden of Love and Royal Flower 
 of Fidelity;” “An Essay on the Virtue of 
 Celibacy;” and another “On the Increase of 
 Population in Ireland.” To these we may add 
 “ The Devil upon Two Sticks,” and “ The Life 
 of St. Anthony.” 
 
 “ Take these, Misther Denis,” said the worthy 
 
440 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 souls; ‘‘they’re of no use to us at all at all; 
 but they’ll sarve you, of coorse, where you’re 
 goin’, bekase when you want books in the college 
 you can use them.” 
 
 Honest Phadrick Murray, in lieu of a more 
 valuable present, brought him his wife’s largest 
 and best shawl as a pocket handkerchief. 
 
 “ Katty, sir, sent you this,” said Phadrick, “ as 
 a pocket handkerchy ; an’ be gorra, Misther 
 Denis, if you begin at this corner, an’ take it 
 out o’ the face, it’ll last you six months at a 
 time, any how.” 
 
 Another neighbour came with a cool of ren- 
 dered lard, hoping it might be serviceable. 
 
 “ Norah, sir,” said the honest friend who 
 brought it, “ sent you a crock of her own lard. 
 When you’re makin’ colcanon, sir, or sthilk, 
 in the college, if you slip in a lump of this, it’ll 
 save you the price of butther. The grace ’ill be 
 useful to you, whether or not; an’ they say there’s 
 a scarcity of it in the college.” 
 
 A third brought him an oak sapling to keep in 
 his hand about the purlieus of the establishment. 
 
 “We know,” said he, “that you’re given to 
 arguin’ an’ to that thing you call logic, Misther 
 Denis. Now, Sir, if you’re ever hard set in an 
 argument or the like o’ that, or if any o’ the 
 shthudjeents ’ud be throublesome or imperant, 
 why give them a touch o’ this — a lick of it, do 
 you see; jist this a way. First come wid a back 
 sthroke upon the left ear, if they want to be 
 properly convinced; an’ thin agin’ afore they have 
 time to recover, come down wid a visitation upon 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 441 
 
 the kidney. ]\Iy life for yours, they’ll soon let 
 you alone. Nothin’ puzzles one in an argument 
 more than it does.” 
 
 “ Ay,” said Denis, “ that is what they call in 
 the books the argumejitum hacidinum, I accept 
 your present, Roger ; but I flatter myself I shall 
 be a match for any of the collegians without hav- 
 ing recourse to the argiunentum haculinum/^ 
 
 A poor old widow, who was distantly related to 
 them, came upwards of four miles with two or 
 three score of eggs, together with a cock and hen ; 
 the eggs for his own use, and the latter for breed- 
 ing in Maynooth. 
 
 “ Avourneen, Misther O’ Shaughnessy,” said 
 she, in broken English, when you ate out all 
 the eggs, maybe you could get a sonsy little cor- 
 ner about the collegian that you’re goin’ to larn 
 to be a priest in, an’ put them both into it;” 
 
 ■ — pointing at the same time to the cock and hen 
 - — “ an’ whishper,” she continued, in a low 
 friendly voice, “ if you could get a weeshy wisp 
 o’ sthraw, an’ slip it undher your own bed, it 
 would make a nest for them, an’ they’d lay an 
 egg for your breakfast all days in the year. 
 But, achora, don’t let them be widout a nest egg ; 
 an’ whishper — maybe you’d breed a clackin’ out 
 o’ them, that you might sell. Sure they’d help to 
 buy duds of does for you; or you might make 
 presents of the crathurs to the blessed an’ holy 
 collegian himself. Wouldn’t it be good to have 
 him an your side? — He’d help to make a gintle- 
 man of you, any way. Faix, sure he does it for 
 many, they say. An’ whishper — the breed, . 
 
442 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 avourneen, is good; an’ I’m not afeard to say that 
 there never was sich a chicken in the whole col- 
 legian, as the ould cock himself. He’s the 
 darlin’ all out, an’ can crow so stoutly, that it 
 bates the world. Sure his comb’s a beauty to 
 look at, the darlin’; an’ only it’s to yourself, an’ 
 in regard of the blessed place he’s goin’ to, I 
 wouldn’t part wid him to nobody whatsomever, at 
 all, good or bad.” 
 
 The most original gift of all was a purse, 
 formed of a small bladder, ingeniously covered 
 with silk. It was given to him by his uncle, as 
 a remembrance of him, in the first place; and 
 secondly, for a more special purpose. 
 
 “ This will sarve you. Sir,” said his uncle, “ an’ 
 I’ll tell you how: if you want to smuggle in a 
 sup of good whisky — as of coorse you will, plase 
 goodness — why this houlds exactly a pint, an’ is 
 the very thing for it. The sorra one among 
 them will ever think of searchin’ your purse, at 
 least for whisky. Put it in your pocket, Misther 
 Dionnisis; an’ I’d take it as a great kindness, 
 if you’d write me a scrape or two of the pen, 
 mentionin’ what a good parish ’ud be worth: 
 you’ll soon be able to tell me, for I’ve some 
 notion myself of puttin’ Barny to the Latin.” 
 
 Denis was perfectly aware of the honest 
 warmth of heart with which these simple tokens 
 of esteem were presented to him; and young as 
 he was, his knowledge of their habits and preju- 
 dices prevented him from disappointing them by 
 a refusal. He consequently accepted everything 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 44;3 
 
 offered him, appropriated to himself whatever 
 was suitable to his wants, converted the remainder 
 into pocket-money; and, of course, kept his con- 
 science void of offence towards them all; a state 
 of Christian virtue which his refusal of any one 
 gift would have rendered difficult. 
 
 On the day before his departure, the friends 
 and relations of the family assembled to hold 
 their farewell meeting. The same spirit which 
 marked all their rustic symposia presided in this ; 
 if we except a feeling of sorrow natural to his 
 family on being separated from one they loved 
 so affectionately. Denis, who was never de- 
 ficient in warmth of feeling, could not be in- 
 sensible to the love and pride with which his 
 family had always looked upon him. Ambition, 
 as he approached it, lost much of its fictitious 
 glitter. A sense of sorrow, if not of remorse, 
 for the fastidious and overbearing spirit he had 
 manifested to them, pressed upon his heart. 
 Pride, in fact, was expelled; nature resumed her 
 empire over him; he looked upon the last two 
 months of his life as a man would be apt to do, 
 who had been all that time under the dominion 
 of a feverish dream. We do not say, how- 
 ever that either ambition or superstition was 
 thoroughly expelled from his mind; for it is hard 
 at all times to root them out of the system of 
 man: but they ceased to govern him altogether. 
 A passion, too, as obstinate as either of them, 
 was determined to dispute their power. The 
 domestic affections softened his heart; but love. 
 
444 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 which ambition left for dead, was only stunned; 
 it rose again, and finding a favourable position, 
 set its seal to his feelings. 
 
 Denis himself, some days before that appointed 
 for his departure, became perfectly conscious 
 that his affections were strongly fixed upon 
 Susan Connor. The nature of their last inter- 
 view filled him with shame; nay more, it in- 
 spired him with pity for the fair artless girl 
 whom he had so unfeelingly insulted. The 
 manner in which he had won her young affec- 
 tions ; the many tender interviews that had passed 
 between them; the sacred promises of unchange- 
 able love they had made to each other, all 
 crowded to his imagination with a power which 
 reduced his spiritual ambition and ecclesiastical 
 pride, at least to the possession only of a divided 
 empire. He had, therefore, with his book in his 
 hand as usual, taken many solitary walks for 
 the preceding few days, with the expectation of 
 meeting Susan. He heard that for the last 
 month or six weeks, she had looked ill, been in 
 low spirits, and lost her health. The cause of 
 this change, though a secret to the world, was 
 known to him. He knew, indeed, that an inter- 
 view between them was indispensable; but had 
 it not been so, we question whether he would 
 have been able to leave home without seeing 
 her. 
 
 His evening strolls, however, up until the day 
 before his setting out for college, were fruitless. 
 Susan, who heretofore had been in the habit of 
 walking in the evenings among the green dells 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 445 
 
 around her father’s house, was ever since their 
 last meeting almost invisible. In the mean time, 
 as the day before that of his leaving the neigh- 
 bourhood had arrived, and as an interview with 
 her was, in a religious point of view, essentially 
 necessary, he took his book in the course of the 
 evening, and by a path slightly circuitous, de- 
 scended the valley that ran between his father’s 
 house and hers. With solemn strides he per- 
 ambulated it in every direction — north, south, 
 east, and west; not a natural bower in the glen 
 was unexplored; not a green quiet nook un- 
 searched; not a shady tree unexamined; but all 
 to no purpose. Yet, although he failed in meet- 
 ing herself, a thousand objects brought her to 
 to his heart. Every dell, natural bower, and 
 shady tree, presented him with a history of their 
 past affections. Here was the spot where, with 
 beating heart and crimson cheek, she had first 
 breathed out in broken music the acknowledg- 
 ment of her love; there had another stolen meet- 
 ing, a thousand times the sweeter for being 
 stolen, taken place. Every spot, in fact, was 
 dear to him, and every object associated itself 
 with delightful emotions that kindled new life 
 in a spirit from which their parent affections had 
 not yet passed away. 
 
 Denis now sought the only other place where 
 he had any likelihood of meeting her: this was 
 at the well below her father’s house. He walked 
 down along the banks of the little stream that 
 ran past it, until he reached a thorn bush that 
 grew within a few yards of the spring. Under 
 
446 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 this he sat, anxiously hoping that Susan might 
 come to fill her evening pail, as he knew she was 
 wont to do. A thick flowery branch of the haw- 
 thorn, for it was the latter end of May, hung 
 down from the trunk, and served as a screen 
 through which he could observe her should she 
 appear, without being visible himself. 
 
 It was now the hour of twilight; the evening 
 was warm and balmy ; the whitethorn under 
 which he sat, and the profusion of wild-flowers 
 that spangled the bosom of the green glen, 
 breathed their fragrance around him, and steeped 
 the emotions and remembrances which crowded 
 thickly on him in deep and exquisite tenderness. 
 Up in the air he heard the quavering hum of the 
 snipe, as it rose and fell in undulating motion, 
 and the creak of the rail in many directions 
 around him. From an adjoining meadow in the 
 distance, the merry voices of the village children 
 came upon his ear, as they gathered the wild 
 honey which dropped like dew from the soft 
 clouds upon the long grassy stalks, and meadow- 
 sweet, on whose leaves it lay like amber. He re- 
 membered when he and Susan, on meeting there 
 for a similar purpose, felt the first mysterious 
 pleasure in being together, and the unaccount- 
 able melancholy produced by separation and ab- 
 sence. 
 
 At length he heard a footstep; but he could 
 not persuade himself that the slow and lingering 
 tread of the person approaching him was that of 
 Susan, so much did it differ from the buoyant 
 and elastic step with which she used to trip along. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 447 
 
 On looking* through the branches, however, he 
 perceived her coming towards him, carrying the 
 pitcher as usual in her hand. The blood was al- 
 ready careering at full speed through his veins, 
 and the palpitations of his heart were loud 
 enough to be heard by the ear. 
 
 Oh, beautj", beauty! teterrima causa belli, thou 
 dost play the devil with the hearts of men 1 Who 
 is there who doth not wish to look upon thee, 
 from the saint to the sinner? — None. For thee 
 worlds have been lost; nations swept off the 
 earth ; thrones overturned ; and cities laid in ashes 1 
 Adam, David, Marc Antony, Abelard, and Denis 
 O’Shaughnessy, exliibit histories of thy power 
 never to be forgotten, but the greatest of these 
 is Denis O’Shaughnessy. 
 
 Susan was about the middle size; her tresses, 
 like those of the daughters of her country, were 
 a fair brown, and abundant. Her features were 
 not such, we admit, as mark regular and scien- 
 tific perfection, and perhaps much of their power 
 was owing to their not being altogether sym- 
 metrical. Her great charm consisted in a spirit 
 of 3 ^outhful innocence so guileless, that the very 
 light of purity and truth seemed to break in ra- 
 diance from her countenance. Her form was 
 round, light, and flexible. When she smiled, 
 her face seemed to lose the character of its mor- 
 tality — so seraphic and full of an indescribable 
 spell were its lineaments; that is, the spell was 
 felt by its thrilling influence upon the beholder, 
 rather than by any extraordinary perception of 
 her external beauty. The general expression of 
 
448 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 her countenance, however, was that of mel- 
 ancholy. No person could look upon her white 
 forehead and dark flashing eyes, without per- 
 ceiving that she was full of tenderness and en- 
 thusiasm; but let the light of cheerfulness fall 
 upon her face, and you wished never to see it 
 beam with any other spirit. In her met those 
 extremes of character peculiar to her country. 
 Her laughing lips expanded with the playful 
 delicacy of mirth, or breathed forth, with un- 
 taught melody and deep pathos, her national 
 songs of sorrow. 
 
