*,*. -*
 
 Tales of the Minister Festivals. 
 
 THE CARD-DRAWER, 
 
 THE HALF-SIR, 
 
 SUIL DHUY, THE COINER. 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN, 
 
 AUTHOR OP " THE COLLEGIAXS," ETC. 
 
 • j/-^ 
 
 .^l E W YORK: 
 D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 16^ Wtt.lIAM STREET. 
 
 MONTREAL: CO- ^iT VOTK^ ,.AM^, i ... ,<^Ea.XCIS iAVTER STS. 
 
 Santa Barbara, Califorma
 
 Scrj^(3i
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 TO THE SECOND SERlESw 
 
 Tmi: tide was almost out when I arrived, in the summer 
 which has just gone by, on the eastern shore of the bay of 
 Bealcraigh or Scagh, which runs into the wildest portion of 
 the county of Clare, within several miles of ihe mouth of 
 the Shannon. I had proposed taking in my route up the 
 river the celebrated isle of Scattcry, which now looked dim 
 and distant with its round tower and ruined clunvhos, near tiie 
 mouth of the bay. It was with no little chagrin, therefore, 
 1 discovered that not a single boat on the shore would float 
 for several iiours, after the lapse of wliich, as I was informed 
 by a smart little cliild, with iier gown turned up in a wo- 
 manly fashion over her head — " the boatman would lay jiq 
 any where down the river I'd like, an' welcome, without a 
 hai'p'ny expense;" but it would be too late to stop at St. 
 Sinon's isle. 
 
 There was little, moreover, in the scenery which imme- 
 diately surrounded me that could furnish sufficient employ- 
 ment to keep off the demon of ennui, during the slow and 
 creeping progress of the glassy tide. A black-looking coun- 
 try, covei'cd as far as my eye could reach, all round the 
 spacious bay, with numerous turf-yards and farm-houses of 
 the humblest description, possessing wildnrss without gran- 
 deur, ard lameness without beauty — destitute even of tho 
 lea."5t [larticles of foliage — however amusing it uiight aj)pear 
 lo the travellci fro.u its novelty, would atibrd ;t poor suii- 
 ject for the pencil of the ilraughtsmau ; and, modestly call-
 
 IT INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ing to mind how very indiflVrently liiiKlscapos of real 
 beauty had fared under iny pencil, 1 jirudently calculated 
 that the result of a similar operation in the present in- 
 stance could not be very interesting. 
 
 Vv'hile I loitered, therefore, along the ;Uiore, crushing tho 
 Ccist crab-shells and withered sea- weed under my feet, watch- 
 ing a group of country people and turf boatmen who were 
 luiuling one of their heavy open craft (which lay at some 
 di?t;ince bedded on her side in the slob), will* potatoes for 
 some inland market, and turning an impatient glance cu 
 the silent waiter, as it stole by half inches over the dun and 
 weary extent of level mud that spread between the strand 
 and chavinel, and gradually bi^gan to fill the ruts and foot- 
 prints about the vessel's keel, my attention was arrested by 
 the sourid of a f 'male voice at a few paces behiiid. 
 
 I turned round, and was presently accosted by a modest- 
 looking woman, neatly dressed in the scarlet far-trinnned 
 cloak, clean \\hite cap and ribbon, which are popular among 
 tho cottage fashiunables. Ilcr business was to inform mc, 
 that her liusband, Patcy JMagrath (the word was spoken 
 with a slight confusion and downcast timidity of manner, 
 wl idi intimated that he had not lang enjoyed that blisbfiil 
 title,) the owner of the boat, and of a neat cottage which 
 lay convenient, seeing a straiigc gentleman walking en tiie 
 Btrand. Iiad bid her say, that he'd take it as a favour, if TJ 
 just step in and take a chair, until the boat would be afloat, 
 when the boy would be sure to let me know. 
 
 I accepted the invitation, with smt^ille acknowledgments, 
 and, following my tidy conductress, w^is presently shown 
 into a neat, boarded room, furnished with u few wooden 
 chairs, an old Gothic-panelled press, a tew blghly-coluurcd 
 religious jjrints, and a plain oak table, noai* which was seated 
 a personage of so singular an appearance, that I shall ven- 
 ture to describe him at full length. 
 
 He was an old man — uufortiinatcly, a sour old raan — ' 
 Ici'.n and long-limbed, and affecting, as much 3-s he p'issibly
 
 nTXUOPUCTION. -v 
 
 might, wiflioiit ler.ueriiig Linisi'lf absolutely ridiculous, a 
 costume wliich appeared to me to bear a close resemblance 
 to some of the most antique of our national liabiiiments. 
 His pantaloons, wliicli iu younger days might have fitted 
 tight on the limbs over which they now lay lapped in many 
 an ungainly fold, might have passed, but for its singleness 
 of hue, for an ancient tniis — his hat, which now lay on the 
 table, broad brimmed and conical in the crown, seemed but 
 another foshion of the birredc of the Ollamh — his hair was 
 tluown back on all sides from his brow and face, so as to 
 f 11 ill the form of a glib on the neck behind — and his cloak 
 (rather perhaps from his manner of wearing it than from iis 
 acturd form) might not inaptly be compared to the Milesian 
 fillead. 
 
 Near the window, which looked on the bay, sat a respect- 
 able looking, middle-aged woman, of a gentle, pleasing 
 conntenance, which slil! retained all the elements of beauty, 
 although tile weeds of widowhood, which tlie possessor wore, 
 and the pale i;lie(;k and sobered glance which harmonized 
 with them so sweetly, yet so mournfully, showed that the 
 days had gone by when she valued the endowment. She 
 rose from her seat as I entered, and received me with a low 
 courtesy and smile of welcome, aficr which she resumed her 
 place and her knitting in silence. The strange gentleman 
 merely measured my person with a sullen and supercilious 
 eye, and continued to pore over a tattered volume which lay 
 bcfoie him. 
 
 The ungracious tone in which he replied to an apology 
 made him by my eon'Iuctress, for the delay to which he was 
 unavoidably subjected, deterred me from attempting to draw 
 him into any conversation, and wishing to detain the young 
 woman, who appeared to be the only social individual of 
 the three, I said, looking at a medal which was suspended 
 by a blue ribbon over the wooden chimney-piece, and on 
 which I could discern the word " Trafalgar,'"' with the data 
 ol poor Nelson's victoi'y : —
 
 Vl INTRODUCTrON. 
 
 " Your Inisband hns served, T perceive?" Artl I pointed 
 with my finger to the medal. 
 
 " Oh, no, Sir," she replied, laughing ; " passen vv-hat ser 
 vice, he seen aboord llic tiuf boat up and down from Lime- 
 rick, I believe he hasn't a liai'porth to tell more than 
 meself." 
 
 " Why do you laugh ?" 
 
 '•' Because. Sir," rei)lied the elder matron, who sat near 
 the window, ■' she thought what an old Iiusijand she'd have 
 in Patcy, if lie had served in that battle." 
 
 " It is true," said I, a little confused, "and I ought to have 
 recollected it — and I should be very sorry to see so pvetty a 
 girl matched with an old man — " (here the gentleman at the 
 table looked at me askance, inside his spectacles) — " even 
 though ha had fought by the side of our great hero." 
 
 This speech restored me to favour, and in a little time the 
 younger woman informed me in an under tone, that the 
 medal belonged to her aunt Dorgan's husband, who had died 
 about a year before, and whose widow (the very {)erson who 
 had just divined the cause of her merriment) had resided 
 with her husband and herself since their marriage — an event 
 which, she iiitiniated with a betoniing blush and stammer, 
 had taken place about t!ii-ee mouths since. 
 
 " That meilal, I dare say," said 1, " w; s an honour of 
 which he was very proud." 
 
 " It was an honour, Sir. that nearly cost him dear enough, 
 at one time," replied my informant. 
 
 ■' How was that ?" 
 
 •' I will tell you that, Sn-," she said, in a half whisper, 
 " wh(!n my aunt, poor woman, laves the room, as she's goeu 
 at this minute, and she nnghtn't like to be reminded of it, 
 poor creature." 
 
 I congratulated myself that I had not blundered npon 
 jiiese awkward reminiscences in society where fashion and 
 education have unhappily fostered a morbid retinen:ient o\ 
 fecUng, and where, in all jnobabiUty, a more distant allusion
 
 IJiTIIODUCTION. YH 
 
 thnn T bad here maflo would liave left mo, to ar.swcr for a hys- 
 tci'ica! passion or a fainting fit. Wl'enthe handsome widow, 
 in a little lime after, Imd drojipcd licr quiet courtesy, and 
 left tliC room, 1 reminded her young niece of the promise 
 I had received. She gave me, in as fl-w words as possible, 
 the incidents of the Iiish seaman's adventure — which wrre 
 affecting in themselves, and rendered doubly so by the natu- 
 ral and feeling manner in which she delivered them. 
 
 " It would make an interesting tale," said I, when she 
 had concluded. 
 
 The elderly gentleman here again raised his head, and 
 peering on me through his liaif-closcd eye-lashcs, with a 
 eneeiing smile, as if he would say, " you know a great dcid 
 about the matter, I dare swear" — he once more resumed 
 his studies. 
 
 "Talking of talcs," I continued, wishing to analyse the 
 old gentleman, as soon as we were left alone together, which 
 happened shortly after — " it is surprising that while so many 
 abb pens are employed in delineating the manners an;l 
 scenery of all other parts of Ireland — this unique and in- 
 teresting people, and the magnificent wonders of their cca- 1 
 should l.ave altogether escaped attention." 
 
 This I said with a certiiin tone of authority and loudness, 
 as if to compel a degree of deference from my morose com- 
 panion. He replied, however, in a gruff tone, and without 
 raising his eyes from the book — " I'm very glad they have, 
 I'm sure — I'd be veiy sorry it was otherwise." 
 
 " I believe you are rather singular in that opinion," said 
 I, " and it is fortunate for our novelists that you are so. 
 Tales of this nature are, I believe, very popular at present." 
 
 '' I have something else to do besides reading them," he 
 replied. 
 
 "You are a fortunate man," said I, " if you can employ 
 all your tiii.e niore profitably and agreeably. For my part, 
 I am of opinion that they might be made the vehicle of not 
 only very agreeable, but very useful information. Besides,
 
 Vill INT-CDUCTION, 
 
 they thrcrw a trniii of plcacing associations around the poo- 
 pie whose manners they describe, which never fades nor ia 
 forgotten, and which is found to serve them among theit 
 neighbour nations in a hundred ways. For instance, if a 
 Venetian, or a I\rid-Lothianite, and a JMunstcrman were ask- 
 ing an alms, and I (a citizen of the world, having no coun- 
 try claims with any of the three), had but a penny to give 
 in charity, I should at once bestow it upon the Venetian or the 
 Scot, while th-e poor Mnnsterman might go empty-handed, 
 because his birth-place had not at once brought to my re- 
 collection the delightful Illusions of an Otway or a Jedediah 
 Gleishbotham. I will go yet farther and say, that the con- 
 scientious novelist, supposing that he drew his portraitures 
 scrnpulausly from nature, might etfect a stHl higher purpose, 
 lie might furnish the statesman and the legislator with an 
 'ndex to the dispositions and habits of the people lie was to 
 govern, and who were too distant for personal inquiry ov 
 ubservation." 
 
 The old gentleman appeared to like my pertinacity. He 
 wiped his S])cctacles, put them into tb.eir case, and closed 
 his book v/!iilc I was speaking, as if he were preparing to 
 take my hypothesis to pieces at his leisure. 
 
 " You are like the music-master in Moliere," said he, 
 again looking at me with hissniile of contemptuous toleration, 
 "• who attributes all the wars, famines, pestilences, I believe, 
 Climes, murders, and all other miseries and enormities by 
 vhich mankind are disgraced and punished, to a want of 
 tlie general diffusion of musical knowledge. You seem to 
 have the same faith m the iufliience of novels that he had 
 in that ot cat-gut and rosin. You would, I suppose, have 
 a typhus fever, or a scarcity of potatoes, remedied by a 
 sniait tale, wliilc you would knock a general insurrection on 
 the head with a runuuice in three volumes !" 
 
 " Not su fist," said 1, *■' mine was no sucli Utojjian fancy. 
 I gave the class of writers in question, their moderate pro- 
 poiiiou of vMic — bat }ou .ip^joar to bo one of those who
 
 — , ) 
 
 INTRODUCTION'. IX 
 
 Einst have them do all or nothing — who — to nse one of oVii 
 Irish proverbs — if a man were to carry 3'ou on his back froiii 
 this to 0' Bricn's-brldge, would fling biiu into the stream fu! 
 not carrying yon over." 
 
 " I am one of those," said the old gentleman, who ap- 
 peared to be best pleased with rough usage, " who think 
 tliat a ruined people stand in need of a more potent restora- 
 tive than an old wife's story. The autiior of the English 
 Lexicon said of a conceited dramatist, who attributed some- 
 thing of a similar influence to one ot his productions — ' that 
 those who aflected to tliink the Church of England in danger, 
 m ight aifect to think that a play could save it ;' and so may 
 I now say, that those who affect to think that the condition 
 of Ireland can ever b;3 made prosperous, may also affect to 
 think rhat such an alteration may be brought about by a 
 novel. Cut if such a ridiculous idea can be seriously en- 
 tertained for an instant, this, at least, is certain — We are 
 in no wise indebted to those writers, however brilliant their 
 acquisitions or endowments ma}' be, who. professing to pre- 
 sent faitliful illustrations of the minds and hearts of our 
 countrymen, greedily rake up the forgotten superstitions ot 
 our peasantry, and exhibit the result of their ungracious re- 
 searches, the unhappy blemishes of our island, the weak- 
 nesses of our poor uninstructed peasantry, over which de- 
 cency and good feeling would have tluown a veil, to the eyes 
 of a world, that, unfortunately torus, is but too enger to seize 
 every occasion for mockery and upbraiding against our for- 
 lorn and neglected country," 
 
 I heard tliis with a disagreeable consciousness, for Avhicli 
 perhaps the reader may be enabled to account when he has 
 perused the whole of these volumes. It was the first hit 
 the old gentleman made, which told upon my conscience. 
 I rallied speedily however. " You would have them write 
 then," said I, "on the plan of some American novelists, 
 who take care to construct tlu'ir narrative, so as that they 
 may be enabled to Jouathanize all the virtues, while all tha 
 1*
 
 X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 villains of the tale shall be either Tudians or Englishmen 
 For my part, I believe, and I am proud to say it, the great 
 majority of my countrymen are far superior to that nar- 
 row-minded, national conceit which cannot relish a strong 
 truth (even admitting it to be over-seasoned for the sake 
 ot'ej'ect,) and which would prefer idle flattery to instruction." 
 "Nay," said the old gentleman, " but deal fairly with us. 
 Give our lights, if you will not overlook our shadows. I 
 would ask you with FalstafF, is there no virtue extant ? 
 Look around, and say whether the darkness and guilt that 
 forms the burthen of those fictions which you defend, does 
 not far overbear the actual proportion in real life ? Have 
 not our bogs and mountains their scenes of quiet contented 
 virtue — of noble suffering — of generous forgiveness — of 
 strong, rude intellect and constant love, to match the ' black 
 attone,' of turbulence — impatience — revenge — credulous 
 folly, and licentious passion which you would attribute to 
 them ? Or if the idea of mirth and innocence, and milk 
 and water be so closely associated in their eyes — let them 
 turn to the Ireland that once was — and say, whether they can- 
 not find there a theme worthy of the most splendid and 
 varied capabilities. Are there not materials for descriptive 
 energy in the sports of Tailton, the coshcrings of the tio- 
 seach, and the concerts of the crotaries ? Is there not suffi- 
 cient vai'iety of character, comic, tragic, chivalrous, and pro- 
 found, from the Daltin up to the Ard righ ? Can the Jcrna 
 of the Stagyrite, and Orpheus of Crotona — the Juverna of 
 Juvenal, Pomponius Mela, and Solinus — the luernia of 
 Ptolemy — the Iris of Diodorus Siculus — the Iron of the au- 
 thor of Gildas Badonieus — the lerne of Claudian, of Strabo, 
 and the Stephen of Eizance — tlie Ogygia of O'Flaherty and 
 Plutarch," [not Plutarch and O'Fhdicrty] " the Llibernia of 
 Caisar, of Pliny, Tacitus and Orosius, can this ancient land 
 afford no subject for the imagination of the writer of fiction 
 among the sixteen nations desciiled by Mareianus Hera- 
 cleota. in his tract called Perijtlous ?" 
 
 L_
 
 INTUODUCTION. XI 
 
 " This leaves Jenkiiison and the cosmogony far in tlia 
 distance," said I in my own mind, surveying my companion 
 with a certain involuntary feeling of snspition wliich I have 
 entertained towards very learned talkers ever since I read 
 Goldsmith's tale. Before I could reply, my hostess entered 
 to tell me, that the boat was afloat, and I saw, on luuking 
 from the window, the men tugging hard at the peak-hal- 
 liard, while the loose and tarred mainsail flapped in the 
 pleasant westerly wind that was just springing up. 1 left 
 the antiquarian, for such I now conjectured him to be, at 
 his studies, and hastened on board. 
 
 The reader will perceive that I have acted on the hints 
 furnished by my hostess, in the first of these tales, and 
 should they meet with the sunshine of his approbation, it 
 may be easy to show, before long, that I have not slept on 
 that which was thiown out by the Periwinkle of the bogs.
 
 • SONNETS.— INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Friends, far away — and late in life exiled — 
 Whene'er these scattered pages meet your gaze, 
 
 Think of the scenes where early fortune smiled — 
 The land that was your home in happier days—. 
 The sloping lawn, to which the tired rays 
 
 Of evening stole o'er Shannon's sheeted flood — 
 The hills of Clare, that in its softening haze. 
 
 Locked vapour-like and dim — the lonely wood — 
 Tbe clitf-bound Inch — the chapel in the gieii, 
 
 "Waere oft with bare and reverent lovk.^ wa stood, 
 
 To hear th' Eternal truths— the small, dark maze 
 Of the wild stream that clipp'd the blo.ssom'd plain, 
 
 And toiling throui^h the varied solitude, 
 
 Uprais'd its hundred silver tongues and babbled praise. 
 
 That home is desolate! — our quiet hearth 
 Is ruinous and cold — and many a sight 
 And many a sound are met of vulgar mirth. 
 
 Where once your gentle laughter cheered the night- 
 It is as with your countiy. The calui light 
 
 Of social peace, for her is quenched too 
 
 Rude Discord blots her scenes of old delight, 
 Her gentle virtues scared away — like you. 
 Remember her, when in tliis Tale ye meet 
 The story of a struggimg right — of ties 
 
 Fast bound, and s\viftl3' rent — of joy — of pain 
 
 Legends, which by the cottage-fire sound sweet— 
 Nor let the hand whi.ch wakes those memories 
 (In faint, but fond essay) be uiiremembered then.
 
 CARD DRAWING 
 
 " Is this my welcome home?" — Soi'thernk. 
 
 Those who are deson'oclly loiul in their commendations of 
 the gallantry displayed by British seamen during the last 
 war, have generally been willing to admit that those sup- 
 porters of the national flag whom Ireland sent to man our 
 fleets, did not tread the decks like children. We shall, 
 however, content ourselves with referring our readers who 
 may be curious on the subject, to the chronicle of i\Ir. James, 
 or any other naval Tacitus of the day, for examples of the 
 truth of the observation, as we wish not to encumber our 
 slender narrative with any unnecessary historical detail. 
 
 Wliethcr Mr. James records the exploits of a certain 
 Duke Dorgan, a young sailor, from the shores of Kerry, 
 or no, I am not aware ; but it is not likely that many names 
 have been enrolled in his pages more distinguished by a mo- 
 dest valour (such as contents itself with doing all for duty, 
 and nothing for vanity), than that of the person we have 
 just mentioned. The result of his professional exertions, 
 and of a common-rate prudence (a rare naval virtue in the 
 present day, and still more so at the time we speak of) 
 was, the fortunate arrival of the young man on his native 
 shores M'ith a character unspotted by any act of insubordi- 
 nation or servility, and a quantity of prize-money suflicient
 
 16 CARD DHAWrNG. 
 
 (and more tbmi siiulcicnt^) to supply the " cli;\ir days" o( 
 his hfe, with every comlort that necessity suggested, and 
 every hixury to which his limited experience in that way 
 might induce him to aspire. There were circumstances, 
 however, in his early life, which, independent of any view 
 to mere personal gratification, made liim feel happy in his 
 competeuoe 
 
 " You are in the right," says the author of those well- 
 known letters published in the name of Pope Ginigauelli, 
 " engraft the Italian gaiety upon the Frencli : it is the way 
 to live to a hundred." In like manner might his historian 
 say of Duke Dorgan, that he engrafted the Irishman's gai- 
 rty upon the sailor's, and produced the blossoms of the one 
 and the fruit of the other, in such abundance, as made iiim 
 highly popular among his messmates. He was, to speak 
 in less figurative language, a lively, handsome, clear headed, 
 intelligent young person, with a round, well-moulded 
 frame, bright auburn curling hair, and a hazel eye of excel- 
 ling shrewdness, and when occasion required, of sparkling 
 violence and resolution, indicating a mind of irregular 
 strength, and a heart in which the passions had not been 
 always subjected, notwithstanding the general even tenor 
 of his life, to the most rigid discipline. But as the reader 
 may observe throughout these tales, an ambition to render 
 them almost as analogous to the drama as Fielding rendered 
 his to the epic, (a circumstance in which the public taste 
 sccnis. fortunately, to coincide with our inclination,) we 
 shall allow our hero to introduce himself, m the fashionable 
 manner, in the course of an incidental scene, which took 
 place on the evening when his vessel arrived in the offing 
 of Loup Head, the well-known point of land which forma 
 the northern extremity ot ttie shore that bounds the queen 
 of Irish streamSv 
 
 Thi« part of the coast is remarkable for some wild and 
 striking points of sccnrryj similar, in its general character, 
 to those by which nearly the whole range of the south-
 
 CARD Dr. A WING. 1? 
 
 west! rn const is distiiiguislicJ. Tlic travollcr is strucic by 
 the bolchict^s iind rM^;gedncss of tlie lofty clitrs which oppose 
 thoir rocliy etiriigth to the waves of the Atlnntie, and by 
 the ixingnitiide of the caverns underneath, wliich, previous 
 to the late vigorous exertions mcde by the guardians of the 
 revenue, afioided a number of useful natural Marcroonis to 
 the contrabandists who traded to and from the Flushing 
 const, and served at the same time as lurking-places to the 
 seals, the liunting of which constituted, at that period, one 
 of the chief sources of profit to the fishermen of the neigh- 
 bouring vilingcs. At a small distance from the light-house 
 wliich is erected at the head, there stood during tlie war, 
 one of those signal towers, by which te!egTai)hic intelligence 
 was transmitted round the Cape, as far as Cork, wh.ei.cver 
 a hottile sail ventured within the influence of an Irish breeze 
 in the offing; and still farther iu the direction of the river's 
 source was the village of Kiibaha, whose commerce con- 
 sisted then, as well as at present, in tuif, transmitted by 
 boats to the interior of the country. The coast is very 
 thickly inhabited, and the people yet preserve in a great de- 
 gree, the juimitivc and natural manners of their progenitors. 
 Tliey talk Irish — kill fish — go to sea in canoes — traffic in 
 kind — eat potatoes and oaten bread — and exercise them- 
 selves in offices of kindness and hospitality towards stran- 
 gers. This latter virtue has, liowe^er, in some parts of the 
 region sutlered injury from the erriux of bathers (roai the 
 interior in the summer season, which taught them the use 
 and convenience of ready money, in preference to their pa- 
 triarchal modes of payment ; and gave them, unfortunately, 
 a more decided impression of its value than was consistent 
 V ith the general character of JIunster cottagers. The eflcct 
 appears to have been similar to that which the liberality ol 
 English travellers has produced on the Continent. 
 
 But that portion of the country which constitutes the ex- 
 treme foulli-wGst, and which is almost cut off from the 
 rcmaluder, by the large creek or bay of Scagh, which re-
 
 IS CAUD Dr.AWING. 
 
 (\neoB it almost to a peniiisnln, presents a very roiTi;irT<nMe 
 contiMSt, ill the condition and moral character of its iiihal)i- 
 tants, to all the rest of IMinister — perhaps we might say, 
 Ireland. The country, though exceedingly bleak and wild 
 at first sight, is found on further acquai:itance to be well 
 cultivated, producing oats, potatoes, and flax in consider- 
 able quantities. On ascending any eminence and looking 
 around, the land appears to the travelU'r to be little better 
 tlian one lonely waste of bog — the huts or mud cottages 
 being of the general colour of tlie soil, and scai'cely distin- 
 guisliable from it, while the whole wears a dull and mono- 
 tonous hue, to which the numerous turf-reeks scattered over 
 the landscipe contribute in a great degree. On closer ob- 
 servation, however, he begins to discern innumerable cluslei's 
 of Avigwam mud cabins, some of an unusual size, with 
 thatched bee-hive roof, corded so as to provide against the 
 winter storms. The inhabitants are all of one class ; scarcely 
 a single dwelling- house of what is termed a respectable ap- 
 pearance existing in the neighbourhood of the cottager — 
 
 " To shame the meanness of his humble shed." 
 
 They are contradistinguished from Irish landholders in 
 general, by their apparent poverty and real wealth (nnuiy a 
 ten-ant of clay walls being able without much inconvenience 
 to give a dowry of some hundreds to iiis daughter) — as well 
 as by their regular persevering industry — their extreme ig- 
 norance — their want of curiosity in all speculative mat- 
 ters — and their perfect unacquaintance with those popular 
 themes of debate, which set all the rest of the island by tUc. 
 ears. They till their gardens quietly, as their fatliers did 
 before them — learn little and care for less — obey tlieir prie.^t 
 in all reasonable matters, and pay him like prince^' — go to 
 market with their oats and potatoes — eat — diink — dance — 
 laugh — sleep, and die. They have no tyrants — no proc- 
 tors — no middlemen — no demagogues — no meetings — im 
 politics. Under whatever standard the hoiu of iusuircctiua
 
 CARD lillAWIXG. 19 
 
 is sorndecl tlirongli oflier part? of Irelnncl, v.lictlicr nndcr 
 llock, his lady, Starlii^lir. Mooiishiiio, or Moll Du} !e, its cciio 
 dies into silence long before it has reached the jieace -accris- 
 tonied ears of this primitive people. Limited in their de- 
 sires still more than in their enjoyments, the political condi- 
 tion of the country affects them but little — and they are 
 silent even on the eternal topic of Catholic Eniancipalion 
 What is of the utmost advantage, so far as the p;'ace and 
 good order of the community i • concerned, there are very 
 few idle young men in the country — as the tillage of their 
 gardens during one portion of the year, and the preparing 
 of sand manure, of turf, marketing, and making kdp on the 
 coast during the remainder, comiK'l them to labour hard and 
 continually. The tone of mind which the people display is 
 certainly not in accordance with the magnificent natural 
 wonders which abound on the coast, and of which the reader 
 will find some sketches at their appropriate places in the 
 body of the tale. 
 
 If, however, the object of all improvement in science or 
 knowledge be to increase the hapjjincss of men, it is very 
 questionable, whether it would be acting the part of a friend 
 to this people, to wish tl at they should be deprived of the 
 bliss of ignor'~.nce and comfort in wliic'i tliey are at present 
 shrouded — S' > far at least r s the luxurie'S of life are concerned. 
 Certainly, v/e express no inimical sentiment in h(,i)ii)g that 
 it may be long before they are split and sundered into ihe 
 unsocial distinctions of rank — before they prefer elegant 
 poverty to humble comfort — before a selfish landlord (no i:n- 
 precedented occurrence) shall scatter the peasantry from 
 their happy, lowly homes — and yeomanize the soil. 
 
 On the evening when Dorgan's ship stood towards the 
 mouth of the river, the inmates of the signal tower before 
 mentioned were endeavouring to quicken the tardy-gaited 
 hours of sunset, by all the contrivances which their tastes 
 and opportunities could enable them to use. The lieutenant 
 of the water- guards was quietly seated iu his apartment
 
 20 CAi:d Dr.AWixG. 
 
 sippinj^ a tnniljlcv of vvliat he called &t[f punch — with his 
 •waistcoat tliro-«vn cpcn, his logs stretched out, ar.d a coohng 
 sea b)ceze just f^inuuig the long hair t'lat shaded h's reci 
 and jolly countenance. lu the room underneath, were two 
 sailors at draughts and grog, while outside the open window, 
 seated on a woodeu form, and basking iu the evening sun, 
 were a number of the guards, chatting with two or three 
 r isj -cheeked girls who sat near them, blushing and smiling 
 in all the conscious finery of clean caps and ribbons, and 
 mincing out their few phrases of English to the best advan- 
 tage — that being yet considered as a kind of holiday dialect 
 in these districts. 
 
 " Oy say, you Paddy there v itli the halter about your 
 waist (instead of your neck)," said one of the soldiers to a 
 lean, pale-looking, sulien-eycd, hard, straight -lipped fellow, 
 with a itw staring locks of dank hair sc;'.ttered on his brow, 
 and a hay-rope tied sash-wise about his person — "Oy say, 
 can you tell us what all them 'ere papishcs are doing about 
 the shore ? 
 
 He pointed to several groups of the cnuntry-men, women, 
 and children, who were employed in gathering heaps of a 
 specico of sea- weed am- g the rocks on the water's edge, at 
 the little bay of Fodhra ; while others ^vere kneeling in 
 prayer at dili'creut parts of the coast. The person to whom 
 the querist addressed himself for information, seemed, by 
 the more than equable indifforencc with wlii'ch he listened 
 to the insulting speech of the latter, to b • one of those 
 beaten-down characters, to whom degradation is so familiar, 
 that they had rather lie tamely under the most contemptuous 
 slights, than undergo the intolerable labour of supporting 
 an indi'pendcnt and manly bearing. He possessed all (and 
 more than all) the complaisance, without any of the confident 
 and ready spirit of the Iri.-h cliaracter — but underneath all 
 the cringing servility of his nuinner — the ready obedience 
 of eye and ear — and the nmsing, absent dulness of demean- 
 our which formed the outer crust and pastry work of the
 
 CAIID Dx".AWING. 
 
 21 
 
 man, there Avas hi liis smai! gray eye, montli dose saut and 
 forming one hard hne across, thin straight hair, and meagre 
 unfea cheek, an unpleasant depth of chara;:;ter, such as Ju- 
 lius Ca'sar (tiiat hater of lean and hungry looks) might not 
 have loved to contemplate. 
 
 " Gathereu' the dkoolamaun they are, sir," he said in 
 reply to the question of the guard. *' Dhoolaniaun," he con- 
 tinued, answering to fhe puzzled look of the latter — ''that's 
 a kind of say-weed that they take home wit 'eai to boil and 
 make greens of." 
 
 " Make (freens of the sea-weed /" exclaimed tlie Eugli.'^h- 
 man. " Well, come — that's a good un, however. Oy say, 
 Jack !" addressing himself to one of the two sailors, who 
 were still pursuing tlieir game of draughts in a room be- 
 hind, (vvitli the i-apiility peculiar to the naval adepts in this 
 pastime,) "you come here and see what a bull Paddy has 
 made." 
 
 '■'• Stcdl the ananal until I've done my game," replied the 
 sailor. "I huff your man, Tom ; play on." 
 
 "Well, Paddy," continued the witty protector of his 
 Majesty's colours, "and what are those folks doing on their 
 mairow bones along tlie shore ? Saying mass, eh ?" 
 
 " Oh, not at all, sir — none could leay that only a priest. 
 They're sayen a prayer that way, sir, o' count o' Candle- 
 mas-day — a great feast, or holUday, sir — au ould custom 
 they have." 
 
 " Are you a papish, Paddy ?" 
 
 " Oyeh, then, I'm nothin' at all now, sir ; I was a fish- 
 joulter, but the times are hard wit uz," said the man with 
 hiimitable sim])licity. 
 
 "A tish-joker?" said the guard, "that's a sect I han't 
 heard of. How should you Uke to go to sea, 1 say, you 
 i.isli Paddy ?" 
 
 " He'd like it well enough," said the sailor, " if he could 
 live the same lubber's life between decks, with nothing to 
 do from monung to night bat sculd the cabin buv and ki..k
 
 «2 
 
 CARD UKAWIKG, 
 
 chc cat iti(o the lee scuppers. You Iiisli make tight sailors 
 fur all that. A king, Tom — crown him — back water there, 
 man ; you can't move your man that way." 
 
 A cry of " sail" from some person stationed overliead, 
 interrupted this refined conversation, and drew the atten- 
 tion bt the interlocutors to the waste of ocean which lay 
 nursing its giant strength in a hdling calm before them. 
 The signal was immediately hoisted on the tower, and an- 
 swered by the vessel with the emblems of friendship. In 
 a short time after, a small boat was lowered from her side, 
 and manned for the shore. "When she touched the beach, 
 a young man in sailor's jacket and trowsers, with a small 
 bundle in his hand, leaped lightly on shore, after shaking 
 l!ai;d.< cordially with each of tiie crew in turn. They gave 
 him a cheer as he ascended the ro.ks, which he answered 
 by waving his hat several times in the air. The draught 
 players and the group at the Towei', all but those on guard, 
 sauntered towards the beach, leaving the countryman who 
 had been the object of their mirth alone at the window. 
 
 He looked after them for some moments with a changed 
 and darkening eye. "A sailor!" he exclaimed at length 
 in soliloquy — " it's easy for 'em to talk, an' to laugh, an' be 
 merry, — if they were as long without vittels as I am, I'll 
 engage it would be a new story wit 'em. Co to say, says 
 he ? — Why then, I declare, 'twould be a'most as good as 
 for me to be this way always. If it be a man's huk to be 
 shot or drown'ded, sure better that at wanst than to be 
 ever an always pullen ould Nick be the tail, from year's end 
 to }car's end. When Duke Doigan went to sai/ I was 
 glad of it, because he left little Peunie M'Loughk'u to my- 
 self, an' I thought when he'd be awiiy that I'd have the 
 Held clear both with herself and the father. But in place 
 o' that, here I am now driven out o' house an' houu', an' 
 all that's happeuen Duke is to be out a liarm's way at any 
 rate. Heie he stopp d and lixcd liis eye btcadfliscly on the 
 ytmng man before meutioued.
 
 OAHD DRAWING. 20 
 
 *' There's an ol J saving, tliat if you talk o' the old boy 
 Iiiniself, he'll appear, an' if that beant Duke Dorgan, or hia 
 ghost, walken eastwards, I'm dark, lor certain. I'll try hira 
 nearer." 
 
 He hurried after the yonng sa''or, who had taken the 
 path leading towards Kilbaha, and was merrily pursuing his 
 route, chanting in a quarter-deck key, a stave of the po- 
 pular song of Willy Taylor, and his " lady free" — casting, as 
 he sung, a rather anxious eye toward the waste of barren 
 heath and sand which lay between him and the interior. 
 
 " With that she called for sword and pistol, 
 
 Which did come at her coimnaud 
 
 And she shot her Willie Taylor 
 With his fair one in his hand." 
 
 " I say, messmate." he said as the countryman approached 
 him—" can you tow me on the track of Carrigaholt ?" 
 
 " The path is under your fiitt every step o' the way," 
 said the man. Then after pacing behind him in silence for 
 a few minutes — " Why then, for one that puts out the futt 
 so slow, I never seen any body carry so much o' the road 
 wit 'em,* as you do, Mr. Duke, Lord bless you." 
 
 " You know me ?" said the other, turning and fixing Ids 
 eyes on the speaker, then with an air of greater reserve, as 
 he recognized the face — " and I ought to know you, too. 
 'i iiat face is Pryce Kinchela's — if you haven't stole it from 
 hhn." 
 
 " I wish that was all I had belongen to Pryce Kinchela 
 about me," said the man heavily. 
 
 " I am ghid to see you, Pryce." 
 
 "I don't know whether you are or not, Duke; but I'm 
 f;lad to see pou — although you may well doubt my word. 
 1 am an altered man since you left the country — and the 
 foolish spite that you an' 1 had then about Pennie Mao 
 Luughien — (liie Silver Penny aa yuu called — an the Luck 
 
 * Make so great progress.
 
 24 CAUD DKAWIITG. 
 
 Penny as I called her) is no more tlian boy's play, to tlie 
 cause I got since from otlieis. That girl, Duke, was no 
 Luck Penny to cither you or me. After her fatlier refused 
 you, an' you went to sea — sure what do you think o' rne 
 but med up to her, an' if I did you'd tliink it was to threaten 
 to murder her I did, the father got so wild — an' ever after 
 he kep persecuten me I'ight and left, until he didn't lay mc 
 a leg to stand on. If you're not tired, an' would wish to 
 rest a piece here on this rock, Pll tell you how it was." 
 
 Dorgan complied — although the lengthening shadows on 
 the sand and the freshening breeze of the sharp February 
 evening advised him of the necessity of securing some place 
 of shelter for the night. — Fearful of ovcr-burthening the 
 reader with the quaint idiom of the country — of \a hich poi-- 
 haps, a superabundance must be thrown into these histo- 
 ries — I shall, while Pryce is detailing his story to our young 
 hero, inform him, in more intelligible langua^^e, of the nature 
 of the incidents which had reduced him to his present dis- 
 contented condition of mind, and furnish a slight sketch of 
 bis character — both being mournfully illustrative of the state 
 of Munster hfe in his rank. 
 
 Those, perhaps, who are fond of arguing on the existence 
 of innate propensities in the human mind, which no influ- 
 ence of education, circumstances, or volition can oversway, 
 might find reason to alter tlieir opinion, if an opportunity 
 ■VN'ere afforded of tracing the history of the individual nature 
 which formed the subject of disquisition back to its earliest 
 impulse, either toward good or evil. However casuists 
 inay assert (in the face of honesty, and common sense.) that 
 the very exertion of the will itself which induces us to adopt 
 any evil course is a species of compulsion, which relieves us 
 in justice from responsibility, there is not one even of those 
 sensible fellows, who, in regretting an evil aftion, which bo 
 had thus under the tyranny of his own free will been com- 
 pelled to commit, will dare to say to his own secret cou" 
 Buiousncss tliut he could not have held his hand at the nio« 
 
 J
 
 CAIiD DRAWIXG. 25 
 
 /netit that he knowingly acted ill. As the royal astroloji;er, 
 however, says of the planets, in La vida es 6'ueno, that 
 they incline, bnt do not compel the conduct of men, so might 
 it be said of the influence of the exterior circumstances of 
 life upon the human character — and judging from the gene- 
 ral indolence of mankind in resisting the influence of tliose 
 circumstances, it might be safely conjectured that the com- 
 mon routine of Munster cottage life and education would 
 produce that recklessness of blood and outrage among ani/ 
 people, with which it has of late years been fashionable to 
 charge flie inhabitants of this quarter of Ireland — as a na- 
 tural projyensity. The two individuals whom we have just 
 introduced to our readers, presented instances to the effect 
 of those circumstances, both in different ways. They were 
 both taught to fight their own battles in childhood, both 
 were instructed in the mysteries of the " Reading-made-easy," 
 under the same hedge-school tyrant, a low rufllan, who, for 
 tiie small sum of two and sixpence, or more Hibernically 
 speaking, three tenpennies a quarter, undertook to pull their 
 liair, break deal rulers (or sthrokers) upon their little hands, 
 lift them up by the ears for the slightest orthographical mis- 
 take, lash their naked and bleeding shins three times a day 
 with a huge birchen rod, by way of stimulating them to 
 greater application, and teach them to read and write into 
 the bargain. The manner in which the two boys acted 
 under this treatment was very different. Pryce seldom 
 complained, even to a school-fcUow, of the torture which 
 was inflicted on him : sometimes his lip trembled and a tear 
 stood in his eye when the pain given was extreme, but gene- 
 rally the patience and fortitude of endurance whicli he 
 showed, was such as to touch even the rocky heart of the 
 Munster Dionyslus with remorse. Duke, on the contrary, 
 was a loud and noisy rebel ; he kicked, plunged, remon- 
 strated, threatened murder and assassination, and a thou- 
 saud other things, Mhich redoubled his afflictions, and which 
 were forgotten by himself as soon as the latter were sus- 
 2
 
 2G CARD DRAWING. 
 
 peiided. On tliree or four occasion?, however, when the 
 pedagogue had been particularly severe on both boys, he re- 
 ceived on his way home through a wood in the neighbour- 
 hood a blow from a heavy stone, discharged by some secret 
 I'.and, Avliich never failed to draw blood in profusion from 
 his head, and at one time inflicted such a wound as consi- 
 derably to endanger his life. His suspicions naturally fell 
 on Duke, but to his astonishment and mortification, the 
 clearest alibi was always made out for the boy, and no pos- 
 sible investigation could lead to the real delinquent. There 
 was no doubt that one of his pupils was the criminal, but 
 whoever he might be, he kept the triumi)h of his revenge, 
 contrary to the usual w^ont of school-boys, a secret from the 
 whole world. Duke, nevertheless, did not at any time at« 
 tempt to conceal his satisfaction at the occurrence. 
 
 Another circumstance placed the dispositions of the youths 
 in singular apposition. Among the little girls who occupied 
 >he row of round stones placed along the wall opposite to 
 the boys, was a little flaxen-haired coquette named Pene- 
 lope M'Lougblen, whose blue eyes and cherry lips had 
 made sad work in the hearts of the young dabblers in ety- 
 mology. Their atfoction, liowever, was manifested in a 
 very different manner. While Duke fought for her, carried, 
 her over streams and ditches and treated her to an occa- 
 sional "hayporth" of sugar-candy — Pryce mended h^rfeque* 
 folded her thumb-paper, and taught her the analogy between 
 C and half a griddle, H and a haggard-gate ; so that like 
 the wavering mistress of the Two Noble Kinsmen, her 
 aftections were divided between the manly frankness, cou- 
 rage, and generosity of the former, and the silent attentions 
 and profound learning of the latter lover. As they ap- 
 proached the years of manhood (lie is a long-lived Irishman 
 that reaches those of discretion,) the relation of the parties 
 towards each other continued almost the same ; but that of 
 
 * Used in pointiiifj the letters out — Ortliographically— yearaB,
 
 L_ 
 
 CAKD Dr AWING. 27 
 
 the Ificly to them was altered. Her heart, according as its 
 capability of discriminating and appreciating the worth of 
 character became more acute, inclined toward the side of 
 the ii-ank and hearty Duke. He was, to use a homely but 
 forcible metaphor which is popular in her countiy, " that 
 kind of man that the wrong side of him was turned out 
 every day," while her womanly shrewdness told her that 
 she had not yet seen more than the sunny half of l.is rival. 
 She ventured, with the due proportion of maiden reluctance 
 and timidity, to confess this preference to the enraptured 
 Duke, and with true filial spirit had her partiality ripened 
 into passion lasting and immoveable, when her lover pro- 
 posed for her and was scornfully rejected by her father. 
 Duke went to sea, and Kiuchela, after beating about the 
 point with the caution which his rival's experience had 
 taught him to use, tried his luck with no better success. It 
 was indeed reported for some timo after in the neighbour- 
 hood that his rejection had been still more unceremonious 
 than poor Dorgan's — a rumour which was probably founded 
 on the fact that Penny never heard the circumstance alluded 
 to without smothering a laugh, and that the old man (who 
 was rather fiery in his temper) sent the shoe of his right 
 foot to be mended the same evening, with a rent about the 
 toe, which showed as if considerable violence had been used 
 with it. After this, Pryce had been, up to the present 
 time, falling from clifi:* to clift" downward through the dark 
 vale of adversity, until he found himself at last stretched, 
 fairly baffled and spirit broken, at the bottom. 
 
 "And you take it so tamely!" exclaiuied the young 
 sailor, Avhen Pryce had come to a close, — " I would have 
 given the feUow a rope's end at any rate, if not rouud the 
 neck, across the shoulders at least." 
 
 " Is that ail you'd do to him?" asked Pryce, quietly. 
 
 " All ! 'tis more, it seems, than you'd do^but you were 
 ever an' always a poor patient sloh." 
 
 **\Va3 1 ?" said Kiuchela, witli a smile, the expression of
 
 2S CAKD Di; AWING. 
 
 •which, from liis tnnung away Iiis head while he spolce, it 
 was evident he did not wish to give Dnke an opjionnnity 
 of spoculatinp; npon. " But I believe 'tis time for ns to 
 think of parting, Mr. Dorgan. If you stop in Carrigaholt 
 to-morrow at tlie Bee-hive, you'll see me there bcfoi-e yon 
 and we'll have a little more crusheenlng together, yonvself, 
 an' myself; I have a call to make westwards before I go.'' 
 
 Thev parted— -and Dorga,n pursued his route, not witlioiit 
 a certain feeling of contempt for the easy inditference with 
 which his former rival sustained the spirit-rousing slights 
 that had been cast upon him. These unpleasant feelings, 
 however, were soon displaced by anticipations, such as might 
 natui'ally be supposed to occur to a young and ardent 
 heart on its return from a long exile to the home and the 
 friends of his early life. He felt perfectly assured that old 
 M'Loughlen could not resist the influence of the wealth and 
 honour he had acquired during many years of service, as 
 eventful and perilous (for the deck which he trod was that 
 Avliich called Nelson captain,) as ever British seamen braved; 
 and as he was himself eminently tinged with that " forgive- 
 and-forget" spirit which forms one of the ciiaracteristics of 
 hii nation, he looked forward with an impatient generosity 
 to the hour of reconciliation. He turned aside in fancy from 
 the father's rough hand-shake and repentairt greeting, to the 
 blushing cheek and joyous eye of his now womanly Penny, 
 whom he pictured to himself standing bashfully behind her 
 father, and waiting with a throbbing heart and trembling 
 frame to meet him v/ith a true love welcome. As ho 
 thought of those things lie doubled his pace, and made the 
 sand hills flit so rapidly behind him, tliat the traces of the 
 outer coast were presently lost, and the sound of the distant 
 waste of ocean came faint and far upon his ear. 
 
 The February evening soon began to draw to a close, and 
 the vvind, which blew from the sea, acquired a sharpness and 
 coldness which furnished Dorgan with an additional though 
 less seutimcntal reason fur quickening bis ^cps. He was
 
 CARD CR AWING. 23 
 
 almost in a solitude — t!ie clouds began to lower and darken 
 upon his path — while the occasional scream of a horse-gull 
 as it swooped around him, and with difficulty upheld its 
 lio-ht and feathery bulk against the rising Avind, together 
 with tlie dreary whistling of that wind itself as it wafted 
 over his head the sea- foam that v/as broken on the cliffs at 
 half-a-mile distant, formed the only sounds that varied the 
 dead monotony of the scene around him. The absence of 
 public roads, moreover (for this was long before jMr. Killala, 
 the excellent engineer, was sent to visit this part of the coun- 
 try,) contributed to throw an air of greater wildness and 
 loneliness over its surface, so that Dorgan felt by no means 
 at his ease M-hen the darkness, which speedily banished the 
 reflection of the last ray of sunset from the sky, left him to 
 grope his way, without a pilot, through this trackless waste 
 of gloom. His eyes, accommodating their power of vision 
 in some time to the darkness Mhich at first seemed almost 
 equivalent to blindness, enabled him, after a few hours' hard 
 walking, to discover at a little distance one of those mise- 
 rable huts which but too often forms the only asylum in 
 which the poor ilunstcr cottager can tiud a refuge from the 
 tyranny of the " winter's flaw." The softness of the soil 
 beneath his feet informed liim, moreover, that he had ar- 
 rived on better cultivated land, while at the same time a 
 disparting of the vapours above enabled him to discover, a 
 few perches from the place where he stood, a comfortable- 
 looking farm house, with a haggard* stored with two or 
 three stacks of hay and reed. Unwilling to disturb at so 
 unseasonable an hour the slumbering inmates of the dwell- 
 ing, and uncertain, besides, of the reception he might meet 
 with, Dorgan resolved to spend the I'emainder of the night 
 ia the dry and still recess formed by the grouping of the 
 stacks. He stepped over the haggard stile, and, after shak- 
 ing down some of the sweet hay on the ground, he flung 
 
 •• Hay-)ard.
 
 30 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 liimself at full length on this simple natural couch, plnced 
 his bundle under his head, aud was speedily lost in the wil- 
 derness of monkey-visions among wliich the nnchaiued 
 fancy of the sleeper loves to exercise her magic skill. 
 
 We cannot afford, nevertheless, to sit long idly by our 
 hero while he slumbers, so that the reader will have tlie 
 complaisance to imagine the winter-night already past, and 
 the summons of the " early" cock s'lrilling in his vexed 
 and drowsy ear. As he awoke and turned on his rude 
 pallet, tiie murmuring of human voices Vv-ithiu a few feet 
 of the spot where he lay, arrested his attention. He lis- 
 tened, ahiiost unconscious of what he was doing, and totally 
 forgetful of its impropriety, while the toUowing conversa- 
 tion passed between two speakers. The voices were those 
 of females ; one of them, from the sweetness and richness 
 of the tones, a young — and the other, from the harshness 
 and hard vulgarity of the accent, evidently an old woman. 
 
 " I walked," said the younger, in a tone of gentle dis- 
 content and remonstrance, " three miles to meet you here 
 since the day-dawn, and I must be back again and have the 
 cows spancelled, and the milk set, and the men's breakfast 
 ready before my father gets up ; for if he knew I came to 
 see you, he'd kill me.. And here you kept me a whole hour 
 waiting for you." 
 
 " Don't blame me, avourneen," Avas the soothing re])ly ; 
 " I am an old woman, and you're so young, that your blood 
 is running yet like cherry-brandy in your veins. When 
 you sec as much.of the harm that's done in the day-light 
 as I have, darlen, you won't be in such a hurry to shorten 
 the night as you were this mornen." 
 
 " Well, let us say no more of it. You told me last night, 
 before my father came in and found you in the kitclicn, 
 that you could tell me secrets that nobody knew but ui}'- 
 sclf." 
 
 " What else did I get my gift for ? When I was an in- 
 fant at l!ic breost, my mothci- gay me, by the directions of
 
 CARD DRAWING. 61 
 
 an avP'jrrishtfn that she seen, three drops of a cow's first 
 milk alter caiviiig, before the young came a near her, and 
 that's the reason the gift is upon me now." 
 
 '* Tell me, then," and here the girl hesitated a mo- 
 ment, " tell me, till I try you. Have 1 a sweetheart or 
 
 110 r 
 
 It needed not a ghost come from the grave to soU-e tliis 
 profound question, and so thought Duke Dorgan, as he 
 recognised in the elder female, from the tenor of the cim- 
 versation, one of a class of idle and worse than idle cha- 
 racters. Their trade it was, and is (though the increasing 
 knowledge of the peasantry in other parts of the country 
 has rendered their profits much less considerable than they 
 were,) to wander trom house to house, defrauding silly cot- 
 tage girls, and, rumour asserts, some silly men too, of tliuir 
 hardly-earned moneys under the pretence of giving them a 
 fi'-penny or a tenpenny peep into futuiity, according to 
 the length of their purses and their curiosit}^ The means 
 which these worthies most commonly used to arrive at a 
 knowledge of " coming events" was some mystical calcula- 
 tion on a pack of cards ; and instances have fallen within 
 the circle of our own experience where those " (Janl- 
 drawers," as they are popularly termed, Avere permitted 
 and invited to exercise their skill in gull-catching in other 
 than cottage company. But to continue our tale. 
 
 " Ileach me your hand, darlen," said the Card-drawer, 
 "ont'l I feel your pulse a piece." There was a pause of a 
 few minutes, when she resumed. " The blood beats ^^ arm, 
 but it doesn't come from the heart. Your heart is not 
 your own, and the boy that has it is far away from you." 
 
 A gentle exclamation of astonishment from the young 
 inquirer showed that the Card- drawer had judged right. 
 
 " Tell me news of him," was the next request, made in 
 panting eagerness ; it it be good I will give you another 
 half-crown." 
 
 ^"•Oy, iudccd !" said the Card- drawer, with an affected
 
 32 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 indignation, " as if all the silver in your pnrse, altliongh it 
 was as long as the king's, that they say if yoa held oiM! 
 end of it and I held another, we never 'ud meet, would 
 make bad good or good bad." Here Dorgau heard the 
 shuflling of a pack cf cards. " We'll try what it is, any 
 way. Draw a card, an' face the east. What is it ?" 
 
 " The king o' diamonds." 
 
 "Gondoutha! Good. Draw again. AVell?" 
 
 " The ace o' hearts." 
 
 " Allilu ! better an' better again. Why, draw ouce 
 more." 
 
 " The queen o' spades." 
 
 " That's yourself. All good. Your lover is comen' 
 home with a sighth o' money, aud a.s fond o' you as 
 ever." 
 
 "■ I thank you, and you're a good creature," said the 
 young ftmale, in accents tliat were broken by the agitation 
 of delight. " Ilush ! I hear something stirriiig near us. 
 Good morning, the sun is high, and I'll be killed if my 
 father finds me out, when he gets up." 
 
 " Stay one moment, a-gra-gal. You forget that trifle 
 you wor talken' of. 'Tisn't for the sake o' the lucre I'd 
 talk, but as we were nientionen' it at all — " 
 
 " Oh, the half-crown ? I had quite forgot it, I declare. 
 Here it is, my good woman. If what you say comes to 
 pass, I will make that a great deal more; if you have been 
 only deceiving me, because I am young, and my heart fool- 
 ish and credulous, may Heaven forgive you for it ! it would 
 be doing no better than to put a blind man on a wrong 
 path." 
 
 "An' there's few that would do that, a-colleen," said 
 the Card-drawer, as turning full within Dorgan's siglit. 
 while he heard the young girl, whom she bid been cuiping, 
 trip lightly through the rushes, she put the piece of silver 
 in a corner of her handkerciiief, made a knot abortt it, and 
 thrust it into her dark and withered bosom. Before she
 
 CAPwD Dr:A^\'reG. 33 
 
 discovered h\m, as he lay stretched on the hay, oiir hero 
 had a full opportunity of observing her face and figure : 
 and as forming one of a class of persons who exercised a 
 considerable influence over the minds of the peasantry of 
 her country, the reader perhaps will allow us to present a 
 brief sketch of what he saw, in defiance of Meg Merrilies 
 and all her bony sisterhood. 
 
 It is almost impossible to conceive how so many shreds 
 and rags could hang together as composed this woman's 
 dress. There did not appear to be two square inches about 
 her in one piece, and her whole costume shook in the morn- 
 ing wind like the foliage of a tree, yet she had even a warm 
 and comfortable look. Duke never saw in his life before 
 such a mountain of rags. IIov/ they were all nnited puzzled 
 him more than the mystery of the tides of Negropont did 
 tlie Stagyrite. Her shoes, or more properly (if they must 
 have a name) her brogues, were in pieces, yet her feet 
 were perfectly covei'cd — partly with straAV thri:st into the 
 lissures made in the leather, and in part with the fragments 
 of an old woollen stocking. To find a name for each article 
 of clothing which she wore would have been impossible. 
 She had, to speak truly, neitlier gown, nor petticoat, nor 
 cloak — yet clad she was from top Jo toe, and that fully. 
 It seemed as if her dress had been built np about her frtini 
 the ground of all manner of fragments. Her head-drejs, 
 as it was simple, was less equivocal than the rest of her 
 costume. It consisted of a lai'ge red and yellow handker- 
 chief, under which her g)-ay hair rolled up on something 
 similar to what ladies call a Johnny, was fastened — so as 
 to present an appearance like that of a very low fete ; two 
 corners of the keichief were tied under her peaked and 
 lengthened chin, Avhile the others were suffered to flutter in 
 the wind, or hmig idly over the back of her head. Over 
 her right shoulder was tluvwa a number of fare, kid, and 
 rabbit'skins, together with a bundle of nnclarified goose- 
 quills, both of which she had picked up in her pevegrina-
 
 S4: CARD DRAWJXG. 
 
 tlons for a trifle, to dispose of them at a dne profit to fbo 
 skiu and feather merchants of St. Jolm's Gate, iu Lime- 
 ricli, — this forming tiio ostensible cafiing under cover of 
 ■vvhich she carried on her more lucrative trade of " card 
 drawing," or telling of fortunes. 
 
 The features of the Card-drawer, were calculated by 
 their expression to aid her considerably in the eflbrts which 
 she made to acquire an influence over the weak credulous 
 minds of those who were accustomed to. consult her. The 
 small weasel eyes, set at an extraordinary distance from 
 each other, in which a person of common penetration could 
 have discovered nothing more than the light of that 
 " crooked wisdom," usually denominated cunning, which is 
 so useful to persons of her profession, seemed to her won- 
 dering dupeo to be full of a piercing sagacity, and a cer- 
 tain mysterious lustre, which made their hearts stir unciisily 
 within them. Her foi'ehead v/as broad and tanned by con- 
 tinual exposure to the weather — her nose flat and yet large, 
 presenting, together with the- disagreeable breadth oi space, 
 of which it formed the centre between the eyes, something 
 of the cast of countenance for vvhich that race of Italians 
 are remarkable, who are said to be the direct and lineal 
 dcocendants of the old Romans. Her mouth appeared to 
 be otlierv/ise occupied than in aifording Duke an opportu- 
 nity of observing its i)roportions, for it was fast shut upon 
 a pipe, the bowl of which was flistcned on the barrel of a 
 quill, that being a more capacious conductor of tiie com- 
 fortable fume, than the narrow earthen tube originally 
 affixed to it. 
 
 She started, when she saw Dorgan stretched on his hay 
 couch between the stacks, and gazing steadily on her. 
 " Why, then, heaven bless you, ciiild, but that's a dhroU 
 place iur yuu to be lyen ; is it all uight you wor out that 
 way ?" 
 
 " Tell me," said Dorgan, rising and taking his bundle, 
 without attending to, indeed without hearing her question,
 
 CAKD LliAWlKG. 0<i 
 
 • — " nlio was that 3'oung girl, tbsit I heard speaking to 
 you, just now ?" 
 
 " I'm atear'd," said the Card-drawer, lookhig at him 
 askance with one of her eyes, "you're in a greater hurry 
 to hear that than I am to tell you. Would you make a 
 bctraj-er o' me ?" 
 
 " Not I, mdeed," said Duke, " nor do I wish you to 
 answer the question, if there be any confidence between 
 you and her." 
 
 And turning on his heel, he was going to jump on the 
 stile, leading to the common footpath, when the old wumau 
 called to him. 
 
 " Easy a while, sailor ! AVould you like to have a body 
 tell your forteu ?" 
 
 " My fortune ?" said Duke, with a laugh, — " Go, you 
 old rogue, did yon think I'm one of your woodcocks? How 
 would a sinner like you (if it isn't judging you — but we're 
 all sinners) come into the knowledge of heaven's secrets ?" 
 
 " Oyeh, who pretends to any knowledge of 'em ? I'm 
 sure I don't. I see nothen — I hear nothen — I know nothea 
 — 'Tis all in this pack o' cards, it is. You draw for your- 
 seli^ — all I'll do, is to tell you what it is ; I know no more 
 o' y»Hi, than you do yourself, till you draw, an' then the 
 cards '11 tell us." 
 
 Although Dorgan had very little of the superstitious cre- 
 dulity which is common to most sailors, in his composition, 
 he was not destitute of a certain portion of youthful curi- 
 osity. He paused a moment, his hand resting on the stile 
 while he surveyed the old woman with a gaze of mingled 
 condescension and smiling incredulity. — " And what must 
 I pay for your nonsense, old lady ?" 
 
 "• May 1 never die in sin, If I'd ask anythen more gen- 
 teel and otf-han I, than that dullar that's danglen be the 
 ribljon to the breast o' your coat." 
 
 " Dollar !" Dorgan exclaimed with another loud laugh. 
 *' You exorbitant iiag 1 Yv'ould you have me sell you my
 
 6b CAUD dhaaving. 
 
 lafirels ? Tliis is my Trafalgar medal." And he gase-!! on 
 it with an eye in which fondness and pride were mingled. 
 
 The Card-drawer drew back respectfully, and curtsied to 
 the veiT ground.— If you were one of Nelson's sailors," said 
 slio, — "that great lord, that all the world is in mourning 
 foi-, this way, I'll take nothcn from you. Here draw your 
 fate an' welcome." 
 
 " I will," replied Dorgan, — " but not gratis, my good 
 woman. Here," putting a half-crown into her hand, and 
 assuming a more cordial manner (which I request my reader 
 will not attribute to the flattering humility of the Card- 
 drawer's demeanour) — "put up this — and let me draw my 
 fate, as you call it." 
 
 " The heavens bless your honour ; face the cast, sir, 
 "Well what have you drawii ?" 
 
 " A scoundrelly, bandy-legged knave o' clubs." 
 
 " I am sorry for you, young man," said the Card-drawer, 
 in a tone of deep concern. " Draw again, sir, and hope for 
 better luck. AVell, what card is that ?" 
 
 " The same squint-eyed knave, as I'm alive. Is there 
 ill-look in the fellow's phiz ?" 
 
 " You must draw three cards, before I can answer any 
 questions. Here ! — there is but one other chance between 
 youandaveryillforten. Well, is there any better lucknow?" 
 
 Dorgan drew a third time, and started back when he 
 looked on the card, as if he had seen a ghost. 
 
 " I insist," said he vehemently, " on seeing the pack — 
 there arc none but knaves o' clubs in your hands." 
 
 " shame an' sorrow, asthora-ma-chree, Mhy should you 
 say such a thing as that ? — see, yourself. Isn't that a 
 fair an' lionest pack o' cards ? 'Tisn't to draw the knave 
 o' elubs agin you done, is it ?'* 
 
 " rU be hanged if I haven't though," said Duke, troubled 
 and fretted in spite of himself at the singular coincidence — ■ 
 which he perhaps too readily believed to bo uucontriveil on 
 the part of tiie old woman.
 
 CARD DRAWIXG. 37 
 
 " Yoivil be hang-ed if yon have, yon ought to say," sh? 
 replied, assuming a solemn earnestness of tone and look. 
 
 '' I icill, be banged then," said the sailor — " for there 
 is the card." 
 
 " Whoever you are,'' the Card-drawer replied, after 
 shaking her head and looking steadfastly at him for a few 
 moments, "you are a free-handed, spirited boy, an' my 
 heart within me is sorry for you. If you left your ship 
 for fear of a sailor's grave, you may return to her again, 
 for your doom is not to be upon the waters. There's a 
 theatneu of a voylent an' a shame-death in the card you 
 drew. If you have a spite agin any body, or if it be a 
 thing any body would have the likes again you, I tell you, 
 an warn you to beware an look about you. Feel your 
 way before you, for a black doom is waiten for you. 
 Once more I advise you, look well to yourself, an' dale 
 quietly wit all people. Good mornen to yon, lad, and 
 heaven send you better luck then you're promised — an' a 
 rough road, porcupine saddle, an' a high-trotten horse to 
 all your innimies." And so saying, the old woman con- 
 concealed the cards in some part of her dress, and hurried 
 through the haggard, muttering, as soon as she passed 
 out of hearing, " There why ! May be I didn't make you 
 pay for your peepen, for once. He has something to think 
 of now to keep his mind from harm, any way." 
 
 Although we have before said that Duke Dorgan was 
 by no means feeble-minded, or idly credulous, it would be 
 claiming for him, perhaps, a vigour of intellect which is but 
 little characteristic of the members of his class of society, 
 in any country in the world, if we asserted, that he was in- 
 capable of being at all influenced by circumstances so im- 
 irapressive as those which he had just undergone. The co- 
 incidence in the thrice selected card (in which, probably, 
 the more penetrating reader can discover nothing farther 
 than the roguish dexterity of a cunning old beldame) if it 
 did not appear to him as a really supernatm'al occurrence, a*
 
 38 CAKD DKAWIKG. 
 
 least made liim think very deeply on the subject, and nin- 
 gled itself ■with her explanation and prophecy, to which it 
 imparted a strangely corroborative weight. We might ap- 
 peal to the experience of many of our most philosophical 
 and apathetic readers, to say, whether they have not often 
 found trains of thought or feeling which they at first as- 
 sumed in inditiereuce or in jest, grow and fasten on their 
 attention, in a degree which was entirely the reverse of tri- 
 fling or agreeable. In like manner fared our hero : tha 
 longer he dwelt on the Card-drawer and her prophecy, the 
 more ill at ease he grew — until at length he wished, from 
 the bottom of his heart, that he never exchanged a Mord 
 with her. He was astonished at the feverish state of mind 
 which very speedily grew upon him — " I don't believe a 
 word of it," he said remonstrating with himself — " and as 
 to the old woman herself — of course she is an impostor. I 
 should be worse than an idiot, to be at all influenced by 
 any thing she could tell me — nor am I — but yet to draw 
 tiiat Icjig-noscd knave o' clubs three times ! — No matter ! 
 time M ill tell." 
 
 He sprang lightly over the stile, and, bundle in hand, 
 speedily lost recollection of his moining adventure in the 
 varieties of the scenes through which he passed, on his route 
 towards his native village — and tlie home of his love. 'J"he 
 country around him was level, boggy, and uncultivated, 
 with but scanty exc-eptions ; and the occasional companions 
 of his journey were the blue-stockinged fish-jolters, from the 
 neighbouring villages of Beltard and Quern (famous for the 
 delicious turbot, which philanthropically incarcerated them- 
 selves in the fishing-nets, for the beueiit of the gourmands 
 of Clare and Limerick). 
 
 The rough-looking mei chants who dealt in such delicious 
 ware beat on their rough-coa:cd asses, as they staggered 
 under the weight of their well-furnished cleaves or pauiers, 
 and diver>ificd the monotony of the sweet and wholesome 
 £ca u,i/, with what Trinculo would call a " most ancient aud 
 
 J
 
 CAHD DI;A^vINa. 30 
 
 Esh-like smell." Now niul then, too, a pi:;-]obbor, dis- 
 tingnishcd by his wesithcr-proof air, his ponderous frieze 
 great-coat, with standing collar, forming a strong wall of 
 defence np to the veiy eyes — his Avide waste of cape, and 
 his one spur fastened upon the well-greased brogue, vouch- 
 safed a " save you kindly," as he trotted by ; and a carman, 
 seated sidewise on the back of a horse, (whose bony ribs 
 bespoke him innocent of the luxury of oats) — viith his feet 
 on the shaft, a cart-whip tied sashwise about his person 
 from shoulder to hips, a dingy stravr hat flung " on three 
 hairs" of his head, heavy woollen waistcoat, bundle-cloth 
 shirt thrown open at the neck, and light streamers of gray 
 ribbon fluttering rakisliiy at the knees of his corduroy small 
 clothes, — hospitably invited him to take a seat on the cor- 
 ner of his car, loaded as it was with full-bounds of butter, 
 or bags of oats for the inland markets. 
 
 Duke was tempted to loiter so much on his way, that the 
 sun was past its meridian height for some time before he 
 entered the village of Carrigaholt, Avithin little more than 
 a mile of Avhich Mr. SI'Loughlen, the flrther of his beloved 
 Penny, resided. He had previously come to tl>e determina- 
 tion of allowing himself one evening to recruit his spirits 
 and recover his good looks, before he should present himself 
 at the farm-house. Though he had but little vanity him- 
 self, and had a reasonable share of confidence in the affec- 
 tions of his love, he had lived long enough among mankind, 
 to know, that even our best and nearest friends are seldom 
 so purely disinterested as not to acknowledge an involuntary 
 and tacit subjection to the influence of appearances. Penny, 
 ho conjectured (and ho did not think the worse of her for 
 the suspicion) would not like him the less in his smart new 
 jacket and trowscrs, with a light India silk handkerchief 
 about his r.ock, and the wearing effects of long travel flung 
 fr.m him by a night's repose. The old gentleman, ho was 
 certain, would be much better pleased to see him in a re- 
 spectable trim ; and he was conscious moreover, though ha
 
 4C CARD DRAAVING. 
 
 did not make this one of liis ostensible motives, that ho 
 ■would not be the less satisfied v/ith himself for appearing 
 2)oint device. r 
 
 The village, as he entered it, appeared almost deserted 
 — the masters of the families not being yet returned from 
 their daily toil on the river whieh flowed near them. The 
 doors of the houses were, for the most part, shut fast aud 
 hasped, which circumstance, together with the stillness of 
 the streets, in which he only heard the voices of some rag- 
 ged children at play among the turf kishes, and the occa- 
 sional inhospitable growling of some hairy cur (who was 
 afraid to venture on a bark of open defiance or hostility in 
 the absence of its human protectors,) gave something of a 
 holiday air to the scene. Between the occasional breaks 
 in the row of houses on one side, the broad and sheeted 
 river presented itself to his eyes, its surface agreeably diver- 
 sified by the dark and red-sailed fishing boats, turf-bo;. ts, 
 and large merchant-vessels wliich floated on its bosom, and 
 the shadow of a passing cloud on its green and sunny waters. 
 
 As he proceeded through t!ie village in search of the 
 house which Kinchela had indicaied as a rendezvous, hfa 
 observetl the sign-boards of two rival public-houses, swing- 
 ing at either corner of the street, at a spot where it was 
 intersected by two cross-roads. 
 
 i>oth were distinguished by those whimsical devices aud 
 mottoes, used generally in Ireland for the purpose of excit- 
 ing mirth in the liearts of the passengers — those adepts ia 
 the human character, the innkeepers, being made aware by 
 long experience, that, next to passion; te grief, i o hing in- 
 clines a man more strongly to look for good licpior aud good 
 company, than a train of good humour once set on fire 
 within his heart. One of tliosc signs presented the ap- 
 pearance of a pewter drinking vessel imprisoned within the 
 grating of a strong gaol, under which the following lines 
 were written in a bold dashing hand :—
 
 1 
 
 CARD DRAWING. 42 
 
 Te jovial foUoics that pass along, 
 Behold me Itere, in prison strong, 
 For Four pence / in chains do lie 
 Release me qiddcly, or I shall Dia' 
 
 On the rival sign-board, the JIuse of pa'nting had deli- 
 neated the effigy of a bee-hive, which had likewise its ap- 
 propriate jingle contributed by her sister deity : — 
 
 " Within tliis liive 
 
 We're all alive; 
 Good liquor makes us funny 
 
 If you are dry 
 
 As ydu pass by, 
 Step in and taste our honey." 
 
 With the latter invitation our hero complied, leaving the 
 liberation of the captive on the other side to the next vil- 
 lage Howard who niiglit cast a humane eye in that direction, 
 moved less, however, by the prospect of the promised honey 
 within, than tiie expectation of meeting here his old ac- 
 quaintance before named. 
 
 He found the house unoccupied by any but the ptthlican 
 or landlord, who was seated, in a hay-bottomed chair, by 
 the whitening embers of a turf fire, dandling one foot softly 
 in the air, and luxuriating in the delights of a well-filled 
 pipe, which he iutcrrnpted only at intervals, for the purpose 
 of giving some directions to a slatternly girl, who was 
 siated on her heels at one end of the room, scouring the 
 pewter glories of the dresser with a wisp of hay and wef 
 sand. He received Dorgan with the respect and attention 
 which are peculiarly the light of all naval and military 
 sojourners at places of amusement, ushered him into the 
 boarded parlour, and answered readily all the questions 
 which he put respecting the present condition of Al'Loughlcu, 
 whether he still lived with his daughter, in the same lonely 
 honse which they occupied a great many years before, and 
 many other inquiries more interesting to him, in all proba- 
 bility, than they would be to the reader.
 
 42 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 The landlord was at length summoned to attend a cus- 
 tomer at the bar, and Duke was left to " discuss" (as tlie 
 phrase is) his whiskey-and- water (or to give it the provin- 
 cial term his whiskey-punch) alone. Although Irishmen 
 have long lain under the imputation of a fondness more 
 intense than is consistent with the character of a well- 
 deserver, for the excitement of strong liquor, I believe the 
 affection which subsists, is rather that Avhich we entertain 
 fur a pleasant acquaintance, whom we are happy to meet 
 in mixed company, than that which we feel towards a friend 
 with whom we can consume whole hours in solitary com- 
 munion (if this expression may escape nncensured by Eng- 
 lish judgments). Dorgau in particular, who was unprofes- 
 sionally and unnationally abstemious, felt little pleasure in 
 continuing, while he waited the arrival of his friend, to .^ip 
 the diluted lire which stood before him. He looked around 
 the room for something to amuse his thoughts, which were 
 flowing too rapidly upon him, to suul-r that he should re- 
 main still, until Pryce made good his appointment ; and 
 after turning over a few old books of farming, tattered 
 volumes of law, and rudimental works, a scrap-book fell 
 into his hands, in which he found the following verses writ- 
 ten (iu all probaI)ility by way of practice in penmanship). 
 Although the sentiment was expressed in language, perhaps, 
 a little too line fur his sympathy, the analogy which it bore 
 to what might have been his own fate, interested him suf- 
 ficiently to make him read the stanzas through. 
 
 THE JOY OF HONOUK. 
 I. 
 
 The tears from thcie old eyelids crept. 
 When Deriuod left his muther-laud— 
 
 And I was one of those who wept 
 Upon his nectj, and press'd his hand. 
 
 lie ilid not p'leve to leave us tlien, 
 
 IJ.e hop'd to so'3 his home ayain — 
 
 \\ itli honours twin'd in liis bright haiF) 
 
 He could not hope to gatlii-r there.
 
 CARD DRAWING. 43 
 
 II. 
 
 T«ar after year rolled fleetly on — 
 
 Lost in the grave of buried time — 
 And Dermod's name and praise had won 
 
 'J htir -nay into his parent- clime; 
 But all his youthful haunts were changed. 
 The wild wood perished where he ranged— 
 And all his friends died one by one, 
 Till the last of Dermod's name was gone. 
 
 III. 
 
 I sat, one eve, in Curra's glade. 
 
 And saw an old man tottering down, 
 Where the first veil of evening's shade 
 
 Had given the heath a deeper brown ; 
 His cheek was pale — his long hair now 
 Fell, in white flakes, o'er his aged brow — 
 But the same young soul was in his eye, 
 And 1 knew the friend of my infancy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He gazed upon the silent wood — 
 
 He passed his hand across his brow— 
 The hush of utter solitude 
 
 Slept on each breathless beechcn bough 
 
 "'ihat lake with flowering islets strewed, 
 That skirts the lawn and Ijreaks yon wood— 
 ] knt'W in youth a valley green, 
 The seat of many a meny scene. 
 
 V. 
 
 •*The youths that graced the village dance, 
 Beneath the turf they trod are sleeping — - 
 The maidens, in whose gentle glance 
 
 Tiieir spirits lived, are o'er them weeping- 
 Sorrow and blight, and age have come — 
 Where mirth once reigned - and yotitli — nndbloom»i 
 And the soft charms of Nature's prime 
 Are blasted by the breath of Time. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Ar^d hath the joy tliat honour giv(>3, 
 
 No power o'er memories like tliis? 
 All ! witless is the man who lives 
 
 To soar at fame and spurn at bliss !
 
 44 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 That hatli b cii mine — this mic,lit have beetii 
 Had 1 bill, held the humble moan — 
 -And passed njion my jiiirent soil 
 A lil'e of peace and quiet tuiU 
 
 VII. 
 
 "And is it thus with all who gain 
 
 The phantom glory of a name ? 
 That ere it grace their bruws, the pain 
 
 (if their long search hath quench'd the flame 
 That young ambition lit — and those 
 Whose praise they sought, are at repose — - 
 A nd they stand in a world unknown — 
 Admired — revered — unloved — alone I 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " I want my early playmates back, 
 
 My friends long lost — but ne'er forgot — • 
 
 Are these old men who haunt my track, 
 
 Wy school-day friends? — I know them not I 
 
 Alas! I grieve and call in vain — 
 
 Their youth will never come again; 
 
 But it is sad my heart should feel 
 
 Its first affections youthful still." 
 
 "■ I declare, then," said Dorgan in soliloquy, as he 
 mingled another " tumbler o' punch" (the first having in- 
 sensibly disappeared, while he was poring studiously over 
 the above composition), and looked musingly in the glass, 
 only a little puzzled — " I declare, now, I can understand 
 what the fellow means very well, although he has put it 
 into that crinkum-craukum, fin^-spoken, gingerbread lan- 
 guage ; and I felt just the same thing myself since I came. 
 This very landlord o' this public-house I know at school — 
 a wild, scatter-brained 3'oung fellow, that would box a 
 round, or climb at a magpie's nest with any boy in tho 
 parisii, and to see him now enter the room, knocking the 
 ashes otT his pipe with the tip of his little finger, hoping 
 your honour is convenient, and talking of the duty on 
 licences and the distillery laws, as if he had never dune any- 
 thing since he was born but jiuj whiskey puucli, and score
 
 CARD DRAWIXa 45 
 
 doable ! It miuvLS a man feel as if lie v/ere thinking <:( 
 growing old, one ti.ii3 or another, himself. Going to ' lio 
 beneath the turf I trod,' as this poet here savs. No 
 matter !" he continued, indulging in a more liberal draught 
 than he had yet ventared on, " this is the way of the 
 world — sic transit gloria mundi ; here to-day and gone 
 o' Sunday. Hush ! Is nx>t thakt Kinchcla ?" 
 
 lie interrupted himself, t-n hearing a voice in the kitchen 
 outside. The speaker approached the door of the room 
 fl-here he sat, and entering without ceremony, showed him 
 that his conjecture was perfectly correct. 
 
 " I beg pardon, Mr. Dorgan," he said, making what he 
 Oonsidered a very courteous bow — " I'm afeer'd I hep you 
 Tvaiten, but I was obleeged to be at the Head all the mor- 
 nen, gatheren the barnocks* — an' I couldn't M'ell afford to 
 lose more than half a day to our meeten this turn." 
 
 Dorgaa accepted his apology, and invited him to a cor- 
 ner of the board, and a share of the good things with which 
 it was decorated. Pryce readily seated himself, but refused 
 to drink, and when our here pressed him hard, added vehe- 
 mence to the negative. 
 
 " come," said Duke, angrily, " I will say that you 
 do not yet look on me as a friend if you refuse to join me 
 in a glass. There's no salt in the liiiuur — and you may be 
 my foe to-raorrow, if you like." 
 
 " Pho ! pho ! sooner than you'd be sayen anything o' 
 that kind, Duke," the other said, with some confusion of 
 manner, " I'll drink the ocean dry wit you." And he tilled 
 a glass without further preamole. 
 
 After the usual commendations on the quality of the 
 materials which went to the composition of their popular 
 beverage, the young men talked freely of the changes which 
 had taken place in the affairs of the neighbourhood, dwell- 
 ing on the intermediate histories of all whose fortunes were 
 of any interest to the sailor from their association with his 
 * A kind of sliell-fisli.
 
 46 CARD DRAWING, 
 
 early life, comparing their actual fates v,'li\\ what might 
 have beeD anticipated from his knowledge of their charac- 
 ter in boyhood — how one was married — another hanged — 
 one killed at a hurling match — another transported for 
 sheep-stealing — wondering at every circumstance in turn, 
 and at length chopping round (to use the professional 
 phrase of one of the parties) upon the old and favourite 
 theme of M'Loughlen and his daughter. 
 
 Oa this subject, Dorgau, a little stimulated by the 
 awakened recollection of the slights cast upon hitn by the 
 old farmer ; and not a little, perhaps, by the influence of 
 the Irish whiskey, to which he had become almost a 
 stranger during his exile, allowed himself a liberty of speech 
 which he had afterward deep cause to regret. Pryce, nfter 
 coinciding in the justice of his resentment, and even adding 
 some observations calculated rather to aggravate than 
 assuage it, suddenly changed his tone, and said in a gentle 
 voice : — 
 
 " But although he did injure you surely, Duke, an' that 
 greatly, I'd like I could prevail on you to forgive and for- 
 get. Bear an' forbear as we're commanded. He's an old 
 man, an' you're a young one, and it won't be long until 
 the grave will draw^ a line between ye, that you may wish 
 to pass, to make friends again, an' won't be able. So 
 don't harbour any bad designs again' poor M'Loughlen, I 
 beg o' you." 
 
 " Oh, I'll make the pm-sc-proud old rogue know at any 
 
 rate that " he interrupt'^d himself, on perceiving a dark 
 
 shadow thrown on the table at wliicii he was seated. On 
 looking up, he perceived an elderly gentleman, dressed in 
 black, with whip and spurs, and silver buckles at his knees, 
 standing between him and the window. He addressed 
 Dorgan with a manner of solemn and authoritative, 
 although very mild and dignified rei)roof. 
 
 " I have been listening to you," said he, " for the last 
 few minutes "
 
 CAHD DRAWING, 4T 
 
 " Have you?" intcmipted Dnkc, " then jou have /nadc 
 more free than welcome, I can tell you." 
 
 " Do not condemn me as an eaves-dropper/ T<aJd tlie 
 gentleman, calmly, " until you are certain that I deserve 
 the name. I did not intend to overhear yon ; but if I 
 had used so unwarrantable a means to serve you, young 
 man, you should respect your Maker moj-t; chan to insult 
 his minister." 
 
 "I really ask your pardon," said Dorgan, rising — " I was 
 not aAvarc of your profession, father, «i 1 would not have 
 nsed these M'ords." 
 
 " There was a f.iult on both sides," said the clergyman 
 — " however, before I go (as I only stepped in hei'e, in the 
 expectation of meeting a friend,) I will venture to pursue 
 the subject a little farther. I heard you speak in terms of 
 strong resentment of one of my worthiest parishioners. 
 Thei-e is not a man of his means and station in the country 
 who has done more good to the poor, and to all who needed 
 his service, than that very man. He is a fond father — 
 a religious observer of God's law — and a friend to all — 
 even to you — (do u>ot start, for I know you, sir,) who are 
 no friend of his. I have often heard him mention, with 
 deep regret, the hard language he used towards you in his 
 younger and mo'C passionate days — and yet thia is the 
 man whom you denounce by an epithet, which it doea not be- 
 come me to repeat, even for the purpose of reprehending it. 
 I would recommend to you for your own sake, a«d that of 
 all in whom you have an interest, to acquii-e tlie virtue of 
 subduing those violent resentments. Keme:nber that ' the 
 patient is better than the strong man ; and \va that ruleth 
 his mind than the overthrower of cities,' " 
 
 " Well," said Dorgan, " you will not Chi'.ik the worse of 
 me for speaking my mind freely, at all events." 
 
 " Ay, young man, ttiere would be a merit in that frank- 
 ness if it imj)lied a purpose of amendment, as well as a con- 
 sciousness of error. Lut it is the misfortune of your couu-
 
 48 CARD DRAwma. 
 
 tiymen and mine, to imagine tliat open-hcartedness is a 
 virtue, even when it only consists in making a boast of 
 guilty propensities, which other men deem it prudent to 
 conceal. I mentioned to you the merits of him against 
 whom you have been railing, for the purpose of showing 
 what a darkeuer of the mind and senses this private resent- 
 ment is — and how it can so change the eyes and heart, as 
 to make one man see evil, where all others can discern 
 nought but good. It is the indulgence of this dreadful and 
 selfish propensity, that has made the gibbets of our country 
 groan under the burthen of so many hundreds of her young 
 and high-spirited children. I warn you to beware of har- 
 bouring resentment against your brother." And saying 
 this, the clergyman left the room, followed by Kincliela, 
 who pleaded some business with the publican. 
 
 Dorgan remained for some time after in an attitude of 
 stupid abstraction and amazement, not altogether occasioned 
 so much by the reproof which he had undergone, as by the 
 strange coincidence between the clergyman's last words and 
 the warning given by the Card-drawer on that very morn- 
 ing. "What!" he exclaimed at length, striking the table 
 forcibly with his clenched fist, and speaking with much 
 vehemence ; " are all the people mad, that they warn me 
 at every step I take to beware of murder and the gallows? 
 Do I meditate bloodshed ? Let me take my own heart to 
 task. Is it that of a midnight cut-throat ? It surely is 
 not. I have never spilled one red drop of living blood in 
 my life, but that f jr which I ventured my own in the service 
 of my country. I would not set my foot on that fly that 
 is crawling there, if it were to purchase the three kingdoms. 
 What then do the people mean ? Is my forehead stamped 
 like Cain's, with the mark of blood ? Is murderer in my 
 face? If Nature has Avrit^en the word there, she lied foully, 
 for the heart of the young lamb is not more free from the 
 thought or thirst of violence than mine." 
 
 A little vcUeved by the fervour with whhh he thu i an*
 
 CARD DK AWING. 49 
 
 burtliened his spirit, Dorgan prepared for his night's rest in 
 the inn, and was shov/n by the landlord into a double bed- 
 ded room, after bidding good night to Kinchela, who Avas 
 to return to Loup Head early in the morning. Notwith- 
 standing all the efforts which his companion made to banish 
 from his memory the recollection of the double warning he 
 had received in the course of the day, the circumstance still 
 hung upon his mind, and troubled his slumbers. The forms 
 of a methodical execution — the blanketed finisher of the 
 law — the fatal cart — the tree — cliains — night-cap — and all 
 the other awful et cetera of a death untimely and ignomi- 
 nious, floated with a horrible and oppressive influence upon 
 his bi ain ; and he awoke just in time to save his neck from 
 the noose which was all but fastened on it. 
 
 It was dark midnight ; and he felt his head almost riven 
 with a cruel ache, the result in all probability of his unac- 
 customed libations, together with the fatigue he had under- 
 gone the preceding day and night. Wishing to bind it 
 round with a silk liaudkerchief, he stretched his hand out 
 to the chair on which he had laid his clothes, but to his 
 great surprise found that they had been removed. He rose 
 and groped about the room for some time in the dark, but 
 with no better success : he was, in fine, obhged to retm'u 
 to his bed and sleep off the illness as well as he could until 
 morning. 
 
 Whatever his astonishment might have been at missing 
 his clothes during the night, it certainly did not exceed 
 that which he felt on opening his eyes next day and pei^ 
 ceiving them exactly in the place Avhere he had laid them 
 the evening before. The royal father of Badroulboudour 
 never rubbed his eyes so often or in such astonishment, at 
 the disappearance of the enchanted palace of his son-in-law. 
 Kinchela had already departed ; aud our hero, after dis- 
 charging the duty of morning prayer with somewhat more 
 than his usual fervency, and consuming a reasonable por-
 
 50 CAED DRAWING. 
 
 tion of the publican's groceries, paid his bill like a raan of 
 honour, and departed. 
 
 Tlie calmness of the morning, the fresh look of the green 
 fields, the sweetness of the open air, and the sight of the 
 hills and crags where the days of his childhood had passed 
 so merrily — contributed to wean his mind from the gloomy 
 reflections to which the occurrences of the preceding day 
 had given rise. Every step that brought him nearer to the 
 dwelling of his love, made liis heart bound with a freer and 
 happier movement within his bosom, until at length the ex- 
 quisite poignancy of expectation became almost too eager 
 and tumultuous for unmixed pleasure. He passed the old 
 school-house in the glen, the chapel, the inch which was 
 used for a play-ground, and at length, on arriving at the 
 summit of a gentle eminence, beheld the farm-house (a neat 
 little band-box, in which his love lay treasured like one of 
 her own new bonnets) clustered in among a grove of 
 Scotch lirs, and presenting its cheerful white- washed front 
 to the broad face of the Shannon, from which it was only 
 separated by a green and sloping meadow. 
 
 It was I'ather early when Dorgan left the inn where he 
 passed the night, so that he was a little surprised to see a 
 considerable number of persons collected round the door. 
 They passed rapiilly in and out of the house, and a few 
 hastened across the fields in tlie direction of the village, 
 while others passed them after a hasty greeting, and seeming 
 coni'cy the tidings of some important event. On a sud- 
 den, while Doigan continued looking towards the open door, 
 a woman rushed from it, hurried through the crowd, tore 
 her cap from her head, and, while her long hair fell over 
 her shoulders, began to clap her liands, and utter the most 
 heart- piercing screams. A terrible sensation lodged itself 
 upon the heart of young Dorgan as he heard this fatal song, 
 which his memory enabled him to recognise as the death- 
 wail of his country. lie was about to spring from the 
 low hedge on which he sat, and liasien to the iiouse, wheu
 
 CARD DRAWING. 61 
 
 he was stoppea by a -woinan who had been sitting on the 
 bank-side in the sunshine, arranging a small pack of rabbit- 
 skins and goose-quills which she carried. 
 