 A little before she made her appearance, the 
 moon had risen and softened with her dewy light 
 the calm secluded scene around them. Denis, too, 
 had an opportunity of seeing the lovely girl more 
 distinctly. Her dress was simple but becoming. 
 Her hair, except the side ringlets that fell to 
 heighten the beauty of her neck, was bound up 
 with a comb which Denis himself had presented 
 to her. She wore a white dimity bedgown, that 
 sat close to her well-formed person, descended 
 below her knee, and opened before; the sleeves of 
 it did not reach the elbow, but displayed an arm 
 that could not be surpassed for whiteness and 
 beauty. The bedgown was frilled about the 
 shoulder, which it covered, leaving the neck only, 
 and the upper part of her snowy bosom, visible. 
 A dark ribbon, tied about her waist, threw her 
 figure into exquisite outline, and gave her that 
 simple elegance which at once bespeaks the har- 
 mony of due proportion. 
 
 On reaching the well she filled her vessel, and 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 449 
 
 placed it on a small mound beside her; then sit- 
 ting down, she mused for some time, and turning 
 her eyes towards Denis’s father’s, sighed deeply. 
 
 “ It’s the least,” said the humbled girl, “ that 
 I may look towards the house that the only one I 
 ever loved, or ever will love, lives in. Little I 
 thought when I loved him that I was standin’ be- 
 tween him an’ God. Loved him! I wish I 
 could say it was past, I wish I could; for I am 
 afeard that till my weak heart breaks it will love 
 him still. God pity me! It would be well for 
 me I had never seen him! But why he should 
 go to Maynooth without givin’ me back my 
 promise, I cannot tell.” 
 
 Denis rose and approached her. Susan, on 
 seeing him, started, and her lover could perceive 
 that she hastily wiped the tears from her eyes. 
 A single glance, however, convinced her that it 
 was he; and such was the guileless simplicity of 
 her heart, joined to the force of habit, that her 
 face beamed with one of her wonted smiles at his 
 appearance. This soon passed away, and her 
 features again resumed an expression of deep 
 melancholy. 
 
 Our hero now forgot his learning; his poly- 
 syllables were laid aside, and his pedantry ut- 
 terly abandoned. His pride, too, was gone, and 
 the petty pomp of artificial character flung aside 
 like an unnecessary garment which only op- 
 presses the wearer. 
 
 “ Susan,” said he, “ I am sorry to see you look 
 so pale and unhappy. I deeply regret it; and I 
 could not permit this day to pass, without seeing 
 
 III— 29 
 
450 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 and speaking to you. If I go to-morrow, Susan, 
 may I now ask in what light will you remember 
 me?” 
 
 “I’ll remember you without anger, Denis; 
 with sorrow will I remember you, but not, as I 
 said, in anger; though God knows, and you 
 know, the only token you lave me to remember 
 you by is a broken heart.” 
 
 “ Susan,” said Denis, “ it was an unhappy at- 
 tachment, as circumstances have turned out; and 
 I wish for both our sakes we had never loved one 
 another. F or some time past my heart has been 
 torn diff erent ways, and, to tell you the truth, I 
 acknowledge that within the last three or four 
 months I have been little less than a villain to 
 you.” 
 
 “You speak harshly of yourself, Denis; I 
 hope, more so than you deserve.” 
 
 “ No, Susy. With my heart fixed upon other 
 hopes, I continued to draw your affections closer 
 and closer to me.” 
 
 “ Well, that was wrong, Denis; but you loved 
 me long before that time, an’ it’s not so asy a 
 thing to draw away the heart from what we love; 
 that is, to draw it away for ever, Denis, even al- 
 though greater things may rise up before us.” 
 
 As she pronounced the last words, her voice, 
 which she evidently strove to keep firm, became 
 unsteady. 
 
 “ That’s true, Susan, I know it; but I will 
 never forgive myself for acting a double part to 
 you and to the world. There is not a pang you 
 suffer but ought to fall as a curse upon my head, 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 451 
 
 for leading you into greater confidence, at a time 
 when I was not seriously resolved to fulfil my 
 vows to you.” 
 
 “ Denis,” said the unsuspecting girl, “ you’re 
 imposin’ on yourself — you never could do so bad, 
 so treacherous an act as that. No, you never 
 could, Denis; an’, above all the world, to a heart 
 that loved and trusted you as mine did. I won’t 
 believe it, even from your own lips. You surely 
 loved me, Denis, and in that case you couldnt 
 be desateful to me.” 
 
 “ I did love you; but I never loved you half 
 so w ell as I ought, Susy ; and I never was worthy 
 of you. Susy, I tell you — I tell you — my heart 
 is breaking for your sake. It would have been 
 well for both of us we had never seen, or known, 
 or loved each other ; for I know by my own heart 
 what you must suffer.” 
 
 “Denis, don’t be cast down on my account; 
 before I ever thought of you, when I was runnin’^ 
 about the glens here, a lonely little orphan, I was 
 often sorry, without knowin’ why. Sometimes I 
 used to wonder at it, and search my mind to 
 find out what occasioned it: but I never could. 
 I suppose it was because I saw other girls, 
 like myself, havin’ their little brothers an’ 
 sisters to play Muth ; or because I had no mother’s 
 voice to call me night or mornin’, or her bosom 
 to lay my head on, if I was sick or tired. I sup- 
 pose it was this. Many a time, Denis, even then, 
 I knew what sorrow was, and I often thought 
 that, come what would to others, there was sor- 
 row before me. I now find I was right; but for 
 
452 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 all that, Denis, it’s betther that we should give 
 up one another in time, than be unhappy by my 
 bein’ the means of turnin’ you from the ways 
 and duties of God.” 
 
 The simple and touching picture which she 
 drew of her orphan childhood, together with the 
 tone of resignation and sorrow which ran through 
 all she said, affected Denis deeply. 
 
 “ Susan,” he replied, “ I am much changed of 
 late. The prospect before me is a dark one — a 
 mysterious one. It is not many months since my 
 head was dizzy with the gloomy splendour which 
 the pomps and ceremonies of the Church — soon, 
 I trust, to be restored in this country to all her 
 pride and power — presented to my imagination. 
 But I have mingled with those on whom before 
 this — that is, during my boyhood — I looked with 
 awe, as on men who held vested in themselves 
 some mysterious and spiritual power. I have 
 mingled with them, Susan, and I find them 
 neither better nor worse than those who still look 
 upon them as I once did.” 
 
 “ Well, but, Denis, how does that bear upon 
 your views? ” 
 
 “ It does, Susan. I said I have found them 
 neither better nor worse than their fellow-crea- 
 tures; but I believe they are not so happy. I 
 think I could perceive a gloom, even in their 
 mirth, that told of some particular thought or 
 care that haunted them like a spirit. Some of 
 them, and not a few, in the moments of undis- 
 guised feeling, dissuaded me against ever enter- 
 ing the Church.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 453 
 
 “ I am sure they’re happy,” said Susan. 
 “ Some time ago, accordin’ to your own words, 
 you thought the same ; but something has turned 
 your heart from the good it was fixed upon. 
 You’re in a dangerous time, Denis; and it’s not 
 to be wondhered at, if the temptations of the 
 devil should thry you now, in hopes to turn you 
 from the service of God. This is a warnin’ to 
 me, too, Denis. May Heaven above forbid that 
 I should be made the means of temptin’ you 
 from the duty that’s before you! ” 
 
 “No, Susan dear, it’s not temptation, but the 
 fear of temptation, that prevails with me.” 
 
 “ But, Denis, surely if you think yourself not 
 worthy to enther that blessed state, you have 
 time enough to avoid it.” 
 
 “ Ay, but, Susy, there is the difficulty. I am 
 now so placed that I can hardly go back. First, 
 the disgrace of refusing to enter the Church 
 would lie upon me as if I had committed a crime. 
 Again, I would break my father’s and my moth- 
 er’s heart: and rather than do that, I could 
 almost submit to be miserable for life. And 
 finally, I could not live in the family, nor bear 
 the indignation of my brothers and other rela- 
 tions. You know, Susan, as well as I do, the 
 character attached to those who put their friends 
 to the expense of educating them for the Church, 
 who raise their hopes and their ambition, and 
 afterwards disappoint them.” 
 
 “ I know it.” 
 
 “ This, Susan, dear, prevails with me. Be- 
 sides, the Church now is likely to rise from her 
 
454 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 ruins. I believe that if a priest did his duty, he 
 might possibly possess miraculous power. There 
 is great pomp and splendour in her ceremonies, 
 a sense of high and boundless authority in her 
 pastors ; there is rank in her orders sufficient even 
 for ambition. Then the deference, the awe, and 
 the humility with which they are approached by 
 the people — ah! Susan, there is much still in the 
 character of a priest for the human heart to covet. 
 The power of saying mass, of forgiving sin, of 
 relieving the departed spirits of the faithful in 
 another world, and of mingling in our holy sacri- 
 fices with the glorious worship of the cherubims, 
 or angels, in heaven — all this is the privilege of a 
 priest, and what earthly rank can be compared 
 to it? ” 
 
 “ None at all, Denis — none at all. Oh, think 
 this way still, and let no earthly temptation — no 
 — don’t let — even me — ^what am I ? — a poor 
 humble girl — oh! no, let nothing keep you back 
 from this.” 
 
 The tears burst from her eyes, however, as she 
 spoke. 
 
 “ But, Denis,” she added, there is one thing 
 that turns my brain. I fear that, even afther 
 your ordination, I couldn’t look upon you as I 
 would upon another man. Oh, my heart would 
 break if one improper thought of it was fixed 
 upon you then/'' 
 
 ‘‘ Susy, hear me. I could give up all, but you. 
 I could bear to disappoint father, mother, and 
 all; but the thought of giving you up for ever is 
 terrible. I have been latterly in a kind of dream. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 4.55 
 
 I have been among friends and relatives until 
 my brain was turned; but now I am restored to 
 myself, and I find I cannot part with you. I 
 would gladly do it; but I cannot. Oh, no, Susan, 
 dear, my love for you was dimmed by other pas- 
 sions; but it was not extinguisbed. It now 
 burns stronger and purer in my heart than ever. 
 It does — it does. And, Susan, I always loved 
 you.” 
 
 Susan paused for some time, and unconsciously 
 plucked a wild flower which grew beside her : she 
 surveyed it a moment, and exclaimed: — 
 
 “Do you see this flower, Denis? it’s a faded 
 primrose. I’m like that flower in one sense; Fm 
 faded; my heart’s broke.” 
 
 “ No, my beloved Susan, don’t say so; you’re 
 only low-spirited. Why should your heart be 
 broke, and you in the very bloom of youth and 
 beauty? ” 
 
 “Do you remember our last meetin’, Denis? 
 Oh, how could you be so cruel then as to bid me 
 think of marryin’ another, as if I had loved you 
 for anything but yourself? I’m but a simple 
 girl, Denis, and know but little of the world ; but 
 if I was to live a thousand years, you would al- 
 ways see the sorrow that your words made me 
 feel visible upon my countenance. I’m not 
 angiy with you, Denis; but I’m telling you the 
 truth.” 
 
 “ Susan, my darling, this is either weakness of 
 mind or ill health. I will see you as beautiful 
 and happy as ever. For my part, I now tell 
 you, that no power on earth can separate us! 
 
456 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 Yes, my beloved Susan, I will see you as happy 
 and happier than I have ever seen you. That 
 will be when you are my own young and guile- 
 less wife.” 
 
 “Ah, no, Denis! My mind is made up: I 
 can never be your wife. Do you think that I 
 would bring the anger of God upon myself, by 
 temptin’ you back from the holy office you’re en- 
 tering into? Think of it yourself, Denis. Your 
 feelings are melted now by our discoorse, and, 
 maybe, because I’m near you; but when time 
 passes, you’ll be glad that in the moment of weak- 
 ness you didn’t give way to them. I know it’s 
 natural for you to love me now. You’re lavin’ 
 me — you’re lavin’ the place where I am — the lit- 
 tle river and the glen where we so often met, and 
 where we often spent many a happy hour to- 
 gether. That has an effect upon you; for why 
 should I deny it? — you see it — it is hard — very 
 hard — even upon myself.” 
 
 She neither sobbed nor cried so as to be heard, 
 but the tears gushed down her cheeks in torrents. 
 
 “ Susan,” said Denis, in an unsteady voice, 
 “ you speak in vain. Every word you say tells 
 me that I cannot live without you; and I will 
 not.” 
 