 " Tee you ! tee you !* sailor !" she exclaimed, "Tee you! 
 Don't go a-near the house ! Are you light ?t They're on 
 the watch for you. Oh ! you foolish cratur, why didn't 
 you do me bidden. I'd rather the cards to be out itself, 
 this once, than to have such a clane, likely boy as what you 
 ai"e coom to any harm on the head of it." 
 
 "You infernal hag !" said Duke, turning fiercely upon 
 her, " are you mad ? Let go my dress ! You are all 
 mad together. What watch? — Who? — What do you 
 
 mean 
 
 " You do well to be ignorant of it, to be sure. There 
 was murder done in that house last night, and — " 
 
 "Hold!" said Dorgan, turning pale as death, and stag- 
 gering forward, until he supported himself by grasping the 
 extended arm of the Card- drawer. The woman paused and 
 looked amazedly on him, while his head drooped upon his 
 breast ; a dreadful sickness laboured at his heart, and his 
 brain felt as though it reeled within his head. At length, 
 raising his eyes heavily to heaven, while his words fell from 
 him with so faint an emphasis that the utterance of each 
 single syllable seemed to require all the exertion his nerves 
 could muster, he said i-lowly and feebly, " Great Heaven ! 
 if now, after my long absence from my native land, after all 
 the danger through Avhich the Almighty has preserved me, 
 both by storm and battle, — if now, the first day of my com- 
 ing home, the first day I was to meet my old fiiends, my 
 first love, in health and happiness — if I am doomed to see 
 her, after all our love, and our hopes, and our long parting, 
 a bleeding corpse before me, I will strive to submit and bear 
 tho judgment ; but do not blame me if my heart breaks under 
 It — and if Tell me," he continued pressing the Card- 
 
 • To you ! Beware 1 f Mad.
 
 52 CAKD DRAWING. 
 
 drawer's arm, and pantinG: with apprehension, while he dared 
 not look iri her flice, " Who was murdered ?" 
 
 " thin, dear knows, sir, ould M'Loughlen was — an' 
 I'd think that enough, an' not to go farther." 
 
 Again Dorgan paused, while his limbs shook with appre- 
 hension — " And — and — his daughter ?" 
 
 " Oh, allilu! Penny, is it ? Oh, indeed I wisht himselj 
 was as well as her, an' 'twould save her a sighth o' grief." 
 
 Dorgan covered his eyes with his hands, and leaned for 
 some time, silent and motionless, with his back against the 
 bank. At length, rising silently, with as much firmness as 
 he could command, he began to move towards the house in 
 silence. 
 
 " Don't you hear me, Avhat I'm tellin' you, child?" said 
 tlie Card-drawer. 
 
 " What do you say ? — '* 
 
 " They're all on the look-out for the murderers, and exa- 
 minen 'era all right an' left — gentle and simple. Eemem- 
 ber the knave o' clubs." 
 
 " Pooh — pooh !" Dorgan exclaimed, shaking his arm 
 from her grasp, and hurrying toward the house. 
 
 " Pooh, is it ?" said the indignant forestaller of the 
 Destinies — " Shastone pooh ! Gondoutha wisha pooh ! 
 That's my thanks. May be 'twould be a new story wit you 
 before you'd leave that roof, then ; an' I'd be sorry it should, 
 for all. Well then, I declare, now," she added, crossing 
 her hands in more composed soliloquy — " one oughtn't 
 to be funnen on things o' that rnture, at all' — for see how 
 what I did, be way of a punishment to frighten him, is 
 coming very near tlie truth after all ! — I declare, it's a 
 droll thing to think of — Easy ! isn't that the ])riest I see 
 conien over the road ? murther alive ! I'll be kilt if 
 he sees me, after he warneu me out o' the parish last Ad- 
 vent." She huddled her pack hastily up, and ran along 
 under cover of the hedge, in a different direction from that 
 by which his reverence, the same gentleman under whoso
 
 CARD DRAWING. 53 
 
 consnre Dorgan had lain at the inn the night before, w?g 
 approachhig the farm. 
 
 A dreary scene awaited our young hero in the interior 
 of the house. He passed in without attracting any notico 
 fi-om the crowds of persons wno were too busy, in hearing 
 or telling the circumstances of the fearful occurrence which 
 had taken place, to suffer then- attention to be divided by 
 the appearance of a stranger. In the centre of the neatly 
 furnished kitchen was a long deal table, on which was laid 
 the corpse, with the clothes in which he had been found — 
 and all the awful appearances of a violent fate which he 
 had undergone. The gray hairs, matted and stifle — and 
 the wrinkled features distorted with the still surviving ex- 
 pression of horror, and frightfully dabbled in blood, re- 
 mained still untouched, unchanged — an indication that the 
 coroner's inquiry Avas not yet concluded. It was, in fact, 
 at this moment, proceeding in an interior room. In the 
 capacious chimney corner were seated a number of old 
 women, who declared, as they socially passed the single pipe 
 from one to another, that the old man would make a 
 good corpse, when the blood was washed off and the hair 
 combed sleek upon the brow. An old man, in another 
 corner, was entertaining a number of wondering auditors, 
 with an account of a murder far more horrible than the 
 present, Mhich had occurred within his own memory ; and 
 tiarther on, were seated a circle of females, preparing, by 
 low modulations of the death-cry, to shine in the rivalry of 
 tlie evening wail. Two or three of the sincere friends of 
 the dead man, standing near his body, perused in heavy 
 gilimce, and Mith grief-struck features, that face which even 
 an enemy could not contemplate, disfigured and dragged as 
 it was in the parting agony, without an emotion of ])ity 
 and forgiveness — if not remorse. One of these men was 
 Duke Dorgan. 
 
 He learned, from the convers;Ttion of those who stood 
 around liim, that a party had entered the house on the pre-
 
 54 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 vions evening, in pursuance, as it was said, of a threat which 
 had been conveyed to poor M'Loughlen a short time before, 
 warning him not to bid for a certain farm ia the neighbour- 
 hood, the former tenant of which had been ejected for non- 
 payment of rent. M'Louglilen had disregarded this menace, 
 and in some measure brought on himself the consequences 
 wliich had been laid before him. His daughter, and a little 
 girl, his niece, were the only persons in the house at the 
 time ; and the latter alone, an intelligent child about seven 
 or eight years of age, was enabled to see the whole proce- 
 dure, from a loft on which she usually slept. Dorgan en- 
 tered the room where the coroner's inquest was held, just 
 as that gentleman was beginning to take down the deposi- 
 tion of tiie infant witness. 
 
 " Well, my little darling," said the Coroner, " tell your 
 story now, like a good girl. Don't be afraid of these gen- 
 tlemen ; we are all your friends, and we'll take care that 
 nobody shall do you any harm." 
 
 " I will, ser," said the little girl. "This was the way of 
 it. Uncle Avas sitten there abroad a-near the kitchen tire, 
 on the sugan chair, an' Penny was readen a chapter out o' 
 the Bible to him, au' Tom L)ooly, our boy, was out looken 
 at the bounds, to see v/ould any o' the Key's cows be tres- 
 passen, an' meself was just out o' my first sleep above upon 
 the loft, over right the fire-place, when I heard a tundereu 
 rap coom to the b:ick doore." 
 
 " Very well, m\ girl, very good child," the Coroner said, 
 while he continued making his memoranda. " Well ? you 
 heard a knock h" 
 
 " 1 diJ, s^'r. Penny dropt the book in a fright, an' coom 
 Bn' thrua her arms about uncle's neck. '0 murther, fether! 
 what's that, I wonder ?' says Penny. ' It's the boys,* 1 tear,' 
 says he, ' Heaven i)reserve my child !' says he. So he put 
 Penny into tlie corner, an' then the party broke the dool 
 
 * The familiar name for Insurcreuts,
 
 CARD TRACING. 55 
 
 (I heard it craslien), an' coom in an' began croosfen* uncle 
 with stonep, while he kep 'cm off wit the chair. At last, 
 they puU't the chair from him, an' bid him go on his knees 
 to be shot. '0 boys,' says he, 'don't take my life, an' I'll 
 give np the farm.' ' It's too late now,' says one of 'em — 
 ' why didn't you take the warnen whin it was given yon ?' 
 With that he was going to strike him with a piece of a smf 
 he had in his hand, whin Penny ran scrcechen out o' the 
 corner, an' tuk him by the coat to pull him away from 
 uncle ; but he threw her back again' the wall, an' then he 
 began cutten uncle on the head with the s^e, till he fell back 
 on the floore groanen. ' You done enough now,' says one 
 of the party that was with him, ' he never 'II see daylight 
 agen — he hasn't a kick in him.' ' I owed that much to 
 him a long while, then,' says the man as they were goeu 
 out the doore. Uncle was stretched a'most the first blow 
 he gave him, an' veri/ justly, for it was a great stroke 
 surely.'* 
 
 Here the girl began to cry and tremble, as if labouring 
 tinder great anxiety. "I'll be kilt now entirely," she said, 
 " for there's one o' the men that murdered uncle liss'ueu to 
 me," 
 
 A general exclamation of astonishment and alarm broke 
 from the circle at this naive declaration. The doors were 
 closed by the C'oroner's desire, and the girl was asked to 
 point out the person whom she recognised. 
 
 " I'd be afeerd he'd kill me." she said, weeping. 
 
 " Do not fear it," said the Coroner, taking her into his 
 lap, and patting her head ; " we are too strong and too 
 many for him. Where is he, pet?" 
 
 " There he is, standen a- nigh the table, m the sailor's 
 clothes." 
 
 She pointed to Dorgan, who felt, while her small finger 
 was tremblingly directed towards him, as if he were sui-- 
 
 • FeUlnrj at bim, f Scythe.
 
 56 CARD DBAWINO. 
 
 rounded by tlic phantoms of a hideous droiani. He could 
 scarcely believe that the fate with which he had been so 
 shigiilaily threatened was in reality to be fultilled ; and he 
 could do nothing more than gape and stare around him, 
 until tlie rough hands of two of the men present, grasping 
 his collar, and dragging liim before the Coroner's chair, con- 
 vinced him that the scene and the event were directly the 
 reverse of ideal. 
 
 "Tills is a serious charge that is brought against you, 
 young man," said the Coroner. "Wiiat is your name ?" 
 
 " Uoi'gan," was the reply. " I have served in his Ma- 
 jesty's navy, and have only arrived in Ireland the day before 
 yesterday." 
 
 A murmuring of recognition passed among the people who 
 crowded the room, and one of them whispered to the Coro- 
 ner, who nodded as if in token of assent. 
 
 " You knew the deceased ?" he said, again addressing 
 Dorgan. 
 
 " I did, many years since." 
 
 " You owed him a spite, I believe ?" 
 
 "I owe no man a spite. That is a coward's passion. 
 He refused me the hand of his daughter, when I was very 
 young, and I confess my resentment against liim was strong; 
 but I came home Avith an altered spirit, anxious to see and 
 to be reconciled to him." 
 
 " Those were not, justice compels me to declare," said 
 a voice behind Dorgan, "the sentiments which 1 heard you 
 express towards him yesterday evening. In the parlour ijf 
 the Bee-hive, I heard this very young sailor speak in terms 
 of the vilest reproach against my poor murdered friend, 
 M'Louglden." 
 
 Dorgan looked over his shoulder, and behold the clergy- 
 man with whom he had been speaking. "I cannot, nor am 
 I anxious to deny that I did use such expressions," said he, 
 a little confused, in spite of his consciousness of right, tit 
 the corroborative force which this unfortunate circumstance
 
 CARD DRAWING. 57 
 
 was likely to give to the mistaken testimony of the child — 
 " but I spoke then under unusual irritation, I had been in- 
 dulging a little too freely in the strong liquor that was 
 placed before me, and might have said, perhaps, more than 
 I ought." 
 
 " Ay, and done more than you ought, sir, perhaps from 
 the same cause. Doctor IMahony's evidence is important, 
 however," the Coroner continued, writing. 
 
 " It would be," said Dorgan, with a sudden confidence 
 brightening in his manner, " but that I have one witness 
 who will decide the question of my innocence at once. There 
 stands the landlord of the inn ; he knows that I passed the 
 night under his roof." 
 
 "I declare, gentleman sailor," said the landlord, affecting 
 the euphony of the greater number of his class — " I'd prefer 
 you didn't appale to my evijunce — I don't know who may 
 be the perpetraathur of this horrid fact — but if I must give 
 my judgment in the case, I nnist say that I slep in a room, 
 the comrade o' that you hired, I heard you rise in the ob- 
 scurity o' the night an' walk most surprising about the room, 
 an' my wife testiiied to me that she had audience o' the 
 doore outside openen an sliutten a while before. It was a 
 contraary thing for you to direct application to me, for I 
 profess without maning to be litigious or factious, I have 
 nothen commendable to vouchsafe in your favour." And 
 80 saying, with the air of a Dogberry, the eloquent host 
 retired from the gaze of the crowd into his former place, 
 satisfied that he had impressed the company with the highest 
 respect for the perspicuity and elegance of phraseology which 
 he displayed. 
 
 There was no other witness to his alibi, who might not 
 have been imposed upon by the same appearances, and 
 Dorgan felt as if a net were weaving around him, from 
 which he should in vain seek to disentangle himself. 
 
 *' All these circumstances become more important aa 
 thev corroborate each othei\" said the Coroner, " I am
 
 68 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 afraid, young sir, that it will task your ingenuity hard to 
 bear you safely through tliem all." 
 
 Dorgan paused for a moment, and pressed his hand on 
 his brow in deep agitation. At last, starting from his 
 reverie with a sudden and passionate vehemence — " Let 
 Miss M'Loughleu be called," he exclaimed — " She saw the 
 murderer, she is your first witness. Let her come quickly, 
 or my life will be drivelled away by fools and children." 
 
 " You would do' well, sir," said the Coroner, after re- 
 questing the clergyman to go for the unhappy girl, " to 
 measure your language by the circumstances in which you 
 are placed. The ground on which you stand does not ap- 
 pear to be the firmest possible." 
 
 " Peace, and be silent !" cried Dorgan, fiercely and 
 loudly. " The ground on which I stand is the ground of 
 my own innocence, and that I will maintain after my own 
 fasliion." 
 
 " I hope you will prove it tenable," said the Coroner. 
 
 " If it be undermined by others, in malice, or in wanton 
 negligence," said our hero, " may the I'uia fall on the heads 
 of the contrivers !" 
 
 *' Amen !" was the reply. 
 
 The throng at the door-way here separated, and Dor- 
 gan's attention was rivctted by an object of new and en- 
 grossing interest. The priest entered, supporting on his 
 arm the slight and drooping figiu'e of a young woman of an 
 excelling beauty both of face and person, although the effect 
 of the terrible shock which she had undergone, considerably 
 abated the fresh and healthy bloom that was the legitimate 
 property of the former. She was dressed in a plain dark 
 cotton gown, wit'.i a bkie silk ribbon tied simply round her 
 well-formed head, while her light and polished curls shaded 
 her pale features, and her deep blue eyes were fixed on the 
 ground with a strong effort at the calmness of resignation, 
 as the clergyman whispered some words of encouragement 
 and comfort in her ear. A dead silence took place as soon
 
 CARD DK AWING. 59 
 
 83 she nntle lier fippcniar.ee, ivliich coTitnineil until she 
 liad been cuiidiicf.ed to a chair near the centre of Ihe 
 room. 
 
 Doigan, after pausing for some time, in order to muster 
 all his strength of mind, walked towards his love, and tak- 
 ing her hand, while she seemed scarcely conscious of tlie 
 action, in his, said gently, " It is a sad meeting that has 
 been reserved (l-r us, Pennie ; but do you not know me ?" 
 
 The poor girl had not, fiom the time of the murder up 
 to the present moment, indulged in any of those salutary 
 bursts of grief, in which the loaded heart finds safety from 
 breaking when it is oppressed with sorrow too nn'glity for 
 its narrow limits to contain. 'I'lie more violent, therefore, 
 was the rush of passion, when a channei was at length 
 aflbrded, by which the long pent-up and accumulating 
 agony was enabled to discharge itself. When she recog- 
 nised her lover, uttering a shrill and piercing shriek, which 
 darted like an electric shock through the nerves of the 
 hearers, she flung herself upon his neck, and hung in a 
 convulsion of mingled tears and sobs around him. Dorgan 
 supported and endeavoured to soothe lier, while his own 
 tears flowed in abundance, and the eyes of many of the 
 company showed that their hearts were not proof against 
 the suddenness of the appeal made to them. 
 
 *' Oh, Dorgan, my own true friend, are you come in- 
 deed ?" she exclaimed, gazing in his face, as if to be assured 
 that she was not giving to a stranger the welcome that was 
 his right — " Oli, Dorgan, I hoped that I should have the 
 happiness to see you both friends once more — for he often 
 and often spoke of you, and longed for your return, to tell 
 you that his heart was changed ; — but you have come to 
 see a greater change than that. Cold enough his heart is 
 now, Dorgan, towards you and all. He will not press 
 your hand if you take it now. Oh, do not blame me, 
 father," she exclaimed, as she caught the clergyman's eye 
 fixed ou her with an expres::ion of reproof, " I am wrong
 
 60 CARD DR.UYING. 
 
 — I "now I am — "brd my heart •will break If I do not give 
 it Avords." 
 
 " 5Iy own love, take comfort," said Dorgan, pressing her 
 hand and speaking low to her — " You have lost a kind and 
 p;ood parent — but you are not yet an orphan, I will be a 
 lather, and friend, and brother to you, while I live. Try, 
 and be composed like a sweet girl." 
 
 Few exhortations are attended with more influence tlian 
 those which proceed from the lips of those we love. The 
 interests of two hearts, united like those of our hero and 
 1 is mistress, are so closely blended, so perfect and harmo- 
 nious an understanding exists between them, that an admo- 
 nition, addressed from one to the other, is received with as 
 ready a deference as a suggestion of its own will. The 
 effect, which all the remonstrances of her graver and more 
 venerable friends failed to produce, was brought to pass in 
 an instant by the few words which Dorgan addressed to 
 her ; and Pennie prepared herself to give evidence in 
 some composure, while Dorgan, once more leaviug her side, 
 resumed his place near the table. 
 
 Pennie detailed the circumstances of the murder In nearly 
 the same words as her little cousin, until she came to that 
 part of the transaction at which she was said to have flung 
 herself between her father and the assassin. 
 
 " You must have had an opportunity then," said the 
 Coroner, " of observing him very closely. Will yon have 
 the goodness to look round the room, and see whether you 
 can recognise him among those people ?" 
 
 " I do not think I could know his face again," she said ; 
 "it was blackened at the time." 
 
 " IIow was he dressed ?" inquired his "Worship. 
 
 " I think in a sailor's dress — ^like Dorgan 's," she said 
 carelessly. 
 
 " You do not think it was /then ?" said Dorgan, smiling. 
 
 " You ?" replied the girl, pausing, as if to comprehend
 
 CARD DKAVTIKO. 61 
 
 bis question, " I should sooner say that it was bis own act 
 —or as soon." 
 
 " If we haA'e wronged you by an unworthy suspicion," 
 said the Coroner to Dorgan, " you must blame the circum- 
 stances and not us— for they are more than sufficient to 
 warrant us in looking well to the case. Are you c[uite cer- 
 tain, Miss M'Loughlen, that this was not the man whom 
 you witliheld from the deceased ?" 
 
 " Certain that Dorgan did not murder my father ! Am 
 I certain of my existence ? I would stake a thousand 
 lives if I had them, that Dorgan would not have stirred one 
 of the gray hairs upon his head, in enmity, if it were to 
 make him master of the universe." 
 
 " i\Iy own sterling girl !" exclaimed Dorgan, delighted 
 far more by her ready conlidciicc, than by the safely which 
 it procured him — "when all are turned against me, I have, 
 at least, one friend in you — for you of all the world have 
 ever known my heart." 
 
 "The coiucideuce is still very strange," said the Coroner. 
 "Pray, Miss M'Loughlen, was there no mark — no pecu- 
 liarity of appearances about this sailor, by which you might 
 recognise him again if you should meet hira ?" 
 
 "My memory had nearly deserted me," replied the 
 young woman. " When he flung me from him, I grasped 
 something which was hanging to his coat, and brought it 
 away with me in the struggle. It is this," she added, 
 h mding to the Coroner a piece of silver with a blue ribbon 
 altached to it. 
 
 " This, indeed, is a most providculial and important cir- 
 cumstance," said the latter, "and will do more to further 
 liie ends of justice, perhaps, than many hving evidences." 
 The condemned wretch, who, after having his ears greeted 
 with the gladdening tidings of a reprieve, is informed that 
 the news was communicated under a mistake, and that he 
 must still tread the road to the fatal tree, may imagine what 
 Dorgan felt when on swiftly lifting his hand to the breast
 
 f 2 CMiJ) DRAWING. 
 
 of Ms coat, lie found that his Trafalgar laedal was missing 
 ■ — and that in fact the piece of silver which the Coroner 
 held was no other than it. He paused for some time, in 
 litter ignorance and anxiety as to what his best mode oi 
 procedure would be on the occasion. He saw, in one rapid 
 glance, all the fearful consequences of asserting his claim to 
 the medal, but he felt that anything like an attempt at 
 concealment, would (even though it might afford him time 
 to secure his life against the effects of an erroneous suspi- 
 cion,) at least, have the consequence of branding his name 
 with ignominy for ever in his native land, and Dorgan pre- 
 ferred his chance of hanging to that. 
 
 " I am sensible," said he to the Coroner in a lew voice, 
 *' of all the injury which I may do myself by the avowal I 
 am about to make — but I trust that all possibilities may be 
 taken into account. How that medal can have come iuto 
 Miss M'Loughlen's possession, I have not the remotest idea 
 - — but it is mine — the badge of disLinction which ail re- 
 ceived who did their duty on the waves of Trafalgar." 
 
 " I really hope," said the Coroner, after the niurmur of 
 astonishment and strong interest occasioned by this admis- 
 sion had subsided — " J hope you are mistaken. This af- 
 fords too frightful a confirmation of the circumstances al- 
 ready recorded against you." 
 
 *' In that," replied Dorgan, " I am unfortunate, as many 
 a brave fellow was before me. The medal is mine, how- 
 ever. 1 won it in honour, and will not disown it like a 
 coward." 
 
 "I am sorry for you," said the Coroner. "Keeper!" 
 he beckoned to the person Avho held that office in the neigh- 
 bouring bridewell — " Hand-cuff your prisoner." 
 
 " Piisoner !" exclaimed Pennie, turning pale as death, 
 rushing between Dorgan and the bridewell-keeper — " What 
 prisoner? Why would you hand-cuff Dorgan, our bett 
 friend ?" 
 
 " You would alter that opinion, Miss M'Loughlcn," con-
 
 CARD DR.VWINO. 63 
 
 tinned his worsliip, " if you knew that this young iripja was 
 iieard last night to uttor the most violent language against 
 your father — that he was heard to inquire respecting i le 
 number of people living in his house — that he was heard to 
 leave his bed during the night, in the house where ho sL^it, 
 to which he returned before morning — - id that nov.', tT 
 crown and to confirm all, he avows this medal, which )ua 
 tore from the murderer's dress, to be his own." 
 
 " An' if he couldn't swear to it, / could," exclaimed the 
 inn -keeper, " for I saw it wit my own eyes dauglen at 1 is 
 breast as he was going to bed." 
 
 " It is all a dream, a wild, improbable, impossible sto.y," 
 exclaimed the girl M-ith passion : " Deny it, Dorgan, and tell 
 them they belie you." 
 
 " The circumstances which they have told you, my dear 
 Pennie," said Dorgan, while she hung on his words as if to 
 gather from their meaning the tidings of life or death, " are 
 all true. I did make those inquiries, — I did speak in fool- 
 ish anger against our murdered friend, — and that medal is 
 indeed mine ; but yet, Pennie — Pennie !" he reiterated aj he 
 felt the bewildered girl recoiling with an expression of vague 
 and uncertain horror from his grasp, " I am innocent of tliis." 
 
 "It cannot be," said Pennie; "both cannot be. Say — 
 oh, Dorgan, say once again that this is not your medal. 
 My brain will burst if you do not say it." 
 
 " I love your happiness well, my poor girl," said Dorgan, 
 looking on her with much greater pity than he felt for his 
 pwn fate, " and I love my own life and character also ; but 
 I love truth better, and the truth I have told you all. Will 
 you forsake me now, and leave me here all alone ?" he added 
 mournfully, as she struggled to free herself from him. 
 
 " Don't hold my hands, Dorgan ! Drag — pluck me from 
 him," she continued, beckoning rapidly to the clei'gyman, 
 and speaking in low, thick, and terrified acccents. " Great 
 Heaven ! what am I, poor creature, to think or say ? Let 
 go my hand !"
 
 64 ' cai:d drawixg. 
 
 " I will not, till you say j'ou fling me ofT! Look in my 
 face, Pciinie, and then call me j-our t'afl.cr's murderer if yon 
 can. I \\\]\ not be told hereafter that you cursed my me- 
 moiy and reviled my name. I will hear you do so now be- 
 fore you slir ! Am I your father's murderer ?" 
 
 " Oh, Dorgan !" the girl exclaimed in a tone of cruel and 
 piercing anguish, " what a question you ask ? You ! ?/ot< 
 his murderer ! Was the hand that pressed mine so tenderly 
 to-day, the same that sent the coid steel into his brain ? 
 Were those arms that suppoited me so often like a mother's, 
 the same that flung me last night against the hard floor ? 
 It is impossible ! I was praying, night and morning, for 
 many years, for your safe return, and would the Almighty, 
 the kind and merciful Father of all, send you home at last 
 only to wet our floor with my old father's blood ? Kis ways 
 are aw ful and inscrutable, but it is not often that he tries 
 bis children so deeply. And still, Dorgan, there is the medal 
 that (he muiderer wore, and you say 'tis yours, and you 
 can do no more than say you are innocent. And sure it is 
 enough from you. Don't blame me, Dorgan, if I wrong 
 you ! I love you but I would be viler than the dust under 
 your feet, if I did not wish to see justice done to my dead 
 father. What am I to think or do? My soul within me, 
 that loves you, says that you are innocent, and my senses 
 tell me that you are guilty ; and the end will be, I think, 
 that between both tales my heart will be broken at last." 
 
 She fell back, with a burst of wild grief, as she spoke 
 these words, into the arms of a female friend, who, at the 
 de-ire of the Coroner, harried her, in a state of insensibility, 
 tlirough the crowd, and into the next apartment. 
 
 Dorgan continued to gaze after her with an expression 
 of mingled admiratit)n, pity, and agony blended in his look, 
 until her form was completely concealed from him by the 
 clo-ing of the press after her. 
 
 " if you have any cx[)lanalion to oH'cr respecting those 
 circamitancos which seem to implicate you so strongly,
 
 CAro I>rA^^'I^:G. 65 
 
 young man," said the Coroi:er, '• we are wiiliiig to hear voii 
 now." 
 
 Dorgan started at the j=uTiiinons, as if all the Indignant 
 energy whicli he was capable uf assuming, had been silently 
 galliering Mitliiu his breast during the last hour, and ncrc 
 now fur the lir.^t time suddenly enkindled at a moment. 
 '• Have I any thing to say ?" he exclaimed ; " if your souls 
 were not blinded, would not the case itself make it unneccs- 
 siry for me to degrade niy?e!f even to a denial of such a 
 charge. I ask yon, gentlemen !" he continued, standing erect 
 and flinging his arms wide as he looked round upon the com- 
 pany with that glowing eloquence of eye, and cheek, and 
 actian, which the great instructress Nature can in an in- 
 stant infuse on an occasion of great excitement and emer- 
 gency into the constitutions of those to whom the science 
 itselt has ever remained a mystery ; " I ask you is it 
 likely that on the first night of my arrival in my native 
 land, after a long and profitable absence, with every tiling 
 that was wanted to secure me happiness and honour for the 
 remaiudjr of my life, and with tlie love of such a creature 
 as that to rewarel me for all my sutferings and slights, and 
 with the knowledge too that her fiither repented of his 
 hard conduct towards me, and longed to call me his friend 
 again — 1 ask you, is it likely that I would so causelos?;ly 
 dip my hands in the blood of that old man, to blast all my 
 own hopes and prospects for ever ? Is it possible l I am 
 a British sailor — is that the character of ruffian or a 
 traitor? That medal which you hold was given to me 
 as a reward for discharging my duty well and faitlifully — 
 is it likely I would stain it with the blood of a secret mur- 
 der ? I trod the decks of the Victory for seven years, a 
 deck that was never pressed by the foot of a coward. I 
 laid my hands on the white hairs of my commander Nel- 
 son, when he lay bleeding on the bed ot glory — is it likely 
 1 should hack aiid hew the hoary head of a defenceless 
 feliow-creature ? I stood by his side at Trafalgar and 
 
 E
 
 fS CARD DRAWING. 
 
 11 over slirunk in tlic dayliglit from an enemy's broaclsido-^ 
 i.s }t, likely tliat I would stab an old man in the dark ?" 
 
 The indignant fire and conscious energy of manner with 
 which Doigan spoke his defence, produced for some mo- 
 ments a pause of respectful silence, if not of admiration ; 
 and he was suftl-red for some time to retain nndispuied 
 possession of the superiority to which he had thus swiftly 
 Kited himself above the minds of his common auditors. 
 
 " If words could outweigh facts," the Coroner at length 
 said, " it would, I believe, become our duty to liberate you 
 at once, but these yet remain unchanged by any thing you 
 liave advanced." 
 
 "What can you do but reason on them ?" said Dorgan. 
 " If you cannot understand the arguments of honour, listen 
 to those of prudence. Do you think it probable that the 
 murderer of M'Loughlen would come as I have done to 
 brave investigation so openly ? Do you think he would 
 have avowed that medal, which he might have disowned, 
 at least until he OQuld have placed his Ufe boyond the power 
 of the laws ?" 
 
 " 1 know not," said the Coroner, " by what illusions he 
 might be cheated, or how far he might be tempted to trust 
 his own ingenuity. It might ba that the Alniighty often, 
 for justice' sake, bereaves the minds of guilty men of that 
 conmion sagacity with which he has gifted most of his crea- 
 tures lor their preservation, and betrayed them into mea- 
 sures of fool-hardy confidence, in which a child iuight bet- 
 ter them. Such instances are of frequent occurrence, and 
 it yours be one of them, all which you have been urging 
 lends only to show that you have dreadfully misappropriated 
 (jualitics which, properly directed, would have served your 
 cjuntry and your fellow-creatures." 
 
 " Ihcy were never spared in the s rvice of either," said 
 Dorgan, "and little did i think that thi; should be my reward." 
 
 lie was then removed, while the Coroner and the Juiy 
 pel formed their several offices — the former of stating tlie
 
 CAKD DRAWING. G7 
 
 case — and the latter of cousideriiig it. lu less than a 
 quarter of an hour after, Dorgan was again called. 
 
 " It will be necessary for you," said the Coroner, " to use 
 every exertion in your power to prove your innocence (if you 
 still persist in asserting it), and to collect all the evidence 
 that is possible, for you are implicated in the verdict of the 
 jury. ]t is, Avilful murdei' against Duke Dorgan, and some 
 persons unknown." 
 
 A deep silence ensued, during which all eyes were bent 
 on the unfortunate sailor. At the first announcement of the 
 verdict he turned deadly pale, his eye became watery, the 
 lid trembled, and a momentary shivering seemed to pass 
 through all his frame. But the instant after, he had re- 
 sumed his self-command, and drawing himself up to his 
 full height, replied calmly, 
 
 " I have been considering this occurrence more deeply 
 since I withdrew, and am sorry now for the language 
 which I was tempted, in the first anger of my heart, to 
 use ; not that it oficnded the truth, but that it argued a 
 very stubborn will tov/ards the ordinance of heaven. I 
 should have recollected that you are not to blame for error 
 in this. If it M'ere not His will, and did not further some 
 wise and useful, though hidden design of His, you could 
 not lay a violent finger upon a hair of rny head. My in- 
 nocence is net the less white in His eyes for being wrong- 
 fully attainted in those of men. I have a strong confidence 
 in His mercy, that the real murderer will yet be discovered, 
 and that I shall never die for this deed : — but if that con- 
 fidence should fail me, I have at least the satisfaction of 
 kno^\ing that we shall all, in the end, be judged together 
 before a bar where no injustice can be committed. Under 
 all the ciicumstances, gentlemen, I blame you not for the 
 veidict you have given. I acknowledge the slreiglh of 
 ajipearances, and it is therefore not iri censure of you, I 
 sa\ — j\lay all who hear me, obtain a fairer hearing at that 
 bar, than 1 have met with at yours !"
 
 (j3 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 The 'bot!S'3 was soon after cleared of all bat the unhappy 
 family ot" tiie deceased and their friends. Many of the 
 spectators, as they took their way over the fields, were 
 heard to express their regret at such a misfortune happcii- 
 rig to " such a bright boy" as our hero, while others sliook 
 tiieir heads and declared (on the authority in many instances 
 of severe personal experience) that " Duke had ever au' 
 always too good a warrant for a hard blow," and that the 
 desiiiiy which seemed now to hang over his head, was no 
 other than had been often prophesied for iiim, " many a 
 long year before." 
 
 Poor Duke in the meantime was conducted, heavily 
 ironed, to th.e neighbouring bridewell, as a place of tempo- 
 rary confinement, until an opportunity should arrive of trans- 
 mitting him to the county gaol. Here, when the key (the 
 rusty grating of which in tlie lock spoke pretty well for the 
 morality of the district) had locked him in to the company 
 of his own lonely thoughts, lie could not help exclaiming, 
 as he extended his manacled hands, in the language whicli 
 Southerne has put into the mouth of the unhappy Biron, 
 and which we have prefixed as an appropriate motto to his 
 history : " Is this my welcome home ?" 
 
 The friends of the deceased, in the n.ieantime, were busied 
 in administering the consolations which their himible, though 
 sincere understandings suggested, to his wretched daughter. 
 S!ie was seated on the side of the dimity-curtained camp 
 bed in her own apartment, while the clergyman, whose in- 
 fluence alone appeared capable of restraiuiiig her, still occu- 
 pied a chair at her side ; and sevclal of her male and fe- 
 male friends were placed in ditferent parts of the rocn), 
 offering now and then those venerable and hereditary ex- 
 pressions of consolation which are usually put forward on 
 buch occasions, and which at least have one merit, tliat uf 
 their perfect and unquestionable veracity — such as, " that 
 Peuuie might, as well howl her whisht,* for if she was to 
 * Iliild her peace.
 
 CAKD DRA^VING. 69 
 
 ciy her eyes out, 'twonkln't make lain alive again,'" and 
 various other luiileiiiable facts of that nature, whiie tiio 
 clergyman with a truer iiisiglit into human nature, uivectev] 
 her attention to that beautiful passage of Ecck'si;isticus in 
 which we are told to " weep but a little for the dead, for 
 Le is at vest !" 
 
 "It is not all for the dead, fether — heaven forgive me! 
 — that I grieve," said the poor girl " The Almighty made 
 a short work with my father — but his mercy is swifter than 
 the murderer's knife — and I trust in that, hoping that he 
 is une of those who are at rest. But I have stiil a trouble 
 in my heart for the Hying. I wish, if it was heayen's i\ iil, 
 that 1 were waked beside my fother, before I had lived to 
 Lear any one d'lubt Dorgan for so revengeful a heart. You, 
 you, Kinchehi!" she contii'.ucd, as Pryce entered the room, 
 with a face of deep sorrow and commiseration — " you were 
 not so hard ! On my knees, here, I ask your pardon (don't 
 hiiidcr me, father !) for all tliat I ever said or did against 
 you for your over-great mildness. You pardoned the old 
 man, and made him no answer to his auger. You would 
 not shed his blood in return for a hot word. The Lord 
 that sees into the secrets of all men, will remember it for 
 you another day !" 
 
 " Stand up !" Kinchela cx^kimed, turning pale with 
 agitation, while he lifted her hastily from the earth, 
 and then hurried from her side : " "Why should you be 
 kneelon' to me, Pennie, darlcu ; I don't deserve them 
 words." 
 
 " You wrong' yourself," said the clergyman, who remem- 
 bered Kiiichela's remonstrance to Dorgan, which he had 
 accidentally overheard on the previous evening ; " I heard 
 you utter sentiments yesterday, which would have done 
 honour to mai y a cultivated mind. It would be well for 
 the young man that is now l}iiig in chains for this murder, 
 if he had profited by your example and advice. Jiut," he 
 continued, heedless of the real distress which his praise (tho
 
 70 CAI^D DRAWING. 
 
 resTiJt of a very natural feeling of aclniiration) appeaieJ to 
 uccasion to the object of it — " let not this move you to 
 pride, for from it all perdition had its beginning. If you 
 stand now, take heed lest you fall. You, perliaps, were 
 among those who witnessed Uorgan's confidence, before the 
 fatal train of circumstances was made out against hiin. 
 Let that example place you on your guard ; remember when 
 you may be tempted to anoftence, that tliereisnohiding-plai.'e 
 oil earth for the guilty, when the xMmighty chooses to mark 
 tliem out with his finger ! and that, as sure as the rising of 
 the sun that hides hiin at night in the west, so sure is the 
 uncloaking of the deeds of the evil-Morker, though he en- 
 close liimself within four walls, and asks ' what eye can see 
 him ?' while he sins under the veil of a denser than Egyp- 
 tian darkness." 
 
 The words of tlie clergyman appeared to exercise a strong 
 i)dluence on the mind of the person whom he addressed ; 
 so much so, that his colour went and came several times 
 while he listened. When the reverend gentleman had con- 
 cluded, Kinchela took a hasty farewell of the company, on 
 the plea of being obliged to prepare for a seal-hunt in the 
 caverns near the Head, on the following morning. He left 
 the inmates of the dwelling to make the necessary arrange- 
 ments for the wake of the .old man, while he hastened umler 
 the already advancing shades of night, to his own humble 
 dwelling near the coast. 
 
 He hurried over the interjacent hills, with a speed Mhich 
 was in part occasioned by his anxiety to reach the cuast In 
 time to make the necessary arrangements for the seal-hunt, 
 and, in a great measure also, by his fear of encountering a 
 straggler from a host of evil spirits, whose hour of domi- 
 nion on the earth was fast approacliing. He raised with an 
 unsteady hand the latch of the hurdle door of his cabin, 
 and was received by the only member of his family whom 
 he had ever known, and whom he really loved witli an af- 
 fection greater and more permanent than any which he had
 
 CARD DRAWING. 71 
 
 ever felt towards a human being — his aged and innr.5?? 
 mother. 
 
 Tiiere are, perhaps, none of the social connexions of h':- 
 man life more touching, more interesting, and more per- 
 fectly free from the alloy of selfish motive, than those -vvhicTi 
 bind the hearts of mother and son, or of father and diuighter. 
 The purer qualities that mingle in all other affections — tl.e 
 respect of youth for age — and the tenderness of age for 
 youth — the protecting and depending love that binds the 
 sexes — the warmth and softness of conjugal affection, Mitli- 
 out any of its changes or suspicions — the finer essences, in 
 short of all the various inipulses by which the spirit of hu- 
 man beings are led to mingle and flow together in a league 
 of mutual confidence and support, are here sublimed and 
 unitf^d in their fullest strength and purity. Neither are 
 such instances of generous love less interesting, when thev 
 are found to exist in classes Mh re there is little of extern ! 
 refinement to grace and adorn them. The gold of Nature 
 is of the same sterling quality in its bed of rough ore, as 
 when it glitters on the breast of beauty or of royalty — it is 
 only the figure that is altered. If the frame-work of the 
 human character were not composed of the same materials 
 througli all classes, what hope could we have that the rich, 
 the elegant, and the high-born Avould honour with their 
 sympathy the pictures of humble sorrow and affection, which 
 these Tales are intended to present ? Less — even less, than 
 we venture to entertain while we are employed in sketch- 
 ing them. 
 
 The affection of Kicchela for his aged mother was one of 
 the features in his character which had procured him a con- 
 siderable portion of regard in the neighbourhood ; such filial 
 affection being looked on with a peculiar esteem in Ireland 
 ' — a country where (to use a familiar expression of its own 
 pciisantry) " a man's child is always his child," for the in- 
 terests of & family are seldom divided, even by marriage. 
 The old widow was pious and honest; and though rj_)ce
 
 72 CARD DRAVriNG. 
 
 di<l not possess eitlier of those qualities in any bniliarit de^ 
 gree himself, he respected them in his parent, and was care- 
 ful to preserve from her knowledge any part of his conduct 
 by \A-hich they might be offended. Without feeling in his 
 ou'n heart any extraordinary respect for the precepts of his 
 Church, he was frequently known to smuggle a keg of to- 
 bacco or Hollands, in order to enable his mother to pay her 
 Christmas or Easter dues ; and would have stolen a sheep 
 for the suet, rather than she should suffjr any conscientious 
 qualms about the want of the usual present of candles for 
 the altar, never daring to supply her with either, until he 
 taxed his ingenuity to furnish a perfectly satisfactory story, 
 which would set all her doubts or scruples at rest. 
 
 The good woman was now seated by their fire of turf 
 and pieces of wreck, engaged in keeping warm the simple 
 fare, which Avas intended for her son's dinner. A small 
 deal table was placed near the hearth, and close to it a 
 rush-bottomed chair ready set for his use. Over a few red 
 coals which were broken small, the iron tongs, placed 
 lengthwise, and opened a little, was made to perform the 
 part of a gridiron towards a beautiful Beltard turbot, which 
 a gourmand would have judged worthy of a prouder table, 
 and a more elaborate process of cookery. 
 
 " A hundred thousand welcomes, child of my heart," 
 said the old woman, speaking in her native language ; " I 
 thought the very darkness would not bring you home to 
 me. Sit down." 
 
 KiuehoJa took his seat at the table in silence, while his 
 mother placed before him the food wdiich she had prepared. 
 Siie perceived, however, that he did not eat with his usual 
 despatch and satisfaction. 
 
 " There is some secret hanging on your mind, my flur 
 heart," said she, " you do not eat. You did not sleep at 
 home these two nights j and when you came in this nv>rn- 
 ing, you looked paler than paper, and trembled like a straw 
 upon the water."
 
 CARD DRAWING. 73 
 
 "I didn't sleep abroad either," replied Kinchela, " an* 
 sure what else would I be only pale after that, an' I being 
 getten the canoes ready all night, let alone what I heerd 
 this mornen, moreover." 
 
 " Wiiat Avas that, darling ?" 
 
 " Old M'Loughleu to be murthered last night in his own 
 house, over." 
 
 The old woman nttered an exclamation of horror — « 
 " Woe and sorrow !" she exclaimed : "• when will they be 
 weary of drawing the blood of the gray-headed ? Your 
 own father, Fryce, died by the cold steel. It is true for 
 the priest what he said from the altar last Sunday, that 
 Ireland was more cursed by the passions of her own chil- 
 dren than ever she was by Dane or Sassenagh. The judg- 
 ment of the Jews will tall on us at last. We are hunted 
 through our country and from our countiy in punishment 
 of our sins." 
 
 " They say Dorgan — Duke Dorgan, that lived near the 
 sally-coop, eastwards, did the deed. I saw 'em taken of 
 him to bridewell, on the head of it." 
 
 "There! there, Pryce !" said his mother, " Rtmera- 
 ber my words when you were refused by him, and when 
 you swore to me that you would never forgive him the 
 longest day you'd live." 
 
 " I did not swear it!" said Kinchela, starting, as if in 
 alarm. 
 