 “ Don’t say that, Denis. Suppose we should 
 be married, think of what I would suffer if I 
 saw you in poverty or distress, brought on be- 
 cause you married me! Why, my heart would 
 sink entirely under it. Then your friends would 
 never give me a warm heart. Me! they would 
 never give yourself a warm heart; and I would 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 457 
 
 rather be dead than see you brought to shame, 
 or ill-treatment, or poverty, on my account. 
 Pray to God, Denis, to grant you grace to over- 
 come whatever you feel for me. I have prayed 
 both for you and myself. Oh, pray to him, 
 Denis, sincerely, that he may enable you to for- 
 get that such a girl — such an unhappy girl — as 
 Susan Connor ever lived! ” 
 
 Poor Denis was so much overcome that he 
 could not restrain his tears. He gazed upon the 
 melancholy countenance of the fair girl, in a de- 
 lirium of love and admiration; but in a few min- 
 utes he replied: — 
 
 “ Susan, your words are lost: I am deter- 
 mined. Oh 1 great heavens, what a treasure was 
 I near losing! Susan, hear me: I will bear all 
 that this world can inflict; I will bear shame, ill- 
 treatment, anger, scorn, and every harsh word 
 that may be uttered against me ; I will renounce 
 church, spiritual power, rank, honour; I will give 
 up father and family — all — all that this world 
 could flatter me with: yes, I will renounce each 
 and all for your sake! Do not dissuade me; my 
 mind is fixed, and no power on earth can change 
 it.” 
 
 “Yes, Denis,” she replied calmly, “ there is a 
 power, and a weak power, too, that will change 
 it ; for I will change it. Don’t think, Denis, that 
 in arguin’ with you, against the feelin’s of my 
 own heart, I am doin’ it without sufferin’. Oh, 
 no, indeed! You know, Denis, I am a lonely 
 girl; that I have neither brother, nor sister, nor 
 mother to direct me. Sufferin’! — Oh, I wish 
 
458 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 you knew it! Denis, you must forget me. I’m 
 hopeless now: my heart, as I said, is broke, and 
 I’m strivin’ to fix it upon a happier world! Oh! 
 if I had a mother or a sister, that I could, when 
 my breast is likely to burst, throw myself in their 
 arms, and cry and confess all I feel! But I’m 
 alone, and must bear all my own sorrows. Oh, 
 Denis ! I’m not without knowin’ how hard the task 
 is that I have set to myself. Is it nothing to 
 give up all that the heart is fixed upon? Is it 
 nothing to walk about this glen, and the green 
 fields, to have one’s eyes upon them, and to re- 
 member what happiness one has had in them, 
 knowin’, at the same time, that it’s all blasted? 
 Oh, is it nothing to look upon the green earth 
 itself, and all its beauty — to hear the happy songs 
 and the joyful voices of all that are about us — 
 the birds singing sweetly, the music of the river 
 flowin’ — to see the sun shinin’, and to hear the 
 rustlin’ of the trees in the warm winds of sum- 
 mer — to see and hear all this, and to feel that a 
 young heart is brakin’, or already broken within 
 us — that we are goin’ to lave it all — all we loved 
 — and to go down into the clay under us? Oh, 
 Denis, this is hard; — bitter is it to me, I confess 
 it; for sometliing tells me it will be my fate 
 soon! ” 
 
 But, Susan” 
 
 “ Hear me out. I have now repated what I 
 know I must suffer — what I know I must lose. 
 This is my lot, and I must bear it. Now, Denis, 
 will you grant your own Susan one request? ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 459 
 
 “ If it was that my life should save yours, I 
 would grant it.” 
 
 “ It’s the last and only one I will ever ask of 
 you. My health has been ill, Denis ; my strength 
 is gone, and I feel I am gettin’ worse every day : 
 now when you hear that I am — that I am — gone, 
 — will you olFer up the first mass you say for my 
 pace and rest in another world? I say the first, 
 for you know there’s more virtue in a first mass 
 than in any other. Your Susan will be then in 
 the dust, and you may feel sorrow, but not love 
 for her.” 
 
 “Never, Susan! For God’s sake, forbear! 
 You will drive me distracted. As I hope to meet 
 judgment, I think I never loved you till now; 
 and by the same oath, I will not change my pur- 
 pose in making you mine.” 
 
 “ Then you do love me still, Denis? And you 
 would give up all for your Susan? Answer me 
 truly, for the ear of God is open to our words 
 and thoughts.” 
 
 “ Then, before God, I love you too strongly 
 for words to express ; and I would and will give 
 up all for your sake! ” 
 
 Susan turned her eyes upon vacancy; and 
 Denis observed that a sudden and wild light 
 broke from them, which alarmed him exceed- 
 ingly. She put her open hand upon her fore- 
 head, as if she felt pain, and remained glancing 
 fearfully around her for a few minutes; her 
 countenance, which became instantly like a sheet 
 of paper, lost all its intelligence, except, perhaps, 
 
460 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 what might be gleaned from a smile of the most 
 ghastly and desolating misery. 
 
 “ Gracious heaven ! Susan, dear, what’s the 
 matter? Oh, my God! your face is like marble! 
 Dearest Susan, speak to me! — Oh, speak to me, 
 or I will go distracted! ” 
 
 She looked upon him long and steadily ; but he 
 perceived with delight that her consciousness was 
 gradually returning. At length she drew a deep 
 sigh, and requested him to hsten. 
 
 “ Denis,” said she, “ you must now be a man. 
 We can never be married. I am promised to 
 another! ” 
 
 “ Promised to another! Your brain is turned, 
 Susy. Collect yourself, dearest, and think of 
 what you say.” 
 
 “ I know what I say — I know it too well! 
 What did I say? Why — why,” she added, with 
 an unsettled look, “ that I’m promised to another! 
 It is true — true as God’s in heaven. Oh, Denis ! 
 why did you lave me so long without seein’ me? 
 I said my heart was broke, and you will soon 
 know that it has bitter, bitter rason to be so. See 
 here.” 
 
 She had, during her reply, taken from her 
 bosom a small piece of brown cloth, of a square 
 shape, marked witK the letters I. M. I. the initials 
 of the names of Jesus Mary, and Joseph. She 
 kissed it fervently as she spoke, and desired Denis 
 to look upon it and hear her. 
 
 “ When you saw me last,” she continued, “ I 
 left you in anger, because I thought you no 
 longer loved me. Many a scaldin’ tear I shed 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 461 
 
 that nobody witnessed ; many a wringin’ my heart 
 felt since that time. I got low, and, as I said, 
 my health left me. I began to think of what I 
 ought to do; and bein’ so much alone, my 
 thoughts were never off it. At last I remem- 
 bered the Virgin Mother of God, as bein’ once a 
 woman, and the likelier to pity one of her own 
 kind in sorrow. I then thought of a scapular; 
 and made a promise to myself, that if you didn’t 
 come within a certain time, I would dedicate my- 
 self to her for ever. I saw that you neglected 
 me, and I heard so much of the way you spent 
 your time, how you were pleasant and merry 
 while my heart was brealdn’, that I made a vow 
 to remain a spotless virgin all my life. I got a 
 scapular, too, that I might be strengthened to 
 keep my holy promise; for you didn’t come to 
 me within the time. This is it in my hand. It 
 is now on me. The vow is madf ., and I am 
 
 MISERABLE FOR EVER! ” 
 
 Denis sobbed and wrung his hands, whilst 
 tears, intensely bitter, fell from his eyes. 
 
 “ Oh, Susan! ” he exclaimed, ‘‘ what have you 
 done? Miserable! Oh, you have ruined me ut- 
 terly! You have rendered us both for ever 
 miserable! ” 
 
 “Miserable!” she exclaimed, with flashing 
 eyes. “ Who talks of misery? ” But again she 
 put her hand to her forehead, and endeavoured 
 to recollect herself. “ Denis,” she added, 
 “Denis, my brain is turning! Oh, I have no 
 friend ! Oh, mother, that I never seen, but as if 
 it was in a dream; mother, daughter of your 
 
462 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 daughter's hearty look down from heaven, and 
 pity your orphan child in her sore trouble and af- 
 fliction! Oh, how often did I miss you, mother 
 darlin’, durin’ all my life! In sickness I had 
 not your tendher hands about me; in sorrow I 
 could not hear your voice; and in joy and happi- 
 ness you were never with me to share them! I 
 had not your advice, my blessed mother, to guide 
 and direct me, to tache me what was right, and 
 what was wrong! Oh, if you will not hear your 
 own poor lonely orphan, who will you hear? if 
 you will not assist her, who ought you to assist? 
 for, as sure as I stand here this night, you are a 
 blessed saint in heaven. But let me not forget 
 the Virgin Queen of Heaven, that I am bound 
 to. I kneel to you, Hope of the Afflicted! To 
 you let them go that have a broken heart, as I 
 have! Queen of Glory, pity me! — Star of the 
 Sea — Comfort of the Hopeless — Refuge of Sin- 
 ners, hear me, strengthen, and support me ! And 
 you will too. Who did you ever cast away, mild 
 and beautiful Virgin of Heaven? ‘As the lily 
 among thorns, so are you among the daughters 
 of Adam! ’ Yes, Denis, she will support me — 
 she will support me! I feel her power on me 
 now! I see the angels of heaven about her, and 
 her mild countenance smilin’ sweetly upon the 
 broken flower! Yes, Denis, her glory is upon 
 me!” 
 
 The last words were uttered with her eyes 
 flashing wildly as before, and her whole person 
 and countenance evidently under the influence of 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 463 
 
 a highly excited enthusiasm, or perhaps a touch 
 of momentary insanity. 
 
 Poor Denis stood with streaming eyes, incapa- 
 ble of checking or interrupting her. He had 
 always knowm that her education and under- 
 standing were above the common; but he never 
 anticipated from her such capacity for deep feel- 
 ing, united to so much vivacity of imagination 
 as she then displayed. Perhaps he had not phi- 
 losophy enough, at that period of his youth, to 
 understand the effects of a solitary life upon a 
 creature full of imagination and sensibility. The 
 scenery about her father’s house was wild, and 
 the glens singularly beautiful; Susan lived 
 among them alone, so that she became in a man- 
 ner enamoured of solitude ; which, probably more 
 than anything else, gives tenderness to feeling, 
 and force to the imaginative faculties. Soon 
 after she had pronounced the last words, how- 
 ever, her good sense came to her aid. 
 
 “ Denis,” said she, “ you have seen my weak- 
 ness; but you must now see my strength. You 
 know we have a trial to go through before we 
 part for ever.” 
 
 “ Oh! Susy, don’t say ‘ for ever.’ You know 
 that the vow you made was a rash vow. It may 
 be set aside.” 
 
 ‘‘ It was not a rash vow, Denis. I made it 
 with a firm intention of keepin’ it, and keep it I 
 will. The Mother of God is not to be mocked, 
 because I am weak, or choose to prefer my own 
 will to hers.” 
 
464 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 But, Susy, the Church can dissolve it. You 
 know she has power to bind and to loose. Oh, 
 for God’s sake, Susy, if you ever loved me, don’t 
 attempt to take back your promise.” 
 
 “ I love you too well to destroy you, Denis. I 
 will never stand between you and God, for that 
 would be my crime. I will never bring disgrace, 
 or shame, or poverty, upon you; for surely these 
 things would fall upon you as a punishment for 
 desartin’ him. If you were another — if you 
 weren’t intended to be the servant of God, I 
 could beg with you — starve with you — die with 
 you. But when I am gone, remember that I 
 gave up all my hopes, that you might succeed in 
 yours. I’m sure that is love. Now, Denis, we 
 must return our promises, the time is passin’, and 
 we’ll both be missed from home.” 
 
 “ Susan, for the sake of my happiness both in 
 this world and in the next, don’t take away all 
 hope. Make me not miserable and wretched; 
 send me not into the church a hypocrite. If you 
 do, I will charge you with my guilt ; I will charge 
 you with the crimes of a man who will care but 
 little what he does.” 
 
 “You will have friends, Denis; pious men, 
 who will direct you, and guide you, and wean 
 your heart from me and the world. You will 
 soon bless me for this. Denis,” she added, with 
 a smile of unutterable misery, “ my mind is made 
 up. I belong now to the Virgin Mother of God. 
 I never will be so wicked as to forsake her for a 
 mortal. If I was to marry you with a broken 
 vow upon me, I could not prosper. The curse 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 405 
 
 of God and of his Blessed Mother would follow^ 
 us both.” 
 
 Denis felt perfectly aware of the view^ enter- 
 tained by Susan, respecting such a vow as she had 
 taken. To reason with her, was only to attack a 
 prejudice which scorned reason. Besides this, he 
 was not himself altogether free from the im- 
 pression of its being a vow too solemn to be 
 broken without the sanction of the Church. 
 
 “ Let us go,” said Susan, “ to the same spot 
 where we first promised. It was under this tree, 
 in this month, last year. Let us give it back 
 there.” 
 
 The hand-promise in Ireland between the mar- 
 riageable young of both sexes, is considered the 
 most solemn and binding of all obligations. Few 
 would rely upon the word or oath of any man 
 who had been known to break a hand-promise. 
 And, perhaps, few of the country girls would 
 marry or countenance the addresses of a young 
 person knowm to have violated such a pledge. 
 The vow is a solemn one, and, of course, given 
 by mutual consent ; by mutual consent, also, must 
 it be withdrawn, otherwise it is considered still 
 binding. Whenever death removes one of the 
 parties, without the other having had an oppor- 
 tunity of “ giving it back,” the surviving party^ 
 comes, and in the presence of witnesses, first 
 grasping the hand of the deceased, repeats the 
 form of words usual in withdrawing it. Some 
 of these scenes are very toucliing and impressive, 
 particularly one which the author had an oppor- 
 tunity of witnessing. It is supposed that in 
 III— 30 
 
466 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 cases of death, if the promise be not thus dis- 
 solved, the spirit of the departed returns and 
 haunts the survivor until it be cancelled. 
 
 When Denis and Susan had reached the haw- 
 thorn, they both knelt down. So exhausted, 
 however, had Susan been by the agitation of her 
 feelings, that Denis was under the necessity of 
 assisting her to the place. He could perceive, 
 too, that, amid the workings of her religious en- 
 thusiasm, she trembled like an aspen leaf. 
 
 “ Now,” said she, “ you are stronger than I 
 am, begin and repeat the words; I will repeat 
 them with you.” 
 
 “ No,” replied Denis, “ I will never begin. I 
 will never be the first to seal both your misery 
 and mine.” 
 
 “ I am scarcely able,” said she; “ dear Denis, 
 don’t ask me to do what I have not strength for. 
 But it’s useless,” she added; “ you will never be- 
 gin unless I do.” 
 
 They then blessed themselves after the form 
 of their church, and as they extended their right 
 hands to each other, the tears fell fast from the 
 eyes of both. The words they repeated were the 
 same, with the difference of the name only. 
 
 “ I, Susan Connor, in the presence of God, do 
 release you, Denis O’Shaughnessy, from your 
 promise of marriage to me, and from all prom- 
 ises of marriage that you ever made me. I now 
 give you back that promise of marriage, and all 
 promises of marriage you ever made me. To 
 which I call God to witness.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 467 
 
 Denis repeated the same words, substituting 
 the name of Susan Connor. 
 
 The sobs of Susan were loud and incessant, 
 even before she had concluded the words; their 
 eyes were fixed upon each other with a hopeless 
 and agonising expression: but no sooner were 
 they uttered, than a strong hysteric sense of suf- 
 focation rose to her throat; she panted rapidly for 
 breath; Denis opened his arms, and she fell, or 
 rather threw herself, over in a swoon upon his 
 bosom. To press his lips to hers and carry her 
 to the brink of the well, was but the work of a 
 moment. There he laid her, and after having 
 sprinkled her face with water, proceeded to slap 
 the palms of her hands, exclaiming, — 
 
 “ Susan, my beloved, will you not hear me? 
 Oh, look upon me, my heart’s dearest treasure, 
 and teU me that you’re living. Gracious God! 
 her heart is broken — she is dead! This — this — 
 is the severest blow of all! I have killed her! ” 
 She opened her eyes as he spoke, and Denis, in 
 stooping to assist her, weeping at the same time 
 like a child, received— a bang from a cudgel that 
 made his head ring. 
 
 “ Your sowl to the divil, you lamed vagabone,” 
 said her father, for it was he, ‘‘ is this the way 
 you’re preparin’ yourself for the church? Cornin’ 
 over that innocent colleen of a daughter o’ mine 
 before you set out,” he added, taking Denis a 
 second thwack across the shoulders — “ before you 
 set out for Maynewthl! ” 
 
 “ Why, you miserable vulgarian,” said Denis, 
 
468 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 ‘‘ I scorn you from the head to the heel. Desist, 
 I say,” for the father was about to lay in another 
 swinger upon his kidney — ‘‘ desist, I say, and 
 don’t approximate, or I will entangle the ribs of 
 you!” 
 
 “ My sowl to glory,” said the father, “ if ever 
 I had a greater mind to ate my dinner, than I 
 have to anoint you wid this cudgel, you black- 
 coated skamer! ” 
 
 ‘‘ Get out, you barbarian,” replied Denis, “ how 
 dare you talk about unction in connexion with a 
 cudgel? Desist, I say, for I will retaliate, if you 
 approximate an inch. Desist, or I will baptise 
 you in the well, as Philip did the Ethiopian, with- 
 out a sponsor. No man but a miserable barba- 
 rian would have had the vulgarity to interrupt 
 us in the manner you did. Look at your daugh- 
 ter’s situation ! ” 
 
 “ The hussy,” replied the father, “ it’s the sup- 
 per she ought to have ready, instead of coortin’ 
 
 wid sich a lamed vag Heavens above me! 
 
 What ails my child? Susy! Susy, alanna dhas! 
 what’s over you? Oh, I see how it is,” he con- 
 tined — “ I see how it is! This accounts for her 
 low spirits an’ bad health for some time past! 
 Susy, rouse yourself, avourneen! Sure I’m not 
 angry wid you ! My sowl to glory, Denny 
 Shaughnessy, but you have broke my child’s 
 heart, I doubt! ” 
 
 “ Owen,” said Denis, ‘‘ your indecorous inter- 
 ruption has stamped you with the signature of 
 genuine ignorance and vulgarity; still, I say, we 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 469 
 
 must have some conversation on that subject im- 
 mediately. Yes, I love your daughter a thou- 
 sand times better than my own life.” 
 
 “ Faith, I’ll take care that we’ll have discoorse 
 about it,” replied the father. ‘‘ If you have been 
 a villain to the innocent girl — if you have, 
 Denny, why you’ll meet your God sooner than 
 you think. Mark my words. I have but one 
 life, and I’ll lose it for her sake, if she has come 
 to ill.” 
 
 “ Here,” said Denis, “ let me sprinkle her face 
 with this cool water, that we may recover her, if 
 possible. Your anger and your outrage, Owen, 
 overcame the timid creature. Speak kindly to 
 her, she is recovering. Thank God, she is recov- 
 ing.” 
 
 “ Susy, avourneen,” said the father, “ rouse 
 yourself, ma colleen; rouse yourself, an’ don’t 
 thrimble, that way. The sorra one o’ me’s angry 
 wid you, at all at all.” 
 
 “ Oh, bring me home,” said the poor girL 
 “Father dear, have no bad opinion of me. I 
 done nothing, an’ I hope I never will do any 
 thing, that would bring the blush of shame to 
 your face.” 
 
 “ That’s as true as that God’s in heaven,” ob- 
 served Denis. “ The angels in his presence are 
 not purer than she is.” 
 
 “ I take her own word for it,” said the father; 
 “ a lie, to the best of my knowledge, never came 
 from her lips.” 
 
 “ Let us assist her home,” said Denis. “ I told 
 
470 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 you that we must have some serious conversation 
 about her. I’ll take one arm, and do you take 
 the other.” 
 
 “ Do so,” said the father, “ an’, Denny, as 
 you’re the youngest and the strongest, jist take 
 up that pitcher o’ wather in your hand, an’ carry 
 it to the house above.” 
 
 Denis, who was dressed in his best black from 
 top to toe, made a wry face or two at this pro- 
 posal. He was able, however, for Susan’s sake, 
 to compromise his dignity ; so looking about him, 
 to be certain that there was no other person ob- 
 serving them, he seized the pitcher in one hand, 
 gave Susan his arm, and in this unheroic manner 
 assisted to conduct her home. 
 
 In about half an hour or better after this, 
 Denis and Owen Connor proceeded in close and 
 earnest conversation towards old Shaughnessy’s. 
 On entering, Denis requested to speak with his 
 father and brothers in private. 
 
 “ Father,” said he, “ this night is pregnant — 
 that is, vulgariter, in the family way — with my 
 fate.” 
 
 “ Throth it is, avick. Glory be to Goodness ! ” 
 
 “ Here is Owen Connor, an honest, dacent 
 neighbour ” 
 
 ‘‘ Throth, he is an honest, dacent man,” said 
 the father, interrupting him. 
 
 “ Yes,” rephed the son, “ I agree with you. 
 Well, he has a certain disclosure or proposal to 
 make, which you will be pleased to take into your 
 most serious consideration. I, for my part, can- 
 not help being endowed with my own gifts, and if 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 471 
 
 I happen to possess a magnet to attract feminine 
 sensibility, it is to heaven I owe it, and not to my- 
 self.” 
 
 “ It is,” said the father, ‘‘ glory be to his 
 name! ” 
 
 “ Don’t be alarmed, or surprised, or angry, at 
 anything Owen Connor may say to you. I speak 
 significantly. There are perplexities in all hu- 
 man events, and the cardinal hinge of fate is for 
 ever turning. Now I must withdraw; but in the 
 mean time, I will be found taking a serenade be- 
 hind the garden, if I am wanted.” 
 
 “ Brian,” said the father, “ get the bottle; we 
 can’t on this night, any way, talk to Owen Con- 
 nor, or to anybody else, wid dhry lips.” 
 
 The bottle was accordingly got, and Owen, 
 with no very agreeable anticipations, found him- 
 self compelled to introduce a very hazardous 
 topic. 
 
 Denis, as he said, continued to walk to and fro 
 behind the garden. He thought over the inci- 
 dents of the evening, but had no hope that Owen 
 Connor’s proposal would be accepted. He knew 
 his father and family too well for that. With 
 respect to Susan’s vow, he felt certain that any 
 change of opinion on her part was equally im- 
 probable. It was clear, then, that he had no pre- 
 text for avoiding Maynooth; and as the shame, 
 affliction, and indignation of the family would, 
 he knew, be terrible, he resolved to conform him- 
 self to his circumstances, trusting to absence for 
 that diminution of affection which it often pro- 
 duces. Having settled these points in his mind. 
 
472 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 he began to grope that part of his head which had 
 come in contact with Owen Connor’s cudgel. He 
 had strong surmises that a bump existed, and on 
 examining, he found that a powerful organ of 
 self-esteem had been created. 
 
 At this moment he saw Owen Connor running 
 past him at full speed, pursued by his father and 
 brothers, the father brandishing a cudgel in his 
 hand. The son, who understood all, intercepted 
 the pursuers, commanding them in a loud voice 
 to stop. With his brothers he succeeded; but the 
 father’s wrath was not to be appeased so easily. 
 Nothing now remained but to stand in his way, 
 and arrest him by friendly violence; Denis, there- 
 fore, seized him, and, by assuming all his author- 
 ity, at length prevailed upon him to give over the 
 chase. 
 
 “ Only think of him,” exclaimed the father, 
 breathless — “ only think of him havin’ the assur- 
 ance to propose a match between you an’ his baby- 
 faced daughter! Ho! Dher manim, Owen Con- 
 nor,” he shouted, shaking the staff at Owen as 
 he spoke — Dher manim! if I was near you, I’d 
 J3ut your bones through other, for darin’ to min- 
 tion sich a thing! ” 
 
 Owen Connor, on finding that he was no longer 
 pursued, stood to reconnoitre the enemy : — 
 
 ‘‘ Denis Oge,” he shouted back, “ be off to 
 Maynooth as fast as possible, except you wish to 
 have my poor child left fatherless entirely. Go 
 way, an’ my blessin’ be along wid you; but let 
 there be never another word about that business 
 while you live.” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 473 
 
 “ Father/’ said Denis, “ I’m scandalised at 
 your conduct on this dignified occasion. I am 
 also angry with Brian and the rest of you. Did 
 you not observe that the decent man was ad- 
 vanced in liquor? I would have told you so at 
 once, were it not that he was present while I 
 spoke. Did I not give you as strong a hint as 
 possible? Did I not tell you that ‘ I spoke sig- 
 nificantly? ^ Now hear me. Take the first op- 
 portunity of being reconciled to Owen Connor. 
 Be civil to him; for I assure you he esteems me 
 very highly. Be also kind to his daughter, who 
 is an excellent girl; but I repeat it, her father es- 
 teems me highly.” 
 
 “ Does he think highly of you, Denis? ” 
 
 “ I have said so,” he repHed. 
 
 “ Then, throth, we’re sorry for what has hap- 
 pened, poor man. But the never a one o’ me, 
 Denis, saw the laste sign of liquor about him. 
 Throth, we will make it up wid him, thin. An’ 
 we’ll be kind to his daughter, too, Denis.” 
 
 “ Then as a proof that you will follow my ad- 
 vice, I lay it on you as a duty, to let me know how 
 they are, whenever you write to me.” 
 
 “Throth, we will, Denis; — indeed will we. 
 Come in now, dear ; this is the last night you’re to 
 be wid us, an’ they’re all missin’ you in the 
 house.” 
 
 On that night no person slept in Denis 
 O’Shaughnessy’s, except our hero, and his mother 
 and sisters. As morning approached, a heavi- 
 ness of spirits prevailed among the family, which 
 of course was not felt by any except his immedi- 
 
474 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 ate relations. The more distant friends, who re- 
 mained with them for the night, sang and plied 
 the bottle with a steadiness which prevented them 
 from feehng the want of rest. About six 
 o’clock, breakfast was ready, Denis dressed, and 
 every arrangement made for his immediate de- 
 parture. His parents — his brothers, and his sis- 
 ters, were all in tears, and he himself could mas- 
 ter his emotions with great difficulty. At length 
 the hour to which the family of our candidate had 
 long looked forward, arrived, and Denis rose to 
 depart for Maynooth. Except by the sobs and 
 weeping, the silence was unbroken when he stood 
 up to bid them farewell. 
 