 " You did — and sorry enough you were for it afterward. 
 You might have been in Dorgan's place, if it were not for 
 the mercy of Heaven." 
 
 " Let us have no more talk about it now, whatever," 
 said Pryce ; " I'll want to take a little lest before goeu to 
 the sale-himt ; an' I must have the canoe near the caverns 
 before daybreak. Do you get the wattles an' the char- 
 coal ready, mother, an' lay 'em there, a nigh the settle-bed, 
 igen I get up." 
 
 Pryce retii'ed to his bed-room, but seemed to be haunted
 
 74 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 even in the darkness and solitude of this retreat by a cer- 
 tain uneasy train of feeling which appeared to have been 
 clinging to him throughout the day. He had truly stated 
 to his mother that he passed the former night without 
 sleep ; but this circumstance, instead of making him sink 
 the more easily into slumber, had only the effect of weaken- 
 ing his nerves, and filling his brain with all the frantic 
 images of sleep, without any of its calmness or comfort. 
 His mother, disturbed by the restless moans which pro- 
 ceeded from his chamber, laid down the bag of charcoal 
 which she was preparing, and taking a rush-light, made 
 fast in the fissure of a twig, in her hand, entered the room. 
 Her son was at that moment labouring under a hideous 
 dream. His head hung down over the bed-side, his arms 
 wei'e extended, his forehead and hair damp with sweat. 
 He saw, in fancy, the corpse of the old man as it lay 
 stretched on the table at M'Louglilen's, and seemed to be 
 oppressed with the conviction that some person had seized 
 and was taxing liim with the deed. 
 
 " Let go my throat !" he muttered hoarsely. " It was 
 not I — 'Twas Dorgau — Dorgau did it, and not I ! — He lies 
 — the old man never named mc — lie could not — for my 
 face was blackened. Let go my throat!" 
 
 "The Almighty prot( ct ' and bless my son!" said the 
 woman, as she stirred liiin, and made him sjjring up terri- 
 fied in his bed, " what words are these ?" 
 
 Kinchela remained for some time sitting erect, his eyes 
 wild and staring, and his mouth agape with terror. Con- 
 sciousness at length stole upon him, and covering his face 
 with his hands, he leaned forward for some moments iu 
 silence. 
 
 " What was the matter, child ?" the old woman at length 
 asked, as she laid her hand atfectionately on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "Nothen! — nothcn — only dreamen greatly I was — 
 Aren't you gone to bed yet, mother ?"
 
 CARD DRA-Vl'INa. 75 
 
 " No, darling ; 'tisn't far in the night. Those were 
 dreadful words you spoke, Pryce?" 
 
 " Did I talk out o' my sleep ?" 
 
 " You did ; you spoke as if somebody was charging yoa 
 with a great crime, and you denied it, and bid them to let 
 go your throat." 
 
 Pryce paused a moment. Well, mother," said he at 
 length, " I didn't think it would be so aisy to take a start 
 out o' yon. Sure 'twas funnen I was all that while." 
 
 "There was little mirth then in your voice or in your 
 actions," replied his mother, still speaking (as she always 
 used) in her vernacular tongue, " I thought the hag of the 
 night had been throttling you." 
 
 " 1 tell you 'twas a joke, agcn. Sure Ifelt you comen 
 into the room. I was as broad awake as you are now. 
 Go to bed, mother, an' hear to me ! Don't say anythen o' 
 this in tlie mornen, for 'twouldn't look well to be joken on 
 such a business." 
 
 The aged widow left the room and retired to her own 
 settle-bed, after otFering up her usual portion of nightly in- 
 vocations to the throne of mercy for all blessings upon all 
 men ; while her son remained wrapped in a mood of in- 
 tense reflection, sitting on his bed-side, and using every 
 exertion in his power to compose his troubled spirit. 
 
 "For years an' years," said he, "I was looken to that 
 hour, an' I thought it would be worth all I ever suffered or 
 ever could sutler to live to see it; an' now it has come, an' is 
 this the happiness it was to bring me ? The pains of hunger 
 and thirst, the cold of the winter night, the shame and dis- 
 gi'ace that I endured, wor no more than child's play to the 
 sight of him as he lay gaspen and groanen on the ground 
 before me. Murder is a fearful thing for all !" 
 
 Suddenly, while he paused and remained fixed in horror 
 at the bed-side, a sensation of strong fear — one of those 
 powerful nervous afiections by which persons of deep though 
 silent passions, and ill-regulated minds, are liable to be as-
 
 76 CAPiD DRAWING. 
 
 sailed on any startling occasion — rushed to his heart and 
 caused the blood to recoil upon it in such quantity, as to 
 obstruct its action, and endanger, to his own thought, the 
 very structure of tiie organ. Its pulses ceased for a moment 
 and then resumed their play, with a violence which filled him 
 with terror. He heard distinctly every bound which the irri- 
 tated muscle matle within his bosom, and a swift and unac- 
 countable suspicion darted through his mind, that this was 
 but the signal of a dissolution of the entire frame; that the 
 hour of death which no accident of illness or of peril had ever 
 brought before him, was now arrived ; and that he was 
 presently to undergo that awful and mysterious change, at 
 the prospect of which, even the impenetrable heart of the 
 sophist becomes illumined by a horrid light, and the souls 
 of the saints themselves are not always tree from anxiety; 
 that change at the presence of which the light laugh or jest 
 of petty malice, which was deemed so venial in the dis- 
 course of the preceding day, seems to swell and darken into 
 a crime sufficiently enormous to blot out the light of para- 
 dise from our eyes for ever. The wretched man believed 
 that he was now about to be hurried, fresh from the very 
 act of his offending, before the judgment-scat, the terrors 
 of which he had often heard depicted, but which had never 
 affected his mind with any other sensation than that of 
 weariness and impatience, until now tliat he almost beheld 
 it within the scope of his own vision. He lay back in au 
 agony of horror on his bed — the world and his worldly in- 
 terests and connexions seemed to crumble into dust before 
 his eyes — he was sensible of nothing but the eternal ruin 
 that hung over him. He clasped liis hands, while a thick 
 perspiration spread over all his frame, and prayed loudly 
 for mere}', promising in his anguish that if he were granted 
 but a little time, all should be disclosed, and justice fulfilled 
 at any cost. While he continued praying, the beating of 
 his heart subsided, a gradual relief crept over his spirits, which 
 were at length lulled fast in a iound and drcamluLo slumber.
 
 CARD DRAWING. 77 
 
 Tlie first gray light of the whiter daybreak was stream- 
 ing through the single pane of glass whicli was set iu the 
 mud wall of his apartment, when the voice of an acquain- 
 tance roused him frem his short sleep. For a few moments 
 after he woke, he felt as if nothing had taken place out of 
 the usual course of events, and proceeded to mtike the ne- 
 cessary preparations for the seal-hunt. 
 
 " We've everything ready," said the man, " the canoes 
 are at the Poul a Dhiol,* an' v/e're goeu to have some fun 
 besides with Lewy Madigan, the pubHcan o' the Bee-hive, 
 that's comen wit iiz — an' — whisht ! Is there any body 
 there wit you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Bekays I met Dorgan now an' a strong party, goen to 
 Ennis, where the assizes are held this week. They say he 
 won't call any witness, an' wants to be tried as soon as they 
 can." 
 
 Pryce dropped the net which he had taken up, and re- 
 mained silent for a moment. The conscionsness of his 
 situation came rushing at once upon his mind, and he re- 
 membered with terror the vow of disclosure which he had 
 made in the night. He now stood, however, in very difr 
 ferent circumstances ; the cheerful daylight was about him, 
 he felt secure in the possession of excellent healih, and he 
 half resolved in his own mind to postpone the fuliilraent of 
 his promise for some time yet. 
 
 _ Deffire he left the house, he took a small iron pot filled 
 with potatoes, washed and ready for boiling, Avhich he pro- 
 ceeded to hang on the fire. " Yes — that's what I'll do," 
 he said within himself — " what fear is there o' me now ? 
 Sure it's time enough to think abont it yet." 
 
 A singnlar accident made him alter this opinion. At the 
 moment that he s])oke, a large stone, nnfixed by tlie hand 
 of Time from its position in the roof of the wide chimney, 
 
 ' The Demon's Hole, near Loup Head.
 
 73 CARD DRA^YING. 
 
 fell within an inch of his forehead, and dashed the vessel to 
 "pieces between liis hands. If it had only held its place one 
 second longer, his brains would have infuUiblj suffrrcd the 
 same f ite. He started anhast with -the conviction of a 
 present and powerful Providence. What security had he 
 now ? — what was the use of the ingenious scheme which he 
 had contrived to pi-eserve his life and escape all suspicion, 
 when it was no more within his own power than if he were 
 already at the tree ? 
 
 As they proceeded together toward that part of the cliff 
 at which their canoes (a light boat, as ancient as the days 
 of 011am Fodhla, constructed of horse skin, which is used 
 by the fishermen on those coasts) were moored, Kiuchcla 
 ventured to hint a sensation of his remorse to the rough 
 fellow who accompanied him. The latter happened to be 
 one of those cold ruffians, whose crimes are the otispr ng of 
 interest and not of passion, and who was alike incapable of 
 wanton cruelty or of merciful forbearance. The suggestion 
 filled hini with rage. 
 
 " That I may be happy, Kinchehi," said he, " but you're 
 just what I always took you for. You wor the cruellest 
 savage among us at tlie time — an' now I'll lay my life you'll 
 be the fusht to split." 
 
 " Well, howl your tongue. Fid, an' we'll say nothen 
 more about it. Only 1 wisiit 1 could avoid the double 
 murd r, any way." 
 
 " What, murther is it, m:in ? E' what nonsins you 
 talk ! Sure you know yourself, if Dijrgan was there he'd 
 do the very same — an' 'twas only to get the start of liiiu 
 you did." 
 
 Kinchela did not pursue the subject farther, altlio'v^h 
 the reasoning of his companion did not fully satisfy his 
 luind that iJorgan deserved hanging tor being liable to 
 temptation. Tiiey had at this nio.ueut reached the brink 
 of a long line ot rocky cliffs of consiciirable height, the 
 bases of which were in many placoj hollowed out tc a con-
 
 CARD DRAWING. 79 
 
 sidcrable distance inland. They continued their course 
 over a turf mountain on which the signal tOAver was placcJ 
 iu a most commanding situation. Its surface was covered 
 with a short scanty moss, that afforded pasturage to a num- 
 ber of sheep ; while, at another season, it might have fur- 
 nished the whole country with mushrooms. The brokea 
 jags and edges of the great cliffs at the head soon began 
 to make themselves visible. The first on which they ar- 
 rived presented a broken descent some hundred feet high, 
 at the base of which lay a sloping ledge of rock, against 
 whose jutting and uneven sides the bright green waves of 
 the Atlantic lashed themselves (on more boisterous mornings 
 than the present,) as if chafing at the stern and fixed re- 
 buke which this gigantic natural boundary opposes to their 
 fury ; sometimes rushing fiercely up its sides, and leaving 
 their white and foaming waters in the narrow crevices of 
 crag, from which they are seen descending again in a thou- 
 sand milky streams. They tried to descend here, but found 
 it dangerous ; that part of the recess which, seen from a 
 Httle distance, appeared to be sufficiently broken and slant- 
 ing, proving, when they came near it, much more closely 
 allied to the perpendicular. A httle farther toward tho 
 lIo:ul. linwever, they chanced upon the Poul a Dhiol, or 
 Devil's Hole. 
 
 it was u recess of gigantic size, formed in the solid cliff 
 by the beating of the waves, if not originally so moulded, 
 or left as a relic of chaotic matter, unsubdued to the form 
 and uses to which the great mass of the material, of which 
 this beautiful globe of earth and water is coaipouuded, has 
 been reducL'd. This recess ran at first into the land, and 
 then some hundred yards to the left, as it was viewed from 
 the water. 
 
 Perceiving an easy mode of descent, Kinchela and his 
 friends made good their entry into the infernal palace, and 
 were stopped aboi:t half way down by an enormous rock, 
 which lay across the gleu, and seemed to allow no hope of
 
 bO CARD DRAWING. 
 
 proceeding farther. Acquainted, liowever, -vvitli tlie facili- 
 ties of the descent, they entered a small apcrtnre left un- 
 derneath. The spectacle which the Ponl a Dhiol presented 
 when viewed from beneath tliis arcli-way was grand and 
 striking, as well as singular in the highest degree. Through 
 the opening, as they looked upward, they could see the 
 cliff heads piled together to the height of some hundred 
 feet, leaving between the uneven masses of rock the wild 
 and craggy space through which they had descended. 
 Below them, at a depth of many fathoms, the ocean waves 
 heaved sluggishly against the huge rocks, Avhich were almost 
 polished and rounded by the untiring dash of the waters. 
 Passing from beneath the rock, the fishermen suffered them- 
 selves to drop with little difficulty to the next ledge, and 
 running from one enormous crag to another down to the 
 water's edge, began to make the necessary preparations 
 for their morning's sport, without stopping to indulge in 
 any of the sensations of deep and trembling awe, with 
 which the magnificence and grandeur of the scene, into the 
 centre of which tiiey had intruded, must have impressed 
 the mind of a stranger. They stood in the midst of a vast 
 natural hall, a few yards in width, and walled in on either 
 side to the height of many hundred feet ; the. solid cliff ou 
 the landward side appearing directly to overhang their 
 heads. Opposite, in a dark recess of the cliff, and placed 
 on a ledge of rock at some height from the water, was a 
 large crag, approaching in form to a lobster'tj claw, based 
 on the obtuse end, which, from the singularity of its ap- 
 pearance, contributed much to the bizzare and fantastic 
 grandeur of the scene. Looking toward tlie upening if 
 the recess, they beheld the projections of three stupendous 
 and overhanging clifTs, within the compass of a quarter of 
 a mile ; the farthest oft" being the land's end or actual Head, 
 ou which the light-house was still flinging its fading beama 
 against the morning splendour. Close to the opening was 
 a lofty island, perpendicular at all sides, and circular iu
 
 CARD DRAWING. 81 
 
 shape, of dimensions so circumscribed, that it seemed to 
 rise from the waters at the entrance like the reinainiiig 
 column of a porch. Its heathy and tabular summit was 
 covered with sea-gulls, which kept wheeling and screaming 
 perpetually among the crags and precipices. Close to the 
 Head was a large insular crag, which rose even higher 
 than the lofty cliff, from which it seemed at one time (ir 
 another to have been separated, ami formed a noble termi- 
 nation to this magnificent coui) d'oeil. The prevailing 
 impression which the scene, contemjjlated from the place 
 where the fishermen stood, was calculated to leave on au 
 unaccustomed miiKl, was that of fear, and an anxious and 
 almost tumultuous excitation of the spirits. There was an 
 oppressive sense of confinement and insecurity, which re- 
 pressed the struggling admiration that a spectacle of even 
 inferior power or sublimity might have awakened. 
 
 Several canoes were ah'cady made fast near the rocks, 
 and a number of fishermen were seen in various clefts uf 
 the sullen crag, preparing their poles or wattles with bags 
 of charcoal affixed to them, t'Uiclung the use of which they 
 furnish a rather wliimsical account of the animal's nature. 
 They say 'that the seal is very certain to lay hold of the 
 person who first appioaches him, and to retain his hold, 
 until he hears the bone crack under his teeth. In order to 
 deceive him in this matter, the fishermen extend a long 
 pole with S, bag of charcoal attached, which bag he ciuiiches 
 with a remarkably good will, while his enemies muster 
 around and destroy him with staves. For the truth of 
 this story Ave will not vouch, as it certainly is not very 
 complimentary to the sagacity of the animal. 
 
 'i'he groups of moving figures in the crags — the tossing 
 of the light canoes beneath — the dremy waste of the now 
 peaceful ocean spreading in the distance — and the uncer- 
 tain morning light which at once shadowed and illumined 
 the whole picture in the manner best adapted to aid the 
 grandeur of effect which it was calculated to produce, 
 4*
 
 82 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 miglit possibly have arrested, for a considerable time, the 
 attention of jiersons more capable of appreciating its sub- 
 limity than Kinchela and his fiiend, who were too familiar 
 with its beauties, and too deficient in refinement of taste to 
 pause for a moment in their contemplation. 
 
 After they had descended, they were met by a man, 
 who ajipeared to have been expecting their arrival. 
 
 " I declare, gentlemen," said he, accosting them in the 
 manner of a condescending superior — " I have been pre- 
 fixed upon this rock the livelong morn, expecting your 
 descension. That's a commendable canoe you have, Fed." 
 
 " Oyeh, wisha, middlen." 
 
 " Dear knows, it is. They say the sales are congregated 
 in a very spontaneous manner under the cliffs, at Bally- 
 bunnion this mornen." 
 
 " enough, for sport, I'll be bound, Mr. Madigan," said 
 Fed, Avho rtcognlsed at first sight, in the speaker, the ac- 
 complished inu-keeper of tiie i>ee-hive, a man revered in 
 the neighbourhood for his knowledge of English, and 
 laughed at now and then for his cowardice. " You'll go 
 with us, I suppose, sir ?" 
 
 " I profess to you, my dear, I am onaisy in myself on 
 the prospect of it. I should not admire much to be substi- 
 tuted onder one o' them caverns, wlien the tide would be 
 on the alert with me." 
 
 " 0, no fear in life, sir. The wathur is like gl*ass to-day. 
 Come along, Kincliula. We'll just take one turn at the sales, 
 an' then we'll go westwards a piece, an' get a feow bags o' 
 the barnocks." 
 
 They put off, and the whole party were presently glid- 
 ing under the clilfs at the Head, on their way to the ca- 
 verns, each canoe being furnished with a lighted torch, to 
 enable them, with greater facility, to explore the mazes of 
 the gloomy subterreue, into whicii they were about to pene- 
 trate. As the fiist boats entered, it seemed to those who 
 were following at some distance, and not yet near enough
 
 cai;d drawing. 83 
 
 to distiTi2;n!ph the month of the cavern, as if then- com]):i- 
 nions had discovered, and were prusecutiiig the way to the 
 regions of those subaqueous sprites, wlio are supposed bv 
 tlie peasantry to people tlie vast palaces of the deep, and 
 wear out their immortality in a fairy land more gorgeous 
 than that to which the muse of Southey introduced the pro- 
 tector of his heroine. In a short time our acquaintances 
 found themselves in the centre of one of those lofty n;itural 
 halls ; the roof, irregularly arched above, sometimes at the 
 height of three, sometimes twenty feet, and glittering indis- 
 tinctly in the light of the num -rons torches which were also 
 reflected from the face of the broken waters, with a splen- 
 dour which presented a brilliant con'rast to t!;e crease gloom 
 of the interior of the cavern, and which, of course, would 
 have reminded the reader of Eembrandt. 
 
 " It is a speculation of uncommon perplexity," said Mr. 
 Madigaii, "those exuberant rocks overhead; I protest to 
 you, I thiuk they appear on the verge of suspense, as if 
 they'd extenninate us all into a watery grave." 
 
 The canoes proceeded farther up the cave, until the 
 dashing of waters, ^\ithin a few yards of them, intimated 
 their proximity to the ledges of rock on which the ob- 
 jects of their search were accustomed to secrete themselves 
 at particular seasons, and where they frequently suffer their 
 pursuers to approach them, without making any attempt 
 at escape or lesistance until violence had been actually of- 
 fered. While they pursued their game in the interior, 
 Madigan petitioned to be left on one of the outer ledges, 
 unwilling to trust his English into the perils of the hunt ; 
 while Kinchela and his companion, perceiving that they 
 might be spared from the party, left the cavern for the pur- 
 pose of gathering barnocks (a shell fish which is here found 
 of a prodigious ^ize,) from the sides of a neighbouring cliff. 
 
 The cliff" wliich they selected for this purpose Mas the 
 Bellauu Rock ; which presents, from the plainness and 
 smootliuess of its perpendicular side, a striking contrast to 
 
 lin
 
 84 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 the rough and broken barrier, which opposes its irregular 
 strength to the ocean on eitlier side. It is one of tlie 
 loftiest in the range, and as it atfords no path or means of 
 descent in any part, the fishermen are obliged to lower 
 themselves by ropes to its centre, or to any portion of it 
 on which the harvest of barnocks liappens to be most plen- 
 tiful. Kinchela and his friends made profit of the retiring 
 tide, however, from their canoes, and then proceeded by 
 land to Claunsevane, or the Natural Bridge, apiece of scen- 
 ery with which we will conclude our rather copious sketch 
 of the coast, and the omission of which would leave that 
 sketch very incomplete. 
 
 They passed along a precipitous range of cliffs, until 
 they were made aware of the proximity of the place by 
 the thundering of the waters on their left, although the 
 day was calm rather than otherwise. They passed the 
 Puffing Hole of Ross (one of those natural jets d'eau^ 
 which abound on the coast, and which are formed by a 
 narrow opening, inland, over one of the caverns, into which 
 the ocean waves rush with such fury as to force their way 
 through the neck, and ascend to a prodigious height in the 
 air above). In a short time thc-y found themselves on the 
 borders of the precipitous inlet of Claunsevane. It was a 
 small bay with a narrow opening toward the Atlantic, and 
 walled round at all sides by a rugged ci-ag which rose to a 
 prodigious height. Across an arm of this inlet was a nar- 
 row range of crag, connecting the cliffs at either side, hav- 
 ing the bay on one side, and on the other a deep basin, 
 into which the waters flowed through three n itural arches 
 furmed in the solid crag. A very narrow pathway was 
 made on the summit of this singular natural bridge, several 
 hundred feet above the arches, the fall at cither side, but 
 sspccially that toward the ocean, being almost quite perpen- 
 dicular. In the base of the cliff inside the basin were a 
 number of small caves ; and in another corner of the inlet 
 a tall column of rock, not more than a yard, perhaps, in 

 
 CARD DRAWING. 85 
 
 diiMTieter, rose from the waves nearly to the height of the 
 cliff, at a little distance from which it stood. This pillar, 
 which is called the Stick, gives an air of uncommon wild- 
 noss to the scene. 
 
 Kinchtia haviug, with the assistance of his friend, suc- 
 ceeded in securing near the edge of the cliff a kind of rude 
 windlass, for the purpose of enabling them to increase tlieir 
 store of barnocks, made fast their rope in the earth, and 
 prepared to descend. 
 
 This was a feat which he had been accustomed to per- 
 form, almost daily, from his bojliood, and he never had, 
 for one moment, felt a greater degree of repugnance or aj^- 
 prehension than he would liave experienced in walking < n 
 the firm soil. But he was now an altered man, and ue 
 feh, as he put his foot iu the loop which was made in the 
 end of the rope, and grasping it with both hands, launched 
 himself from the brow of the " pi ruicious height," a sen- 
 sation of insecurity, and a sinking of ihe heart, such as he 
 never before had felt in any situation whatever. He even 
 wished that he had taken the precaution (though it would 
 iiave had but a cowardly air) to secure himself to the rope 
 by tying it to his waist ; but it was now too late for rLfii'c- 
 tion, and he had only to trust his customary chances for a 
 safe return to the firm eiirth. 
 
 While he was occupied in filling his net with the bar- 
 nocks which he struck from the rock, lie suddenly heard a 
 crackling noise above his head, and looking up, saw tliat 
 one of the divisions or strands of the rope i;ad given way, 
 leaving the whole weight of his peison on the faith of a, 
 single cord, not more than half an inch in diameter, lie 
 was now suspended in mid- air, more than a hundred feet 
 from the summit, and saw, at a fearful distance beneath, 
 the points of the rugged crag, around which the waters 
 Were now slumbering in almost a moveless calm. He 
 feared to stir — to speak — to give any indication of his dan- 
 ger, lest it should only have ihe effect of making the latter
 
 8C CARD DRAWING. 
 
 more imminent. His limbs trembled, and became bathed 
 in perspiration, while he cast his eyes on that part of the 
 rope where the fissure had taken place. He could almost, 
 and only almost, reach it with his hand. Again all the 
 horrors of the preceding night and morning were renewed, 
 and a stupifying terror seized upon his brain. He ven- 
 tured, at length, to give the signal, at which his companion 
 was to draw him to the summit. While he was doing so, 
 and while he yet hung suspended between the dreadful 
 alternative of life or death, some of the canoes passed under 
 him on their way from the caverns to their homes, and the 
 fishermen, in their own aboriginal language, began to hoot 
 and jibe him as they passed, making various allusions to 
 his position in the air, and drawing analogies concerning 
 tlie rope, the humour of which poor Kinchela was in no 
 condition to appreciate. A cold shivering passed through 
 his limbs, when he saw the feeble portion of it approacli 
 the rugged edge of the cliff; and here, as if for the pur- 
 pose of iiicreasing his agony, Fed stopped turniug the 
 windlass, and approached the brink, with marks of alarm 
 and astonishment. 
 
 " E', Piycc, man," said he, " do you see the danger 
 you're in all this while ? Sure there's the rope med a'most 
 two halves of, above you. Sure if that broke you'd be 
 ruined, man." 
 
 "Wisha, then. Fed, what news you tell! Is that the 
 reason you.stop haulen of it, in dread I'd have any chance 
 at all. Murther alive, see this." 
 
 " I'll pull you up if you like, man, but what harm was 
 there in me tellen you your danger ?" 
 
 " All o' one 'tisn't too well 1 knew it. Pull away, an' 
 soHuher to you." 
 
 Fed resumed his post at the windlass, and in a few mo- 
 ments after, Kinchela grasped the edge of the cliff; he 
 succeeded in scrambling up, after which, without speaking 
 a word to his couipauion, he flung down the net of bar.
 
 CARD DRAFTING. 37 
 
 nodes, and fled, as if he were hunted by the fiends, in the 
 direction of his mother's house ; while his companion, after 
 gazing after lii:;i and at the barnocks for a few moments, 
 packed up their implements, and took to his heels, under 
 the full conviction that the j^huca was coming up the cliff 
 to them. 
 
 " The Almighty is impatient, I believe," said Pryce, 
 when he had reached his own door, " he will wait no 
 longer. There is no use in my hoping to escape — I must 
 do it at last ; an' I oughtn't to be dragged and frightened 
 into it this way, so that there'll be no thanks to rae in the 
 end." 
 
 Notwithstanding this wholesome reflection, the weakness 
 of the man's nature was such, that many days elspsed be- 
 fore he could prevail on himself to put in act any portion 
 of the measures necessary for the accomplishment of his 
 resolution. Even after he had learned from a neighbour 
 that Dorgan's sentence had already passed, and that the 
 day was appointed on which he was to be executed, in the 
 neighbourhood where the offence had taken place, he sus- 
 tained many terrific struggles with his conscience, b»jfore 
 he could bring himself to form a full and unreserved inten- 
 tion of making the disclosure, whatever it might be, which 
 oppressed his soul. He felt his fears, at one time, muster 
 on him in such excess as to overpower, for the moment, 
 every other consideration besides that of his immediate 
 personal safety ; and at another, the recollection of the 
 perils he had undergone, and the uncertain tenure of his 
 own life, which they mauifested to him, renewed his re- 
 more and his terror of another more poweiful tribunal than 
 that which liere awaited him. He recollected, too, amid 
 his merely selfish reflections, the destitution which must 
 attend the lonely old age of his unhappy parent, when he 
 siitu'd be no longer able to minister to her wants, as he 
 had done from his youth upwards : but again he recollected 
 that a superior duty called him away, and he resolved to
 
 bH CARD DRAWING. 
 
 coiuiVi't !ier fortunes lo the care of the Beiii;;- who sum. 
 riioiied him from her side by warnings so singiiUir and im- 
 pressive — warnings, however fearful tliey might seem, 
 wliich it Avould not, perhaps, require much enthusiasm to 
 attribute to the mercy shown on behalf of tliis single virtue, 
 which looked so lonely and IjeautiCul amid the darkness and 
 the multiplicity of his crimes. 
 
 Dorgan in the meantime was left to meditate, in the 
 solitude of a condemned cell, on the singular fatality of the 
 circumstances wliich had conducted him to it. The cere- 
 mony of a trial has been so often and so well delineated, 
 and the facts that were proved on that of Dorgan were so 
 mei'ely a repetition of those which have ah-eady been laid 
 before the reader in the account of the coroner's inquest, 
 that we have esteemed it unnecessary to go at length into 
 the subject. Whatever amusement the reader might find 
 in the blunders of Irish witnesses, or the solecisms of an 
 Irish court of justice — these afforded but little subject of 
 merriment to our poor hero, ^\ho, in spite of the confident 
 anticipations which he had expressed to the coroner, be- 
 held himself placed within the peril of a disgraceful death 
 at the very moment when he expected to enter on the 
 enjoyment of a life of domestic comfort and quiet happi- 
 ness — happiness Avhicli was so justly earned by a yonth of 
 exertion and pi-ovidence. Neither had he tlie comfort of 
 leav'ng on earth a single heart that was impressed with the 
 conviction of his innocence. Unjustly as he had been 
 treated by the world, his was not one of those natures 
 which could take refuge in misanthropy from the agony of 
 disappointed feelings ; and he longed — anxiously longed — 
 for some opportunity of clearing himself at least in the opi- 
 nion of one individnal. But the instant after, he reproached 
 himself for this wish, as selfish and unworthy. "No!" 
 said he, '' her knowledge of my innocence, obtained only 
 through my assertion, would not save my life, and could 
 only have the effect of torturing lier with the consciousness
 
 CAIiD DEAWIXG. 89 
 
 of having assisted in the destroying it. Let her never know- 
 it. What good would it do me to be remembered by her 
 as other than she now thinks me ? Would it restore lifo 
 to my buried bones, or enable me to enjoy ^Ahat I have 
 lost ? It would not ; therefore I will leave it to Provi- 
 dence to keep the question of my guilt or innocence re- 
 vealed or hidden as he pleases ; doing only that which in 
 justice anjl duty I am bound to do, to remove the false 
 impression from the minds of my fellow-countrymen." 
 
 While he thus revolved thc83 things in his mind, the door 
 of the cell was opened, and the sheriif, attended by two 
 officers and a clergyman, entered. In spite of all the ef- 
 forts which he had made to establish his resolution, so as 
 to support him firmly through this fatal moment, Dorgau 
 felt a cold thrill shooting through all his limbs, when it ac- 
 tually arrived, and it was not without considerable difnculty 
 that he could so far command his heart as to understand 
 what the officer was saying to him. However perfectly we 
 may, to our own thought, bend up our minds to the endu- 
 rance of any dreadful extremity, and however satisfied wo 
 may be to abandon all expectation of avoidance or escape — it 
 is certain that, until the very instant of its accomplishment 
 has arrived, an unacknowledged, unconscious hope will yet 
 continue lingering about the heart, the discomfiture of which 
 (as it gives place at length to black and absolute despair) 
 is more terrific than the very separation of our two-fold ex- 
 istence itself. Our unfortunate hero leaned heaviiy on the 
 clergyman while the death-warrant was read over. The 
 hand-cuflfs were then struck off, as if for the puiposc of 
 mocking him with a freedom which he never could enjoy; 
 and a man, covered from head to foot in a thick blanket, 
 at sight of whom, Dorgau shuddered to the very centre of 
 his bciing, approached him with a halter, on which the aw- 
 ful noose was already formed, in his hand. He lifted it for 
 the purpose, as is usual, of sutieriug Dorgan to carry it to
 
 90 CARD DRAWIXG. 
 
 the place of execution ; but the Latter recoiled with horror 
 at tliis apparently uuueedful cruelty. 
 
 "It must be doue," said the sheriff; " put it over his 
 head." 
 
 " Remember heaven," said the clergyman — " will yoii 
 refuse to imitate its Monarch ? He bore his cross to Cal- 
 vary." 
 
 Nothing affects the heart more deeply, at a moment of 
 this kind, than a sentiment of religion. The tears suddenly 
 rushed into Dorgan's eyes, and bowing his head in silence, 
 he suffei-ed the ignominious badge to be laid on his neck, 
 without farthei' question. 
 
 " Why is the prisoner not dressed in the goal-clothes ?" 
 said the sheriff, 
 
 " 'i'here was no order given, sir," said the goaler, an' I'm 
 afeerd 'twould be late wit uz, now." 
 
 " No matter," replied the sheriff, "it will answer as it 
 is. Let him die in the clothes iu which the deed was 
 done." 
 
 Uorgan instantly raised his head ftxm its drooping posi- 
 tion, and looking calmly and fixedly on the otlicer of the 
 law, said : " Let me die, sir, in the clothes which I w^ore 
 while engaged in the service of my country. Her unilbrui 
 will never be disgraced by a death that is not merited, al- 
 though it be shameful." 
 
 " You peraist then in declaring your innocence ?" asked 
 the otlicer. 
 
 " I did not intend, sir, to have repeated what I already 
 said ; and that last word escaped me unawares ; but since 
 you put the que.~tion, justice compels me to give you aa 
 answer. I Leie sulemnly declare in the presence of these 
 Eicn, my accus rs and my executioners, as well as Ju the 
 presence of that Gal before whose throne I must shortly stand, 
 that I am now about to die the death of a murdered man. 
 Ves — ye are about lo i\^) a murder — and it is more for vour 
 sukes than mine, that I bid you take the warning. The
 
 CARD DRAWING. 21 
 
 day will come, sir, wlien you will remember my words with 
 sorrow. I pray Heaven tliat you may have no heavier feel- 
 ing to strive against. You, father, were one of the wit- 
 nesses against me ; when the day arrives, as it may before 
 long, that shall make my innocence appear — all I ask, sir, 
 is — that you will pause, and weigh the matter well with 
 yourself before you throw in your hard word against a poor 
 fellow-creature's life. Kemeniber these words. I hope that 
 my fate will teach the gentlemen that have the lives of the 
 poor in their hands to proceed very cautiously in future, be- 
 fore they take circumstances for certainty. 1 am ready to 
 attend you, Mr. Sheriff." 
 
 Two cars (in English, carts) were placed outside the gaol, 
 in one of which Dorgan and the clergyman were placed, 
 while the other Avas occupied by the blanketed personage 
 above-mentioned, who immediately secreted himself, amid 
 the shouts and groans of the populace, under the straw which 
 was placed in it for that purpose. As the cars were about 
 to move forward, a wonicin passed through the guard, and 
 grasped the rail of that which contained Doigan, vvlio was 
 deeply absorbed at the moment, in the discourse which the 
 clergyman directed to him. One of the soldiers perceived, 
 and striking her on the shoulder with the butt end of hig 
 musket, bid her go back. 
 
 " One word, sodger darlen — let me only spake a woi'd to 
 the boy, an' I'll be off. Mr. Dorgan! Don't you hear, sir?' 
 
 Dorgan lilted up his eyes, and started back with sudden 
 tiiiTor, as h ■> beheld the Card-drawer, his evil prophet, looking 
 into his eyes, with her finger raised in the actiun of beckoning 
 or iuviiing his attention. The clergyman also recognised 
 her at the same instant. 
 
 "Wretched impostor!" he exclaimed, "how dared yoa 
 force your way hither? Is it not enough that you mislead 
 fools in their health, but you must trouble the hope uf the 
 dying, as you do noAV?" 
 
 ''No trouble in life, your reverence, only just to sjmfce
 
 92 CAM) DRAWINS. 
 
 one woi'd to the boy. Mr. Dorgan, there's one gay me a 
 message to yon, sir — to say — whisper hether " 
 
 " Kemove that -n-oman," said the sheriff. 
 
 " I say, you mizzuz !" said a soldier, elbowing her from 
 the car. 
 
 " Only one word, sodger, dear darlen — " 
 
 " Remove her, I say! — " 
 
 " One ^\ ord — dailen sodger, don't kill me with the plnn- 
 derpiish — j\lr, ] )uke, keep np your spcrrits — for there's one 
 that 'ill " 
 
 Tiie remainder of the speech (if it were uttered) was un- 
 heard by the ears for which it was intended, as the speaker 
 was forced back into the centre of the noisy press, and the 
 party proceeded on their route. 
 
 The day was as dreary as the occasion. The remark, so 
 popular in Ireland, that there never is an assize week with- 
 out rain, was in this instance justilied by a thick mizzle which 
 made the air dull and gloomy, and covered the trees and 
 herbage with a hoar and dimly glittering moisture. There 
 was no wind, and the distant surface of the river, as they 
 passed in the direction of its mouth, was covered by a 
 Tiiantle of gray and eddying mist, through which the shadow 
 of a dark and flagging sail, or the naked masts of an anchor- 
 ing vessel were at intervals visible. The crowd which had 
 accompanied the party to the outskirts of the cit}-, dropped 
 oiF gradually as they proceeded into the country, until they 
 were left to prosecute their dreary jouiney with no other 
 attendants than the lew whose interest in the prisoner's fate 
 had induced them to come from the coast for the purpose of 
 witnessing his trial. 
 
 It was late n the afternoon before they arrived at Car- 
 rigaholt. As the cars were descending an eminence in the 
 neighbourhood, Dorgan cast his eyes towards the west, and 
 beheld; on the veiy spot where he had parted ■^^ ith his lovo 
 before his departure to join his ship, and where the swecti. st 
 hours of Llieir .^irst and declared affection had been passed, tlux
 
 CARD DRAWING. , 93 
 
 dreadful engine erected, on wliich he was within another 
 hour to lose a life which but a few days before, he would 
 not have given for that of a purpled monarch. A great 
 multitude of people encompassed the spot, among whom 
 might be discerned the light blue dresses of the fish-jolters 
 from the coast ; the rough and half-saiior-like persons of 
 the fishermen ; the great-coated and comfortably appointed 
 farmers from the interior ; nearly all of those ^^ hom he be- 
 held having been at one time or another the partakers of 
 some hours of youthful enjoyment with the victim of the 
 sacrilice, iu his days of careless boyhood. Seated on a greeu 
 bank, at two or tliree hundred paces distant from the gallows, 
 were a group of persons, comprising a soldier and two sailors, 
 the same who were witnesses to Dorgan's first lauding, 
 during their watch at the signal tower on the evening of 
 his arrival. 
 
 " I say, you land-lobster there," said tlie hero of the 
 draught-board, " will you douce your sky-tackle there, and 
 let us have a peep at the fun. A messmate ! I'd rather 
 than a gallooner it had been a red-jacket instead of a true 
 blue. You have the wind o' me there, Will." 
 
 " I say. Jack !" the soldier replied, turning his head 
 round, '"you mind the Papist that made the bull that night." 
 
 "Ay-ay—" 
 
 " There he's over ; speaking to that elderly lady with the 
 pipe in her mouth." 
 
 " Eh ? Why, unreeve my clue lines, Will, if that an't 
 the very lubber I met in the larboard field yonder, this 
 morning, abaft the tower. I'H tell you now how it was— 
 I saw his pennant flying oa the lee, and took him for our 
 cook at the tower ; so I made sail — he stood off — I gava 
 chase — he tacked and stood across the meadow — I squared 
 my yard, out studding-sails — sung out 'steady' — poured in 
 a broadside, and ran alongside to see my mistake just as 
 he weathered the gap iu the hedge. ' My eye,' says I, 
 * here's a go — I took you for our cook.' ' Ko, sii',' says he,
 
 di . CARD DRAWING. 
 
 'I'm for the hanging match, can you tow me on the way?' 
 ' To be sure I can,' says I — ' 'bout ship and sheer oft' yon- 
 der ; when you come abaft the water-mill, belay sheets 
 and tacks, and stand off close to the wind's eye for the 
 potato field — then bear away for the bog — sing out 
 a-head, and if they won't open the gate, 'bout ship agjiin ; 
 loose your main sheet — make for the white cottiige — gibe 
 — and come out upon the highway — crowd all your can- 
 vass, and run right a-head for the gallows." 
 
 " Haw ! haw ! And what did the Hiiish Roman 
 Papist say to you ?" 
 
 " He stood with his mouth open, gaping like an empty 
 scuttle-butt. The fellow never heard English in his life 
 before. Oy say, you Papist Paddy, you, come here 
 and make us a bull, and you shall have a glass o' grog 
 when I'm purser," 
 
 The person whom he addressed was standing at a few 
 paces distant, occupied with far other and deeper thoughts 
 than those which suggested the holiday converi»3 of the la>t 
 speakers. His eye was fixed on the place of execution, 
 while he received some message from an old and miserably 
 attired woman, which seemed to fill him with anxiety and 
 disappointment. 
 
 He turned on the sailor a ghastly and fearful eye, but 
 made no answer to his words. 
 
 " Never look so cloudy about it, messmate," the latter 
 continued iu an unmoved tone — " Cheer up, nutn, the rope 
 is not twisted for your neck yet. Jack's alive ; who's for a 
 row ? Never say die while there's a shot in the locker. 
 \Vhup !" 
 
 " It would become you, av you're a Christian yourself, 
 to conduct yourself wit' more feeling and more decency an' 
 the breath goen to be taken out of a poor fellow-craair," 
 said the woman. 
 
 " He's some cousin of yours, mistress, by the kindness 
 you sliow him."
 
 CARD DUAWING. 95 
 
 '* Aych, my dear," the Card-drawer retorted, plncldng 
 the man's blue jacket significantly — " 'tisn't my unyforni 
 he wears." 
 
 A shout of laughter burst from the sailor's companions 
 at this sally, as the old woman hastened off, audibly hum- 
 ming over a stanza of the popular ballad, 
 
 "An' as for sailors 1 don't admire them — 
 
 1 wouldn't live as a .sailor's bride, 
 For in their coorten they're still discoorsen 
 
 Of things consarnen the ocean wide." 
 
 Wliile the countryman, who had shown such marks of In- 
 tense interest in the scene, disappeared amid the crowd that 
 surrounded the place of execution. 
 
 The car had already hahed at the foot of the fatal tree, 
 and Dorgan, his limbs stiff from the maintenance of the 
 same position during the long journey, was ordered tc 
 stand erect. He opened his eyes heavily, and gazed around 
 on the multitude of faces that were turned towards his — 
 he looked on the iields and meadows in which his childhood 
 had been passed, and felt his heart almost break with the 
 long farewell which it sent forth in a sigh, that 
 
 •' — seemed to shatter all his bulk. 
 And end his being." 
 
 The awful preparations were already completed — Dorgan's 
 hands were pinioned — the dreadful knot affixed — and the 
 whole scene, the hills and cottages and buzzing muhitude, 
 swam and reeled before his eyes — when the ghost-like per- 
 son in the blanket approached, and uncovering from be- 
 neath his woollen envelope a bony and muscular hand, ex« 
 tended it to our hero, sa>ing at the same time, 
 
 " Therom-a-lauv a yra lawn* Forgive an' forget. — 
 Sorrow better boy ever I see die in his shoes. Say you 
 won't be baunten me for this — it's only my juty." 
 
 * Give me the hand, my white darling.
 
 90 CARD DRAWING. 
 
 Dorgan, half-stupificd, gave him his hand in token of his 
 forgiveness, and at the same instant felt the death-cap pulled 
 over his eyes, while the command to " draw away the car" 
 sounded in his ears. 
 
 " Hold !" cried the clergyman to the owner of the vehi- 
 cle, who with much simplicity had taken the collar and was 
 about to lead the horse away, not considering that by so 
 doing he would in fact be the executioner of the convict. 
 "Let the man who is engaged for the purpose be the shed- 
 der of the forfeited blood," continued his reverence. " Do 
 not move the horse." 
 
 " A' then your reverince might just let matters go on as 
 they were," said the finisher of the law. " It's all one to 
 the boy who does that job for him." 
 
 The pause saved Do)-gan's life. At the moment when 
 the hangman was about to lay his fingers on the collar, the 
 irowd near him separated with much noise and confusion, 
 and a man darting through the passage and through the 
 file of soldiers, seized the rude bridle, and striking the exe- 
 cutioner so as to make him reel and stagger a ihw paces, 
 cried out in a hoarse and loud voice, " Come down, Mr. 
 Dorgan, come down off o' the car. Let him go, Mr. Sheriff, 
 dear, for the man is here that did the deed." 
 
 The sheriff, in the midst of the cosfusiou that prevailed, 
 Imagining that a rescue was about to be attempted, had 
 cocked a pistol and placed it to the head of his prisoner. 
 He now suffered the muzzle to f;ill, and gazed in astonish- 
 ment on Kinchela, who stood, pale, trembling, and listless, 
 at the horse's head. The truth flashed on the clergyman's 
 mind, as he recognised in Pryce the same individual Avho 
 sat with Dorgan in the parlour of the Bee-hive on the even- 
 ing before the murder. He suggested to the sherifi" the pro- 
 priety of inquiry. 
 
 " It may be a cheat," said the officer, " and if so, how 
 dreadfully cruel will be the disappointment to the prisoner 
 After this suspense."
 
 CARD DRAWING. 97 
 
 *' Let the mail be summoned hither and questioned at 
 once," said the priest. 
 
 Kinchtla was called accordingly, but he was unable, for 
 a long time, to answer, or even to comprehend the ques- 
 tions that were put to him. The excess of his terror had 
 deprived him for the moment of all cousciousness : he saw 
 a thousand faces flitting about him, and heard a thousand 
 voices at his ear, but was totally incapable of appreciating 
 their meaning or their wishes. The sight of Dorgan, still 
 pinioned and blindfolded in the car, at length startled him 
 from his stupor ; he suddenly extended his arms, and re- 
 peated with great violence, " Come down, again, I tell you, 
 Dorgan ! Mr. Sheriff, let go Mr. Dorgan, for he's inno- 
 cent. I am the man that done it." 
 
 " That did what ?" 
 
 " That murdered old M'Loughlen !" Kincheia exclaimed, 
 with a gesture of deep horror, " an' here I'm come to 
 answer for it now." 
 
 "If the man should be a maniac," said the sheriff. 
 
 " Oh, I wisht to the heavens I was !" Kincheia ex- 
 claimed. " No, no ; I was mad when 1 done it, it's in my 
 sober senses I come to declare it. Let Mr. Dorgan loose, 
 an' tie me up in his place, an' heavens bless you an' don't 
 keep me long in pain, for I hear hangen is a fearful death." 
 
 After some consultation, the sheriff agreed to take upon 
 him all the responsibiUty of delay ; the unhappy Dorgan 
 was unbound and removed from the car. Pie looked 
 drearily around him, and leaned on the clergyman for sup- 
 port, while the change in his fortunes was communicated 
 to him by the sheriff. 
 
 " In the middle o' the night that same time," said Kin- 
 chela, in answer to the inquiries which were made respect- 
 ing the manner of the occurrence, " I made my way into 
 Dorgan's room, an' I took his clothes that wer lyen on the 
 chair, an' dressed myself in 'em, an' in them I did the 
 murder, i don't know what made me tell it, but my con- 
 
 Q
 
 98 CARD DRAWIN<J. 
 
 science was killen o' me intirely. Mr. Dorgan, I have only 
 one word to say to you before we part. My poor old 
 mother, that — " the word stuck hi his throat, and he could 
 only look his meaning through his tears. 
 
 " Never fear for her," said Dorgan, " she shall be pro- 
 vided for. Oh, Pryce, I little thought — Well, there's no 
 use in talking about it now," 
 
 The sheriff now gave orders to take Kinchela into cus- 
 tody, detaining Dorgan at the same time under arrest, 
 until his sentence should be rescinded according to the 
 usual form. The crowd separated in great confusion. 
 
 It now became a point of consideration with her friends 
 to devise the most easy method of breaking the joyous in- 
 telligence of her lover's innocence and liberal ion to Pennie 
 M'Loughlen. Although the mode of her life and educa- 
 tion exempted her in general from the danger which might 
 be apprehended in such cases to a person of more refined 
 habits or a more nervous constitution ; yet it was conjec- 
 tured, with much truth and sagacity, that the repetition of 
 so many dreadful shocks Avithin so short a space of time 
 could not fail to be injurious in its operation on a mind 
 not altogether destitute of sensibility. If the reader have 
 curiosity or good feeling enough 'to induce him to entertain 
 an interest in the contrivances of their rustic wits on this 
 occasion, we will venture to prolong the narrative to its 
 real consummation, the reconciliation of the lovers. 
 
 Pennie had removed immediately after the day on which 
 her father's funeral took place to the house of a relative— 
 a " dale'mg woman," in the village of Carrigaholt. A few 
 days after Dorgan's foinsal pardon had been obtained, his 
 fair accuser being yet in ignorance of all the events which 
 succeeded the trial : she was seated in a small clean room, 
 called a parlour, inside the shop, in which her relative ap- 
 peared, bustling about in all the conscious satisfaction and 
 importance of a thriving huxter, among her closely-packed 
 assortmentof haberdashery, reaping-hooks, penknives, no-
 
 CAPD DEA-nrxG. 99 
 
 tatloii-books, reading marle-ea^iys^ snuff aud tobacco, flaX' 
 seed, prayer-books, halters, waistcoat-patterns, plates, 
 dishes of the most flaming colours, with a small stock of 
 grocery, and, in short, every description of merchandise 
 which might by any possible contingency become needful 
 to the comfort of the good folks in her neighbourhood. The 
 door of the little parlour Avas left ajar, so that our heroine, 
 while occupied in her usual duty of instructing her infant 
 cousin in her rudimental lessons, could hear all that passed 
 without. A snug-looking farmer was bargaining at one 
 side of the shop for a new " Poor Man's Manual," while 
 his wife, a quiet, elderly woman, neatly attired in a scarlet 
 rug cloak (a favourite article of dress among the fair ones 
 of the coast), and a decent snow-white handkerchief simply 
 tied in matron fashion over her head, was turning over 
 some pieces of gingham in an opposite corner. 
 
 " Sixpence !" the Dinmont of Clare exclaimed in a tone 
 of expression of strong surprise, while by a jerk of the 
 frame he tossed his heavy great-coat higher on his shoul- 
 ders, as if preparing at once to depart. " No — Mrs. Ra- 
 hilly — take four-pence for the book, an' here 'tis for you." 
 
 " I never bought it for thcmoney," said Mrs. Kahilly, 
 replacing the book on the shelf. 
 
 " Well — what's your lowest offer then ! — I don't like, 
 as we're ould friends, to lave the money anywhere else though 
 I protest to my conshins, Davy Molony below street offered 
 me the same book for four-pence ha'p'ny." 
 
 Mvs. Rahilly paused. " Well then — bein as you say, 
 an ould cushtomer — split the dcffercnce, an' say no more 
 about it." 
 
 " That I may be blest af I do, now. Here's four-pence 
 ha'p'ny, an' I never 'II go back o' what I say. " 
 
 '' liiiveit for the li'-j^cniiy." 
 
 *' Oh, ax wool of a goat — what talk it is V' 
 
 " Well, may be herself would want another." 
 
 " Oh, never heed me," said the woman smiling and laying 
 5
 
 100 CARD DKAWIXG. 
 
 down the pattern of gingliam, " af it's prayer-books you're 
 talking of, I can say my I'osary on my tiiigirs." 
 
 " You are attending to those people in the shop, instead 
 of minding your task," said Pcnnie, chiding her little pu- 
 pil. " Keep your eyes on the book now. liead on. ' Thirty 
 days—' " ■ 
 
 The child read, in a high singing tone, the lesson from 
 her marble-covered notation-book, "Thirty days hath Sep- 
 tember, April, June au' November,"- &c. On a sudden she 
 paused, and looking into her cousin's face, said, " Peunie, 
 are you goen to die ?" 
 
 Tlie young maiden started at the suddenness of the ques- 
 tion, and then looking fixedly in surprise on the child, 
 "Why do you ask such a question as that, honey?" 
 
 " Becase Patcy I\Iagrath, he toult me that his mammy 
 said you vvor, and that she seen it by you, for you wor 
 growing thinner an' thinner an' paler an' paler every day, 
 an' that you'd die before long an' be buried like uncle." 
 
 " I hope not," said the poor girl smiling rather anx- 
 iously- 
 
 "I hope not aither — for what 'ud / do at all then ? I 
 wouldn't have any body to taclie me my lessons or do a 
 haiporth. Aunt Kahilly eloesn't know B from a bull's foot, 
 although she pretends to a dale. I know what I'll do af you 
 die, I'll marry Patcy Magrath, for he's a fine scholar — that's 
 when we're big enough — -an' he'll laru me — but what 'U I 
 do till then?" 
 
 " Mind your tasks, and do as you are bid, honey, and 
 say your prayers regularly, and <jlod will be a father, and 
 uncle, and cousin, and all to you. You need fear nothing 
 so long as you do not displease hi in." 
 
 "That's just the way the man with all tlie wool about 
 his head talked to me in the coort-house, when I toult upon 
 
 Dorgan for murderen uncle What ails you now, Pen- 
 
 nie ? I can't say a haiporth to you ever since uncle was 
 kilt, but you begin to cry that way. Are you sick ? Be-
 
 CAItD DRAWING. 101 
 
 cause if yon are, I'll go an' get a physic o' salts from Annt 
 Ilahilly. She has a tub o' salts abroad that would cure 
 the world." 
 
 At this moment, the sound of Dorgan's name, pronounced 
 by a voice that was fiimiiiar to her, in the shop, struck on 
 the elder maiden's ear and prevented her reply. She put 
 the child from her \vith a sudden " husht" and remained in 
 an attitude of the most anxious attention, with her ear 
 turned towards the half-open door. 
 
 " I wonder who is it that's minden the people in the shop 
 noiv" said the child. " Well, Pennie, af you won't hear 
 me my lesson, I'll go and play tig-touch-iron wit' Patcy 
 Magrath in the haggard, an' PU have it for you agen sup- 
 per." 
 
 She slipped out of the house through a back door, leaving 
 Pennie too perfectly absoi'bed in the conversation which 
 was now passing in the shop, to answer or even to notice her 
 departure. 
 
 " An' is it now they're thinken o' throwen a doubt upon 
 his guilt ?" said the farmer. " Here — take a pinch, sir, 
 while the box is open. The little dust o' snuff I had isn't 
 much the better o' you since you took that dhudorjue* out 
 of it, any way. But as for Dorgan, why I seen the guard 
 goeu to the gallows with him myself, though I couldn't stop 
 to see the hangen." 
 
 " That may be compatible with the limits o' veracity," 
 said the person who had just entered, " but it is an unde- 
 niable fact, that Dorgan has been approved innocent' — and 
 Kinchela the fisherman from the Head, has come forth and 
 prosecuted his confession before the magistrate as the real 
 perpetraathur." 
 
 The conversation was here cut short by a deep groan, 
 and a sound, as of a heavy weight descending, in the inner 
 parlour. The plan which had been constructed fur break- 
 ing tiie matter to Pennie was completely baiiled by the
 
 102 CARD DRA>nNG. 
 
 awkwardness of the well-meaiiing pedant, -wlio blurted out 
 that part of his intelligence which comprised the most hor- 
 rible inference in the very commencement. She had scarcely 
 heard it uttered, when her senses failed her, and she sunk 
 on the floor iu a strong convulsion fit. When the exer- 
 tiuns of her friends, who at once hastened to her assistance, 
 had recalled her to some degree of consciousness, she be- 
 kc'ld, among the many fiices which surrounded her, thoso 
 of the clergyman of her parish before-mentioned, and the 
 unfortunate agent of the discovery she had made. The 
 former, having ascertained the degree of strength which 
 might now be expected IVom her, motioned every person outof 
 the room, with the exception of her relative. He then took 
 Fennie's hand kindly. 
 
 " Are you prepared," he said, " to thank your God for 
 a more pleasing piece of news than that which you have 
 just heard ?" 
 
 The girl looked in his face with a gaze of bewildered in- 
 quiry. Her lips muttered, as if unconsciously, the word 
 '" Dorgan," as the thought which floated uppermost in her 
 imagiaation. 
 
 "• Read there," said the clergyman, putting into her 
 hands a letter, folded. 
 
 'I'he blood ruslied forcibly to her check, brow, and her 
 very finger-ends, and again recoiled, so as to leave her j)ale 
 as marble, when she recognised the hand of Dorgan in the 
 superscription. She ciuicklj opened the note, aud read as 
 follows : 
 
 Mt Dear Pexnie, 
 
 (For I may once more with a free heart, thanks 
 be to the Most High, call you by that name). It has 
 pleased Heaven to make good the word which I spoke ou 
 that unfurtunate day, m hen I told my judges that 1 felt it 
 within me that 1 should not die for a deed of which, tho
 
 CARD DRAWING. 103 
 
 Lord knows my heart, and which is since proved, I was 
 wholly clear and innocent. I have got my pardon — for it 
 seems it is a form of law, that when an innocent man is 
 convicted, after suffering imprisonment, and all hardsliip 
 and anxiety, instead of his judges asking his forgiveness, 
 'tis he that has to get pardon from them, for being so un- 
 fortunate as to be condemned and very nearly hung in the 
 wrong. Now, Pennie, this conies by the hand of Fathfr 
 Mahony, to tell you, that of all things in the world, I ad- 
 mire and love you for your conduct on that day, and all 
 through this dreadful business. I know well, my dear 
 girl, how your heart is accusing you at this moment, but 
 give no heed to such thoughts, I beg of you, and let them 
 be as far from your mind as they are from mine, for you 
 did your duty nobly : and Lord Nelson, my glorious and 
 lamented commander, who little thought I'd be brought intr; 
 such trouble on account of the victory he died in obtaining 
 could have done no more if he was in your place. I hopo, 
 therefore, you will show your good sense, and think nc 
 more of what is passed, but take this as the ti'ue feeling oi 
 his heart from hira who is yours uutil death. 
 
 Duke Doegan. 
 
 To Penelope Wl.ouglilen, 
 at 11 rs. Eahilly's Shop, Canigaholt. 
 
 The heroic generosity with which her lover thus rose su- 
 perior to all the petty resentments and jealousies, which are 
 incidental to the passion, even in the most vigorous and 
 straight-forward minds, sunk deeply into the heart of the 
 young woman. Although the love which she felt for Dorgan 
 was of that genuine and unaffected kind, which is wholly 
 a stranger to the delicate intricacies and refined difficulties 
 attendant on the progress of this most capricious of affections, 
 in the bosoms of those who boast a higher rank than hers, 
 yet she could not but be keenly sensible that she had failed
 
 104 CARD DKAWING. 
 
 in one of its most essential qualities — an unbounded and im- 
 moveable confidence. She raised her eyes, wliich were over- 
 flowing with tears of mingled shame and gratitude, towards 
 the clergyman, when a creaidng noise at the door attracted 
 her attention. It opened, and Dorgan entered. Her agi- 
 tation and confusion became now extreme, nor were they 
 diminished when her lover advanced to her side with a re- 
 spectful gentleness, and said: — 
 
 " Pennie, you see we meet happier and sooner than we 
 expected. I hope you'll be said by Avhat 1 mentioned to 
 j'ou in the letter, and give me your hand now in token that 
 all is forgotten." 
 
 " I give you my hand freely, Dorgan," the girl replied, 
 still blushing deeply, "and bless your good, generous heart; 
 but all cannot be forgotten. I may be liieuds with you 
 again : but I never can be friends witli myself as long as 
 ever I live. There is a load now laid upon jny mind, that 
 never will be taken oH" until the day I die." 
 
 Dorgan, assisted by his reverend friend, applied himself, 
 and as it proved, not unsuccessfully, to combat this feeling ; 
 after Avhich the latter departed, liaving seized the oppor- 
 tunity of impressing on both the obligations ■\\liich they owed 
 to Providence for the turn wliich their fortunes had taken. 
 
 The imagination of the reader may be safely trusted with 
 the details of the ensuing days ; the penitence of Kinchcla, 
 and the distraction of his aged mother, who could scarcely 
 be persuaded, even by his own assertion, that t!ie son, whom 
 she had found so faultless, could thus suddenly break upon 
 her knowledge in a character so new and hideous. Dorgan 
 took care, on his establishment in his native village, to fuliil 
 the promise which he had made to Kincliela. 
 
 About a year after this, the handsome Mrs. Dorgan waj 
 sitting at the door of her l)arn, superintending a number of 
 girls wlio were employed in skutching flax in the interior, 
 ■when her eye was attracted by an old wonian, who raised 
 the latch of the farm-yaixl gate, and, making a low courtcs^y,
 
 CARD DRAWING. 105 
 
 said, " You wouldn't have any kid-skins, rabbit-skins, or 
 goose-quills to sell, ma'am ?" 
 
 Mrs. Dorgan coloured to the very border of her rich 
 tresses when she recognised, and was recognised in turn by 
 the Card-drawer. 
 
 " Well, darlen, didn't it come true Avhat I toult you that 
 mornen behind the stacks?" she asked, with a knowing wink. 
 
 " It did ; but I have learned to know since, that it was 
 more by yom- good luck than your skill, that you hit the 
 mark so cleverly, You said that himself was far away at 
 the time too, and he was close at our side." 
 
 " A' then sure he ought to have more sense than to trust 
 me — a man that spoke like a priest, they tell me, before the 
 crowner. But all that is over with me now ; for sure I 
 paid Father Mahony better than five pounds restitution 
 money, no longer ago than istherday, an I'm to be tuk into 
 the pale of his flock agen, wit a trifle more hones'y made 
 wit hare-skins, and writcu-quills, an one thing or another 
 that way — an I'm to live quietly, an to have uo'-heu more 
 to say to the Card Drawing." 
 
 The foregoing Tale was suggested by an occurreu:3 which 
 took place some years since on the estate and even close to 
 the deaiesne gate of the late John Waller, Esq., of Castle- 
 town in the County of Limerick, a name which will -jver be 
 dear aad venerable to the hearts of all who remember him 
 who bore it. A cruel murder had been perpetrated. Many 
 persons were apprehended and executed for the criine and 
 amongst thtjse a sailor who had only i-eturncd to his na- 
 tive village the very evening before the murder was com- 
 mitted! Tne story went that his clothes had boen pur- 
 lo'ued durii'g his sleep by one of the real deliuqu'SMts, who 
 escaped detection in the disguise, while the identity of the 
 dress tended to place the crimi at the door of the uuofleud- 
 ing sailor. 
 
 END OF CAT:D DRAWIxa,
 
 SONNETS— INTKODUCTORY. 
 
 GliTCXs of the ■west! the days are past and done, 
 
 Since, while the north wind howled amidst your bowers, 
 And liurrying through his course of frequent showers, 
 Sped, pale, mid winter mists the southern sun: 
 When the vext Shannon, rid by ruffian gales 
 
 That whipped his foainin'ij sides with tireless hand, 
 Shook [lis white mane along the darkening strand, 
 And bounded licrcely by the leafless vales : 
 Since — when our turfen fire niOfde glad the hearth, 
 And shone on merry faces, gathered near 
 "With untaught song, lighl jest, and drowsy story— 
 We blest the wintry eve, with gentle mirth — 
 Or in soft sorrow lent a pensive ear, 
 To tales of Erin's elder strength and faded glory. 
 
 Ambition, absence, death, have thinned the number 
 Of those who met beside your evening fires: 
 Some, gathered to the ashos of our sires, 
 
 On yonder sacred mount in silence slumber: 
 
 Some, scattered far, extend their longing hands 
 
 Towards some loved shades, and lonely walks in vaia, 
 For never shall your sun behold again 
 
 Their early foot-prints on your dewy lands— 
 
 And never more within that ruined gate, 
 
 Shall their blithe voices cheer the hush'd domain- 
 Yet some are lel't to pace your dreary vvays, 
 
 Some cherished friends, in whose sweet circle late. 
 Old joys cauie hovering round my heart again.— 
 i'aiat echoes of tho bliaa wc knew ia earl/ days. 
 
 106
 
 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A gentleman that loves no noise — The Silent Woman, 
 
 The Wren-boys of Shanagoldcn, a small village in the 
 south--\vcst of Ireland, were all assembled pursuant to cus- 
 tom on the green before the chapel-door, on a fine frosty 
 morning, being the twenty-sixth of December, or Saint 
 Stephen's day — a festival yet held in much reverence in 
 Munster, although the Catholic church has for many years 
 ceased to look upon it as a holiday of " obligation."* 
 Seven or eiglit handsome young fellows, tricked out iu 
 ribbons of the gayest colours, white waistcoats and stock- 
 ings, and furnished with musical instruments of various 
 kinds — a fife, a pipolo, an old drum, a ci-acked fiddle, and 
 a set of bagpipes — assumed their place in the rere of the 
 procession, and startled the yet slumbering inhabitants of 
 the neighbouring houses, by a fearfully discordant prelude. 
 Behind those came the Wren-boy, par excellence, a lad 
 Avho bore in his hands a holly-bush, the leaves of which 
 were interwoven ^ith long streamers of red, yellow, blue, 
 and white ribbon ; all which finery, nevertheless, in no May 
 contributed to reconcile the little mottled tenant of the 
 bower (a wren which was tied by the leg to one of the 
 boughs) to his state of durance. After the Wren-boy 
 
 * A holiday rendering it obligatory on all the members oi" \h» 
 Church to hear mass and refraiii frum servile work.
 
 108 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 canio, a promiscuous crowd of youngsterf, of all n.ixcs 
 under fifteen, composing just sucli a little ragged rabble 
 as one observes attending the band of a marching regiment 
 on its eutrance into a country town, shouting, hallooing, 
 laughing, aid jolnuig in apt chorus with the droning, shril- 
 ling, sque&kiiig, and rattling of the musicians of the morn. 
 After proceeding along the road for about half a mile, 
 the little rustic procession turned aside into a decent avenue, 
 which led, in the antique fashion (that is to say, by a line 
 60 direct, that if you rested a musket on the lock of tlie 
 gate, you could put a bullet in the very centre panel of 
 the ha!l-door), to a house no less quaint in its form than 
 its approach — a square-built pile, staruling bolt upi'ight on 
 the top of a hillock, -with a plain rough-cast front, in which 
 were two rows of small square windows, and a hall-door 
 Avith two steps leading up to it — presenting, in short, such 
 a facade as children are accustomed to cut out of paper — • 
 so flat, so regular, and quakerly. A line of soldier-like 
 looking elms ran along the avenue wall on either side, and 
 filed oiF with the most unexceptionable precision to the 
 rere of the building, taking the kitchen-garden in flank, 
 and foiling into a hollow square about the paddock and 
 haggart. 
 
 Before the hall-door was a semi-circular gravel plot, iu 
 which the avenue lost itself, as a canal terminates in its 
 basin. Around this space the procession formed, and the 
 Wren-boy, elevating his bush, gave out the opening stave 
 of the festive chant, in which the whole rout presently 
 joined ; 
 
 " The Wran ! the Wrnn ! the hinrj of all birds, 
 
 St Stcphtns iht)/ inas catighJ. in the. furze j 
 
 Although he's little, hix ftmilfs great 
 
 Get uji, Jair laities ! and (jloe us a trute ! 
 
 And if your trnte he of the be,.', 
 
 hi heaven ire hope your soul will rest !^ 
 
 As the din of the chorus died away, one of the lower 
 windows was thrown up, and two of the " fair ladies" ap-
 
 THE HALF SIR. 109 
 
 pealed to, presented themselves to the praises and blessings 
 of the admiring rustics. One of them could scarcely have 
 justified the epithet — she was of a dark-brown complexion, 
 and a slight shadowing across the forehead would have led 
 a person not disposed to argue favourably of the indication, 
 to suppose that she had already declined, and }"et not much, 
 into the vale of years. Tiiirty or two-and-tliirty might 
 have brought the change. There was, moreover, a proud 
 fiery lustre in her eye which Avould account perliaps for 
 many of the invidious lines. The smile, nevertheless, which 
 she instantly accorded to the villagers, showed that lier 
 pride was not the deflect of her heart or disposition, but 
 the accident of a conscious superiority either of rank or of 
 mind. Her companion was a pretty lively girl, with health 
 on her checks, and mirth and langiiter in her eye — and 
 nothing more. 
 
 "• Which o' the two is Miss O'Bricii ?" asked one of the 
 mummers, in a whisper, to his companion. 
 
 "Can't you know the real lady ?" was the reply. " Don't 
 yon see it in her eye, and in her smile. Tliei-e she is — 
 the dark one." 
 
 " Come, plase your honour, ladies, ordher soomthen out 
 to the Wran. He come a long way to see ye'r honours 
 this morning. Long life to you, Mister Falahee ! The 
 "VVran thanks you, sir," as a half-crown, flung by an elderly 
 gentleman who madvi his appearance at the window, ji igled 
 on the gravel- walk. "• And sonuuer* to you, Miss Mary, 
 and that before the frost is otf the gioimd ; we are goeu 
 to call on Misther Charles himself next." 
 
 The younger of the ladies blushed deep crimson. 
 
 " Stay until Davy gives you a drink, lads," said Mr, 
 Falahee. 
 
 A new uproar of thanks, and " long lives," and sundry 
 other benedictions, followed this invitation, in the midst 
 of whica old Davy made his appearance at the hall-door 
 * Good spouse.
 
 110 THE HALF SIB. 
 
 with a tin-can full of cider of his own brewage, and a smile 
 on his wrinkled face, that showed with how much good 
 v/ill he fell into the hospitable humour of his master. The 
 lads swarmed about him as flies do about a lump of sugar. 
 
 " Have you been at Mr. Hamoud's yet, lads ?" inquired 
 Mr. Falahee. 
 
 "Aw! not we, sir. It's always the way with the Wrau 
 to pay his compliments to the real gentlemen first." 
 
 " Why — " said the worthy but flattered host, with an 
 ill-suppressed smile, " is not Mr. Hamond a real gentle- 
 man ?" 
 
 " No, plase your honour, not a real undoubted gentle- 
 man that way, all out." 
 
 " I'm sure Castle Hamond is as fine a property as there 
 is in the barony." 
 
 " we don't mean to dispute that, sir. But himself, 
 you see, he's nothing. Wliat is he but a bit of a half sir?" 
 
 " A what ?" exclaimed tlic elder lady. 
 
 " A half sir, ma'am," turning toward her with gi-eat re- 
 spect, and giving his forelock a drag which seemed to 
 signity that had he got such a thing as a hat on, he would 
 Lave taken it otf to her honour. 
 
 " What do you call a half sir ?" 
 
 " A man that has not got any blood in him, ma'am.** 
 
 " A man that has got no blood in him 1" 
 
 " Koen ; any more than meself. A sort of a small gen- 
 tleman, that way: the siuglings of a gentleman,* as it were. 
 A made man — not a born gentleman. ISIot great, all out, 
 nor poor, that way entirely. Betuxt and betuue, as you 
 may say. Neither good pot-ale, nor yet strong whiskey. 
 Neither beef nor vale. Caoile Hamond ! What's Castle 
 Ilamond to me, as long as the masLer wouldn't conduct 
 himself proper ! A man that wouldn't go to a hunt, nor 
 a race-course, nor a cock-fight, nor a hurleu-matcli, nor a 
 
 * The singlings are the first running of spirits in the process o/ 
 distillation
 
 TRE HALF SIR. Ill 
 
 dance, nor a fencen-bont, nor any one born thing. Sure 
 that's no gentleman ! A man that gives no parties, nor 
 was never known yet to be drunk in his OAvn house. 
 poh ! — A man that was ne>er seen to put his hand in his 
 pocket on a frosty mornen rnd say to a poor man, ' Hoy, 
 hoy ! my good fellow, here's a tinpenny for you, and get a 
 drop o' somethen warn and comfortable agen the daj^ ! A 
 man that was never be any mains overtalcen in liquor 
 himself, nor the cause of anybody else being so, either. Sure 
 such a man as that has no heart ?" 
 
 " Tell me, my good lad," said the lady, with much se- 
 riousness, " is this I\Ir. Hamond a miser ?" 
 
 " dear, ko, ma'am," exclaimed liis accuser, " nobody 
 has anything to charge agen him on that score, I'm sure." 
 
 " Does he ever assist the poor in his neighbourhood ?" 
 
 " Indeed that he does ; there's no gainsaying that any 
 way." 
 
 " Is he ever found in the cottages of the sick and the 
 distressed." 
 
 "There's no doubt o' that. He is indeed. The time 
 the faver was ragen there last summer, he was like a priest 
 or a doctor, goen about from bedside to bedside, ordering 
 wine here, and blankets there, and paying for every thing 
 out of his own purse. I declare ma'am," the speaker con- 
 tinued, warming with his subject so as totally to forget his 
 late invective, " 'twould be an admiration to you to know the 
 eighth o' money he laid out in that way." 
 
 " And tell me, did the racing, and cock-fighting and 
 hunting gentlemen do a great deal more ? The real gentle- 
 men, I mean." 
 
 " Is it they ? no — nor half as much, the whole pnt toge- 
 ther." 
 
 *' But Mr. Hamond has no heart for all that ?" 
 
 " — eh ? — heart — " the man repeated in a puzzled 
 tone. "He has re^^i/i'o/i, ma'am — rcUig ion and charity 
 — that's what he has."
 
 112 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 " Then what you mean by ' heart,' is, I suppose, rlrunk* 
 enness, proiligality, gambliug — all, hi short, that isoppose'l 
 to religion and charity ?" 
 
 ''AA'hy then — " afier a pause, " heaven forgive uz, 1 
 b'lieve tiiat's the raanen we put upon it." 
 
 "And Mr. Haniond has none of that?" 
 
 "No, indeed, ma'am." 
 
 " I'm satislied," said the lady, retiring from the window, 
 and leaving the young man a-gape to comprehend her 
 meaning. 
 
 In a few minutes the whole procession was again in mo- 
 tion, drumming, squeaking, shouting, and laughing down 
 the avenue. After they had fairly seen them oft", Mr. 
 Falahee and his daughter returned to the breakfast table. 
 
 " Ho ! ho! where is Miss O'Brien gone?" said the old 
 gentleman. 
 
 " I declare, I don't know," said an old grandmama, who 
 sat in an arm-chair by the tire-side ; "she only took one 
 cup of coffee, and there is her spoon in her saucer — so she 
 wasn't done." 
 
 "Has anybody done anything to offend her to-day T' 
 said Mr. Falahee, laying an emphasis on the word, as if 
 the takinc) offence were a matter of not unfrequent occur- 
 rence. 
 
 " I — I'm sure not I, at any rate," said Miss Falahee ; 
 " I don't know what to make of her. May be 'twas some- 
 thing the wien-boy said." 
 
 " Best send to her," said the old gentleman. " Nelly, 
 go and see Avhat keeps your mistress." 
 
 In a few minutes Nelly returned. Her mistress had done 
 breakfast, and was preparing to ride out. She wisiied to 
 know whether Mr. Falahee would accompany her in the di- 
 rection of which they had been speaking tlie day before. 
 
 " Oh, certainly," was Mi-. Falahee's reply ; " unless she 
 is afraid of meeting the Boouy-vian* of the hills, for our 
 * Analogous to Orecn-skeves in Eiiiiland.
 
 -Vi 
 
 THE HALF sIR. 113 
 
 road lies by Castle Ilamond. He'd eat us up in one bit 
 for being of real geutlemanly race, I suppose ; or having 
 blood in our veins, as Terry Lenigan says. 'I'hey say he 
 hates anybody that has got a decent coat on his back, and 
 detests any finery — especially in the fair sex," he added, 
 glancing satirically at the gold chain and cross which en- 
 circled the neck of his daughter, " as much as sin itself," 
 
 " More, may be, papa," minced out Miss Falahee; "he's 
 a great, rude, good-for-nothing fellow, I'll engage," 
 
 " You'd engage what would be very wrong, my dear," 
 said her father. " Mr. Lynch, who is his clergyman as well 
 as ours, assures me that a more charitable, meek-tempered, 
 religious, excellent man docs not exist within the precincts 
 of his parish ; and that his single infirmity which appears 
 to have been occasioned by some dreadful misfortune in 
 early life, is solely the defect of his brain ; and that more- 
 over, it is the constant object of all his exertions to acquire 
 a conquest over himself in this respect. You heard what 
 Terry Lenigan himself said about his conduct to tiic poor 
 in his neighbourhood, during the fever that raged last sum- 
 mer." 
 
 Miss Falahee's reply was cut short by the appearance of 
 a dashing young horseman before the windows. He curbed 
 in the animal gracefully, as he came ou the gravel-plot — 
 made a flourishing salute with his hazel switch, as he passed 
 the window at a pretty, mincing trot, and finally dis- 
 mounted at the hall door. 
 
 " There goes another gentleman," said Mi-. Falahee ; 
 " the Wren-boys were mistaken in supposing they sliould 
 find Mr. Charles at home. Come, prepare your smiles and 
 your graces now, Mary." 
 
 "For shame, papa — you make one blush sol I v.;sh you'd 
 speak to him, gran'ma." 
 
 The door was opened before the old dowager could haA d 
 complied, and in w^a'.kcd a tali, sharp laced, long- nosed, 
 foolish hands me young man, looking like a preserved Lou-
 
 114 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 den street-dandy, of the third or fourth year preceding, and 
 carrying the similitude into his manner and accent ; which 
 last was a strange compound of the coarsest Munster brogue, 
 and the most oriental cockney dialect — the latter being 
 superadded during a residence of a few years at the house 
 of a friend who possessed a wharf somewhere between the 
 ]\Iinories and Wapping. All this, however, passed for the 
 purest Attic among many of his home friends, and was very 
 instiumental in gaining him the heart of the simple young 
 maiden who rose with all the pretty, panting, palpitating 
 eagerness of unbounded admiration, to receive him. 
 
 " Haw ! how aw ye, Mistaw Falahce ? How d' do maum? 
 Haw, Mary," he added, extending his hand to his timid, 
 shrinking, and smiling love, with an air of patronage and 
 encouragement, and twice shaking the tips of her lingers, 
 " how d' do, ray garl ? Be sated, pray." Tiien throwing 
 himself into an easy chair, extending his legs to their fur- 
 thest limit on the carpet, pulling up his peaked and polished 
 shirt-collar, to the imminent danger of the tip of his nose, 
 smoothing down his lofty black silk stock, and whisking 
 some dust from the lappel of his green (piaker cut coat with 
 the fingers of his glove — "A foine, smawtniawnen, Mistaw 
 Falahee," he proceeded, " I just called in to ask if you were 
 all aloive here." 
 
 " Going to course, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Whoy, yes — oy b'lieve — though the ground is rawthcr 
 hawd. No mattaw !" switching his boots, and in the action 
 drawing the rod within an inch of Mary's blue eyes. "Oj'U 
 go aisy enough — I'm cocked." 
 
 "■ Cocked or no, Charles, I wish yon woidd stay with us 
 to-day. I have a greac deal to do, and Miss O'Brieu wants 
 some person to squire her about." 
 
 The long countenance of Mr. Charles Lane became slill 
 longer at this request ; for, by some unaccountable means, 
 tills worthy lady had acquired a strange and disagreeable 
 iiillueuce over him — the inliuence which all persons of real
 
 THE HALF SIR. 115 
 
 rank and elej^nnce at all times possess over the vulgar pre- 
 tender to fiisiiion. The young dandy IMuiisterman found 
 tliat a spell was cast upon him the moment he entered Miss 
 O'Brien's presence. His " aws" and his assurance inva- 
 riably failed him. Ee spoke little — kept his legs in — but- 
 toned up his side pockets — stole the flaming yellow silk 
 handkerchief out of sight — and, in a word, kept the dandy 
 as much in the background as possible, In vain did he 
 make many strenuous efforts to shake off this secret yoke 
 which the good lady had, quite unconsciously, cast upon 
 him ; his struggles (like those of his country) served only 
 to make him feel the weight of his fetters the more severely. 
 In vain did he loll in his chair, pass his fingers about his 
 long and curling hair, and endeavour to swagger himself 
 into a degree of ease and confidence ; a single glance suf- 
 ficed to call hiin to a still more confused sense of inferiority 
 and ipental servitude. In vain did he, when alone, pislt! 
 and pooh ! at the wrinkled old maid, as in tlie malice of his 
 heart he rather unjustly termed her. In vain did the laily 
 herself (wlienever, indeed she thought of the gentleman at 
 all) endeavour by the most winning sweetness and kindness 
 of manner to place him on good terms with himself — nothing 
 could overcome his awe and his dislike. What puzzled and 
 surprised him a great deal, moreover, was, that Mary, who 
 stood quite as much in awe of him as he did of Miss O'Brien, 
 was always perfectly easy and self-possessed in the presence 
 of that formidable lady ; so much so, as frequently to fail 
 in the respect which was certainly due from the one to the 
 otiier. 
 
 Kotwitlistanding all this consciousness, however, and al- 
 though Vx.\: Lane felt himself never so uncomfortable as 
 when he was in the presence of IMiss O'Brien, an odd kind 
 of infatuation made him constantly seek opportunities to 
 throw himself in her way, always promising liimself (what 
 every day's experience told him Avas not to be fulfilled), tliat 
 he would find £omc means or other of impressing her with
 
 116 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 tlie conviction that lie Avas lier " equal," Every attention, 
 in consequence, wiiicli slie condescended to show him (ut- 
 terly ignorant in th-3 simple siu;i,leness of her good heart, 
 of the queer kind of civil war she occasioned in his breast), 
 while it confused and abashed him, did not fail to flatter his 
 vanity ; and now, although the tremendous i)ro]30sition of 
 ridhig out actually alone with the great personage at first 
 startled and alarmed him, it was not difhcult to prevail on 
 him to saciiiicc the day's hunting to this opportunity of 
 displaying himself under so many advantages (for he Avas 
 the best horseman in the country) to the eyes of a person, 
 whose approbation appeared to be of more consequence to 
 him than that of the whole world besides. 
 
 He assented, tlierefore, to Mr. Falahee's arrangement ; 
 and thrusting his gloves and the handle of his whip into hia 
 hat, took his seat in a more permanent form by the blazing 
 fire, and commenced playing at hot-hands Avith Mary, until 
 Miss O'Brien should be ready to set out. 
 
 We Avill leave the happy pair in the enjoyment of their 
 intellectual pastime, and follow the Wren-boys, Avho, having 
 by this time been made somcAvhat meriy by the good treat- 
 ment they had received at the houses of several otlier gentle- 
 men, are likely to furnish us Avith a greater fund of adventure. 
 
 They had by this time arrived at an avenue gate, Avhich, 
 from the Avildiiess and singularity of its situation, appeared 
 to constitute the api)roach of one of the older and more se- 
 cluded seats which Avere used by the gentry of the country. 
 The entrance consisted of two massive cut stone piers, sur- 
 mounted by a pair of battered eagles, and supporting a 
 heavy Avooden gate, Avhich was simply fastened in the centre 
 by a loop of hay rope tied to one jamb and thrown over tiie 
 other. The avenue, Avhicli Avas so overgrown Avith grass, 
 brambles, and dog-fennel, as to leave little more than tiie 
 footpacli visible in the centre, seemed to intimate either that 
 the mansion to Avhicli it led Avas the property of an absentee, 
 or that it was the retideuce of some person A\ho \\as not
 
 TEE HALF SIB. 117 
 
 anxious to enter into the strife of emulative hospitality with 
 the gently in his iieighbrjurlioocl. 
 
 " Castle Frainoiul ! Here it is ! — Will we go up, boys ?" 
 asked one of the party. 
 
 " I say, no !" exclaimed the Buhal DroIIeen — whose aris- 
 tacratic spirit had been rendered still moi-e over-topping than 
 ever by the inspiration of the many sparkling glasses he had 
 tasted since he had first broached his sentiments while Davy 
 broached his cider. " Tlie wran won't show himself to any 
 but a raal gintleman to-day." 
 
 " Pch ! what is it after all — Isn't he as good as old Fala- 
 hee if you go to that of it, and he keeps — liemmy O'Lone 
 tells me — that's his own man — the best of every thing, 
 and has a full purse moreover. And he's a Cromwaylian, 
 any way."* 
 
 " Is lie a Cromwaylian ?" inquired the refractory wren- 
 boy, trying to steady himself, and moved to a hesitation 
 rather by the prospect of Mr. Hamond's good cheer than by 
 the new point of genealogy that was made out for him. 
 " Can you make it out that he's a Cromwaylian ?" 
 
 " Sure the world knows it, and many says he's one o' 
 the Bag-and-Bunf men, too." 
 
 " Oh — tlien the Wran will pay him his compliments. 
 Come along, boys." And staggering toward the gate, 
 which he opened after making several efforts to ascertain 
 the precise geography of its fastening, he led the way, shout- 
 ing and singing by turns, along the mossy and rarely trod- 
 den avenue. 
 
 In a few minutes they had marshalled themselves before 
 thfe house (a ruined building, the greater number of the 
 
 * The descendants of those who camo over v?ith Cromwell, 
 i The descendants of those who landed at Bag-and-Bun with 
 Richard Fitzstephens, the first British invader of Ireland. Thus the 
 
 adage 
 
 *' At the creek of Bagganbun, 
 Ireland was ylost and wonne."
 
 118 THE HALF SIE. 
 
 windows of which were broken, stuifecl with newspapers, 
 pieces of blackened board, and old clothes,) aud set up a 
 new stave of their traditional anthem. 
 
 " Last Christmas-day I ttirn'd the spit^ 
 
 I hurn'd my finf/er — (I feel it yet) — ■ 
 
 A cock spat 7-010 few over the table, 
 
 The dish heyaii to Jiyht ivilh the ladle— 
 
 The spit got up like a naked man. 
 
 And swore he'djifd ivith the dripping-pan^ 
 
 The pan got vp and cock'd his tail, 
 
 And swore he'd send them all to jail /" 
 
 The merry makers, however, did not receive so ready a 
 welcome at Castle ilamond as they had done at most otlier 
 houses. The chorus died away in perfect silence, and the 
 expectant eyes of the singers glanced from casement to 
 casement for several minutes, but no one appeared. Again 
 they raised their voices and were commencing — • 
 
 «♦ The Wran! the " 
 
 when a bundle of newspapers was withdrawn from a broken 
 pane, and in their place a head and arm made their appear- 
 ance. It was a hatchet-face, with a pair of peeping jiig's 
 eyes set close (like a fish's) on either side — the mouth half 
 open, an expression of mingled wonder and curiosity de- 
 picted on the features — and a brown straight-haired wig, 
 which time had reduced to a baldness almost as great as that 
 of the head which it covered, shooting down on each side, 
 like a bunch of luslies, ton ards the shoulders. 
 
 " Good morrow, Mv. Ilemmy," said tlie young man who 
 had advocated the title of the [uoprletor of Castle Ilamond 
 to the homage of the Wreu — " we're come to pay our com- 
 pliments to the master." 
 
 " Whist ! whist! dear boys !" exclaimed the head, while 
 the arm aud hand were waved toward them in a cautionary 
 manner.
 
 THE HALF SIR. 119 
 
 " Poh, wliat tvhisht ? Let him give tis something Hkc 
 a gentleman, and we'll whisht as much as he pleases." 
 
 " Are ye tired o' ye'r lives ? He's like a madman all 
 night. There's notlien for ye." 
 
 " D'ye hear what he says, as if it was to a beggarmai' 
 he'd be talken ? Go along in — take your head out o' that. 
 Remmy, if you love it. Nothen for us ! — Take your he.^T 
 out o' that again! if you haven't a mind to lave it aft( i 
 you — and no great prize 'twould be lo the man that won!; 
 get it in lose afther you, either." 
 
 " It may be a very bad one," said Remmy O'Lone, "ar 
 an ill-looking one enough may be, but I'd look a da' 
 droller widout it for all that." 
 
 " AVell, an' are we to get nothen for the Wran ? 1 
 that the way of it ? Come, bcJy?, one groan for the o' 
 miser — " 
 
 " Whisht ! agin ! boys, for shame ! Well, aisy 
 while and I'll see what's to be done. But don't make ; 
 noise for your lives, for he didn't lave his room yet." 
 
 Remmy withdrew his head from the Avindow, replace 
 the newspapers, and walked in a meditative way along : 
 dark flagged hall leading to many of the principal sleepiii,^' 
 chambers of the old mansion. He paused near one of the 
 doors, and after many gestures of agitation and distress, lie 
 tapped softly with the knuckle of his forefinger upon the 
 centre panel, bending his ear toward the key-hole to a?certain 
 jis m'leh as possible of the effect which his intrusion pro- 
 duced. 
 
 '* Who's there?" was asked in a tone of some vexation. 
 