 The first he embraced was his eldest brother, 
 Brian: “ Brian,” said he, but he could not pro- 
 ceed — ^his voice failed him; he then extended his 
 hand, but Brian clasped him in his arms — kissed 
 his beloved brother, and wept with strong grief; 
 even then there was not a dry eye in the house. 
 The parting with his other brothers was equally 
 tender — they wept loudly and bitterly, and Denis 
 joined in their grief. Then came his sisters, who, 
 one by one, hung upon him, and sobbed as if he 
 had been dead. The grief of his youngest sis- 
 ter, Susan, was excessive. She threw her arms 
 about his neck, and said she would not let him go ; 
 Denis pressed her to his heart, and the grief 
 which he felt, seemed to penetrate his very soul. 
 
 “ Susan,” said he, ‘‘ Susan, may the blessing of 
 God rest upon you till I see you again! ” — and 
 the affectionate girl was literally torn from his 
 arms. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 475 
 
 But now came the most affecting part of the 
 ceremony. His parents had stood apart — tlieir 
 hands locked in each other, both in tears, whilst 
 he took leave of the rest. He now approached 
 his mother, and reverently kneeling down, im- 
 plored in words scarcely intelligible, her blessing 
 and forgiveness; he extended both his hands — 
 “ Mother,” he added, “ I ask — humbly and peni- 
 tently, I ask your blessing ; it will be sweet to me 
 from your beloved lips, dear mother; — pardon 
 me if I ever — as I feel I often did — caused you a 
 pang of sorrow by my disobedience and folly. 
 Oh, pardon me — pardon me for all now! Bless 
 your son, kindest of mothers, with your best and 
 tenderest blessing! ” 
 
 She threw herself in his arms, and locking him 
 in her embrace, imprinted every part of his face 
 with kisses. “ Oh, Denis,” she exclaimed, “ there 
 is but one more who will miss you more nor I will 
 — Oh, my darlin’ son — our pride — our pride — 
 our heart’s pride — our honour, and our credit! 
 Sure, anim machree, I have nothin’ to forgive 
 you for, my heart’s life; but may the blessin’ of 
 God and of a happy mother light on you ! And, 
 Denis asthore, wasn’t it you that made me 
 happy, and that made us all happy. May my 
 blessin’ and the blessin’ of God rest upon you — 
 keep you from every evil, and in every good, till 
 my eyes will be made glad by lookin’ on you 
 agin! ” 
 
 A grief more deep, and a happiness more full, 
 than had yet been felt, were now to oome forth. 
 Denis turned to his father — his companion in 
 
476 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 many a pastime, and in many a walk about their 
 native fields. In fair — in market — at mass — 
 and at every rustic amusement within their reach 
 — ^had he been ever at the side of that indulgent 
 father, whose heart and soul were placed in him. 
 
 Denis could not utter a word, but kept his 
 streaming eyes fixed upon the old man, with that 
 yearning expression of the heart, which is felt 
 when it desires to be mingled with the very ex- 
 istence of the object that it loves. Old Denis 
 advanced, under powerful struggles to suppress 
 his grief : he knelt, and as the tears ran in silence 
 down his cheeks, thus addressed himself to 
 God:— 
 
 “I kneel down before you, oh, my God! a 
 poor sinner! I kneel here in your blessed pres- 
 ence, with a heart — with a happy heart — this 
 day, to return you thanks in the name of myself 
 and the beloved partner you have given me 
 through the cares and thrials of this world, to 
 give you our heart’s best thanks for graciously 
 permittin’ us to see this day! It is to you we 
 owe it, good Father of Heaven! It is to you 
 w’e owe this — an’ him — my heart’s own son, that 
 kneels before me to be blessed by my lips! Yes 
 — yes, he is — he is the pride of our fives! — He is 
 the mornin’ star among us! he was ever a good 
 son; and you know that from the day he was 
 born to this minute, he never gave me a sore 
 heart! Take him under your own protection! 
 Oh, bless him as we wish, if it be your holy will 
 to do so! — Bless him and guard him, for my 
 heart’s in him: it is — ^he knows it — everybody 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 477 
 
 knows it; — and if anything was to happen 
 him ” 
 
 He could proceed no further; the idea of los- 
 ing his son, even in imagination, overpowered 
 him; — he rose, locked him to his breast, and for 
 many minutes the grief of both was loud and 
 vehement. 
 
 Denis’s uncle now interposed; “ The horses,” 
 said he, “ are at the door, an’ time’s passin’.” 
 
 “ Och, thrue for you, Barny,” said old Denis; 
 “ come, acushla, an’ let me help you on your 
 horse. We will go on quickly, as we’re to meet 
 Father Finnerty at the crass-roads.” 
 
 Denis then shook hands with them all, not for- 
 getting honest Phadrick Murray, who exclaimed, 
 as he bid him farewell, Arrahl Misther Denis, 
 aroon, won’t you be thinkin’ of me now an’ thin 
 in the College! Faix, if you always argue as 
 bravely wid the Collegians as you did the day 
 you proved me to be an ass, you’ll soon be at 
 the head of them!” 
 
 ‘‘ Denis,” said the uncle, “ your father excuses 
 me in regard of havin’ to attend my cattle in the 
 fair to-day. You won’t be angry wid me, dear, 
 for lavin’ you now, as my road lies this other way. 
 May the blessin’ of God and his holy mother 
 keep you till I see you agin! an’, Denis, if you’d 
 send me a scrape or two, lettin’ me know what a 
 good parish ’ud be worth; for I intend next 
 spring to go wid little Barny to the Latin! ” 
 This Denis promised to do; and after bidding 
 him farewell, he and his friends — some on horse- 
 back and numbers on foot — set out on their jour- 
 
478 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 ney; and as they proceeded through their own 
 neighbourhood, many a crowd was collected to 
 get a sight of Denis O^Shaughnessy going to 
 Maynooth. 
 
 ii£m si/. s!/ sl/_ si/ si/ \t» 
 
 »!s /|V V|s V|v vjv 
 
 ^ sIa s!/ si/ 
 
 /f' /n Vjy vfr 
 
 It was one day in autumn, after a lapse of 
 about two years, that the following conversation 
 took place between a wealthy grazier from the 
 neighbouring parish, and one of our hero’s most 
 intimate acquaintances. It is valuable only as 
 it throws light upon Denis’s ultimate situation 
 in life, which, after all, was not what our readers 
 might be inclined to expect. 
 
 “ Why, then, honest man,” said Denis’s friend, 
 “ that’s a murdherin’ fine dhrove o’ bullocks 
 you’re bringin’ to the fair?’ 
 
 “ Ay! ” replied the grazier, “ you may say that. 
 I’m thinkin’ it wouldn’t be asay to aquil them.” 
 
 “ Faix, sure enough. Where wor they fed, 
 wid simmission?” 
 
 “Up in Teemahusshogue. Arrah, will you 
 tell me what weddin’ was that that passed awhile 
 agone? ” 
 
 “ A son of ould Denis O’Shaughnessy’s, God 
 be marciful to his sowl! ” 
 
 “ Denis O’Shaughnessy ! Is it him they called 
 the ‘ Pigeon-house? ’ An’ is it possible he’s 
 dead?” 
 
 “ He’s dead, nabour, an’, in throth, an honest 
 man’s dead ! ” 
 
 “ As ever broke the world’s bread. The Lord 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 479 
 
 make his bed in heaven this day! Hasn’t he a 
 son lamin’ to be a priest in JMaynewth? ” 
 
 “Ah! Fahreer gairli! That’s all over.” 
 
 “ Why, is he dead, too? ” 
 
 “ Be Gorra, no — but the conthrairy to that. 
 ’Twas his weddin’ you seen passin’ a minute 
 agone.” 
 
 “ Is it the young Hogarth’s? Musha, bad end 
 to you, man alive, an’ spake out. Tell us how 
 that happened? Sowl it’s a quare business, an’ 
 him was in Maynewth! ” 
 
 “ Faith, he was so; an’ they say there wasn’t 
 a man in Majmewth able to tache him. But, 
 passin’ that over — you see, the father, ould Denis 
 — an’ be Gorra, he was very bright too, till the 
 son grewn up, an’ drownded him wid the lan- 
 guidges — the father you see, ould Denis himself, 
 tuck a faver whin the son was near a year in the 
 college, an’ it proved too many for him. He 
 died; an’ whin young Dinny hard of it, the divil 
 a one of him would stay any longer in Maynewth. 
 He came home like a scarecrow, said he lost his 
 health in it, an’ refused to go back. Faith, it 
 was a lucky thing that his father died before- 
 hand, for it would brake his heart. As it was, 
 they had terrible work about it. But ould Denis 
 is never dead while young Denis is livin’. Faix, 
 he was as stiff as they wor stout, an’ wouldn’t 
 give in ; so, afther ever so much wranglin’, he got 
 the upper hand by tellin’ them that he wasn’t 
 able to bear the college at all; an’ that if he’d 
 go back to it he’d soon folly his father.” 
 
480 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “An’ what turned him against the college? 
 Was that thrue? ” 
 
 “ Thme! — thrue indeed! The same youth was 
 never at a loss for a piece of invintion whin it 
 sarved him. No, the sarra word of thruth at all 
 was in it. He soodhered an’ palavered a daugh- 
 ter of Owen Connor’s, Susy — all the daughther 
 he has, indeed — before he wint to May- 
 newth at all, they say. She herself wasn’t for 
 marryin’ him, in regard of a vow she had; but 
 there’s no doubt but he made her fond of him, 
 for he has a tongue that ’ud make black white, 
 or white black, for that matther. So, be Gorra, 
 he got the vow taken off of her by the Bishop; 
 she soon recovered her health, for she was dyin’ 
 for love of him, an’ — you seen their weddin’. It 
 ’ud be worth your while to go a day’s journey to 
 get a sight of her — she’s allowed to be the pur- 
 tiest girl that ever was in this part o’ the coun- 
 thry.” 
 
 “Well! well! It’s a quare world. An’ is the 
 family all agreeable to it now? ” 
 
 “Hut! where was the use of houldin’ out 
 aginst him? I tell you, he’d make them agree- 
 able to any think, wanst he tuck it into his head. 
 Indeed, it’s he that has the great lamin’ all out! 
 Why, now, you’d hardly b’lieve me, when I tell 
 you that he’d prove you to be an ass, in three 
 minutes ; make it as plain as the sun. He would ; 
 an’ often made an ass o’ myself.” 
 
 “ Why now that I look at you — aren’t you 
 Dan Murray’s nephew? ” 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 481 
 
 “ Phadrick Murray, an' divil a one else, sure 
 enough." 
 
 “ How is your family, Phadrick? Why, man, 
 you don’t know your friends — my name’s 
 Cahill.’’ 
 
 “ Is it Andy Cahill of Phuldhu? Why, thin, 
 death alive, Andy, how is every bit of you? 
 Andy, I’m regulatin’ everything at this weddin’, 
 an’ you must turn over your horse till we have 
 a dhrop for ould times. Bless my sowl! sure. I’d 
 know your brother round a corner; an’ yourself, 
 too, I ought to know, only that I didn’t see you 
 since you wor'a slip of a gorsoon. Come away, 
 man, sure thim men o’ yours can take care o’ the 
 cattle. You’ll asily overtake thim.’’ 
 
 “ Throth, I don’t care if I have a glass wid an 
 ould friend. But, I hope your whiskey won’t 
 overtake me, Phadrick? ’’ 
 
 “ The never a fear of it, your father’s son has 
 too good a head for that. Ough! man alive, if 
 you could stay for the weddin’! Divil a sich a 
 let out ever was seen in the county widin the 
 mimory of the ouldest man in it, as it ’ill be. 
 Dinis is the boy that ’ud have the dacent thing 
 or nothin’.’’ 
 
 The grazier and Phadrick Murray then bent 
 their steps to Owen Connor’s house, where the 
 wedding was held. It is unnecessary to say that 
 Phadrick plied his new acquaintance to some pur- 
 pose. Ere two hours passed the latter had for- 
 gotten his bullocks as completely as if he had 
 never seen them, and his drovers were left to 
 
 III— 31 
 
482 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 their own discretion in effecting their sale. As 
 for Andy Cahill, like many another sapient 
 Irishman, he preferred his pleasure to his busi- 
 ness, got drunk, and danced, and sung at Denis 
 O’Shaughnessy’s wedding, which we are bound 
 to say was the longest, the most hospitable, and 
 most frolicsome that ever has been remembered 
 in the parish from that day to the present. 
 
NOTES 
 
 1 Partridge. 
 
 2 It is supposed in Ireland, when a corpse retains, for a longer 
 space of time than usual, any thing like animal heat, that some 
 person belonging to the family of the deceased will die within a 
 year. 
 
 3 My body to Satan ! 
 
 4Vread — Anglice, Margaret. 
 