 "Are you awake, sir ?" said Remmy, in a soft and con- 
 ciliating accent, such as a man might use in making ac- 
 quaintance with a fierce mastiff. 
 
 " If 1 were asleep, do you think I'd ask the question, 
 Remmy ?" 
 
 " Wisha then, no, surely, sir," said the man, " I dun 
 know what came over me to ask my question."
 
 120 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 " Well, what's the matter now ? 
 
 " Come to see jou they are, sir." 
 
 " Who, man?" was asked in some little alarm. 
 
 " The Wreii-boys, sir." 
 
 " The Wren-boys !" 
 
 *' Yes, sir, in regard o' Saint Stephen." 
 
 " The Wren-boys come to see me in regard of Saint 
 Stephen !" was repeated in a slow and bewildered tone. 
 
 At the same time the party Avithout, a little impatient at 
 Eeinmy's delay, recommenced their noisy harmony — 
 
 " The Wran — ihe Wran, the Icwfj of all birds, 
 St. Stephen's dm/ was caught in, the furze, 
 Although he's little " 
 
 The strange disturbance seemed to aggravate the wrath 
 
 of the secluded tenant of the chamber •" What's all this 
 
 din, you ruffian ?" he said to llemmy in a furious tone. 
 
 " Themselves that's singing it, sir." 
 
 " What ? who are they, sir ?" 
 
 " The Wran-boys." 
 
 *' The Wren -boys again ! Who are the Wren-boys? what 
 the plague do they come clattering their old pans and kettles 
 here for? What do they want, Remmy?" 
 
 " Money I believe, sir, and liquor." 
 
 " ]\Ioney and liquor ! From whom, pray ?" 
 
 " E'tlien from your honour — sure 'tisn't from the likes o' 
 me they'd be expecten it ?" 
 
 " Why, are they creditors of ours, Eemmy ?" 
 
 " not they, sir, one of 'em — sure yourself knows we 
 owe no money. But they vvant a little by-way of a com- 
 pliment in regard o' Saint Stephen ?" 
 
 " Saint Stephen ! Why, what the mischief, I ask you 
 again, have I to do with Saint Stephen ?" 
 
 " Nothen, sure, sir, only this being the day, whin all the 
 boys o' the place go about that Avay, with the wran, the 
 king of all birds, sir, as they say, (bekays wanst when all
 
 THE HALF SIR. 121 
 
 the birds wanted to choose a king, an' they said thej'd have 
 the bird that would Hy highest, the aigle flew higher than 
 any of 'era, till at last whin he couldn't fly an inch higher, 
 a little rogU3 of a wran that was a-hide under his wing, took 
 a fly above him a piece and was ci'owned king of the aigle 
 an' all, sir,) tied in the middle o' the holly that way, you 
 see, sir, by the leg that is. An old custom, sir. They 
 hunted it this mornen, and sto^^ed it with black-thorn sticks 
 in regard o' Saint Stephen. That's because he was stoned 
 be the Turks himself, sir, there's a great while there sence. 
 With streamers and ribbins flyen about it. Be the leg they 
 tie it in the middle o' the bush within. An' they sing that 
 song that way for the gentlemen to give them a trate, as it 
 were, ' Get up, ould 'oman, an' give uz a trate," — or, ' get 
 up — fair ladies — ' — oi' — ' we hope your honour,' as the case 
 may be, all in regard o' Saint Stephen. And they dressed 
 out in ribbins, with music an' things. Stoned be the Turks 
 he was. Saint Stephen, long ago. Bad manners to 'em (au' 
 sure whcre's the good o' wishen 'em what they have before ?) 
 wherever they aie, for so doen. Iss indeed, sir." 
 
 " So I am to understand from you that a number of 
 young men come to demand money from me, because they 
 got up this morning and hunted a little wren, tied it in the 
 middle of a holly bush, and stuck a parcel of ribbons on the 
 boughs. Is that the utmost extent of their claim on me ?'* 
 
 " then. Lord help uz !" said liemmy, greatly perplexed 
 — " if one was to go to the rights o' the matter, that vvay, 
 sarrow a call more have they to you, I b'licve. sir." 
 
 " Well, then, let those gentlemen take their departure as 
 soan as they please. They shall seek their reward else- 
 where, for it is au exploit which 1 am incapable of appre- 
 ciating." 
 
 " sir, sure you wouldn't send them away without any 
 thing, to di-grace us ?" 
 
 " Go along, sir, and do as you are directed." 
 
 *MVell, well, to be sure, see what this is," Eemmy 
 6
 
 122 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 O'Lonc muttered in great distress, as he paced reluctantly 
 along the hall, revolving in his mind the manner in which 
 he should most palatably announce this disagreeable intel- 
 ligence to tlie crowd without. They were preparing to 
 renew the chorus wvhen he opened the massive hall-door, 
 and proceeded to address them. As his master had not 
 permitted him to gratify his auditors in the substantial way, 
 Remmy thought the least he might do, was to take what 
 fusal. 
 liberties he pleased with the firm and language of the re- 
 
 " Boys," said he, "• j\Ir. Hamond is in bed, sick, an' he 
 desired me to tell ye that he was very, very sorry intirely 
 that he had nothcn to give ye. He desired his compliments, 
 an' he's very sorry intirely." 
 
 " I knew he was a main wretch !" exclaimed the wren 
 boy — " He a Cromwaylian — he Bag-an'-Bun ! Bag an' 
 baggage ! 0, 'pon my word, he's a great neger." 
 
 " Houl your tongue, I tell you, Terry Lenigan," said 
 Eemmy. " Don't anger me, I'd advise you." 
 
 " Bcmmy, would you answer one question," said Terry, 
 "an' we'll be off. Who is it milks Mr. Hamond's cows?" 
 
 To understand the point of tliis query, it is necessary the 
 reader should be informed that, in consequence of Mr. Ha- 
 mond's allowing no dairy woman a place in his establish- 
 ment, whicli was solely composed of Remmy and his old 
 mother, a filse and invidious report had been circulated that 
 the office alluded to in the last speech (which in Ireland is 
 looked upon as exclusively womanish and unworthy of the 
 dignity of man,) was fulOlled by no less a personage than 
 the redoubtable Rennny O'Lone himself. This disgraceful 
 charge, though fHcquently and indignantly rebutted, was tlie 
 more maliciously persevered in, as it was found to answer 
 its chief object not the less effectively — that of irritating the 
 temper of its subject, and furnishing the spectators with 
 what Hubbes would call a spectacle exceeilingly gratifying 
 to their vanity — a man in a state of comically passiouato
 
 THE HALF SIR. 123 
 
 excitation. It lost nothing of its usual force by its total un- 
 ex])ecteclness at the present moment. 
 
 liemmy plunged forward toward the speaker, theft re 
 mained fixed for a few moments in an attitude minative ol 
 offence — the consunmiation of his desires beiug checked by 
 a rapid and almost involuntary reflection on the little glory 
 he would be likely to reap from an engagement in wliicli 
 the odds would be so awfully against him. Then suddenly 
 recollecting himself, he stood erect putling his little finger 
 knuckle between his lips, and blew a whislle so slirill and 
 so loud, that the echoes of the broken hills which surrounded 
 the castle, — and in the fine phrase of the Spanish poet, 
 stood aloft in their giant stature, ruffling their foreheads 
 against the morning sun,* returned the unwonted sounds in 
 an hundred varied tones. This was not the response, how- 
 ever, which liemmy ambitioned, so much as the yelling of 
 a leash of beagles, who presently made their appearance, 
 though not in time to do any considerable damage amongst 
 the aggressors, who retreated iu double quick time, making 
 such a din as no power of language that the writer pos- 
 sesses could possibly convey to the reader. 
 
 " I'll not be able to stand this long, mother," said 
 Remmy, as he returned to the kitchen, where old Minny 
 O'Lone was quietly seated by the breakfast-table, making 
 as rapid progress as her toothless jaws would permit her 
 to do, through the reeking mountain of sleek-coated pota- 
 toes and virgin-white milk that covered the board. " My 
 master an I'll never agree togeiher, I see that; an' if I once 
 get my character from him, I'd cut my stick to-day before 
 to-morrow, that's what I would See what this is ! A 
 decent, well-commended, notable lad, with as much papera 
 in characters in me chest as 'nd be the maken of a grocer 
 if he got it for waste-paper — a lad with as strait an' round 
 a leg,"' he added, extending one which certainly (aatwith- 
 
 * Este Monte eminente 
 
 Que arruga al Sol en seno de su frente.
 
 124 THE HALF SIK. 
 
 Standing Remniv's wig) justified the commendation — "as 
 ever stood in wiiite cotton on a dickey — and I don't care 
 wlios^the other is — a leg that never thought 'twould be 
 iorced to mount a brogue again any way ; here am I now 
 in tlie flower o' my days, cook, ostler, groom, herdsman, 
 gorsoon, gard'ner, steward, an' all, in this old box pitched 
 ap on tlie top of a hill, and shaking to every blast o' wind 
 like a straw upon the waters — as bad as the Darbyshire 
 stone that me master an' nieself seen once in onr travels 
 in foreign parts, sarven a man that has such quare ways — ■ 
 disgraccn himself aa' all belongcu to him. There'll be a 
 holy show made of us with the Wran-boys. I set the dogs 
 
 after 'em — for ; hat's more of it, too. Another job they 
 
 give me, as if I hadn't enough." 
 
 The ringing of a bell cut short the train of Remmy's mur- 
 mnrings. 
 
 " Tnat's for his tay, to have it ready for him," said he, 
 stirring the fire and arranging the kettle, " if he wasn't so 
 sickly (an' a body doesn't know the time he'll go) — an' 
 there's no sayen what sort of a will he has made, but if 
 Remmy O'Lone isn't higii in the sheepskin, Mr. Hamond 
 is not the man he ought to be. Sure he has no rilations, 
 an' if he had itself what are they, only as you may say the 
 casual gif'ts o' forten, whereas, a good sarvant is a man's 
 own choice, that ought to be esteemed according." 
 
 " How do you know will the master ever die ?" said the 
 mother. 
 
 " Eh ?" 
 
 ** How do you know is it himself that's there at all ? 
 When he got the sickness that was goen last summer, by 
 being so mooch in the houses o' the poor people, do you 
 know what I done? I tuk a bit o' the — but it's a sacrct 
 — the herb they say that tells for life or death by boiling it 
 in a skillet, and if it turns green, the man recovers, if black, 
 he dies surely — an' I put it down here on the lire about 
 the dead o' uight, when ye were all in bed, an' he was just
 
 THE HALF SIR. 125 
 
 drappen off in his crisis, despaired of be the doctors, and I 
 looked into the skiilet by'u-bj, and save tiiere it was, uc 
 cliaiige at all in it, only just the same colour it was when 
 I put it down." 
 
 " Oil, that's all nonsense — poll ! that's ye're shoopersti- 
 shious," said Eemniy, whose travels with his master had 
 taught him to despise the legends of his native soil, at least 
 in outward appearance and in the day time. " If it wasn't 
 himself, do you think he'd be so wild 'when he heard o' 
 Miss Emily's niisforteu ? Oh, the poor lady ! Ah, motlicr, 
 that was the real lady — Heaven rjst her, this day ! 'Twas 
 she that had the open hand to tlie poor servant — an' she'd 
 slip it into your hand as soft as if she didn't feel herself 
 given it into your hand that way, an' she looken another 
 way, or may be smilen at you an' Siiyen, ' Eemmy, I gev 
 you a dale o" throuble this while back ;' or, ' Eemmy, 
 here's a keejisake for you,' with a voice that would raise 
 the very cockles o' ye'r heart with its sweetness. And 
 Buch a tine proud step with her for all ! An' the way she 
 used to walk along," Piemmy continued, standing up and 
 forgetting his half-peeled potato in his enthusiasm, v/liile ha 
 imitated the action he described — " spiingen off the ball 
 of her little foot, and looked out from under the eyebrows 
 as if it was oat of the clouds she come. An' to think, 
 mother," he added, standing erect and staring on the old 
 woman, "to think that all that should go ior nothing! 
 The match made — the wedden fixed — the day coom a'mosfc 
 all but one — the favours given out — the gloves sent round 
 — the bridecake baked — the dresses both for herself and 
 himself finished off — the music ready — the priest at hand 
 — the frinds convanient — and hoop ! whisk !" Remmy con- 
 tini;ed, slapping both hands together with a loud report, 
 and then tossing them up to their furthest extent over his 
 head to express suddenness — " all gone ! as you'd puff the 
 down off a cluck !* Slap ! as if you rubbed your eyes au' 
 * The seed-bii'l ol -i cominou weed so called
 
 126 THE HALF SIR 
 
 saw the saa where that mountahi is overright us. V»"hack! 
 no more sign o' the wliole affair than of a sperrit that 'ud 
 vanish you'd think ! She was a high lady in her time- 
 low enough she lies now. Tlie pace an' the light of lieavea 
 lies with her where she lies, for ever !" 
 
 And having nnbnvtliened his heart by this panegyric, 
 Iicmmy resumed his place and his toil at the breakfast-table. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 T know not -what the matter is, but I am grown very kind and am 
 f/iends willi you — You have given me that will kill me quickly, but 
 ill go home and live as loiig as 1 can. 
 
 — Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Detesting from our hearts all unnecessary mystery, which 
 is no less repulsive in a narrative, we apprehend, than in 
 the transactions of social life, Ave shall proceed to lay before 
 the reader, a few events in the life of the proprietor of 
 Castle Haraond, in the course of which, he will find an 
 explana tion of the alhisions contained in Rommy's last oration. 
 
 It will bo ncedfnl, moreover, that we take the reader for 
 a short time out of Munster, the general scene of action 
 which we have selected for the conduct of these histories ; 
 promising him, that as we tread but tenderly on other ground, 
 the period of our absence shall be limited to as brief a space 
 as may sufiice to make him comprehend the chain of the 
 story. 
 
 Tiiere are no classes of beings, either in the social or na- 
 tural world, so distinctly separated one from the otlier, 
 that an interuicdiate species may not be observed, partak- 
 ing of the nature of both, and generally combining their 
 least tolerable peculiarities. Those amphibious monsters are 
 generally found, in social life, to coiisis!; of the vain and 
 the vulgar : and I believe there is no country iu the world
 
 THE HALF SIR. 127 
 
 where a dass of persons may not be observed who stand 
 tliiis between humble and " respectable" life — drawing the 
 external fopperies and gaudiness of the one over the coarse- 
 ness of the other, and hanging like the link of an iil-favcnred 
 chain between the two diamonds, simplicity and refinement. 
 Disowned by the class to Avhich they would aspire, and 
 disliked by that which they have deserted, these people 
 would lead very miserable lives, if it did not happen pro\ i- 
 dentially enough that they are burthened with no inconve- 
 nient quantity of feeling, and find in the gratification of 
 their vanity, a happiness more than commensurate to the 
 mortification which they ought to receive from the repul- 
 sive scorn of those above, and the insolent reproaches of 
 those below them. In this genus may be classed the long 
 array of coarse foces that one finds astray in Leghorn bon- 
 nets — the splay feet in silk stockings — the half- educated 
 pretenders in conversation, who steer a clear course between 
 the natural wit of the lower and the fine taste and ac- 
 quirement of the higher orders — the shock heads that have 
 discarded the lowly felt, and glisten in beaver — all, in short, 
 that is tawdry, and coarse, and flippant in society. 
 
 It does not always happen, nevertheless, that the indi- 
 viduals whom fortune, not choice, has thrown into this 
 class, are totally destitute of sensibility, and when the con- 
 trary is the case, the reader (possessing a due proportion 
 himself) may easily imagine how much more acute it is 
 rendered by the absence of sympathy consequent on its 
 very rarity. This was the situation, in early life, of the 
 hero of our tale, and it was rendered still more distressing 
 by the natural disposition of the man, Avhich was so mor- 
 bidly sensitive, that it would have required much care, and 
 a vigorous exertion of mind in a'iy station, to save him 
 from the perils of disgust and misanthropy. 
 
 The nearest relative of his own that Eugene Hamond 
 had been ever acquainted with, was an old man — a second- 
 cousiu of his father's — who returned to his native islo
 
 128 - THE HALF SIS. 
 
 (with fi fortune made of sugar nnd tobacco in tlie Illinois), 
 just in time to see poor Hugh made an orphan, and to 
 grant the dying request of his father, that lie would see the 
 child taken care of^ — a promise which he made with an ill 
 grace and performed with a worse. This old fellow was 
 one of those selfishly generous beings who confer a favour 
 for their own sakcs alone — and while they mingle so much 
 ungracious rudeness with their lihcrality, as to make it a 
 pain, not a pleasure to the receiver, yet look for as warm 
 and abundant a show of gratitude as if the gift were not 
 entirely a selfish action. A show of gratitude, we say, for 
 as it is a gaudy vanity which prompts the benefit, so an os- 
 tentatious gratitude will amply suflice to repay it. The old 
 man posscs-ed not the silent feeling of generosity in him- 
 self, and had not faith in the silent gratitude of his yoinig 
 protege. The shy temper of the latter recoiled from tlic 
 blazonry of a'Vejtion which was thus requiretl from him — 
 and moreover felt it wearisome and annoying to be von- 
 stantly reminded of benefits which had heen conferred on 
 him at an age when he was incapable of appreciating the 
 consequences of laying himself under an obligation, and of 
 course could exercise no election in the matter. Old 
 Hamond had been an enthusiast in his youth, and had left 
 home with the hope of procuring in a distant land the 
 means of rendering himself respected and beloved in his 
 own. No person could have set out with kinder or more 
 affectionate intentions — but their performance was fixed tor 
 a period too remote (as is, we fear, only too frequently the 
 case with young adventunrs); he conceived himself entitled, 
 on the strength of his ultimate designs, to omit all those 
 intermediate and minor attentions to his friends at home, 
 which duty, gratitude, and atfection demanded from him. 
 
 *' It is no matter," he would say to himself, when the 
 post brought him a letter full of gi ntle murmurings and 
 aifectionate reproaches from a mother who loved him well, 
 and whom he loved in turn, taxing liim with a long scries
 
 THE HALF SIR. 129 
 
 of letters unacknowledged, and fondness apparently forgot- 
 ten — " It is no matter, I am getting on rapilly here. 'Twill 
 be only a few years more, and I'll Iiave a fortune made here 
 andt'ien I'll show my mother that she mistakes my character; 
 that it is not for myself only I am toiling — and thnt she has 
 not been forgotten, as she supposes. I'll return to her with 
 the means of iucreasing her comfort, and that will be a 
 better proof of my love than a mere string of empty words, 
 which can answer no good purpose but that of putting 
 halt-a-crown into the king's pocket. Besides, I will answer 
 this letter at any rate (o-morrow." And then he would 
 apply himself more vigorously to business than ever — he 
 would overwork his slaves — seek new connexion*, and swifter 
 means of profit — new wealth would flow iu — his hope 
 would become brighter — his wishes would swell with his 
 prosperity — he would no longer content himself with the 
 prospect of rendering his parents comfortable in their sta- 
 tion — he would lift them above it. They would become 
 the euvy of the country side. His father should be a gen- 
 tleman and his mother a lady. He would buy out Mr. 
 Moore's estate (a ruined mortgaged property,) and give it 
 to his father. They should cut the Kyans out of the field, 
 and distance the Heaveners — the most rapidly improving 
 Palatines in the country. In the midst of these da) -dreams 
 a letter of fresh complaints would appear like a spectre be- 
 fore his eyes — to pass away and be forgotten in a similar 
 manner. The renewal of those charges, however, could 
 not but disturb him ; and while he could not shut up the 
 ears of his heart to the reproaches of his own conscience, he 
 eudeavuurcd to shift his vexation from his own neglect, to 
 what he was pleased to term the importunity of his friends; 
 and making as much account of his intentions, as if they 
 wfcre benefits actually conferred, he began to treat those 
 latter with much ill-temper, as if he were suffering under 
 some considerable injustice. The longer he delayed writ- 
 ing, the more impressed he became with the belief that 
 
 6*
 
 130 THE HALF SIB. 
 
 some more substantial apology than a mere statement of 
 fixcts would be required from him, and he had not yet con- 
 tented himself witli the extent of his property. All com- 
 nuinicatiou, therefore, shortly ceased between tliem. In the 
 selfishness of his own heart, he had vilely undervalued the 
 sterling worth of human nature altogether ; he considered 
 not how much more precious to the heart of a fond mother 
 would be one token of aft'ection, one word, one remembrance 
 from an absent child, than if he could pour out the wealth 
 of all the nations at her feet. 
 
 He did not consider this, neither did it once occur to him 
 that any change could have taken place at home, wiiile time 
 was laying its white hand upon his own liead in a foreign 
 clime. He was astonished, therefore, to find, on returning 
 (with a fortune sufiicient even to satisfy his own longing) 
 to his native village, that while he had been revohing a 
 fine scheme for the elevation of his parents, death had laid 
 them low in the grave. They had died in want, and lel't 
 their son no blessing. 
 
 What was he now to do with the heap of yellow trash 
 which he had been forty years in amassing ? It lay, a dead 
 weight, upon his hands, Mr. Moore, the Ryans, and the 
 Heaveners, the objects of his love and his envy, Mere alike 
 vanished from the face of the soil— and he turned in disgust 
 and impatience from the crowd of new faces that stared 
 upon him from the haunts of his boyhood. The only one 
 of his old companions that remained uas the father of our 
 hero, and he tarried no longer than just sufficed to tell hiin 
 the manner of his parents' death, and to place in his hands 
 the child he was about to leave otherwise utterly desti- 
 tute. 
 
 This little relic of his father's house was uot prized by 
 the old man so highly as might have been expected. It was 
 a long time before old H amend could bring himself to look 
 upon the boy in any n.ore tolerable light than that of a 
 usur[jer, who had sr.dc'cnly darted upon him, and snatched
 
 I — 
 
 THE HALF SIR. 131 
 
 away tlie prize wliicli he had treasured up for dearer friends. 
 Tn the process of time, liowever, t!ie child •won somewliat 
 r.]jOii his regard ; and we have already seen tiie nii'.nncr in 
 wliicli his awa]\ened kindness began to expand itself. His 
 still unextinguished vanity, moreover, had a large share in 
 the motives which occasioned Eugene's good fortune. As 
 he could no longer make ladies and gentlemen of his dead 
 friends, he determined to do as much as his fortune would 
 enable him to accomplish in that way, with respect to his 
 proteg^. But he took especial care that no benefit was 
 ever conferred, without making the latter as perfectly sen- 
 sible as words could render him, of its extent and munifi- 
 cence ; and while he thus dragged, as it were, from the 
 heart of the latter, a timid and hesitating expression of the 
 ardent gratitude Avhich he felt, he was naturally dissati -fied 
 with the faltering manner of the boy, whose excessive ti- 
 midity of disposition rendered him very unwilling to enfer 
 into a perfect confidence and intimacy with a nature so cor.rfe, 
 so ungentle, and so unlike liis own. What we are endea- 
 vouring, and very faintly, to convey to the reader in naira- 
 tive, may, however, be much more clearly laid before him, 
 by transcribing a scene which took place between our hero 
 and his benefactor, on an occasion when the latter formed 
 the resolution of removing to Dublin for a few years — as 
 much (but this he reserved to himself) for the purpose of 
 relieving his own eyes from the sight of objects which were 
 to him all tinged with the gloom of some mournful i-ecol- 
 Icction, as with the intention of comiilcting the educatiou 
 of his young heir and relative. 
 
 He had been meditating, during the morning, on the 
 benefit which the latter would receive from the measure lie 
 was about to adopt, and hr d placed the gratification of his 
 own wishes so much out of sigiit, that he presently per- 
 suaded himself that nothing but Eugene's advantage was 
 influencing him in the step ; and he was in conscfiuenco 
 wrapt into a perfect admiration of his own numificcuca
 
 132 THE HALF Sia. 
 
 when the youth entered the room, hi,^ face glowing with 
 exercise, and a small liiirly and ball in his hand. As is 
 generally the case with all morose people when they have 
 brought themselves to resolve upon a liberal action, his heart 
 warmed toward the object of it, and he held out his hand 
 with a smile of readier kindness than usual, and beckoned 
 him toward the sofa, where he sat in his long brown great- 
 coat and Leghorn hat, with a Havanuah cigar half-burnt 
 in his mouth. 
 
 " Come here, Hugh, my lad — give me your hand, sir. 
 Ha ! — what have you been at, child ? You're like my poor 
 mother in the eyes, I guess, you are." 
 
 " Playing goal, sir, I was — with little Eemmy O'Lone." 
 
 " Remmy O'Lone ! Fie, you grovelling little anini; 1, 
 that's no companion for you. Was that what I have been 
 toiling and moiling for these forty years, scraping and 
 saving, up early and late, working and wearing tlie flesh 
 off my bones, and all for your benefit. Eh ? sir ?" 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " To have you spend your time playing goal with 
 Remmy O'Lone ! Come here, Hugh. Is there anything 
 you are in want of now ?" 
 
 " N — — no ! sir," said Hngh, hesitating between his 
 fear of giving offence by a refusal and accepting an unne- 
 cessary obligation ; for youth as he was, hu had already 
 begun to discover the inconveniences of the latter coiave. 
 
 " Because if you do, Hugh, you know you have nothing 
 to do but to command me. What have I all this wealta 
 for, but for your use ? What have I been struggling and 
 labouring for during my whole life but for your benefit ? 
 And you are welcome to it, Hugli, as welcome as if you 
 were my own child, for you are a good lad, Hugh, you are." 
 
 "I declare — I'm greatly obliged to yon, uncle " 
 
 " Pah ! now, that's what I hate ! Do you tiiink 'tis 
 thanks Pm looking fur, sir? Come here to me, what do 
 do you think Pm going to do for you now, guess ?"
 
 THE HALF SIR. 133 
 
 Hngh looked pained and puzzled. 
 
 " You are now lifteeu years of age — I liUva expended 
 more money ou your edication than was «ver spent in tlie 
 raisi7ig of any of your family before, i have given more 
 for books and other notmis for you than would have bouf^ht 
 a bunch o' niggars. Now I'm going to take you to Dublin 
 to finish your edication, sIick-7-i(/ht-awui/." 
 
 The blood rushed into Hugh's cheek, and he was about 
 to utter an exclamation of gratitude and delight — but re- 
 collecting how he had been checked for doing so the moment 
 before, he was silent. 
 
 Old Hamoud stared upon him. "Why, you don't seem 
 to like this, Hugh, you don't." 
 
 " yes, sir — I do, indeed — but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 *' Nothing, sir." 
 
 " Nothing ! — Are these my thanks ? No matter. Very 
 well, sir. No, I won't hear anything from you now. Go 
 along to your own room. Very well, Hugh !" 
 
 Too delicate to expose to the possibility of a repulse the 
 warm feeling of gratitude which he Avas conscious of pos- 
 sessing, Eugene left the room to fret and chafe in the soli- 
 tude of his own chamber — blaming himself for his auk- 
 ward manner — full of agony at the thought of the cold im- 
 piessi(m which he left ou his uncle's mind — and never once 
 dreaming of questioning a statement which had been con- 
 stantly dinned into his tar, from the time when first that 
 organ became capable of exercising its function — that his 
 advantage was the cause and not the consequence of all 
 his uncle's toil and labour. His uncle was not so blind to 
 the distinction, but he had shut his eyes to it a long time, 
 and at length Lc^an to believe that it no longvr existed. 
 
 Scenes, similar in their tone and issue to the above, 
 ivere almost of daily occurrence during their residence ia 
 the metropolis. Had Eugene fell towards his benei'actor 
 ilie iuditforence with which he was constantly charged, he
 
 134 " THE HALF SIB. 
 
 miglit have led a pleasant, easy life ; but liis temper be- 
 coming every day more and more morbid and irritable by 
 the reciirrauce of those annoying demel^s, left him not a 
 moment's peace. Very often, too, he imputed to bis uncle 
 an acuteness of feeling equal to bis own, and estimating 
 the resentment of the former at finding or believing him- 
 self treated with ingratitude, by what his own would be in 
 a similar case, he thus learned to make pity for the old 
 man constitute at least half his misery ; a thing that he 
 would not have done had he been able to see that old man's 
 heart. By some means, however, it unfortunately hap- 
 pened that the two relatives never happened to fall into tlie 
 same state of feeUng at the same time. When Eugene 
 would come into his uncle's presence in a morning, after 
 meditating, through a long and feverish night, on the part 
 he had acted in some quarrel the evening before, and forc- 
 ing himself at length into the conviction that the fault lay 
 on his own side — that his uncle was, as he had often de- 
 clared himsilf to be, the best possible uncle tliat nephew 
 ever had ; when he entered the room, we say, i.i the morn- 
 ing, with a penitent face, and heart anxious to uuburthen 
 itself at the feet of his benefactor, he would be surprised 
 by some dry, every-day observation ; or perhaps some 
 jest, which showed him that the affair which lay so heavily 
 upon his mind, and heated and broke his slumbers, was as 
 totally forgotten by tlie other, as if they had parted the 
 night before the best friends in the woi'ld. The next 
 morning, perhaps, on the contrary, when he would enter the 
 breakfast-parlour Avith a light heart and merry eye, over- 
 flowing with love for his uncle and fur all the world, he 
 would find the former cold, distant, and reserved — they 
 would join hands with a silent stare — and Eugene would 
 find himself compelled to eat his bread once more in the 
 bitterness of dependence. The misuudorstanding was thus 
 pioloni^eJ to agony. 
 A heavy, dreary chain had been wound about the young
 
 THE HALF SIR. 135 
 
 man's spirit, wliich he toiled and toiled to rend asunder, but 
 found too potent for las strength. Frequently, in tho 
 ardour of his indignant heart, -when he approached that 
 age at which the thirst of independence begins to warm in 
 a young man's breast, the idea of flinging himself abroad 
 upon the world, and taking his fortunes boldly and man- 
 fully upon his own unshackled hands, would dart across 
 his mind, and he would catch at it with all the elastic 
 readiness of youthful hope, when the deep and real ingra- 
 titude of the stop, all his uncle's kindness towards him, the 
 actual practical benefits he had conferred upon him, would 
 rush in a mass before his eyes, and make him blush to 
 think that he had for an instant placed his merely ab- 
 stracted and, perhaps, peculiar feelings and distresses in 
 opposition to them. Besides, his benefiictor was now de- 
 clining fast into that age when the minute attention of a 
 really affectionate friend is most required ; and even if 
 Eugene could be base enough to leave him to meet death 
 in loneliness and sorrow, he could not shake ofl' the load of 
 obligations which had already been cast upon him, 
 
 " Heaven, that sees my heart," he would frequently ex- 
 claim, pausing and extending his arms, as he paced his 
 chamber alone in agony and irresolution, " sees that it is 
 not meanness that bindu me to this state of vile depend- 
 ence. But I am caught and spell-bound. The trap was 
 laid for my heart before it had ever beat ; and until I can 
 unravel the c>«iain of past events and undo all that has been 
 done, I must content myself with this hideous slavery. 
 My dependence is my fate — it is the A\ill of heaven, immu- 
 table and irresistible, as much as my orphanage was, and 
 I may no more make my benefactor 7ioi my benefactor now 
 than I can call up my dead parents from their graves. 
 Oh, would to Heaven I could have exercised a choice at 
 tl'.e time when he first meditated the first favour he (;on- 
 fened upon me. Wlat a load of wretchedness would have 
 becii spared us both ! '
 
 1S6 ' THE HALF SIR. 
 
 Neitlier were Eugene's distresses so entirely fanciful or 
 peculiar as he was willing to admit. His uncle, in a rank 
 above tliat in which he was born, had totally miscalculated, 
 In his simple ignorance, the mere common expenseis of tl:e 
 mode of life in which he had placed his nephew. He had 
 added tip with a slate and pencil the sums which it would 
 be necessary to pay for schooling, clothii;g, and absolute 
 necessaries, and imagined that the whole affair was settled 
 when he laid apart an annual sum for those purposes. But 
 Eugene soon found that there was nuifh more required to 
 enable him to appear on an equality with his new com- 
 panions. A thousand nameless occasions for expense, 
 which his mechanical relative could not anticii ate n.ir even 
 understand, occnrred every day; and \^hi!e old Hamond 
 was constantly murmuring at home at the drain which 
 Eugene's gentlemanly lifj was opening upon his wealth, 
 the latter found himself deserted, shunned, cut (that is the 
 best word for the occasion) by all the young men into 
 whose society he was thrown, in consequence of his ina- 
 bility to mingle in and forward their various schemes of 
 recreation and anusement in hours of leisure. He could 
 better brook, however, to glide in the downcast solitariness 
 of conscious poverty thruugh the ciowds of gay and 
 thouglitless faces that peopled this (to him) novel world, 
 than to give his uncle occasion for additional censures — it 
 never once occurring to him that this habit of censuring 
 was the joy of the old man's life, and that, in truth, no- 
 thing could give him greater pleasure than to have Eugene 
 acknowledge his dependence by ajjplying to him for assist- 
 ance — as nothing was more calculated to sour his disposi- 
 tion than finding himself thus compelled, as it were, to 
 give everything from himself, as though it were a matter 
 of course, and not favour or generosity. 
 
 Eugene had, however, at length an opportunity of plac- 
 ing his character in its proper light before the eyes of his 
 lUscle. It was one of the leading foibles (perhaps, in i\\\i
 
 ; : : --I 
 
 TUE HALF Sin. 137 
 
 instance, we sliould more correctly say, peculiarities) of the 
 latter to entertain a most unbounded liorror and detesta- 
 tion of law, in whatever shape or form it was presented to 
 his eyes— a feeling which has, of late, become almost na- 
 tional in certain parts of Ireland. This weakness was in 
 him carried to so extravagant a length that, during his 
 residence in the Illinois, being menaced with an action by 
 a former partner of liis own (a prodigal, worthless wretch, 
 from whom he had separated himself with much difficulty 
 ind with great loss), on the ground of an unequal division of 
 property at the dissohition of partnership, and a conse- 
 quent breach of contract, he had bought him oft" at a great 
 price, without once iuquiiing into the law of the case — • 
 without venturing witltin eyeshot of an attorney, a race of 
 beings whom he looked upon as analogous in the Ameri- 
 can towns to the rattle-snakes in their wouds, and avoided 
 v/ith as much caution. His excessive tinudity on this head 
 was fi-equently almost ludicrous. Although lie was, on all 
 ordinary occasions, an active, stirring, busthng man, with 
 as much vigour, strength of understanding, and foresight 
 as might constitute the average proportion of tliose quali- 
 ties among men of business in a similar rank of lite, he 
 seemed, when once phiced even by his fears alone within 
 the danger of a lawsuit, though on never so trivial an oc- 
 C.ision, to be sudd3nly deserted by all his faculties ; he 
 wuuld become listless and silent in the midst of his daily 
 occupations — his heart failed him — his spirit flagged and 
 sunlv — he would mope about his offices like a spectre — - 
 giving absent answers — speaking in a soft, whining tune, 
 and staring about him in solitary helplessness of as,iect. 
 There was something comically pathetic in all his conduct 
 on these occasions, which, while it made his best lovers 
 smile in their own despite, compelled his very slaves, wlio 
 were accustomed to his usual severity of tone and gesture, 
 to look upon him with an emotion of pity. The jjroiligata 
 feliovv of whom we spake was not long in finding out tiic
 
 J 38 
 
 THE HALF SlU. 
 
 undefended side of his partner's character, and made, aa 
 we have said, his own uses of the discovery. 
 
 Old Hammond was tliiis found, one evening, by his 
 nephew, wlio had just returned from a solitary excursion 
 to Howth, reclining, as usual, with one leg stretched along 
 the sofa ; a small rose-Avood table drawn close to hiin, on 
 which were a cigar, a lighted candle, a glass of brandy- 
 punch but little diminished, and an open letter. The old 
 man was leaning back in his seat with an expression of 
 piteous indecision on his features — a heavy perspiration 
 upon his brow — his broad-leafed Leghorn hat pushed back 
 upon his crown, and his loose coat wrap})ed more closely 
 than usual about his person. 
 
 " Are you ill, uncle ?" was Eugene's first question as 
 he entered the room, a little startled by the sudden meta- 
 morphosis in the appearance of the latter. 
 
 " Ha ! Hugh, are you there ? Come here. Oh, we're 
 ruined, Hugh — horse and foot we are." 
 
 " What's the matter, sir ?" 
 
 " Read that. dear, Hugh — what'll we do at all ? Is 
 there no part o' the world safe ?" 
 
 Hugh took up the letter and read as follows. 
 
 "Mr. Hamond, Sir, 
 
 '• This comes to inform you that I conceive myself 
 S3veroly ill used by your conduct in not completing our 
 original contract, whereby 1 was entitled, on dissolution of 
 partnership, to the punch of niggers that were worked east- 
 ward of the snarl of stones, on the 'bacco plantation ; not 
 one cf the same, each estimated at three hundred dollars, 
 moderate computation, being delivered, to my loss accord- 
 ing. Wherefore, take notice, that unless present conip; n- 
 sation be made as above, I shall take the steps necessary 
 for the recovery of my own." 
 
 " Well, sir," said Hugh, " is this really contained in 
 vour contract, as one of the articles?"
 
 THE HALF SIR. 139 
 
 ** It was, Hugh ; but, you see, the fellow and I after- 
 ward agreed tliat I sliould keep the bunch of niggers, iu 
 lieu of their value in sugar, which he sold and appropriated 
 to his own use — and we did so without touching the con- 
 tract ; and now he insists that it has not been fulfilled, 
 though I have paid the money twice over." 
 
 " Well, sir ! what then have you to do, but to tell him 
 to go about his business ?" 
 
 " Ay, Hugh, but he'd commence an action at once, and 
 ruin us." 
 
 " Without ground ! Ruin himself he might, sir ; but 
 what have you to fear from an action brought by a man 
 who has no claim ?" 
 
 " Ah, Hugh, my lad, you are young in these matters ; I 
 tell you, the Liw is such a thing, that he'd make it out — 
 lie'd find a better claim to all I have, by only consulting a 
 few lawyers, than I have myself. We'll be ruiu'd, that's 
 the fact of it." 
 
 " Then take an opinion yourself, sir." 
 
 " Take an opinion ! Consult an - attorney ! Let a 
 lawyer come within my doors ! Think o' something els;', 
 Hugh, do." 
 
 " Let us see how the case stands ourselves, then. Was 
 not the contract made in America, sir?" 
 
 " Ah, Hugh ; but this fellow had his establishment here, 
 so that both houses were concerned in some way — I can't 
 understand — but I know the affair can be decided here ; 
 and as everything I have is in debentures, all but Castle 
 Haniond, he can lay his hand upon the whole as readily as 
 I can lift this tumbler. Hugh !" 
 
 " Stay, sir," said Eugene, "I will read a little on the 
 matter for you." 
 
 He took down a volume of Blackstonc, and opened at 
 tiie Rights of Things. It was amusing to observe the 
 uLier helplessness, terror, and perplexity which became 
 evcrv minute move evident on the old man's face as iiirf
 
 140 Tin-: HALF SIR. 
 
 iicpnew plunged more (lee))!}' into the wiidoreess cf legal 
 teclmicalitios ; the distinctions between gifts and grants — a 
 chose in action and a cJiose in possession — conventions — 
 obligations ex contractu and q}iasi ex contractu — chatties 
 real and personal — considerations do ut des ; facio %it 
 facias ; facio ut des; and do ul facis ; — nu/a pacta — 
 contracts execiUcd, executory, express, implied, of sale, 
 exchange, b:ii!a"ient, hiring, and debt ; ifsics, trusts, hand- 
 sales, &c., &c. 
 
 " Shut the book ! shut the book !" he at length ex- 
 claimed, rising from the sofa and pacing up and down the 
 room in great distress — " No, Hugh ; I'll tell you how I'll 
 manage it. That's the plainest bit of law I ever heard, 
 that there about .1 and B and the flock (.,f sheep. Sup- 
 pose my debentures the flock of sheep, I myself^, and 
 you^ — eh, Hugh? I'll make the whole over by gift to 
 you, and so there's an end to all law, at once." 
 
 He did so — and never lifted up his head afte'-ward. 
 The sole pleasin-e of his life, that of constantly reminding 
 his nephew of his dependence, was no longer in his power 
 to exercise. Hugh was now his own master, and his 
 threats and murmurings were no longer anything more than 
 an emi)ty sound. 
 
 The common lot of all old uncles, as well as fathers, at 
 length fell to the hands of Mr. Hamond. After having 
 satisfied himself that there was no lavv or flaw from Nepos 
 down to Trinepotis Pronepos, by which Eugene's claim to 
 the debentures could be questioned, he yielded to the secret 
 conviction, which had been long creeping into his heart, 
 tliat his days were numbered, and prepared to balance the 
 gvr-at account in such wise as he niigliT,. 
 
 " It is no use, Hugh," said he, one morning after the 
 priest had left the sick room, and while tlie young man 
 was mingling a draught by his bed-siile, '• I sliall die now, 
 s)ick-right-away. 1 have a long score to adtl nn, but the 
 Atmighty that measures my time will, I hope, look merci- 
 
 . I 
 
 ...J
 
 THE HALF SIR. 141 
 
 fr-Uy ou the T:&;e that is made of it. Hugh, my boy, never 
 forget a good liiend while you live — don't, Plugh — never 
 prefer a great good intention to a little good action. If a 
 poor fi'iend wants a frieze coat, don't let him wait in his 
 nakedness till you can give him a cloak o' Manchestei' 
 broad-cloth ; if he cry to you for a crust o' bread, don't 
 bid him nurse hunger until you can boil him a terrapin. I'm 
 dying very uneasy, Hugh. Bury me near my father and 
 mother, and give the undertaking to my old acquaintance 
 Dillon, since I have nothing else to leave him of my own." 
 
 *'llave you not, uncle?" said Eugene, stooping over the 
 bed, and })lacing ou the counterpane the deed of gift, whicli 
 h;ul been iu his keeping — " This parchment has served its 
 purjjoses ! I now restore it to you, and with it take my 
 heart's thanks for all your kindness to me." 
 
 " Eh, Hugh ?" 
 
 " my dear uncle, I may now at least talk freely, for 
 my heart cannot be checked any longer by the suspicion of 
 self-interest. My father and my friend, I thank you for 
 your care, your love, and your attention — the days that 
 you have spent in laying plans for my advantage — ti:o 
 nights during which you have taken my dead mother's 
 place by my bed-side — for all that you have done for me, 
 take my heart's gratitude. If ever I looked a look, or 
 spoke a word to dis[)lease you, I disown the eyes and lips 
 that gave the oftence ; those only are mine that ai;e now 
 I'ouring out at your ieet their tears and prayers for your 
 turgiveness." 
 
 Old Hamond was not the less pleased at this burst of 
 enthusiasm from his young friend, because it was totally 
 unexpected. Ho raised himself with difficidty in the bed. 
 placed owe hand over his eyes, as if to strengtlien and con- 
 centrate the feeble and wavering power of vision which re- 
 mained to them, while he readied the other to his nephew, 
 gazing, with as much steadiness as he coidd command, ou 
 the glov\iug, open, upturned tace of the young man. Ua
 
 1 !3 TiiE HALF srs. 
 
 dn-vijicd the deed on the floor, retained Eiijene's hand, 
 Avhicli he pressed once or twice, saying, " You are a good 
 hid, Hngli ; you are indeed. God bs v^ith you, boy ; he 
 will, I am sure." 
 
 In less than a fortnight after this inter%'iew, in which 
 the misunderstanding of a whole life had been c'eared up 
 so happily and so late, Eugene Hamond fulfilled his bene- 
 factoi's last wishes, by laying htm beside his parents in the 
 churchyard of his native village. 
 
 We have now seen the many circumstances of Eugene's 
 early life Avhich contributed to foster and irritate the ori- 
 ginal malady of his disposition — his low birth, his early 
 orphanage, his bruised and shattered pride, his suspected 
 jiti'ection, his unappreciated gratitude, and his gnawing, 
 because specious and gilded poverty. Will the reader deem 
 it worth his while to see how such a nature, sensitive even 
 to a perfectly morbid acutcncss of perception, fared in its 
 first contact with the contingencies of a rank superior to 
 his own? following him into that rank, however, rather in 
 pursuance of his individual history, than with the view of 
 furnishing any new information respecting it. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Clenmont Boy, marshal hiin. 
 