 5 Young pulse of my heart! my soul is within thee! 
 
 6 The story of Donagh, the Author has reason to believe, was the 
 means of first bringing this curious piece of antiquity into notice. 
 There is little to be added here to what is in the sketch, con- 
 cerning its influence over the people, and the use of it as a 
 blessed relic, sought for by those who wished to apply a certain 
 test of guilt or innocence to such well-known thieves as scrupled 
 not to perjure themselves on the Bible. For this purpose it was 
 a perfect conscience-trap, th© most hardened miscreant never hav- 
 ing been known to risk a false oath upon it. Many singular an- 
 ecdotes are related concerning it. 
 
 The Author feels great pleasure in subjoining two very interest- 
 ing letters upon the subject — one from an accomplished scholar, 
 the late Rev. Dr. O’Beirne, master of the distinguished school of 
 Portora at Enniskillen; the other from Sir William Betham, one 
 of the soundest and most learned of our Irish Antiquaries. Both 
 gentlemen differ in their opinion respecting the antiquity of the 
 Donagh; and, as the Author is incompetent to decide between 
 them, he gives their respective letters to the public. 
 
 ‘‘Portora, August 15, 1832. 
 
 “ My dear Carleton, — It is well you wrote to me about the 
 Dona. Your letter, which reached me this day, has proved that 
 I was mistaken in supposing that the promised drawing was no 
 longer necessary. I had imagined, that as you must have seen 
 the Dona with Mr. Smith, any communication from me on the 
 subject must be superfluous. And now that I have taken up my 
 
 483 
 
484 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 pen in compliance with your wish, what can I tell you that you 
 have not perhaps conveyed to yourself by ocular inspection, and 
 better than I can detail it? 
 
 “ I accompanied Mr. S. to Brookborough, and asked very par- 
 ticularly of the old woman, late the possessor of the Dona, what 
 she knew of its history; but she could say nothing about it, 
 only that it had belonged to ‘the Lord of Enniskillen.’ This was 
 the Fermanagh Maguire, who took an active part in the shock- 
 ing rebellion of 1641, and was subsequently executed. His castle, 
 the ruins of which are on the grounds of Portora, was stormed 
 during the wars of that miserable time. When I entered on my 
 inquiries for you, I anticipated much in the way of tradition, 
 which, I hoped, might prove amusing at least; but disappointment 
 met me on every hand. The old woman could not even detail 
 distinctly how the Dona had come into her possession: it was 
 brought into her family, she said, by a priest. The country peo- 
 ple had imagined wonders relative to the contents of the box. 
 The chief treasure it was supposed to contain was a lock of the 
 Virgin Mary’s hair! ! ! 
 
 “ After much inquiry, I received the following vague detail from 
 a person in this county; and let me remark, by the by, that 
 though the possession of the Dona was a matter of boast to the 
 Maguires, yet I could not gain the slightest information respecting 
 it from even the most intelligent of the name. But now for the 
 detail : — 
 
 “ ‘ Donagh O’Hanlon, an inhabitant of the upper part of this 
 county (Fermanagh), went, about 600 years ago, (longer than 
 which time, in the opinion of a celebrated antiquary, the kind of 
 engraving on it could not have been made), on a pious pilgrim- 
 age to Rome. His Holiness of the Vatican, whose name has es- 
 caped the recollection of the person who gave this information, 
 as a reward for this supererogatory journey, presented him with 
 the Dona. As soon as Donagh returned, the Dona was placed in 
 the monastery of Aughadurcher (now Aughalurcher). But at 
 the time when Cromwell was in this country, the monastery was 
 destroyed, and this Ark of the Covenant hid by some of the faith- 
 ful at a small lake, named Lough Eye, between Lisbellaw and 
 Tempo. It was removed thence when peace was restored, and 
 again placed in some one of the neighbouring chapels, when, as 
 before in Aughadurcher, the oaths were administered with all the 
 superstition that a depraved imagination could invent, as “ that 
 their thighs might rot off,” “ that they might go mad,” &c., &c. 
 
 ‘“When Kings James and William made their appearance, it 
 
NOTES 
 
 485 
 
 was again concealed in Largy, an old castle at Sir H. Brooke’s 
 deer-park. Father Antony Maguire, a priest of the Romish 
 Church, dug it up from under the stairs in this old castle, after 
 the battle of the Boyne, deposited it in a chapel, and it was used 
 as before. 
 
 “ ‘ After Father Antony’s death it fell into the possession of his 
 niece, who took it over to the neighbourhood of Florence-court. 
 But the Maguires were not satisfied that a thing so sacred should 
 depart from the family, and at their request it was brought 
 back.’ 
 
 “ For the confirmation of the former part of this account, the 
 informant refers you to Sir James Ware. I have not Ware’s 
 book, and cannot therefore tell you how much of this story is 
 given by him, or whether any. In my opinion there is nothing 
 detailed by him at all bearing on the subject. The latter part 
 of the story rests, we are told, on tradition. 
 
 “ As I confess myself not at all versed in Irish antiquities, it 
 may appear somewhat presumptuous in me to venture an opinion 
 respecting this box and its contents, which is, I understand, op- 
 posed to that of our spirited and intelligent antiquary. Sir Wm. 
 Betham. I cannot persuade myself that either the box or the 
 contained MSS. were of such an age as he claims for them. And, 
 first, of the box: — 
 
 “At present the MSS. are contained in a wooden box; the 
 wood is, I believe, yew. It cannot be pronounced, I .think with 
 any certainty, whether the wooden box was originally part of the 
 shrine of the precious MSS. It is verj' rude in its construction, 
 and has not a top or lid. Indeed it appears to me to have been 
 a coarse botched-up thing to receive the MSS. after the original 
 box, which was made of brass, had fallen to pieces. 
 
 “ The next thing that presents itself to us is the remnant of a 
 brass box, washed with silver, and rudely ornamented with tracery. 
 The two ends and the front are all that remain of the brass box. 
 
 “You may then notice what was evidently an addition of later 
 times, the highly ornamented gilt-silver work, made fast on the 
 remains of the brass box, and the chased compartments, which 
 seem to have formed the top or lid of the box. But, as you have 
 seen the whole, I need not perhaps have troubled you with this 
 description. I shall only direct your attention to the two in- 
 scriptions. In the chasing you will see that they are referred to 
 their supposed places. 
 
 “ The upper inscription, when deciphered, is — 
 
 “‘Johannes: O’Karbri: Comorbanus: S. Tignacii: Pmisit.’ For 
 
486 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 S. Tignacii I would conjecture St. Ignacii. P, I should con- 
 jecture to be Presbyterus. On this I should be very glad to have 
 Sir William’s opinion. I cannot imagine, if P stands part of a 
 compound with misit, what it can mean. I would read and trans- 
 late it thus — ‘John O’Carbery, coadjutor, priest, of the order of 
 St. Ignatius, sent it.’ 
 
 “ This inscription is on a narrow slip of silver, and is presumed 
 to have formed part of the under edge of the upper part of the 
 back of the box. The lower inscription is — 
 
 ‘Johannes O’Barrdan fabricavit.’ 
 
 “ This also is on a slip of silver, and appears to have fitted into 
 a space on the upper surface which is supposed to have been the 
 top, and to have lain in between the two square compartments on 
 the left hand: this is marked in the drawing. I have expressed 
 myself here in the language of doubt, for the box is all in con- 
 fusion. 
 
 “ Now, on the inscriptions, I would say, that they indicate to 
 me a date much later than some gentlemen who have seen the 
 box are willing to ascribe to it. In the island of Devenish, in 
 our lake (Lough Erne), is an inscription, that was discovered in 
 the ruins (still standing) of a priory, that was built there A. D. 
 1449. The characters in this inscription are much more remote 
 from the Roman character in use among us than those used in 
 the inscriptions on the box. The letters on the box bespeak a 
 later period, when English cultivation had begun to produce some 
 effect in our island, and the Roman character was winning its 
 way into general use. I shall probably be able to let you see the 
 Devenish inscription, and a juxta position of it and the others 
 will satisfy you, I think, on this point. In my opinion, then, the 
 box, with all its ornaments, must have been made at some time 
 since the year 1449. I cannot think it reasonable to suppose that 
 an inscription, containing many letters like the Roman characters, 
 should be more ancient than one not only having fewer letters re- 
 sembling them, but also having the letters that differ differing es- 
 sentially. 
 
 “ Now for the MSS. 
 
 “ I am deficient in antiquarian lore : this I have already con- 
 fessed; but perhaps I want also the creative fancy and devoted 
 faith of the genuine antiquary. I cannot, for example, persuade 
 myself, that a MS. written in a clear, uniform, small character 
 of the Roman form, could have been written in remote times, 
 when there is reason to think that MSS. were written in uncial 
 
NOTES 
 
 487 
 
 characters only, without stops, and with few or no divisions into 
 words, sentences, or paragraphs. The palimprest MS. examined 
 by Dr. Barrett is in uncial characters, and is referred by him to 
 the 6th or 7th century. Cic de Republica, published by Angelo 
 Mai, is assigned to much the same period. Small letters, and the 
 distinctions above mentioned, were the invention of later times. 
 I cannot therefore persuade myself that this MS. is of so early 
 an age as some would ascribe to it, though I will not take it upon 
 me to assign the precise time in which it was written. The char- 
 acters are decidedly and distinctly those now called the Roman: 
 they have not many abbreviations, as far as I could judge, and 
 they are written with much clearness and regularity. They are 
 not the UtercB cursivce, or those used in writing for the sake of 
 facility and connexion: they seem rather formed more in imita- 
 tion of printed letters. SECUNDUM — This imperfect attempt to 
 present one of the words, will explain my meaning. But I had 
 better not weary you any more with my crude notions. I shall 
 be very glad to hear your opinion, or that of Sir William Betham, 
 to whom I should bow with all the respect due to talent and 
 worth. I must avow my distrust of Irish antiquities; yet, allow 
 me to add, that there is no man more willing to be converted 
 from my heresy, if you would call it so, than 
 
 “My dear Carleton, 
 
 “ Your friend and servant, 
 
 “A. O’BEIRNE.” 
 
 “ Stradbrook House, October, 1832. 
 
 “ Dear Sir, — I have read Dr. O’Beirne’s important letter on the 
 Dona: the account he has collected of its recent history is full of 
 interest, and for the most part, I have no doubt, correct. His 
 speculations respecting its antiquity I cannot give my adhesion to, 
 not feeling a doubt myself on the subject. When I have time to 
 investigate it fully, I am satisfied that this box, like the others, 
 of which accounts have already been published, will be found 
 mentioned in the Irish Annals. 'Kle inscriptions, however, fully 
 identify the MS. and the box, and show that antiquaries, from 
 the execution of the workmanship and figures on these interesting 
 reliques, often underrate their antiquity — a fault which the world 
 are little inclined to give them credit for, and which they fall into 
 from an anxiety to err on what they consider the side which is 
 least likely to produce the smile of contempt or the sneer of in- 
 credulity, forgetting that it is the sole business of an antiquarian 
 
488 IRELAND 
 
 and historian to speak the truth, disregarding even contempt for 
 so doing. 
 
 “ I had been somewhat lengthy in my description of the Dona, 
 and from habit, entered into a minute account of all its parts, 
 quite forgetting that you, perhaps, do not possess an appetite for 
 antiquarian detail, and therefore might be better pleased to have 
 a general outline than such a recital. I therefore proceed to give 
 it as briefly as possible, not, however, omitting any material points. 
 
 “ The Irish word t5omnAc, or Domnach, which is pronounced 
 Dona, means the Lord’s day, or the first day in the week, sancti- 
 fied or consecrated to the service of the Lord. It is also in that 
 sense used for a house, church, or chapel. Donaghmore means 
 the great church or chapel dedicated to God. This box, being 
 holy, as containing the Gospels, and having the crucifix thereon, 
 was dedicated or consecrated to the service of God. Like the 
 Caah, the Meeshach, and Dhimma’s box, it is of brass, covered with 
 plates of silver, and resembles the two former in having a box of 
 yew inside, which was the original case of the MS. and became 
 venerated so much, on that account, as to be deemed worthy of 
 being inclosed with it in the shrine made by permission of John 
 O’Carberry, Abbot of Clonmacnois in the 14th century. 
 
 “ The top of the Dona is divided by a cross, on the lower arm of 
 which is a figure of the Saviour; over his head is a shield, divided 
 'per pale, between two crystal settings; on the dexter, is a hand 
 holding a scourge or whip of three thongs, and on a chief a ring; 
 on the sinister, on a chief the same charge and three crucifixion 
 nails. In the first compartment, or quarter of the cross, are rep- 
 resentations of St. Columbkill, St. Bridget, and St. Patrick. In 
 the second, a bishop pierced with two arrows, and two figures of 
 St. Peter and St. Paul. In the third, the archangel Michael 
 treading on the dragon, and the Virgin Mary and the infant 
 Jesus. In the fourth, St. Tigernach handing to his successor, St. 
 Sinellus, the Dona; and a female figure, perhaps Mary Magdalen. 
 