 Boy. — With a truncheon, sir? 
 Clerimont. — Away, I beseech you. I'll mal\e him tell 
 ns his pedigree, now. Btn Jonson. 
 
 What Irish fashionable life was at the period when Hamond 
 first found liimself in possession of his uncle's property (soon 
 after the Union,) is no longer a question to be solved by 
 the Irish novelist. Few persons, we apprehend, will open 
 thise volumes who have not already been made aAvare of 
 all its varieties, by a writer wlio was the first to put the
 
 TUE HALF SIR. 143 
 
 sickle into the burthened field of Irish manners ; in wliosa 
 footsteps we follow, like Chaucer's gleaner, at a lon^- inter- 
 val, with fearful and hesitating pace, casting our eyes around 
 to gather in the scattered ears which remain after the ricii- 
 ness of her harvest. 
 
 One observation, however, we understand, may be added 
 to what Mada Edgeworth has already recorded of th^ circ'o 
 of Irish fashion — that, although it is necessarily composed 
 of far inferior materials to that of the exclusives in the sist r 
 kingdom, it is a matter of lesser ditiiculty for wealth to pay 
 its way into the region in the latter than the former, pride 
 — mere family pride, is one of the grand rsational foibles 
 which yet remain unshaken by the inroads of modei-n intel- 
 ligence ; and no internal or external wealth with wiiich a 
 man may be gifted in his own person, wiil compensate ioi" 
 the mental or corporeal poverty of his ancestors. This feel- 
 ing (which is not without its uses when confined within 
 rational limits,) is frequently carried beyond the bounds ot 
 absurdity, and exercises au influence among all classes, from 
 the gaudy mob of cold starers in a castle drawing-room, to 
 the group of frieze-coated " fol!yers,"or clansmen, who talk 
 over the deeds of their ancestry by a cabin fire-side. Daz- 
 zled and delighted as he was on his first introduction to a 
 rank in which he found those refined feelings and delic.ite 
 miseries of common occurrence, which in that which he had 
 left wore not understood, or laughed at as aftectation, cr 
 (worse than all) pitied, and stigmatized by the odious title 
 of nervous irritability — delighted, we repeat, as he was at 
 first sight of a mode of life so congenial to his heart, he soon 
 found in the original sin of his low birth, an occasion of 
 deeper and more real suffering than any which he had yet 
 endured. In order to illustrate some of the observations 
 which we have made, perhaps the reader wiil allow us lo 
 shift the scene for a tew moments, and omitting a detail of 
 the mhior occurrences which filled up the time of Eiigeuo 
 foi aome mouLus alrcr his benefactor's death, introduce Oiu-
 
 H t TUE HALF SIK. 
 
 pelves at once Into the drawing-room of a family from Trhom 
 we may learn something of his fortunes. 
 
 It was an extensive, elegantly furnished apartment, indi- 
 cating rank as well as fashion and wealth. A work-table, 
 tastefully littered with scraps of pic-nic needle-work, not 
 substantial enough to incur the suspicion of utility — ^just 
 snfficed by contrast to temper and modify the general air of 
 Insure and luxury Avhich pervaded the room, and to redeem 
 fj'om the imputation of absolute idleness, two very young 
 ladies, whose soft white fingers escaping from the confine- 
 ment of a half-handed jean glove, were wandering in busy 
 i'lleness among sections of frills, laces, &c., while the fair 
 companions, relieved from the observation of other eyes and 
 ears, were coming over the secrets of their girlish hearts in 
 amiable confidence. One of them was a blonde of a quite 
 sedate carriage, almost treading on the skirts of lethargy. 
 The other, a finely formed girl, witli full black eyes, hair 
 cut short and clustering all round the head (a fashion not 
 yet gone out of use,) a forehead on which the seal of a 
 noble house was as distinctly set, as if the arms had been 
 emblazoned upon it; and features which even in silence 
 seemed to move in restless sympathy with the animation of 
 a restless spirit. On the cover of her ivory work-box tlu-. 
 Dame " Emilv Bury," was prettily inlaid, and a morocco- 
 bound prayer-book, near her companion, showed the words 
 — " ^Iartha O'Bkien," impressed iu gold letters upon the 
 cover. 
 
 "Well, Martha, you are a better archer than I, after 
 pdl," said the dark-eyed girl ; " here, while I liave been 
 toying about the target with a hundred strings looped upon 
 my bow, you with your single one have shot the shaft and 
 hit the very centre of the mark. So I must be youi* bride- 
 maid !" 
 
 *' You must not envy me, Emily." 
 
 " Envy you, ycu silly girl ! — Hand me those scissors. 
 please. I pity you. You have just done like a child thai
 
 TEB HALF SIB. 145 
 
 swallows its sngar-plum at a mouthful, and then cries to 
 iind it gone. The women ought to send you to Cov^entry, 
 for giving up the sex's privilege. Do you think we were 
 made only to drop like ripe peaches into a man's moutii, 
 as he lies lazily iu our shade, gaping his admiration ? — to 
 be crunched into a sober wife at the very first word ! Don't 
 stare so, child — there's nobody listening to us." 
 
 " That's well at any rate. I must tell you a secret, Emily. 
 Your beaux all find your pride intolerable. You are get- 
 ting the name of a coquette." 
 
 " Am I ? — I'm glad of it. The wretches ! They would 
 deny as even that brief day of sovereignty — that little 
 holiday between the drudgery of obedience to parents and 
 obedience to husbands. Ah, Martha, you will say that I 
 am a wise girl before you have worn caps with ears for 
 many montli:^." 
 
 " I wish Mr. O'Neil heard you." 
 
 " ! he'd be delighted. He's a true Irishraati. He likes 
 a proud woman, even though her contempt should fiill hea- 
 viest upon him -elf. There never was a man who lived so 
 entirely ujiuu tiie possession of his friends as Mr. O'Neil, 
 He is a poor man himself, he admits, but then he is the 
 poorest of his own family — he is an uninformed blockhead, 
 he will allow you, but then he has such ' bright' people, re- 
 lations of his — he does not deny that he is a worthless, 
 dissipated wretch, but all the rest of his family are so re- 
 spectable and so liighminded. In fact, you would think, to 
 hear him speak, that he was proud of being the scrape-grace 
 of his own house — the only black sheep ia the fair flock of 
 the white-fleeced O'Neil's." 
 
 " Well, there is another young gentleman, Eugene Ha- 
 niond — 
 
 *' Quere, gentleman—" 
 
 " There again, Emily ! You wonder that I should charge 
 you with iujustici — A blush? — Fie! you malicious creature! 
 to lut me on the top of the finger with that heavy scissors I
 
 146 THE HALF SIR 
 
 Dtit seriou~ily, Emily, you use poor Kamond very crnoUw 
 If lie lieard you say such a cutting thing as that lasf, I know 
 b.it little of tlu! gentleman, or you would see but little of 
 liim af.erwiird." 
 
 " Oh, indeed, he's perfectly welcome to do what he 
 pleases. I don't think him so vulnerable, however. I 
 will try him a good deal farther yet. You would not sup- 
 l)0se that underneath all that amiable timidity and embar- 
 rassment which makes him stammer ia his speech — look 
 pale and vexed — answer with a quivering lip to my com- 
 mou-plrtce questions — start at my least motion — seem ab- 
 sent — and forget to turn my music leaves and praise my 
 singing (for true love is scriqiulou?) — beneath all this, I say, 
 you wouldn't think that I have discovered one of the proud- 
 est and most violent natures that ever made a bad husband. 
 At the last Tabinet ball, he had got me iuto a corner, and 
 grew all on a sudden so pathetically eloquent that I — I was 
 
 about to give some queer answer, when young Lord E 
 
 passed us, and bowed to me. I smiled of course, and 
 turning again to Hamond, got such a look ! Ton my hon- 
 our, I'm sure I heard his teeth chattering ! ho ! my 
 gentleman, thought I, your humble servant. You will wait 
 for my answer until I have taught you something first, or 
 learned more of you myself." 
 
 " But how long do you intend to make this game last, 
 Emily ?" 
 
 " Till I find myse:f a lover, Martha ; when the pastime 
 tires me, I may perhaps run to a corner, and be check- 
 mated quietly. Bat I never will, like yon, let my oppo- 
 nent get a scholar's mate before I make three moves." 
 
 " Well, there may be danger still in all this cleverness. 
 What if your adversary should give up the contest in de- 
 spair ? There are no forfeited stakes to comfort you.** 
 
 "Psha! the worst he can do would be to make it a 
 drawn game. Besides, are there not plenty of people who 
 would be happy to take up the couqtieruri"*
 
 THE HALF SIB. 147 
 
 "Bnt would the conqueror be happy to take up them?" 
 
 " No iiisi mictions, pray. I may punish you as I liave 
 done befoi-e. But really, Martha, I have no pride, upon my 
 honour; and the little secret I told you about Eugene the 
 other day, might show you I have not." 
 
 " You needn't blush so, Emily. Do you suppose I 
 actually snspect you of such folly ? I merely wished to 
 warn you of the consequences of seeming to be influenced 
 by it. And, once again, mark my words for it, Eugene 
 Hamond will not bear any goading on the conscious side." 
 
 " We'll try him a little, however ; you don't know him 
 so well as you think. Was he not greatly improved b) his 
 tri-p to the country?" 
 
 *' He does look very well. Pie's one of the handsomest 
 young men I know, really. His hair is beautiful—" 
 
 " And his eyes — " 
 
 " And such wliitc regular teeth ! — What he'd give to be 
 listening to us now !" 
 
 " Here, Martha, you must finish your lace yourself. 
 I'll woik no more — I must practise. l3id I show you tho 
 last song Hamond gave me?" And remo\ing the greep 
 covering from a magnificent harp which stood near the 
 window, she suflercd it to rest against her shoulder, whila 
 she ran over the jirehide of a sinqile Irish air, previous to 
 accompanying herself in the melody of which she had 
 spoken. Its subject was the iniagimiry lament of a young 
 Canadian emigiaut over the grave of his young wife. — 
 
 The tie is broke, my Irish girl 
 
 That bound thee here to me, 
 My heart has lost its single pearl — 
 
 And thine at last is free — 
 Dead as the earlh that wrajis thj' clay, 
 
 Dead as the stone above thee — 
 Cold as this heait that breaks to say 
 
 It nevOT more can love thee. 
 
 1
 
 H8 THE HALF SIB. 
 
 II. 
 
 I press tlice to my acliiiij; breast— 
 
 iS'o blush conies o'er thy brow— 
 Those s'entlc arms that once caress'd. 
 
 Fall round me deatlly now. 
 The smiles of love no longer part 
 
 Those dead blue lips of thine; 
 I lay my hand upon thine heart— 
 
 'Tis cold, at last, to mine. 
 
 iir. 
 Were we beneath our native heaven 
 
 Within our native land, 
 A fairer grave to thee were given, 
 
 Than this wild bed of sand. 
 But thou wert single in thy faith 
 
 And single in thy worth, 
 And thou should'st die a lonely death, 
 
 And lie in lonely earth. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then lay thee down and tnke thy rest, 
 
 My last — last look is given — 
 The earth is smooth above tlnj breast, 
 
 And mine is yet unriven ! 
 No mass — no jiarting rosary — 
 
 My perished love can have — 
 Bi;t a husband's sighs embalm her corse, 
 
 A husbands tears her grave. 
 
 A soft hesitating knock at tlie hall-door startled the fair 
 r.iiiistrel, who blushed, and fetched her breath while she 
 half rose from the silk-cusliioned stool. 
 
 " Tis his knock, indeed," said the fairer of the ladies. 
 " His knock always says, ' Let me in, if yon please,' as 
 plainly as O'Neil's says, ' Let me in.' 'Tis the most modest 
 coimd that was ever extracted from mere brass, decidedly." 
 
 " The vain fellow musn't hear me sinking his song," said 
 Emily, hastily turning over the leaves of her music— 
 '' What's this? Oli, a little piece of O'Neil's nonsense; 
 that will just do — I'll vex him a little." And running a 
 lively prelude over the strings of the instrinnent, she com-
 
 THE HALF SIPw 149 
 
 menc^d an air of a very difterent character — in a tone of 
 merriment not nnminglcd, however, with a certain degree 
 f'H palpitation and embarrassment. 
 
 When love in a yountj lieart his dwelling has taken, 
 Ai d pines on the wliite cheek, and burns in the veins, 
 
 Say how can the reign of the tyrant be shaken — 
 By absence? by poverty ? sickness? or chains? 
 
 Ko— these have been tried, and the tempted has come, 
 Unmoved through the changes of grief and distress — 
 
 But if you would send him at once to the tomb, 
 You must poison his hope with a dose of— success. 
 
 "Admirable! Excellent!" exclaimed a voice oittside 
 tlio door, which, oponin^x at the same instant, gave to the 
 vi.'w of tlie surprised and (so'far as one was concerned) dis- 
 aj)pointed ladies, the gay and rakish person of tlie author 
 ot the hist song. He made a bow to Miss O'Brien, a low 
 bow to Miss Bury, and seemed determined, as it was a rare 
 occurrence in his lite to receive a compliment, particularly 
 from a lady, to entertain it with ail the solemnity and im- 
 ])Ort<incc of manner which became the occasion. " Miss 
 Bury's execution is killing, isn't it ?" he went on address- 
 ing himself witlia pick-pocket smile to Miss O'Brien — 
 
 " Such as only her musical tongnie 
 Could give to such numbers as mine." 
 
 " Ton my word, Mr. O'Neil, my conscience won't per> 
 niit me to let you remain in error. I assure you — I mis- 
 took your knock — " 
 
 '• Now, do you henr this. Miss O'Brien ?" said Mr. 
 0"N('il, interrupting her, " here's a poor fellow that hasn't 
 a civil word thrown to him by anybody once in a year — 
 nnd — well ! — well ! — it reminds me of what an ancestcr ot 
 mine, Sir Maurice O'Neil, said to Lord " 
 
 " you told us that befure," said Miss Bury.
 
 150 THE HALF SIB. 
 
 " Thoi-e's more of it ! "Well, whose linock did yoa take 
 it for ?" 
 
 "Mr. Hamond's," said J\Iiss O'Brien. 
 
 " What Hamond ? Any thing to the Ilamonds of Lough- 
 rore ? They're the only decent Ilamonds I kno\y. A 
 grand-uncle of theirs, old David Hamond, was nriarried to 
 one of the O'Loarys of Morne — very good family — I recol- 
 lect my grandmother saying — " 
 
 " He is no relative of theirs." 
 
 « \Yho then ?" 
 
 " You might have seen him at the Castle." 
 
 " Eh ? what ? — the young nabob ? Oh, cut him by all 
 means — he's one of the rahbl' — mechanic. He's only tit 
 company for the tagrag and bobtail of the gentry, fellows 
 like myself, who are th.) disgrace of their family, /might 
 take up with such a fellow for an evening, because he had 
 money and I had none ; but I would not like that any of 
 the wealthy members of my family should tolerate him. 
 Enough for such a vagabond as myself to be seen in such 
 company." 
 
 " Oh you speak too hardly of yourself, Mr. O'Ncil ; we 
 all know that your family is one of the best in Ireland." 
 
 " My dear ma'am, surely I know it is — and that's the 
 reason I speak. Why, bk'ss you. Miss Bury, / have rela- 
 tions that wouldn't know me iu the street ! Siuiple as I 
 sit here, there's not one o' my family tiiat wculdu't bo 
 ashamed to be seen speaking to- me in any public place. 
 There are few besides me have that to say. We were 
 eighteen or twenty of us, at my cousin Harry's iu Kerry 
 some months since, and, I protest to you, without any 
 bragging, boasting, or vain-glory, I was the siia' biedt and 
 the poorest of the coaipuny. Would you believe that 
 now ?" 
 
 '' T could hardly b?Heve that ycu take cccasion for van- 
 ity oat of such a c'lcumstauc •." 
 
 " Vanity ! my dear 1 — it's my pride and gloiy ; and wliy
 
 THE HALF SIR. 151 
 
 not ? Arn't my relations my own family? Supposing 
 that I am at all respectable in my own person, wliicli I 
 grieve to say is a very doubtful case, even to those thai 
 Know little of me, isn't it a great thing for me to say that 
 tlu re is none of my name below me ? If a mp.n deserves 
 ary additional rosp'^ct on account of his family, surely tlie 
 higher they are above himself the greater his accession of 
 honour ? What credit could I receive from a fellow who 
 was below me ? Ay, you laugh — as much as to say, that 
 would be a precious lad — but doesn't it make out my point? 
 I felt more proud the other day when my uncle llichard cut 
 me at the Castle than if I had got a cukedoni." 
 
 " There's tlie true Sosia, Emily," said Miss O'Brien, as 
 another pattering summons, still more gentle and insinuat- 
 ing than that which was used by Mr. O'Neil, C7i ruse, was 
 heard to echo through the spacious hall. 
 
 Presently after, a rich, though rather languid voice, heard 
 in parlt-y with the servant, proved Miss O'Brien's second 
 conjecture right. It was Eugene Hamond. He was 
 shown up. 
 
 'i'iie ladies received him kindly, but formally. ]\Ir. 
 O'Neil stood as straight as if a poker were substituted fur 
 his spine. It was laughable enough to observe the air of 
 cold leprcssing pride with which this man, who confessed 
 liiinself worthless in every respect, and was destitute alike 
 of mental as of corporeal advantages, stood up to receive 
 the accomplished, elegant, and unassuming plebeian wiio 
 now stood before him. Eugene did not heed, nor scarcely 
 observe this — but the deportment of the ladies touched him 
 more nearly. In order to make the reader perfectly enter 
 into his feelings on the occasion, we shall sliortly explain 
 the relative position in wliicii both parties were placed. 
 
 Eugene Hamond's determination to alter his station in 
 life, and endeavour to naturalise himself in a rank above his 
 own, had not been hastily considered, or resolved upon horn 
 BO better impulse than that of an idle vanity. Naturally
 
 152 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 pftfil with a quick eye, and ready approheasion of the pe- 
 culiar tone of any grade of society into which he happened 
 to be thrown, he required but a very brief acquaintance 
 with the workl, to enable him to discover all the difficulties 
 and mortifications he would have to encounter in the un- 
 dertaking, and he weighed those long and seriously against 
 the advantages which he proposed to himself from the 
 change. 
 
 *' I admit," he said within himself, as he mused by his 
 afternoon fire, over the kindness and the slights which he 
 had met with in the course of the morning — " I admit that 
 for the interests of society in general, and for those of mo- 
 rality, and of religion itself, it would be much better that 
 all men should remain in that rank in wiiich they v/ere 
 born, or at least that nothing less than a development of 
 capabilities, absolutely wonderful, should entitle them to 
 seek a place above their fathers. If distinctions of rank 
 are in any degree useful or commendable, it is necessary 
 they should be maintained even to exclusion, unless in a 
 very few instances, when the applicant fur admission brings 
 an ample equivalent in some one great and beneficial qua- 
 lity to the fortuitous superiority of those whose acquaint- 
 ance he cultivates. I admit all this. But the case is 
 otherwise — that system of abcolute and unrelenting exclu- 
 sion is not maintained, and the question is, whether my 
 case is not peculiar enough to justify me in seeking for an 
 additional infraction. My poor friends must not be my 
 companions — that is clear. The accident of my infancy 
 — my disposition — my education — habits — all have con- 
 spired to place a wall between me and the humble life from 
 wiiich I sprung, which I cannot, and would not, it' T could, 
 overleap. Circumstances have fitted me for anoihcrsta- 
 tion, and that station is left open to nie. It is true that 
 I shall meet, as I have met, many a cold repulse in the 
 attempt, but there are, likcAvise, many over-balancing de- 
 lights. Those smiles, so ready, so sweet, so winning, so
 
 THE HALF SIR. Ib6 
 
 lieartecl, or seeming licaitGcl (and that for me, whose clilef 
 wish is to steer dear of the asperities of life, would uiio.. . » 
 ahnost as well as the siiicerit}- itself) so courteous, and so 
 kind — their biilliaut tiifliug and refined pleasantry — are 
 these nothing to the favoured and initiated ? I will make 
 the trial at all events ; and if I fail — if the cold eyes and 
 staring, unmoved faces that glance like horrid spectres 
 upon the path of the young and unacknowledged fashionist 
 should multiply upon mine, why then, farewell happiness 
 and high life, and welcome once again my lowly cot and 
 homely Munster village!" 
 
 He did make the trial ; and he soon found that the diffi- 
 culties which he had anticipated were not so fleeting nor 
 so easily surmounted as he thought they might be. The 
 encouragement which he met with was much more than 
 sutHcient to have established a blunter and less vulnerable 
 nature in perfect peace in the new region ; but liamond's 
 was one whicli would make no exertion for itself, wliilc it 
 took fire at the slightest act of neglect from o4:her3. He 
 seemed to expect that all should agree to drag him for- 
 ward in spite of himself, and consequently made very little 
 account of condescensions, which were estimated at a high 
 value by those who conferred them. A hankering con- 
 sciousness clung about his manner and his conversation, 
 even in his intercourse with those families who were best 
 disposed to receive him as an equal ; and it was scarcely 
 to be expected, that while he seemed bent upon carr)ing 
 the recollection of his low origin always about him, other 
 people should endeavour to forget it for him. Besides, it 
 was not very agreeable to his new friends to find that they 
 mu:t ai.vays speak under a restraint in his presence — that 
 tuey could hardly venture ou a jest, or a sly speech, what - 
 ever were the subject of it, without finding Mr. Hamond's 
 5pi.il up in arms to discover whether there were any oti'euce 
 intended towards liim. He began to feel the couscqueiices 
 0.' iih su:>picious and sensiiive temper — people shunued him
 
 1 54 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 — some ;entlv, some promptly and without apology, some 
 in pure pity, some with ui.aked contempt, and some iu 
 apprehension. Tiieu the suspicion of the truth broke upun 
 liim ; he saw others of far inferior pretensions to himself, 
 by a little assurance of manner and an indifierence to the 
 flesh-wounds of neglect and accidental coldness, succeed in 
 fastening themselves upon the fair eminence, on the crumb- 
 ling and uncertain brink of which he was yet toiling, in the 
 anxiety of hope and fear ; and he made an exertion to 
 imitate their example, and to assume an easy callousness 
 of heart, until, at least, his hold should be made permanent 
 and secure. But he miscalculated his capabilities most 
 egregiously. A more hideous and painful spectacle, per- 
 haps, cannot be met with in the every-day occurrences of 
 society than that of a person of incorrigible timidity and 
 reserve, assuming, or attempting to assume, by absolute 
 violence, the appearance of periect ease and unconscious 
 oj)cnnes=. If iiamond's gentle embarrassment and absence 
 ot manner rendered him a burthen to his companions belbre 
 — Ills nov/ demeanour — his strange familiarity — his queer 
 embarrassed laugh — his ill-timed joke that made everybody 
 look serious, and his intrusive dogmatism of remark, abso- 
 lutely astonished, frightened, and disgusted them. Having 
 once convinced himself of the expediency of doing violence 
 to his own feelings, he knew not where to stop, and on 
 passing the boundary which his own heart prescribed to 
 him, lie trampled without discriuiination, and, indeed, in 
 absolute ignorance, upon those which custom and decency 
 had marked out for his observance. 
 
 Hi was once more compelled to retire in disgrace into 
 his natural self; and almost began to cntji'tain thouglits oi 
 quitling the HAd iu dcs^.jr ibr ever, when a new and 
 strange accident — strange to him, though of very usual 
 occurrence in the history ot tlie human heart — prevented cr 
 delayed his retreat. A tilled beauty had proudly declined 
 the honour of dancing witli him at a fashionable pa ty,
 
 I — 
 
 THE HALF SrR. ISfj 
 
 and he was silently stealing through the company, ^vith tho 
 intention of getting eveiytl)ing ready for his departure for 
 home on the neyt morning — when, happening to cast a 
 hurried glance aside, he perceived, in the aperture between 
 the conclioid of a gentleman's nose and the rosy rotundity 
 of a marchioness's cheek — a soft black eye, in the distance, 
 directed full upon him, with an exjiression of the tendercs! 
 interest his poor ftjrlorn heart had ever experienced since it 
 had been cast upon the busy wilderness of fashion. There 
 never was an eye — not in Ireland ; no, not even in Mun- 
 ster, nor in bright-eyed Limerick itself — that did its owner 
 yeoman's service like that one. It made as swift work 
 of Eugene's heart as (the reader will pardon onr saciitic- 
 ing elegance to strength) — as a pavier's rammer might 
 have done. It was an eye that had been following 
 Hamond in silence throughout the evening with a kinder 
 closeness of observation than mere commiseration might 
 suggest ; and was now, at the particular moment when it 
 came in direct contact of intelligence vvith his ov. n, filled 
 up with the gentlest concern. On inquiry, Hamond dis- 
 covered that it was the property of a lady of high birth, 
 and (of course) fine accomplishments; her name that of the 
 fiiir songstress to whom we have lately introduced our 
 readers. 
 
 •From this moment the whole object of Hamond's life 
 was changed. He no longer courted the patronage nor 
 heeded the neglect of fashion — and only stole quietly through 
 its bye ways to secure himself a place at the side of her 
 who now appeared to him to constitute its sole attraction 
 and adornment. 
 
 " I was mistaken in it," he said, in his distaste and im- 
 patience; " this proud world is not made for me, nor I for 
 it. I will return to the condition from which I was taken, 
 and divest myself as speedily as possible of thos3 unhealthy 
 luxuriances of feeling, which my pjor uncle, in endeavour- 
 ing to make a forced plant of mc, little ca'culatcd on pro* 
 
 L.
 
 155 THE HALF SIH. 
 
 dncing. But before I return to the ways of plain and honest 
 nature, I will endeavour to pluck out of this rank and uii- 
 weeded garden, that single rose for the decoration of my 
 humble hearth." 
 
 That little rose, however, iiappened to be a great deal 
 more thorny than he apprehended. Although he was not 
 long in ascertaining that he had made a progress in the 
 good opinion of I\Iiss Bury, which might have satisfied even 
 the voracious craving of a sensitive love like his, yet tliere 
 were many annoyances equally disagreeable to both parties, 
 which mingled in the delicacies of their intimacy, and re- 
 tarded that perfect union of spirit which is ever necessary 
 to the gratification of a heart that is at all dainty in its aific- 
 tious. Emily had betrayed some lack of self-knowledge, 
 when she declared to her friend ]\Iartha, that she had no 
 pride. She had not enough to enable her to master her 
 passion for her plebeian lover — but she had quite enough 
 to feel annoyed and humiliated by the slights which were 
 continually thrown on him and in her presence. On these oc- 
 casions, when Eugene attempted to resume the conversa- 
 tion which had been so disagreeably interrupted, he would 
 find Miss Bury a little reserved and lukewarm, and could 
 sometimes trace the shadow of an inward fretting upon her 
 brow. His own pride took fire at this, and frequent and 
 mutual embarrassment was the result. At length, grown 
 absolutely weary of the gauze-paper miseries and difficul- 
 ties of their flickering acquaintance, Hamond manfully 
 made up his spirit to the resolution of dissevering or unit- 
 ing their fortunes for ever. 
 
 It was with this intention he now sought an interview 
 witli her at the house of her guardian — Martha O'Brien's 
 father. Tiie settled determination of his purpose had sud- 
 denly quelled all the protracted turbulence of the many im- 
 pulses on which his peace had been tempest tost for the last 
 year, and he entered the room with a composure of eye, a 
 steadiness of fi-ame, and a natural elegance of address, which
 
 THE HALF SIB. lf>7 
 
 surprised his q'jiVK-cycd friends, and puzzled himself not a 
 little. He thought it strange that he should thus, without 
 an effort acquire in a moment what he had been many 
 month<! toiling to accomplish in vam ; and at the moment, 
 too, when he had resii^ned himself to the belief that he never 
 should attain it. 
 
 After a few unmeaning observations on the popular topics 
 of the day — the general mourning for Lord i*ielson — the 
 last Castle drawing-room — >and other matters. iMiss O'Brien, 
 acting from the impulse of a strong feeling, proposed a turn 
 in the garden to Mr. O'NeiJ- wlio had done notfiing but sit 
 upnght and stare at Hamond's Hessian boots (Welhngtons 
 were yet slumbering in the womb of time) and utter a ; old 
 " Ha !" whenever the latter directed himself particuhirly 
 towartls his side of the room. Tlie genealogist obeyed tlie 
 lady's summons, and bowing to Miss Bury, brushed un- 
 ceremouieusly by the plebeian, and left iLie apajtmcnt. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Hn ■was a wiglit of high renowne, 
 
 Ard thou art but of low degree — 
 'Tis p"ide that puts this countrj'e downe— 
 
 Man, take thine old cloake about thee. 
 
 Ptrci/'s EcUcs. 
 
 " That,*' said Harnond, leaning over the back of his chair, 
 nd seeming to speak half in soliloquy, as lie remained with 
 iis eyes fixed on the door — " that is one of the peculiarities 
 — '.he invulnerable privileges of this polished world, wiiich 
 ;;;ike it SO miserable to me — that finery of insult which 
 1 akes resentment appear ridicului s, and yet does not leave 
 . e insulted free from the responsibility of meanness, if he 
 ulil remain quiescent. You luuk fretted, Miss Bury," 
 ;,ddcd gently, but liinily, "at my humiliation, but I siiall 
 
 ,\a Uli 
 1 ,•
 
 108 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 not need your commiseration long. T am about to leave 
 Dublin." 
 
 " Leave us, Mr, iramond!" said Emily, taken by surprise. 
 
 " Leave Dublin^ I said," resumed Hamond. 
 
 " For any considerable time ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was an embarrassed pause of a few moments, 
 during which, Hamond seemed to experience a relapse 
 into his natural timidity. At length, mastering him- 
 self by a moment's reflection on the urgency of the occasion, 
 he said : — 
 
 "If you think, Miss Bury, that we are not likely to be 
 interrupted, I have something very particular to say to 
 you." 
 
 Emily was, as we have before said, very young, and 
 though she frequently listened without much emotion to 
 the fashionable rhapsodies of those who thought it fashion- 
 able to be her admirers, yet this was the first time that 
 she had been menaced with a methodical declaration: and 
 from oi:e, too, so tender, so delicate, and so sincere. Slie 
 felt all the awfulness of the occasion. Her colour changed 
 rapidly, and there was a troubled consciousness in her 
 laugh, as she said, in assumed levity — 
 
 " No tragedy now, Mr. Hamond, let me entreat. I de- 
 clare, I " 
 
 " Miss Bury," said Eugene, smiling, but with much 
 seriousness of tone and look, " let me meet aiiything but 
 trifling now. Hear me attentively, I beseech, I implore 
 you. When we first met, I was on the point of Hying f )r 
 ever from a world where I had exi)erienced little C)mfort, 
 where 1 found nothing but taunting looks, cold and repul- 
 sive words, and haughty indiffierence, even from those who, 
 hke that man who just now left tlie room, had nothing 
 
 more to allege in justification of their unkindness than • 
 
 no matter. I had satisfied myself that I was wrong in ever 
 Supposing that any circumstances could entitle a man tu elc- 
 
 J
 
 TRE HALF SIR. 159 
 
 vate himself above the rank in which Heaven had phiccd 
 hii.^ " 
 
 " Oh, surely you were not wrong, Mr. Hamond," said 
 Emily, in a tone of hashful remonstrance, " there were 
 circumstances — your talents — your education, I should 
 say " 
 
 " Yes," said Hamond, " this^ Miss Bury, it was which 
 detained me. I should have been long sirce in the retire- 
 ment of my native village, but for the sweet words of en- 
 couragement with which you honoured me. Your kind- 
 ness, your condescension, and — you need not blush, Miss 
 Bury, for it is true, or I would not ?ay it — your beaaty, 
 too, held me back awhile, and enabled me to endure a little 
 longer the inconveniences I have mentioned to you. I may 
 have been mistaken, nevertheless, in the motive of that 
 kindness," he added more slowly, and with great anxiety 
 of manner. " Do not mistake me. Miss Bury. Dearly as 
 I prized and treasured every word and !ook of kindness 
 with which my heart was soothed, I am ready to take all 
 the responsibility of my own mference upon my own hands. 
 If I must do so, let me beg of you to speak freely. I love 
 you far too well to wish that you should make the least 
 sacrifice for my happiness- 
 
 " I am sure, IMr. Hamond, I- 
 
 " Let me entreat you to be convinced of this. Miss Bury, 
 before you speak. Pray be confident wi;h me. You 
 may find that I am not selfish nor unworthy, although" 
 — Hamond added, after a pause, " although you may 
 think I stooped too low to win what you withhold from 
 me." 
 
 The sincerity of the young gentleman's declaration had 
 its efiect on the mind of the lady. We have not learned 
 what were the precise terms of her reply, but its meaning 
 was evident from the conduct of Hamond. He flung him- 
 self at her feet, and sufflrcd Lis ccstacics to expend them- 
 6cl\ cs in certain antics and grimaces, which the respect
 
 iCO THE HALF SIR. 
 
 Ciiic to the cliaractcr and gravity of a hero forbida i\». as 
 his fiiend and historiaiT, to expose to the public eye. 
 
 Wlien Jlartha O'Bi-icn returned, alone, to the room 
 where she had left her fiiend, she found the latter pale, 
 trembl'ing, and thoughtful (in quite a different mood from 
 that in which we have left her now accepted lover), her 
 arm and forehead resting against the harp, in the manner 
 of a weeping muse. 
 
 " Bless me ! where's Eugene Hamond gone ?" said 
 ]\rartlia, casting a sharp glance at Emily, 
 
 " Home, I believe," said the latter, seriously. 
 
 " Check-mated, I'll lay my life !" 
 
 " Nonsense, Martha, don't be foolish now." 
 
 " Scholar's mate, after all !" 
 
 " Pish ! pish!" Emily said, pettishly. 
 
 " Well, how was it, Emily ? What did he say to you ? 
 — do, do tell me, and I won't say a word about the 'ripe 
 peaches,' nor the 'little holiday,' nor the 'three moves,' ror 
 the ' drawn game,' nor — " 
 
 " Poo ! poo ! I really believe your little portion of com- 
 mon sense is going." 
 
 "Well, there! I won't laugh again — there, now is a sober 
 face for you. Now, tell me how it was." 
 
 " 'Pon my word, Martha, I hardly know myself. 1 
 scai'ccly knew where I was when — I don't know — but I 
 bilic've the fellow asked me to marry him — and — " 
 
 "And you but you look paler, Emily! — yon" are 
 
 trembling — lean on me — there — Vm sure I would not have 
 
 said a word if I thought " 
 
 The strangeness of the scene which she had gone through, 
 the hurried manner and intense passion with which she had 
 been addressed, the importance and seriousness of the con- 
 sequences which she had drawn upon herself, only now 
 rushed upon P]mily's mind, and filled her with agitation. 
 She drew a long, deep sigh, and, flinging her arms around 
 the neck of her young friend, wept aloud upon her bosom.
 
 THE HALF SIR. 161 
 
 Many of our sensible readers may wonder at all this, but 
 every girl as young as Emily will feel that we are telling 
 the truth. 
 
 There is a pleasure to those who are possessed of facul- 
 ties microscopical enough for the investigation, In tracing 
 up to their first cause the thousand impulses which govern 
 the actions of that sex who are most the creatures ot im- 
 pulse — in winding through the secret recesses of the female 
 heart, and detecting in the very centre of the " soft laby- 
 rinth" the hidden feeling, whatever it is, which dictates 
 the (to us) unaccountable caprices we are so frequently 
 made to suffer under, and which does its work so privately 
 that even they, the victims of its influence and the slaves 
 of its will, seem almost unconscious of its existence. Few, 
 however, are gifted with the fineness of penetiation requi- 
 site for such delicate scrutiny, and we are too honest and 
 charitable to wish to be among the number. Neither, per- 
 haps, IS precision requisite for our purpose, whose business 
 is rather with action than with motive, and wJiose part it 
 is merely to submit a certain train of results which are to 
 be accounted for, and acknowledged or rejected, by the 
 philosophy, the feeling, and the imagination of the reader. 
 We shall not, therefore, attempt any laboured analysis of 
 'the new causes of disngreement which speedily sprung up 
 between the lovers, after every thing appeared to have been 
 so smoothly arranged between them, after the consent of 
 Emily's guardian had been obtained, and even Mr. O'Xeil 
 had began to reason himself into a toleration of the young 
 nabob. Hamond's i-eady talking had taken Emily quite by 
 surprise ; and it is pretty certain that if she had been left 
 a longer time to deliberate, tiamond would have been put 
 to a longer term of probation. She felt vexed with her own 
 easiness, and a little alarmed at the inference her lover 
 might draw from it. She had not done justice to her own 
 value. Besides, Hamond's ■v\ay of love-making was any 
 thing, she persuaded herself, but flattering to her desire of
 
 162 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 influence. He had not sufficiently kept her snperiority in 
 mind — he had been so impudently collected and sensible^ 
 so presumptuously self-possessed. The more she thought 
 on the subject the more convinced she was of the necessity 
 of impressing hitn with a proper sense of the honour he had 
 obtained. 
 
 The means whicii she adopted to accomplish this, howevei', 
 were not the happiest in the world. Hamond vvas not much 
 struck by the pettish and sometimes rather cold manner in 
 which she was accustomed to receive him, as there was no- 
 body more disposed to make allowances for the influence of 
 a peculiar education ; but when he observed indications of 
 a marked haughtiness in her demeanour, when she began 
 to speak fluently of genealogies in his presence, to quote 
 Mannontel and D^ Lohne on the advantage of titles, to talk 
 pntliet'c.illy of ill-30ited matches, of poor Addison and his 
 high-born dowager — he felt as if a new ligi.t, or rather a 
 new darkness, were rushing into his soul. He hushed up 
 his feelings, however, with the utmost caution, resolving to 
 creep unawares and with a velvet footstep into the very 
 centre of her character, and shape his conduct according to 
 the conformations which would be there revealed to him. 
 
 " I begin to believe," said he, " that 1 was mistaken in 
 supposing that there could even be an exception to the 
 general position, that it is as easy to brush the shades of 
 her phases from the moon's disk as to sift out tlie draff of 
 pride and coldness from high birth. My single lonely in- 
 stance begins to fail me. I will try it farther, however." 
 
 Hamond thus proceeded, hiding his apprehension of her 
 mcaiiing from her, and consequently drawing her out every 
 day into more decided slights and sneers. He had almost 
 niada up his mind on the subject, when, one evening, as he, 
 was sitting by her side at a small jjarty ot fiiends, souie 
 of whom had come to town for the purpose of assisting at 
 the nuptial ceremony, the conversation happeued to turn 
 oa the comic peculiarities of our friend Ke.iiuiy O'Lone.
 
 THE HALF SIR. 1 03 
 
 " 0, he's tlie ilrollest creature in the world," said Emil}'. 
 
 He never troubles hiuiself to inquire what the object 
 niny be of any commission that he receives, but just (Lies 
 whatever you asic him, hlce a clock, not out of stupidity 
 neither, but merely from a wii^h to steer clear of any re- 
 sponsibility to himself. It was only a week since, Ha- 
 niond told him, as he was going to bed at niglit, that he 
 would want to send him here to Miss Bury in the morning, 
 expecting of course that poor IJemmy Avould ask to know 
 Lis message in the morning, before he set off. But Remmy 
 Avould not ask. Not he, indeed. He was here with me at 
 the 'first light,' as he said himself. ' AVell, Eemmy,' said 
 I. ' what brought you here so early ?' ' Whethin, I dun 
 know, j\liss,' says Ilemmy, ' but the master told me he'd 
 want me to step over to your honour to dny mornen, so I 
 thought most likely, Miss, you must know what is it 
 ail'dcd him.' Hamond was telling me a still more curious 
 anecdote about him. He was sent once to a fair in Mun- 
 ster, the fair of Ilanna — Veuna — Shana — what was it, 
 llamond?" 
 
 " Shanagnlden," said Eugene, bowing and smiling. 
 
 *' yes, the fair of Shanagolden. His mistress wanted 
 to purdiase half a dozen mug — hog — pig." 
 
 '•'■ P'lgjins, they were," said Hamond in reply to her 
 puz/Jed look, " p-i-g pig, g-i-n-s gins, piggins," spelling 
 thv w.ird, to show how coolly and equably he took it. "A 
 kind of wooden vessel used for drinking the coagulated 
 residuum of milk, called by the peasantry thick, or skim- 
 med nidk." 
 
 " Yes," added Enrly. " Well, his mistress desired 
 Eemmy to purcha e hall a dozen piggins, and provided h'ln 
 with money for those as well as many other aiticles. Siie 
 v/as rather an anxious poor lady, however, and fearing that 
 Remmy n;ight Lrget his message, charged about a dozen 
 other friends of hers, who were also going to the fair, to 
 re|jcat it to him if they should come in contact with hini.
 
 1G4 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 They all dirl so, as it linppened, and Rommy, determined 
 to punish the good lady for her distrust in his talents, took 
 each as a separate message, and came home in the evening 
 as heavily loaded with piggins as Moses Primrose with his 
 green spectacles." 
 
 After the merriment which was occasioned by Emily's 
 arch manner and the exquisite imitation, which she con- 
 trived to introduce, of Ilamond's native diidect, had sub- 
 sided, some one asked who this Ilemmy O'Lone was ? 
 
 " 'pon my honour, that %vould puzzle the heralds tliem- 
 selves to tell you, I believe," said Emily, rapidly and lively. 
 " Who is he, Hamond ? No relation of ours V 
 
 The moment she had uttered the words, she would have 
 given a great deal that it had been in her power to unsay 
 them. Ninety-nine men in a hundred might have pi!S-ed 
 over the jest, but she ought to have known enough of 
 Ilainond to judge that he would be the hundredth man in 
 the case. Even those of the company, who secretly en- 
 joyed her little cuts at Hamond, looked grave and silent at 
 this broad insult. The young man himself grew pale and 
 red, attempted to say something good humoured in reply, 
 but his voice failed him, the mirth stuck in his throat — 
 and fell back upon his heart in a burning flood of gal! and 
 bitterness. He did not attempt to speak again — and the 
 general tone of the conversation acquired an air of restraint 
 and av/kwardness, which was still more observable in the 
 portion that Emily contributed to it than in any other. 
 Hamond addressed himself, during the remainder of the 
 
 evening, to Martha O'Brien, while young E took 
 
 place by the side of Emil}', and succeeded in persuading 
 himself, notwithslanding her occasional fits of absence and 
 indirect answers, that he had made more way in her esti- 
 niatiun on this night than on any other since he had 
 achieved the honour of her acquaintance. His assiduity, 
 however, was absolute torture to Emily, who was anxiuu>iy 
 looking out for an opportunity of doing away the unkind-
 
 THE HALF SIR. IGS 
 
 ness slie bad bluudcred upon. None occiuTed. Once only 
 as she glanced towards liim she met Martlia's eyes, who 
 compressed her lips, raised her hand slightly, and tossed 
 her head, as mncli as to say, " You have done il /" to 
 vhich Emily's frightened smile as plainly responded — 
 '• Done what V 
 
 The company at length separated. Haniond shook 
 hands with Miss O'lirien, bowed formally to Emily, and 
 hunied out of the house, appearing not to notice the slight 
 action which the latter used to detain him. This indica- 
 tion was too palpable to be misconceived. Emily clasped 
 her hands, pressed one against her brow, shuddered a little, 
 and did not speak during that night. 
 