 “ The front of the Dona is ornamented with three crystal set- 
 tings, surmounted by grotesque figures of animals. Between these 
 are four horsemen with swords drawn, in full speed, 
 
 “ The right hand end has a figure of St. Tigernach, and St. 
 John the Baptist. The left hand end a figure of St. Catherine 
 with her wheel. 
 
 “ The Dona is nine inches and a half long, seven wide, and not 
 quite four thick. 
 
 “ So far I have been enabled to describe the Dona from the evi- 
 dently accurate and well executed drawings you were so good as 
 
NOTES 
 
 489 
 
 to present to me. Why the description is less particular than it 
 should have been, I shall take another opportunity of explaining 
 to you. 
 
 “There are three inscriptions on the Dona: one on a scroll from 
 the hand of the figure of the Baptist, of ECCE AGNUS DEI. 
 The two others are on plates of silver, but their exact position 
 on the box is not marked in the drawing, but may be guessed by 
 certain places which the plates exactly fit. 
 
 “ The first is — 
 
 “JOHANNES: OBARRDAN: FABRICAVIT. 
 
 “ The second — 
 
 “JOHS: OKARBRI: COMORBANVS: S. TIGNACII: 
 
 PMISIT. 
 
 “ i. e. 
 
 John O Barrdan made this box by the 'permission of John O 
 Carbry, successor of St. Tigernach/ 
 
 “ St. Tierny, or St. Tigernach, was third Bishop of Clogher, hav- 
 ing succeeded St. Maccartin in the year 506. In the list of bishops, 
 St. Patrick is reckoned the first, and founder of the see. Tiger- 
 nach died the 4th of April, 548. 
 
 “ John O’Carbry was abbot of Clones, or Clounish, in the County 
 of Monaghan, and as such was comorb, or corb * — i. e. successor — 
 of Tigernach, who was founder of the abbey and removed the 
 episcopal seat from Clogher to Clounish. Many of the abbots were 
 also bishops of the see. He died in 1353. How long he was ab- 
 bot does not appear; but the age of tlie outside covering of the 
 Dona is fixed to the 14th century. 
 
 “ Since the foregoing was written I have seen the Dona, which 
 was exhibited at the last meeting of the Royal Irish Academy. 
 It has been put together at a guess, but different from the draw- 
 ing. There is inside O’Barrdan’s case, another of silver plates 
 some centuries older, and inside that the yew box, which originally 
 contained the manuscripts now so united by damp as to be appar- 
 ently inseparable, and nearly illegible; for they have lost the colour 
 of vellum, and are quite black, and very much decayed. The old 
 Irish version of the New Testament is well worthy of being 
 edited; it is, I conceive, the oldest Latin version extant, and 
 varies much from the Vulgate or Jerome’s. 
 
 * All the successors of the founder saints were called by the 
 Irish, comorbs, or corbs. The reader will perceive that O’Carbry 
 was a distant but not the immediate, successor of St. Tigernach. 
 
490 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 “The MS. inclosed in the yew box appears from the two mem- 
 branes handed me by your friend Mr. , to be a copy of the 
 
 Gospels — at least those membranes were part of the two first 
 membranes of the Gospel of St. Matthew, and, I would say, writ- 
 ten in the 5th or 6th century; were, probably, the property of St. 
 Tigernach himself, and passed most likely to the abbots of donn- 
 ish, his successors, as an heir-loom, until it fell into the hands of the 
 Maguires, the most powerful of the princes of the country now com- 
 prising the diocese of Clogher. Dr. O’Beirne’s letter I trust you 
 will publish. I feel much indebted to that gentleman for his 
 courteous expressions towards me, and shall be most happy to have 
 the pleasure of being personally known to him. 
 
 “You must make allowance for the hasty sketch which is here 
 given. The advanced state of your printing would not allow me 
 time for a more elaborate investigation. 
 
 “ Believe me, my dear Sir, 
 
 “ Very sincerely yours, 
 
 “ W. BETHAM.” 
 
 We cannot close the illustrations of this ancient and venerable 
 relic without adding an extract from a most interesting and au- 
 thentic history of it, contributed by our great Irish antiquarian, 
 George Petrie, Esq., R.H.A., M.R.I.A., to the 18th vol. of the 
 Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy, together with an en- 
 graving of it taken from a drawing made by the same accom- 
 plished artist. 
 
 “ I shall endeavour to arrange these evidences in consecutive 
 order. 
 
 “ It is of importance to prove that this cumdach, or reliquary, 
 has been from time immemorial popularly known by the name of 
 Domnach, or, as it is pronounced, Donagh, a word derived from 
 the Latin Dominims. This fact is proved by a recent popular 
 tale of very great power, by Mr. Carleton, called the ‘ Donagh,’ in 
 which the superstitious uses to which this reliquary has been long 
 applied, are ably exhibited, and made subservient to the interests 
 of the story. It is also particularly described under this name by 
 the Rev. John Groves, in his account of the parish of Errigal- 
 Keeroge, in the third volume of Shaw Mason’s Parochial Survey, 
 page 163, though, as the writer states, it was not actually pre- 
 served in that parish. 
 
 “ 2. The inscriptions on the external case leave no doubt that 
 the Domnach belonged to the monastery of Clones, or see of 
 
NOTES 
 
 4.91 
 
 Clogher. The John O’Karbri, the Comharb, or successor of St. 
 Tighernach, recorded in one of those inscriptions as the person 
 at whose cost, or by whose permission, the outer ornamental case 
 was made, was, according to the Annals of the Four Masters, Ab- 
 bot of Clones, and died in the year 1353. He is properly called 
 in that inscription Comorbanus, or successor of Tighernach, who 
 was the first Abbot and Bishop of the Church of Clones, to which 
 place, after the death of St. Mac-Carthen in the year 506, he re- 
 moved the see of Clogher, having erected a new church, which 
 he dedicated to the apostles Peter and Paul. St. Tighernach, ac- 
 cording to all our ancient authorities, died in the year 548. 
 
 “3. It appears from a fragment of an ancient life of St. Mac- 
 Carthen, preserved by Colgan, that a remarkable reliquary was 
 given by St. Patrick to that saint when he placed him over the 
 see of Clogher. 
 
 “‘Et addidit, [Patricius] Accipe, inquit, baculum itineris mei, 
 quo ego membra mea sustento et scrinium in quo de sanctorum 
 Apostolorum reliquiis, et de sanctae Mariae capillis, et sancta Cruce 
 Domini, et sepulchro ejus, et aliis reliquiis sanctis continentur. 
 Quibus dictis dimisit cum osculo pacis paterna fultum benedic- 
 tione.’ — Colgan, Vit. S. Macaerthenni (24 Mart.) Acta SS. p. 738. 
 
 “ From this passage we learn one great cause of the sanctity in 
 which this reliquary was held, and of the uses of the several re- 
 cesses for reliques which it presents. It also explains the his- 
 torical rilievo on the top — the figure of St. Patrick presenting the 
 Domnach to St. Mac-Carthen. 
 
 “4. In Jocelyn’s Life of St. Patrick (cap. 143), we have also 
 a notice to the same effect, but in which the Domnach is called a 
 Chrismatorium, and the relics are not specified — in all probability 
 because they were not then appended to it. 
 
 “ In these authorities there is evidently much appearance of the 
 Monkish frauds of the middle ages; but still they are evidences 
 of the tradition of the country that such a gift had been made 
 by Patrick to Mac-Carthen. And as we advance higher in chrono- 
 logical authorities, we find the notice of this gift stripped of much 
 of its acquired garb of fiction, and related with more of the 
 simplicity of truth. 
 
 “ 5. In the life of St. Patrick called the Tripartite, usually as- 
 cribed to St. Evun, an author of the seventh century, and which, 
 even in its present interpolated state, is confessedly prior to the 
 tenth, there is the following remarkable passage (as translated 
 by Colgan from the original Irish) relative to the gift of the 
 Domnach from the Apostle of Ireland to St. Mac-Carthen, in 
 
492 IRELAND 
 
 which it is expressly described under the very same appellation 
 which it still bears. 
 
 “ ‘ Aliquantis ergo evolutis diebus Mac-Caertennum, sive Caer- 
 thennum Episcopum praefecit sedi Episcopal! Clocherensi, ab Ard- 
 macha regni Metropoli baud multum distant!: et apud eum reliquit 
 argenteum quoddam reliquiarium Domnach-airgidh vulgb nuncu- 
 patum; quod viro Dei, in Hiberniam venienti, coelitus missum erat.’ 
 — VII. Vita S. Patncii, Lib. iii. cap. 3, Tr, Th. p. 149. 
 
 “ This passage is elsewhere given by Colgan, with a slight 
 change of words in the translation. 
 
 “ In this version, which is unquestionably prior to all the others, 
 we find the Domnach distinguished by the appellation of Airgid — 
 an addition which was applicable only to its more ancient or silver 
 plated case, and which could not with propriety be applied to its 
 more recent covering, which in its original state had the appear- 
 ance of being of gold. 
 
 “ On these evidences — and more might probably be procured if 
 time had allowed — we may, I think, with tolerable certainty, rest 
 the following conclusions: 
 
 “ 1. That the Domnach is the identical reliquary given by St. 
 Patrick to St. Mac-Carthen. 
 
 “2. As the form of the cumdach indicates that it was intended 
 to receive a book, and as the relics are all attached to the outer 
 and least ancient cover, it is manifest that the use of the box as 
 a reliquary was not its original intention. The natural inference 
 therefore is, that it contained a manuscript which had belonged to 
 'St. Patrick; and as a manuscript copy of the Gospels, apparently 
 of that early age, is found within it, there is every reason to be- 
 lieve it to be that identical one for which the box was originally 
 made, and which the Irish apostle probably brought with him on 
 his mission into this country. It is indeed, not merely possible, 
 but even probable, that the existence of this manuscript was un- 
 known to the Monkish biographers of St. Patrick and St. Mac- 
 Carthen, who speak of the box as a scrinium or reliquary only. 
 The outer cover was evidently not made to open; and some, at 
 least, of the relics attached to it were not introduced into Ireland 
 before the twelfth century. It will be remembered also that no 
 superstition was and is more common in connexion with the an- 
 cient cumdachs than the dread of their being opened. 
 
 “ These conclusions will, I think, be strengthened considerably 
 by the facts, that the word Domnach, as applied either to a 
 church, as usual, or to a reliquary, as in this instance, is only to 
 be found in our histories in connexion with St. Patrick’s time; and, 
 
NOTES 
 
 493 
 
 that in the latter sense — its application to a reliquary — it only once 
 occurs in all our ancient authorities, namely, in the single reference 
 to the gift to St. Mac-Carthen; no other reliquary in Ireland, 
 as far as can be ascertained, having ever been known by that ap- 
 pellation. And it should also be observed, that all the ancient 
 reliques preserved in Ireland, whether bells, books, croziers, or 
 other remains, have invariably, and without any single exception, 
 been preserved and venerated only as appertaining to the original 
 founders of the churches to which they belonged.” 
 
 There is very little to be added, except that the Donagh was 
 purchased for a few pounds from the old woman who owned it, 
 by Mr. George Smith, of the house of Hodges and Smith, of Col- 
 lege Green, Dublin, who very soon sold it for a large sum to the 
 Honourable Mr. Westenra, in whose possession I presume it now is. 
 
 7 We assure John Bull, on the authority of Phil Purcel himself, 
 that this is a fact. 
 
 8 That is, at the outside. 
 
 9 I subjoin from Townsend’s Survey of the County of Cork a 
 short but authentic account of this most extraordinary character: 
 — “James Sullivan was a native of the county of Cork, and an 
 awkward ignorant rustic of the lowest class, generally known by 
 the appellation of the Whisperer, and his profession was horse- 
 breaking. The credulity of the vulgar bestowed that epithet upon 
 him, from an opinion that he communicated his wishes to the 
 animal by means of a whisper; and the singularity of his method 
 gave some colour to the superstitious belief. As far as the 
 sphere of his control extended, the boast of Veni, Vidi, Vici, was 
 more justly claimed by James Sullivan, than by Caesar, or even 
 Bonaparte himself. How his art was acquired, or in what it con- 
 sisted, is likely to remain for ever unknown, as he has lately left 
 the world without divulging it. His son, who follows the same 
 occupation, possesses but a small portion of the art, having either 
 never learned its true secret, or being incapable of putting it in 
 practice. The wonder of his skill consisted in the short time req- 
 uisite to accomplish his design, which was performed in private, 
 and without any apparent means of coercion. Every description 
 of horse, or even mule, whether previously broke, or unhandled, 
 whatever their peculiar vices or iU habits might have been, sub- 
 mitted, without show of resistance, to the magical influence of 
 his art, and, in the short space of half an hour, became gentle 
 and tractable. The effect, though instantaneously produced, was 
 generally durable. Though more submissive to him than to others. 
 
494 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 yet they seemed to have acquired a docility unknown before. 
 When sent for to tame a vicious horse, he directed the stable in 
 which he and the object of his experiment were placed, to be 
 shut, with orders not to open the door until a signal given. After 
 a tete-d-tHe between him and the horse for about half an hour, 
 during which little or no bustle was heard, the signal was made; 
 and upon opening the door, the horse was seen lying down, and 
 the man by his side, playing familiarly with him, like a child with 
 a puppy dog. From that time he was found perfectly willing to 
 submit to discipline, however repugnant to his nature before. 
 Some saw his skill tried on a horse, which could never be brought 
 to stand for a smith to shoe him. The day after Sullivan’s half- 
 hour lecture, I w'ent, not without some incredulity, to the smith’s 
 shop, with many other curious spectators, w'here we were eye- 
 witnesses of the complete success of his art. This, too, had been 
 a troop-horse; and it was supposed, not without reason, that after 
 regimental discipline had failed, no other would be found availing. 
 I observed that the animal seemed afraid, whenever Sullivan 
 cither spoke or looked at him. How that extraordinary ascend- 
 ancy could have been obtained, it is difficult to conjecture. In 
 common cases, this mysterious preparation was unnecessary. He 
 seemed to possess an instinctive power of inspiring awe, the re- 
 sult, perhaps, of natural intrepidity, in which, I believe, a great 
 part of his art consisted; though the circumstance of the Ute-d- 
 tHe shows, that, upon particular occasions, something more must 
 have been added to it. A faculty like this would, in other hands, 
 have made a fortune, and great offers have been made to him for 
 the exercise of his art abroad; but hunting, and attachment to 
 his native soil, were his ruling passions. He lived at home, in 
 the style most agreeable to his disposition, and nothing could in- 
 duce him to quit Dunhallow and the fox-hounds.” 
 
 10 My sorrow on you for a pig. 
 
 11 Silence, pig ! Silence, you vagabond. 
 
 12 Gentleman. 
 
 13 Behave yourself, pig — behave, I say. 
 
 14 Be quiet, now, you wicked pig. 
 
 15 Ironically — a take in. 
 
 16 This is pronounced as in the first syllable of “ Langolee,” — 
 not like the Scotch “ lang.” 
 
 17 Model. 
 
 Alanna dhas — my pretty child. 
 
 19 A kiss of fondness. 
 
 20 A kind of indirect relationship. 
 
NOTES 
 
 495 ' 
 
 21 Shrovetide. 
 
 22 This is a kind of hyperbole for selling a great quantity. 
 
 23 This word is used in I reland sometimes in a good and some- 
 times in a bad sense. For instance, the peasantry will often say 
 in allusion to some individual who may happen to be talked of, 
 “ Hut ! he’s a dirty bodagh; ” but again, you may hear them use 
 it in a sense directly the reverse of this; for instance, “He’s a 
 very dacent man, and looks the bodagh entirely.” As to the “ Half 
 Sir,” he stands about half-way between the bodagh and the gen- 
 tleman. Bodagh — signifying churl — was applied originally as a 
 term of reproach to the English settlers. 
 
 24 The caul is a thin membrane, about the consistence of very 
 fine silk, which sometimes covers the head of a new-born infant 
 like a cap. It is always the omen of great good fortune to the in- 
 fant and parents; and in Ireland, when any one has unexpectedly 
 fallen into the receipt of property, or any other temporal good, it is 
 customary to say, “ such a person was born with a ‘ lucky caul ’ 
 on his head.” 
 
 Why these are considered lucky, it would be a very difficult 
 matter to ascertain. Several instances of good fortune, happening 
 to such as were born with them, might by their coincidences, form 
 a basis for the superstition; just as the fact of three men during 
 one severe winter having been found drowned, each with two 
 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 whether the caul is in general the per- 
 quisite of the midwife — sometimes we believe it is; at all events, 
 her integrity occasionally yields to the desire of possessing it. In 
 many cases she conceals its existence, in order that she may se- 
 cretly dispose of it to good advantage, which she frequently does; 
 for it is considered to be the herald of good fortune to those who 
 can get it into their possession. Now, let not our English neigh- 
 bours smile at us for those things until they wash their own 
 hands clear of such practices. At this day a caul will bring a 
 good price in the most civilised 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. 
 
 25 This doctrine of fatalism is very prevalent among the lower 
 orders in Ireland. 
 
 26 Never suffered by the exciseman. 
 
 27 Gits — the smallest possible quantities. 
 
 28 The light of my heart. 
 
496 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 29 Sweet mother! 
 
 30 To put over — the corpse of a friend. That is to be drunk at 
 the wake and funeral. 
 
 31 If the reader remember the advertisement in the Hedge 
 School, he may also recollect that the Hedge masters were often 
 employed as land-surveyors. 
 
 32 Forsooth. 
 
 33 Literally, red water. 
 
 34 This was, and in remote parts of the country still is, one of 
 the strongest instances of belief in the power of the Fairies. The 
 injury, which, if not counteracted by a charm from the lips of a 
 “ Fairy-man,” or “ Fairy-woman,” was uniformly inflicted on the 
 animal by what was termed an elf-stone — which was nothing more 
 nor less than a piece of sharp flint, from three to four or five 
 ounces in weight. The cow was supposed to be struck upon the 
 loin with it by these mischievous little beings, and the nature of 
 the wound was indeed said to be very peculiar — that is, it cut the 
 midriff without making any visible or palpable wound on the out- 
 ward skin. All animals dying of this complaint, were supposed 
 to be carried to the good people, and there are many in the coun- 
 try who would not believe that the dead carcase of the cow was 
 that of the real one at all, but an old log or block of wood made 
 to resemble it. All such frauds, however, and deceptions were 
 inexplicable to every one, but such as happened to possess a four- 
 leafed shamrock, and this enabled its possessor to see the block or 
 log in its real shape, although to others it appeared to be the 
 real carease. 
 
 35 A cow without horns. 
 
 36 Short visit. 
 
 3T Dhonan, a diminutive delicate little thing. 
 
 38 An old-fashioned Irish gown. 
 
 39 A little boy. 
 
 40 Of the origin of this singular superstition I can find no ac- 
 count whatsoever; it is conceived, however, in a mild, sweet, and 
 hospitable spirit. The visits of these migratory little creatures, 
 which may be termed domestic grasshoppers, are very capricious 
 and uncertain, as are their departures; and it is, I should think, 
 for this reason that they are believed to be cognizant of the on- 
 goings of human life. We can easily suppose, for instance, that 
 the coincidence of their disappearance from a family, and the 
 occurrence of a death in that family, frequently multiplied as 
 such coincidences must be in the country at large, might occa- 
 sion the people, who are naturally credulous, to associate the one 
 
NOTES 
 
 497 
 
 event with the other; and on that slight basis erect the general 
 superstition. Crickets, too, when chirruping, have a habit of sud- 
 denly ceasing, so that when any particularly interesting conversa- 
 tion happens to go on about the rustic hearth, this stopping of 
 their little chaunt looks so like listening, that it is scarcely to be 
 wondered at that the country folks think they understand every 
 word that is spoken. They are thought, also, to foresee both 
 good and evil, and are considered vindictive, but yet capable of 
 being conciliated by fair words and kindness. They are also very 
 destructive among wearing-apparel, which they frequently nibble 
 into holes; and this is always looked upon as a piece of revenge, 
 occasioned by some disrespectful language used towards them, or 
 some neglect of their little wants. This note was necessary in 
 order to render the conduct and language of Mary Sullivan per- 
 fectly intelligible. 
 
 41 This short form is supposed to be a safeguard against the 
 Fairies. The particular day must be always named. 
 
 42 Track, foot-mark, put for life. 
 
 43 It is generally supposed by the people, that persons who have 
 entered into a compact with Satan can raise the wind by calling 
 him up, and that it cannot be laid unless by the death of a black 
 cock, a black dog, or an unchristened child. 
 
 44 As the reader may be disposed to consider the nature of the 
 priest’s death an unjustifiable stretch of fiction, I have only to 
 say in reply, that it is no fiction at all. It is not, I believe, more 
 than forty, or perhaps fifty years, since a priest committed his 
 body to the flames for the purpose of saving his soul by an in- 
 crematory sacrifice. The object of the suicide being founded on 
 the superstitious belief, that a priest guilty of great crimes pos- 
 sesses the privilege of securing salvation by self-sacrifice. We 
 have heard two or three legends among the people in which this 
 principle predominated. The outline of one of these, called “ The 
 Young Priest and Brian Braar,” was as follows; — 
 
 A young priest on his way to the College of Valladolid, in 
 Spain, was benighted; but found a lodging in a small inn on the 
 road side. Here he was tempted by a young maiden of great 
 beauty, who, in the moment of his weakness, extorted from him 
 a bond signed with his blood, binding himself to her for ever. 
 She turned out to be an evil spirit: and the young priest pro- 
 ceeded to Valladolid with a heavy heart, confessed his crime to 
 the Superior, who sent him to the Pope, who sent him to a Friar 
 in the County of Armagh, called Brian Braar, who sent him to 
 the devil. The devil, on the strength of Brian Braar’s letter, gave 
 
498 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 him a warm reception, held a cabinet council immediately, and 
 laid the despatch before his colleagues, who agreed that the claim- 
 ant should get back his bond from the brimstone lady who in- 
 veigled him. She, however, obstinately refused to surrender it, 
 and stood upon her bond, until threatened with being thrown 
 three times into Brian Braar’s furnace. This tamed her: the 
 man got his bond, and returned to Brian Braar on earth. Now 
 Brian Braar had for three years past abandoned God, and taken 
 to the study of magic with the devil; a circumstance which ac- 
 counts for his influence below. The young priest, having pos- 
 sessed himself of his bond, went to Lough Derg to wash away his 
 sins; and Brian Braar, having also become penitent, the two 
 worthies accompanied each other to the lake. On entering the 
 boat, however, to cross over to the island, such a storm arose as 
 drove them back. Brian assured his companion that he himself 
 was the cause of it. 
 
 “ There is now,” said he, “ but one more chance for me; and 
 we must have recourse to it.” 
 
 He then returned homewards, and both had reached a hill-side 
 near Brian’s house, when the latter desired the young priest to 
 remain there a few minutes, and he would return to him; which 
 he did with a hatchet in his hand. 
 
 “Now,” said he, “you must cut me into four quarters, and 
 mince my body into small bits, then cast them into the air, and 
 let them go with the wind.” 
 
 The priest, after much entreaty, complied with his wishes, and 
 returned to Lough Derg, where he afterwards lived twelve years 
 upon one meal of bread and water per diem. Having thus puri- 
 fied himself, he returned home; but on passing the hill where he 
 had minced the Friar, he was astonished to see the same man 
 celebrating mass, attended by a very penitential-looking congrega- 
 tion of spirits. 
 
 “ Ah,” said Brian Braar, when mass was over, “ you are now a 
 happy man. With regard to my state, for the voluntary sacrifice 
 1 have made of myself, I am to he saved; but I must remain on 
 this mountain until the Day of Judgment.” So saying he disap- 
 peared. 
 
 There is little to be said about the superstition of the Lianhan 
 Shee, except that it existed as we have drawn it, and that it is 
 now fading fast away. There is also something appropriate in 
 associating the heroine of this little story with the being called 
 the Lianhan Shee, because, setting the superstition aside, any 
 female who fell into her crime was called Lianhan Shee. Lianhan 
 
NOTES 
 
 499 
 
 Shee an Sogarth signifies a priest’s paramour, or, as the country 
 people say, “ Miss.” Both terms have now nearly become obsolete. 
 
 45 Altogether — completely. 
 
 40 Alluding to the Colossus of Rhodes. 
 
 47 The Muddha A rran is literally “ the bread stick,” a term in 
 opposition to the scowdher. It is a forked stick with three legs, 
 that stands opposite the fire, and supports the cake, which is 
 placed on the edge until it is gradually baked. The scowdher is, 
 for the most part, made in cases of hurry. 
 
 48 This, about thirty years ago, was usual at weddings and other 
 feasts, where everything went upon a large scale. 
 
 49 This is a passage which I fear few general readers will un- 
 derstand without explanation; the meaning is this: — When a young 
 man first enters Maynooth College he devotes himself for the 
 space of eight days to fasting and prayer, separating himself as 
 much as possible from all society. He must review his whole life, 
 and ascertain if he can, whether he has ever left any sin of im- 
 portance unconfessed, either knowingly or by an omission that was 
 culpably negligent. After this examination, which must be both 
 severe and strict, he makes what is called a General Confession; 
 that is, he confesses all the sins he ever committed as far back 
 and as accurately as he can recollect them. This being over, he 
 enters upon his allotted duties as a student, and in good sooth 
 feels himself in admirable trim for “ a set-in at the King’s Mut- 
 ton.” 
 
 ^0 Sthilk is made by bruising a quantity of boiled potatoes and 
 beans together. The potatoes, however, having first been reduced 
 to a pulpy state, the beans are but partially broken. It is then 
 put into a dish, and a pound of butter or rendered lard thrust 
 into the middle of it. 
 
 51 The form of the Service to the Virgin, from which most of 
 the above expressions are taken, is certainly replete with beauty 
 and poetry. 
 

 
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