 When she arose the next morning, the following letter 
 lay among others on her toilet. A fearful misgiving clung 
 about her heart as she recognised the hand. Slie made 
 the door fast, and prepared herself by summoning all her 
 pride to her assistance, before she ventured to break the 
 seal. The contents were simply these : — 
 
 " Foi the last week 1 have been led to think, oy your 
 demeanour towards me, that the consent with which you 
 honoured me was the eifoct rather ot a hurried and momen- 
 tary kindness than of the free and settled atfcction which 
 could only make it dear to me. 1 had, therefore, intended 
 to restore it to you before last night ; altliough, I believe, 
 you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I abstained 
 (in violence to my own heart) from using any of the privi- 
 liges of passion in seeking it, and appealed rather to your 
 rc-ason than your feeling throughout. iJut a circumstance 
 which took place last night, and which, I suppose, you re- 
 member, has shown me (I say this alter much reflection) 
 that ours would not, under any circumstances, be a fortu- 
 nate union. The woman who can wound the feelings of her 
 lover can hardly be expected to respect those of her hus 
 baud. 1 thought too, that I could discern a caute for
 
 166 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 your demeanour towaiJs me. I wish not that my own 
 scllish aHl'Ctions should interfere with thztt. Mine must be 
 a bitter tlite tVom hcncefortii, Eioily, but I had rather en- 
 dure it all than make it light and happy at the expense of 
 your inclinations. I return to my humble station with a 
 wiser head and a heavier heart than when I left it. I go 
 from the scorn of the rich to the pity of the poor, from 
 the busy mirth of this fascinating world to the lowliness ot 
 my provincial life, to the solitude of a fireside that I once 
 fondly dreamed would be a happy one, but which must 
 now remain for ever desolate. Farewell, Emily, and m:iy 
 your high-born lover be as truly, as tenderly, and devotedly 
 attached to you as I would have been." 
 
 What cause ? — That ! — What ? were the first ques- 
 tions which Emily asked in communion with her own heart 
 after she had perused the letter. The natural quickness of 
 h(!r woman's apprehension, however, enabled her to clear 
 up the mystery, and no sooner was it visible than slie has- 
 tened to remedy the error which she had committud. A 
 short struggle only took place between her Irish pride and 
 her Irish love, and the latter (as is indeed generally the re- 
 sult of such encounters) bore away the palm. She wrute 
 as follows : — 
 
 " The circumstance to which you allude was not so entirely 
 premeditated as you imagine. I acKnowledge that 1 have 
 committed an error, for which I am sincerely sorry. Be- 
 lieve me, I did not mean to do anything so unkind to my- 
 self as to make you seriously uneasy for a moment. Pray 
 come to nie, Eugene, and I wiil engage to convince you 
 ot this, ily heart will not be at peace till 1 have liad 
 your forgiveness. It was a light sin for so heavy a retalia- 
 tion as }ou threaten me with. Once again, come hiiher 
 quickly. E. B. 
 
 "• Tiie cause which you speak of is so wholly without 
 foundation, tiiat it was a considerable time before I could
 
 THE HALF SIR. 1G7 
 
 even form a wild conjecture at the import of that part of 
 your letter." 
 
 When Emily had this letter folded, she rung for her at- 
 tendant and sent her for a taper. 
 
 " Who brought this, Nelly ?" she asked as the Intter 
 (a rather unflishionable soubrette, but retained on the en- 
 treaty of her mother, Emily's nurse) re-entered the room 
 with a light. 
 
 " Misther O'Lone, Miss," said Nelly. 
 
 " Is he gone ?" 
 
 " no. Miss, — he's below in the servants' hall, aten a 
 taste." 
 
 " I do not like," said her mistress, holding the letter in 
 her hand as if hesitating — " to commit it to his keeping. 
 He's such a stupid fellow, that he may lose it." 
 
 " They belies him that toult you so, Miss, saven your 
 presence," said Nelly, with an indignant toss of her head. 
 " May be a little o' I'emmy's sense 'ud be wanten to them 
 that wor so free wit their tongue." 
 
 " It !G well that he has so good a friend to see justice 
 done to his name," said Emily, lowering her eyelids and 
 smiling on her young handmaid, who blushed deeply. 
 
 " fait. Miss, it's no great friends he has in me, only 
 the crachtcr tlioy gives of him that knows him best," said 
 Nelly. 
 
 " Well, I will try him on your commendation, Nelly. In 
 the servants' hall, do you say ?" 
 
 " Iss, Miss, I'll scud him out upon the landen-place to 
 you." 
 
 AVhen licnimy was summoned from his conifortable seat 
 by the great coal fire, he started up hastily, laid down the 
 cup of tea which he had been drinking, smoothed his hair 
 over his brow, and anxiously clearing all appearances of 
 the amusement in which he had been indulging from his 
 outwai'd man, he hurried towards the door. As he laid
 
 1 68 THE HALF Sin. 
 
 Ilis liand on the liandlc, lie suddenly turned round, and in 
 a countenance of much alarm, asked : — • 
 
 " I wouldn't have the sign o' liquor on me, Nelly ? 
 would I ?"* 
 
 " Is it after the tay you'd have it, you innocent ?" said 
 Nelly, smiling in scorn at his simplicity. 
 
 Rcmmy did not stop to dispute the matter with her, but 
 liurrled into the hall, where lie found Emily standing on 
 the staircase, and expecting him. He turned out his toes, 
 made his best bow, and then fixed himself in an attitude of 
 the deepest attention, his head thrust forward and thrown 
 slightly on one side, so as to bring both eyes into a parallel 
 line with hers, his ears elevated, and his mouth half open, 
 as if he were endeavouring to receive her commands at 
 every possible aperture of his senses. 
 
 " Keinniy," said the young lady, " I w ish you to take this 
 letter to your master — " 
 
 " Iss, Miss " 
 
 " Stay a moment — " 
 
 *'0 why shouldn't I, Miss. I'd do anything in the- 
 
 " I'm convinced of that, Remmy, but I only wish you 
 to attend to me — " 
 
 " Oh then I'll engage I will. Miss. Well, sure I'm 
 lioulden me tongue now any way," he added, as another 
 imjiatient gesture from Eniily solicited his attention. 
 
 " Give that letter safe, Remmy ; and here, I have given 
 you a great deal of trouble lately, you will buy something 
 with these," putting into his hand a number of the small 
 notes which were current at the time. " Take care of the 
 letter," she added, as she tripped up stairs, leaving Remmy 
 fixed in a position of comic wonder and gratitude. 
 
 "One, two, three, four — an' a pound — five, si:< ! Six 
 three-and-nine-penny notes, and a pound!" he exclaimed, 
 as he stood on the brick floor of the servants' hall, counting 
 
 * WouU I have ^ or would you have? among the lower Irisll 
 means, have I'? or have you?
 
 THE HALF SIR. 1C3 
 
 the paper? as he folded them, and buned them in the bot- 
 tomless .niid sunless caveru of his livery pocket. "Now, 
 Nelly, we'll be sayensomethen, yourself and myself. Would 
 you have a hand of a needle and thread you'd give nie. 
 
 " For what, Hemmy, honey ?" said the young soubrette, 
 with the utmost graciousness of tone and manner. 
 
 •' To put a stitch in the pocket o' my coat then," said 
 Eemmy, " in dread I'd lose the little writing she gay me 
 out of it, asthora-machree, you wor! i\n' indeed, it isn't 
 the only stitch* I'll have about me, Nelly," he added with 
 a tender smile, as he laid his hand on his heart. 
 
 " Tlicre's no standen you at all, Remmy, you're such a 
 lad ! AVell, aisy, aisy a while an I'll get it foj you." And 
 favouring him with one of her ricliest smiles, she left the 
 hall. 
 
 " No, then, but there's no standen you for a cute lady," 
 her swain s;iid in soliloquy, with a hard smile, a knowing 
 wink, and a shake of the head that had almost as much 
 meaning in it as my Lord Burleigh's. " Isn't it sweet she is 
 grown upon me all in a hurry, now the moment she sees I 
 have the money. Ah, these women ! There's no end to 'em 
 at all, that's what there isn't. A while ago whin I hadn't as 
 much as 'ud pay turnpike for a walken stick — when my 
 pockets were so low that if you danced a hornpipe in one of 
 'em, you wouldn't break your shins against a haip'ny — then 
 'twas all on the high hoise with her," elevating his head 
 and waving his hand in imitative disdain. " Nolly me Dan 
 Jerry ! Who daar say black is the white o' me eye ? and 
 now, the minute the money comes, I'll be bail she turns over 
 a new lafe. They may get the bottom of the Devil's Punch 
 Bowl in Killarney, or the Poui Dhub of Knockfierna, or the 
 Bay o' Biscay, that they says hasn't e'er a bottom at all to 
 id, only all water intirely ; but the man that '11 get to the 
 rights of a woman will go a start deeper than any of 'em, 
 I'm ihioken. The boysf arn't equal at all for 'em that way 
 • Stitch— any iixteraal pain. f Meu.
 
 170 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 in taken your measure as it ware Avit' a look, while you'd bo 
 thiiiken o' notlien, and tliinkun they wor tliinken o' notlien, 
 but 'tis they that woukl all the while ; but it's only fair, 
 poor craturs," he added with a compassionate and tolerating 
 tone — " as they're wake one way, they ought to be strong 
 another, or else sure they'd be murdered intirely. Tliey 
 couldn't stand the place at all for the boys, af they hadn't 
 a vacancy at 'em that way in 'cuteness, inwardly. Murder! 
 murder! but it's they that does come round uz in one way 
 
 or another Ah ! the girl in the gap, an' duck o' 
 
 diamonds you wor," he added, rapidly changing his manner, 
 as Nelly re-en(ered with the needle and tlu\ad — " Talkcn 
 of you to meself I was, while you wor away, I'm so fond o* 
 you. Imaging your pcckthur to myself, as it ware, in my 
 own mind." And laying the letter on the window, while 
 he took off his coat, for the more convenience, he proceeded 
 with Nelly's assistance to incarcerate the precious epistle. 
 
 In a few minutes a line of circumvallation was drawn 
 around the fortified receptacle, and Remmy having satisfied 
 himself that no possi'')le point of egress or ingress was left 
 undefended, took a moving farewell of Nelly, and hastened 
 to acquit himself of the responsibility wliich he had taken 
 upon liis shoulders. We shall see how he ucquitled him- 
 self iu the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 These women are strange things. 
 'Tis sometliing of the latest uuw to weeii — 
 You should have wept when he was going from yon, 
 And cLuiiii'd him with those tears at home. 
 
 — Scornful Lady. 
 
 The danger and inconvenience of extremes, are, I believe, 
 coeval with men's experience. Had Emily left Remuiy to 
 the guidance of his own natural share of prudence, tho 
 great probability is that her letter would have reached its
 
 THE HALF SIR. 171 
 
 destination in perfect safety ; but the extreme vigilance 
 wliicli plie induced !iim to exercise, greatly lessened the num- 
 ber of chances in its favour. He certaiidy did not once 
 cease thinking of it from the moment he left the house until 
 he arrived at his master's door. lie selected the shortest 
 way — avoided the crowds — manfully refused two invitations 
 to ' step in an' take a mornen' from different friends — 
 and kept liis hand continually hovering about the pocket in 
 Avhich the important charge was deposited. His surprise, 
 therefore, was extreme, when, just before he ventured to 
 awaken the slumbering echoes of the area and coal vault, 
 he found on examination that the letter was gone. 
 
 Enigmatical as this may appear to the reader, it did not 
 long continue so to Rcmmy, who discovered very speedily 
 that amid all his great caution, while he had sewed up the 
 pocket so securely, he never once thought of putting the 
 letter into it. Rapid as his progress was in advance, the 
 rate at which he retraced his steps was a great deal mora 
 expeditious ; and he arrived with his face glowing in anx- 
 iety, and moist with perspiration, at ls\v. O'Brien's liouse. 
 He tapped at the window — rushed past Nelly, into the ser- 
 vant'b hall — the window where he had laid it Avas still open 
 — the letter had vanished. He clasped his hands and ut- 
 tered a groan, such as in the recesses of Warwick-lane, 
 the sturdy bullock utters, after it has received the cou}) de 
 grace, from the practised arm of the victualler. 
 
 "Nelly, we're done for ! — I lost the letter. You wouldn't 
 have it, would you?" — You wouldn't see it after me there 
 upon the windy ?" 
 
 "Fait an' I'm sure dat I didn't, Remmy." 
 
 Another groan. " An' after all the charges she gay, me 
 about it. 1 wouldn't f vce her wit sech a story for the world. 
 Lord direct them that tuk it, whoamsocver they wor, but 
 they did great harm, this mornen." 
 
 "■ T'would be better say nott'n at ail about it, may be 
 Remmy,"
 
 173 THE HALF Sin. 
 
 "AYIio linows but it's true for you? I wouldn't tell lier- 
 self such a foolish thing as that 1 lost it, for the world. 
 I'll tell you how it is, Nelly. Better lave it to 'emselves, 
 ch ? — Them bits o' writen they do be senden one, one to 
 another, is nothen, you see, but love letters, that way, and 
 sure it's no loss what was in that scrap of i apcr when they'd 
 be niariied shortly foi life." 
 
 "True for you, lvemn\y." 
 
 " May be they wouldn't talk of it at all whin they'd 
 meet, an' if they did itself, sure all that'll be about it is a 
 scolden, the same as I'd get now af I toult it. Do you sec 
 now, Nelly, honey ?" 
 
 " Oh iss, an' I think it stands wit raison what you say, 
 Rcmmy. There'd be no ho wit her, sure, after given you 
 the notes an' all," said Nelly, who felt hersidf in some de- 
 gree implicated in the transaction by her advenlurous and 
 unlia|ipily too enthusiastic estimation of the value of her 
 lover's head. " I wouldn't face her after the notes, any w ay.''- 
 
 '' May be to take 'em of* me she would, eh ?" said 
 Kemmy, in additional alarm. 
 
 " she's too much of a lady for that, but indeed she 
 would begridge that it was themselves wint in place o' de 
 letter." 
 
 It was finally arranged between them that Hamoud 
 should leain nothing of the letter from Kemmy, and, if pos- 
 sible, that its miscarriage should be also kept secret frum 
 Miss Bury. 
 
 Notwithstanding the tone of his letter, which in reality 
 he more than half believed, Ilamond was not prepared 
 to be taken so immediately at his word as Emily appealed 
 by her silence to have done. The certainty of his fate, 
 moreover, was confirmed to him by the flourishing account 
 Kemmy gave of the jecund health i-.nd spirits in which he 
 had lelt the young lady ; the brogue-footed Mercury con- 
 ceiving that he could not better supply the loss of the let- 
 • From.
 
 THE HALF SIR. 175 
 
 tor than by commnnicating all the p^easnig inteliigonco his 
 own observation or invontiou could furnish. 
 
 Vriuitever Eniily's feelings were on the receipt of Ha- 
 mond's letter — how deep soever the regret and remorse 
 which it awakened witiiin her spirit ; how fierce soever (he 
 struggle which she had to sustain against her rouscd-iip 
 pride, it may readily be supposed tliat the apparently con- 
 temptuous silence with which her last, gentle, tender, and 
 (in her own judgnieni) luimiliating confcssiim was treated, 
 was not cnlciilated to alleviate the convulsion in her mind. 
 The first day passed over in anxious vigilance, the next in 
 anger and deep offence, the third in wild alarm, the fourth 
 in awe-struck, deadly certainty of misery — for proud and 
 high-h'earted as she was, the fate which she so unwittingly 
 earned for herself was misery to her. A week passed au ay, 
 but no ILimond, nor no indicatiju of his existence arrived 
 at lier guardian's liouse. 
 
 It is perhaps one of the most costly charges atten- 
 dant on the maintenance of pri.le, that its votaries relin- 
 quish all claim to the comf rts of Iiunmn sympathy. When 
 it happens moreover (as unfortunately was the case in tiie 
 instance of Emily Bury) tliat tliis dearly purchased folly is 
 lodged in a bosom otlieruise filled with gentle and softening 
 affectiiins, the cruel tyranny which it exercises over tiieni 
 is sufficient to make life a protracted sickness under any 
 circumstances, and more especially so when the sutferer is 
 compelled to be his own only comforter — to nourish the lonely 
 smothering agony witiiiu his heart, and make it his sole 
 care to confine the flame that is secretly making ashes of 
 his peace, so that it shall be evident through no clink or 
 cleft in his demeanour. Both the pride and the alKction 
 of our heroine received a violent stimulus from this demele 
 witli lier lover. When she stooped so low as to solicit lu'a 
 forgiveness in the terms wiiicli she used, she had uot the re- 
 motest possible apprehension that her cundefCension ci)u!d 
 ,be unappreciated or iuelllctual. if the question had ever oc-
 
 1 74 THE HALF sin. 
 
 cnrri'd to her raiiid by accident, it is not easy to cnnjcctnra 
 wlietiier the letter would ever have been foiwarded. I5ut 
 she wrote in an interval of lucid kindness and natural gene- 
 rosity — love's bounty was at the moment unchecked by the 
 caution of her cold ruling passion — she wished to make 
 Hanumd an ample compensation for the unkinduess of 
 v.'hich he complained. She pictured to her own heart the 
 gushing rapture, the tears of love, of gratitude, and ecstacy 
 which should for ever wash away the remembrance of that 
 single blot in their affection — that unhappy j;ir, which, 
 however, she, in the fond confidence of her sanguine love, 
 taught her judgment to regard only as one of those useful 
 niisiuiderstandings vvliich make the hearts of lovers more 
 closely acquainted than ever — a momentary shadow — a 
 trimming of the lamp whicli would eventually serve only 
 to strengthen and puriiy its flame. She had no fear that 
 Hamond really intended to extinguish it — and when that 
 fear aid con»e u|)ou her heart, darkness deep and absolute 
 came and abode there with it. 
 
 She had not even the consolation of her friend Martha's 
 confidence : and the easy hr.penetrable indiiiercnce which 
 the latter (though by no means dull of inference or appre- 
 hension) observed in all Emily's conduct, induced her to 
 believe that in reality the ciicumstaiice did not clash in any 
 degree with her inclinations. Still, however, she was totally 
 at a loss to discover a motive for the conduct of her young 
 fiiend. It was true that the latter, who would not permit 
 a single inquiry or even remark at all verging on the sub- 
 ject, received the visits of the young Baron E , but 
 
 she could not by this manoeuvre hoodwink Martha so com- 
 pletely as to prevent her seeing that it was a mere feiut — • 
 a mask, iinda* cover of whicli some concealed and lurking 
 passion was laying the foundation of a far different fortune 
 ibr its victim. So far was the hauglity young Irishwoman 
 enabled to conquer her own nature, that she was much K'ss 
 frequently to bc found alone than usual ; she forced herself
 
 THE HALF SIR. 175 
 
 into the glare and bustle of society, for feai the slightest 
 ground of suspicion miglit be aftbrded that she could tor a 
 moment descend to the consciousness of a natural emotion ; 
 her smiles were showered around in greater jjrofusion than 
 before ; carmine and all the precious succedanea of the 
 period were anxiously made to tread in the steps of her de- 
 parting bloom, and render its flight as seciet and impercep • 
 tible as that of the peace of mind on which it had been 
 nurtured : her mirth was louder (if loud it could be at any 
 time) tiian before; and many even of her most intimate 
 friends began to congratulate her on her enfrarichi-ement 
 from what now appeared to have been a weary thraldom. 
 Amid all ih;s proud superiority of mind, however, Emily 
 was a more real object of compassion than the most yield- 
 ing, and helpless, and forsaken of her sex ; and she c nild 
 not have brought her spirit to bear its burthen so endur- 
 ingly, but for the resentment which the positive injustice 
 with whicli her letter had been treated by Hamond, excited 
 in her mind, and to which she constantly referred her heart 
 in moments of de])ie>sion. When a little time rolled by, 
 however, and regret began to assume the mastery over 
 anger, she fuund the task of dissimulation more burihen- 
 some than before. V/hen she happened to be left for any 
 time to the company of her own feelings, they would rush 
 upon her with sucii an o'er- mastering influence as to quiie 
 subdue lier resolution, and drag her down to the level of 
 plain humanity, in her own despite, iler bosom would 
 heave, her frame would tremble, and the pent-up sorrow 
 swell and labour in her throat, until the approach of some 
 wandering inmate of th^^ mansion startled the sleeping dra- 
 gon of self-esteem — when her character would again as.>ume 
 its armour — she would repel by a violent etfort the rising 
 p;i.-siun, press her hands ilat and close upon her neck, to 
 siifle the rebellious impidse of her womau's natnie — and 
 like Lady Townley, in her gambling mood, "make a great 
 g:;lp and swalluw it." *
 
 176 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 Nearly a fortnight hnd thus elap.sp.d, when, as Emily was 
 laying aside her dress (after an excursion to llowih with 
 her friend Jlartha and some acquaintances,) in order, to pre- 
 pare fur tlie evening, her attendant, Xeliy, entered tlie room 
 as usual to give her assistance. Iler niistress, who was not 
 so guarded in the presence of the soubrette, as in that of 
 her more sensitive and sharp-eyed friends, and who was fa- 
 tigued in heart and soul from the toilsome pleasures of the 
 forenoon, sat at the table, her arm leaning on the toilet-clotli, 
 her hand sujiporting her forehead, and her eyes fixed in 
 thoughtful melancholy upon the floor. 
 
 " Isn't it greatly Mr. Ilamond wouldn't call before he 
 went, Miss?" Kelly said timidly, as she passed softly by 
 the young lady's chair. 
 
 Emily raised her head quickly and in strong interest — 
 "Went! whiiher, Nelly?" 
 
 " Sure, never a know do I know, iMiss, but to be walken 
 down there, by Eden-quay, and to meet Rennny O'Lcno, 
 an he goeu wit a walise or a kind of a portmantle onder his 
 arm, out to the Pigeon-house." 
 
 "For what purpose, did he say?" asked Emily, endea- 
 vorring to subdue the cruel anxiety which began to stir 
 within licr bosom. 
 
 " I'll tell you that. Miss. ' Good morrow, riemm}-,' says 
 I. ' Good morrow kindly, Nelly,' sftys he, ' how is jour 
 Misses ?' say she. ' Pretty well, Renmiy,' says I, ' consider- 
 ing.' 'Pm not goen to see you any more now, Nelly,' says 
 he. ' Why so ?' says I. * Wisha then, I don't know,' sa} 8 
 he,- ' but my master is for foreign parts, direct,' savs he, 
 60—" 
 
 "Abroad! — going abroad? leaving Ireland!" Emily 
 exclaimed, starting up in undisguised alarm. 
 
 " The very words I said meself, Miss. ' What !' says I, 
 *gocn abroad,' says I, ' laven Ireland,' says I. ' Iss, iu 
 trawt,' says he, ' the passage is tuk an' all, an' this,' says 
 he, showeu mc the portuuuule the same tiiucj ' is the last
 
 THE HALF Sin. 177 
 
 tiling tbr.t's not on board yet — liimsclf is on the high ?cp.3 
 be tiiis time, or will be before — ' " 
 
 " Good heaven, I was not prepared for this. This is too 
 dreadful !" Emily repeated, half aloud, as if uucouscicu3 
 of an auditor. 
 
 " Mc own very word to him, Jliss. ' It's dreadful, 
 Renmiy,' says I, ' an }0u too,' says I, 'that ought to have 
 S07ne sense, any way, goen after a bedlamite,' says I. 'Siiro 
 you know, Nelly,' says he, again, ' I can't help meself. 
 lie that's bound he must obey, while he that's free can run 
 away,' says he. ' I must do the master's bidden, Nelly — 
 his hipsty dicht/ is enough for me.' xMi, Miss Em'ly, 
 sure it's often I heerd that men was rovers, an it's now we 
 both feels it to our cost." 
 
 " I desire," said her mistress, less in a humour at present 
 to be amused than to be annoyed, " that I may not be 
 implicated in such ridiculous associations." Then resumnig 
 the train of her abstracted rellections, while Nelly submis- 
 sively disavowed any intention to do so wicked a thing as 
 to 'implikit' so good a 'Misses,' E nily again murmured — • 
 " Gone I — Could it possibly have been anything — any new 
 insult in my last letter, that — " 
 
 " I beg pard'n, ]\Iiss," said Nelly, " but what was that you 
 were sayeu ai out a letter?" 
 
 "I gave it you, Nelly, that morning, and — " 
 
 *' In diead, you are, that it is anytheu in that Mr. Ha- 
 mond tuk oflence at. M<ike your mind aisy on that head, 
 Miss, for he couldn't do it." 
 
 " lluw do you mean ?" 
 
 Nelly, who thought concealment any longer useless, and 
 perhaps mischievous, nqjli d to the last question, by giving 
 her young mistress a detailed account of the transaction, 
 with which the reader is already acquainted. 
 
 *' And you knew of this, Nelly, and said not a word ol 
 it to me I"
 
 173 TlIK HALF !»rK, 
 
 " than, heav'u forgive us all, Miss. I can't say but I 
 did, indeed ; au' sure if I knew it would be any hurt — " 
 
 Emily had iisteued to her first with astoiiisiiment — ■ihcn 
 anger — then ul tcr horror : until at len^jth, as the girl cir- 
 cumstantially unfolded her iniquity, the offence assumed a 
 magnitude too gigantic for any extremity of rage or of 
 punishment. She grew pale, trembli'd — and at length sunk 
 with a burst of teais in the attendant's arms, as she ex- 
 claimed — "My poor girl, you did not know what yuu were 
 doing, but you have ruined your mistress." 
 
 The shrill scream wiiicli Nelly set up at seeing the con- 
 dition of her mistress, though checked almost instantly by 
 the latter, brought JNIiss O'lJrien into the room, who was 
 shocked and terrified by the condition in which she found 
 her friend. She hastened to snatch her from the arms of 
 her waiting-maid, to support her upon her own bosom, and 
 endeavour, by caresses and the most tender attentions, to 
 restore her to some degree of composure. 
 
 " Nelly, leave the room," said Miss O'Brien. " What, 
 in the name of wondrr, can have happened, E nily ?" she 
 added, as the weeping and repentant girl obeyed her. 
 " What does this mean i"' 
 
 " It means, Martha, that I have been practising a fatal 
 cheat upon you and on my own heart. Ilamond lias left 
 the country, and under the conviction that 1 have acted a 
 false and selfish part towards him." 
 
 " I was not prepared to hear that he was gone," said 
 Martha, a liitle puzzled, "but, I declare, Emily, I thought 
 frtni your conduct this time past, that — " 
 
 " 1 know it. It was my wish to make you think so. I 
 had written liim a note, fall of penitence, and requesting 
 to see him here as soon as possible. He did not come, 
 and I was anxious to save myself irom the contempt which 
 a knowledge of the degrading slight must necessarily occa- 
 sion. But I now fiiid that by some awkwardness of our 
 servants, that letter was nc-ver received by hhu — and hera
 
 THE HALF SIR. 17i' 
 
 have I licen tlie dupe of my own folly, while he believes 
 hiirself to have been treated with coldnet^s and ingratitude. 
 Jilartha, I wish I had taken your advice, when last we 
 spoke on the subject. You knew him better than I." 
 
 " Ue comforted, Emily. It is fortunate that you have 
 learned the circumstance in time to effect an explanation. 
 If he has gone, we cannot find it difficult, eitiier thruiigh 
 his banker or some other channel, to procure a clue to his 
 probable residence abroad — and all shall be well in a lew 
 weeks." 
 
 Fate, however, seemed disposed to make the lovers 
 more deejjly sensible of tlieir mutual folly, by falsifying 
 this consoling prediction. An accident which had inter- 
 vened confirmed Ilamond in his resolution of relinquishing 
 his passion, if possible — at all events, of separating him- 
 self from its object for ever. 
 
 lie had lingered, in the unacknowledged hope of receiv- 
 ing some inducement to a reconciliation, at his old resi- 
 dence, for about a fortnight after he had sent the letter 
 above-mentioned. In the midst of his wavering and irre- 
 solute humours, however, he received an account from 
 
 Kemmy of the increased frequency of Lord E 's visits. 
 
 This ciicumstance, combined with Emily's silence, com- 
 pletely unsettled the hope that was beginning to take 
 ground (for love's hope requires but light footing) on the 
 barren possibility of a misconception. 
 
 "i\nd now," said Ilamond, after he had dispatched his 
 servant to secure him a place in the packet, which was to 
 G'lil on the following morning, " now, farewell high life 
 and happiness, for ever! Farewell the sweet anxieties 
 and mortifying kindnesses of patronage — the chance cour- 
 tesies — the eleemosynary smiles that are flung in pity to 
 the unfriended mendicant for fashion" — he stamped vio- 
 lently and set his teeth as the degrading epithet siigi:;eitcd 
 ilself to his mind. "Welcome now the wide v,v. d, with 
 all li^ CI .iiij,ei ol clinic, coudilion, and fortune ! Welcome
 
 180 THE HALF cm. 
 
 my own vulgar station. Its coarseness is tut the ■v^-liole- 
 some blustering of nature's own elements, which may be 
 mucli more easily provided against than the secret, wither- 
 ing mildew that is silently showered upon the heart, amid 
 all the sunshine and summer kindness of high-born hypoc- 
 risy. Farewell love ! and welcome toil, travel, and ex- 
 tremity ! Farewell, Emily ! let pride and honour make 
 good to your happiness all the devoted tenderness which 
 you have rejected, and I will m}self say that you are 
 wealthy in your loss !" 
 
 He repeated his farewell with a deeper and drearier feel- 
 ing, however, on the following morning, when he stood on 
 the packet, and cast his eyes with a fondness over the dis- 
 tant hiils of Wicklow, tliat separated him from his old 
 Munster home. The morning was a still and beautiful one, 
 and the face of the bay, agiiated only by the bulk of its 
 own waters into that leaping undulation which we cannot 
 describe otherwise than by referring the reader (in deJiance 
 of the imputation of a common-place atfectatiou) to Claude 
 Lorraine's embarkation pictures, looked clear and glassy- 
 green. The pier was crowded with passengers who were 
 waiting to see their effects safely stowed before they took 
 their own places in the vessel, with clamorous jinglenien 
 and ragged half-starved porters ; members of the exiled 
 parliament made up for the winter campaign ; and adven- 
 turers of every descrijjtion, who devoutly believed that gold 
 and fame grew like blackberries upon hedges ever}-where 
 but in poor Ireland, and who, if they did not; actually sup- 
 pose that the houses in London Mere tiled with pancakes, 
 and the streets paved Mith wedges of gold — yet would 
 have staked their existence that something very good must 
 be had there, or so many people would not be cunstauMy 
 going and 'iiever returning ; and liilL d their hearts with 
 the delicious promise of a deliu-ion (luito as vain, if not so 
 palpably absurd as that above alluded to of pOur Wiiiiiing- 
 tou. Tiiey saw not — and Ilamoud saw not then, thou^ilj
 
 THE HALF SIR. 1 8 1 
 
 his after exp?nence brought the picture in all Its reality 
 before his eyes — they saw not the thousand causes of that 
 nevei' — that eternal absence of those wlio trod before thca 
 the path which they were tiien treading, and had never . . • 
 traced their steps. Tliey heard only of the fortunes of 
 those who lived and prospered — tliey knew not — thoy 
 asked not of the fate of the many who failed and perished, 
 and whose tale remained untold. They beheld not, in the 
 blindness of their sanguine hearts, the host of evils which 
 counterbalance the lonely and fortuitous good fortune of 
 the single adventurer. They saw not the poor but con- 
 tented cottager of the Irish hills estranged from the care- 
 less simplicity of his turfen hearth, and driving a miserable 
 trade amid the vile and stifling recesses of St. Giles's and 
 Saffron-hill ; with some bits of old cord, a knife-brick, a 
 few heads of greens, a trace of onions, a bu?hel of co:ils, a 
 mangling machine, and a few pounds of potatoes for his 
 whole stock ; or hurrying to its close the wasting flame of 
 a miserable life amid the abominations of a London night- 
 house. They saw not the wretched basket-woman of 
 Covent-garden market, whom the demon of discontent had 
 found living in the happy ignorance of her own wants, the 
 grace and blooming ornament of some mountain hamlet in 
 her native land. They saw not the baffled politician bury- 
 ing himself in the gloom of his lonely apartment, after 
 having sciuandered a life in earning for himself the curses 
 of his own people and the contempt of those among whom 
 he sojourned — they saw him not as he drew the last, long 
 sigh, and looked the long, last look towards the window 
 that opened on the west, ere he put to its fatal use the 
 weapon that was for ever to shut out the sight and sound 
 of the ruin he had made from the organs of his mortal 
 sense. They saw not the young, acutely sensitive, and 
 fine-principled enthusiast, whom the folly of friends or the 
 consciousness of merit forced abroad upon the world, shrink- 
 ing in disgust and agony from the cruel reality which dis-
 
 18^ THE HALF SIR. 
 
 placefl the faery splendours of his own fond imaghiation, 
 or curbhig his high spirit down to the moan and crawhng 
 use of a hirehng and a time-server — bar;ering his youth- 
 ful principle for bread, or, peihitps, sternly preserving it, 
 and turning aside from tlie Monder, the scorn, and indiffer- 
 ence of the world, to die in want and solitude, and hide 
 bis brilliant qualities of heart and mind in the gloom of a 
 pauper's grave, unthought of and unpitied. 
 
 While Haniond sat indulging the barren and listless hu- 
 mour which the utter ruin of his own hopes had cast upon 
 him, his eye was attracted by the sight of a small vessel, 
 which was rapidly gliding by them in the direction of the 
 hill of Howth. The distance was not so great as to pre- 
 vent his fully disfinguishing the persons and features of its 
 crew ; and when he had done so, his heart bounded within 
 bis bosom, as if it would have deserted its mansion. ]\Iiis 
 O'Urien, and Emily Bury were seated near the stern, and 
 an elegant-looking young man, whom he hail no difficulty 
 
 in recognising as the obnoxious E , was seated near the 
 
 latter. He was apparently describ'ng to her the effect of 
 some particular scenery in the country, for his hand was 
 frequently pointed towards the Wicklow hills, and Emily 
 often smiled and bowed her head as in assent. Haniond 
 felt his frame tremble, and his heart sink and sicl^en, as IjO 
 leaned against the mast of the vessel. 
 
 The dreariness which his own want of object or int rest 
 occasioned with his soul, was tenfold increased by the ap- 
 parent anxiety and bustle of those around him. He felt, as 
 he turned aside from the painful testimony, which hia own 
 eyes afforded him of his mistress's falsehood — and as he 
 gazed upon the crowd of busy faces that were flitting about 
 his own, as if he were among beings of another world, in 
 whose proceedings he could take no possible interest — or 
 as if he had returned from the grave, to look, with the full 
 knowledge of the utter vanitv ,t" all earthly pursuits, upon 
 the dry and common toil of his unseeing species. Presently
 
 THE HALT' SIR. 
 
 183 
 
 a fellow struck up some popular air, on a clarionet, upon 
 the deck of the packet that lay near. The ■well-known 
 sounds produced an instant bustle among the passengers. 
 They threw by their cloaks, and the country fellows cau- 
 tiouf>ly keeping tlieir bundles in their hands, and occasion- 
 ally wheeling their sticks, in an impulse of ecstatic delight, 
 with a *'ho(p ■\^hihk !" above their heads, kept up a pat- 
 tering hecl-and-tce measure, upun the boards. Many of 
 those on board were about to revisit the scenes of their 
 early youth — some few, perhaps, returning crowned with 
 wealth and success after a long lite of toil and trial, were 
 enjoying, in anticipation, the delight of pouring into the lap 
 of an impoverished parent, and bringing peace and joy into 
 the bosom of a sorrowing household. Another, perhaps, 
 was about to feel once more upon his cheek the tears of a 
 devoted wife, and the innocent kisses of the children from 
 whom he liad been torn by the tyranny of circumstar.ccs — 
 another might be returning to tlie house and the aliections 
 of a forsaken and forgiving father. Another, yet, had a 
 first love to meet, and even he, the most desolate among 
 them, who had no such immediate friends to welcome him 
 to the home he had left — felt his spirit mount, and his heart 
 make healthful music within him, while he thought of lay- 
 ing him down 
 
 " To husband out liie's taper at the close," 
 
 among the wild hills and " pleasant places," where he had 
 spent the happiest years (it is an old thing to say, but its 
 staleness may be pardoned for its truth,) that heaven aciorJs 
 to man, in a world where no positive happiness can exist ; 
 but where life runs on between regret for the past — want 
 for the present — and hope for the future. Hamond, on the 
 contrary, was leaving a land, which was and was not, his 
 home ; and where he hud filled a nameless place in society, 
 without stamp or station, possessing claims to various con- 
 ditions, and pioperly belonging to nono.
 
 18i THE HALF Sm. 
 
 A lip^lit •wind shortly spmiig np, and tlie rosscl left tbe 
 land. Ilamond again canght a, distant glimpse of Emily's 
 little pleasure boat, as it glided swil'tly on its course. The 
 morning sun, falling on the slate roofs along the shore, and 
 on the tarred and patched mainsails of the smacks which 
 were used for the destruction of the famous Dublin -bay- 
 herrings (a staple article of fi^st-fare, as popular in their 
 Irish metropolis as the i-enowned John Dory at liillings- 
 gate,) gave an appearance of gaudy animation to the scene. 
 Onward still the vessel went, and the receding music came 
 over the Avaters like a farewell. The pleasure-boat became 
 invisible in the haze of the morning sunshine, and Hamond 
 plunged into the gloom of his cabin an estranged and al- 
 tered man. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 • Delav the bridal? Bid 
 
 Our ftiends disperse and keep their mirth iinwosted 
 
 For another morn ? Fie ! lie ! Have you a name 
 
 To care for? Wliat a scandal will it bring 
 
 Upon j'our fame! — A j'oiith, brave, noble, fortunate, 
 
 Worthy as fair a fate as thou couldst offer, 
 
 Were it made doubly prosperous. Wiiat, think you, 
 
 Makes you thus absolute? 
 
 The haughty independence of spirit which she loved to in- 
 dulge, or to affect, returned with more than its accustomed 
 force on the heart of Emily Bnry, when she learned that 
 Ilamond had finally and fully ofFectcd the half menace which 
 his letter conta'ned. She could hardly blame iiim, and she 
 would not bhime herself, so that her only resource lav in re- 
 suming the general air of indifterence which she had re- 
 linquished so instantly, on discovering the mistake in which 
 Damond's silence originated. In this she succeeded so well, 
 that iier friend Mi'tha was once more at a loss to conjecture 
 wliat was the real eifbct of the disa])pointuiciit shs had i x-
 
 7IIE HALF SIP- 185 
 
 pcrioTiced. Miss Bmy, however, was perlinps too clever for 
 her own interest ; for the perfect ease and cnrelessnefs of 
 her manner exposed her more than ever to attentions v/hich 
 made her heart sick, and solicitations which she feared en- 
 tirely to discourage, even while her soul turned in disgust 
 from tlieir dull and passionless monotony. She dared not, 
 however, suffer this secret feeling to become in any degree 
 apparent, for she dreaded, beyond all other evils that now 
 lay within the range of probability, any diminution of num- 
 ber or brilliancy in the train of her admirers. The system 
 of duplicity (though she would esteem the term hardly ap- 
 plied,) involved her in many difficulties. She lost, in the 
 first place, the confidence, and in a great measure, the friend- 
 ship of Miss O'Brien, who, though she could not penetrate 
 P]aiiiy's secret, was yet quick-sighted enough to know that 
 her little share of iiuluence on the mind of the latter no 
 longer existed. Neither could she hope that the fashionable 
 love which she had excited in the heart, or in the head per- 
 haps, of young E would continue to grow and flourish 
 
 Oil absolute coldness; and she ventured, in the fear of a second 
 desertion, to thiow him one or two woids of doubtful en- 
 couragement, Avhich he took the liberty of estimating at a 
 far higher worth than she intended. He became importu- 
 nate — she toyed and shifted her ground — he blockaded — 
 she pouted ; her friends first wondered at her, and then 
 blamed her — and at last persecuted her. Every body said 
 
 that young E wronged himself — that he was entitled to 
 
 a far higher union — and that he was exceedingly ill-treated 
 — Miss Bury should know her own mind — she was taking 
 very strange airs upon her, &c. And so to relieve her 
 conscience — and to satisfy friends — and to reward her 
 swain for his perseverance, Emily drew a long deep sigh, 
 and promised him marriage. 
 
 "And now 'a long day, my lord !'* if you please," she 
 
 * The usual esclamation of convicts after sentence of dt-ath has 
 been passed.
 
 183 THE HALF SIK. 
 
 said \vith a bitter gaiety, after she had listened to his rap- 
 tures with great resignutiun. 
 
 " The shortest will be long," said her lover. " Let it be 
 a double knot. Your friend Miss U'Brieu is about to 
 change her name next Wednesday." 
 
 " Very well," said Emily, coldly ; " you will consult 
 your own convenience, for 1 declare I'm not anxious one 
 way or another." 
 
 Lord E had none of Hnmond's sensitive folly about 
 
 him. He seemed not to notice the contemptuous indiffe- 
 rence of her manner, but resolved within his own mind to 
 " let her know the difference," when once he had satisfied 
 his own vani'.y by getting her into his power. 
 
 The weddings were celebrated with due splenctonr on the 
 same day, but under very ditfjrent auspices to both par- 
 ties. Miss O'Brien gave her hand freely, and felt it pressed 
 with a tenderniss which assured her it was valued at its 
 full worth ; she was conscious of no evil motive — of no 
 concealed derangement of heart ; she loved quietly, and she 
 loved well and happily. Emily, indeed, was able to sus- 
 tain her part at the altar's foot, with as much appare-Ht 
 composure as her friend, but she could not prevent her 
 heart from sinking (when the ceremony was actually con- 
 cluded) so very low, as to render it absolutely impossible 
 for her to sustain the j)art she had undertaken withuut suf- 
 fering the actress to appear. 
 
 The Irieads parted soon after the ceremony, ]\rartha 
 O'Biien setting oft' with her husband fur Mangier, and 
 Emily accompanying her lord to the house of his father. 
 The necessity for dissimulation with the world now no 
 
 longer existed, and Lady E felt a kind of miserable 
 
 relief in touching ground at last, and feeling that at all 
 events she could sink no further. Sue subuiitted, therefore, 
 M'ilhout murmuring, to the cougratuiations ot her acquain- 
 tances ; allowed herself to be whiilei about in a mayniti- 
 Ajut dress, in order to gratify the va.iiiy of iitr huibaudfor
 
 ) 
 
 "1 
 
 THE HALF SIR. 187 
 
 a few weolcs, and then dlfjcoverecl what, indeed, before v/as 
 scarcely a secret to her, that his purposes were in a great mea- 
 sure answered by tlie display, and the object of his long pro- 
 bation almost entirely accomplished. However ill-disposed 
 Emily was to correspond with any manifestations of esteem or 
 aficclion on his part, her womanly pride was not the less 
 hurt by the Heglect with which she soon found herself 
 treated ; and although she was far too proud to complain 
 ■ — the silc! t discontent in which she lived, and the dissipa- 
 tion in which she mingled, began in the course of a few 
 years to make very perceptible inroads upon her health. 
 Castlc-Conncll, ]\Inllow, Lahinch (a watering-place on the 
 western coast, which has of late years been superseded by 
 Miltown-Malbay, and still more lately by the improving 
 village of Kilkee), and many other places, were tried with- 
 out success; and at length it was found expedient that she 
 sl-.ould spend some months in a foreign climate, where the 
 air, more tempered and lighter than that of her native land, 
 niiglit agree better with the subdued tone of her constitution. 
 
 These months turned out to be years. E refused 
 
 to accompany his wife, le>t it should be supposed that he 
 wns putiing his estate "to nurse;" and niigrated lo the 
 Brilisli metropolis, as the representative in the lower house 
 of an Iri:.h county, where, it was said, he did not scruple 
 putting his honour "to nurse" in the lap of the reigning 
 minister. New connexions, or a dislike of the old, con- 
 tributed to render hin> a permanent absentee, while Lady 
 
 E , deterred by the continuance of her ill health, and 
 
 not a little by a reluctance to encounter the revival of many 
 painful associations, seemed to have relinquislied all idea of 
 revisiting the land of her birth. Her guardian (her only 
 relative in Ireland) had died within the year after her de- 
 parture, and she had now no friends in that country for 
 whose society she would endanger the shattered remnant 
 of her peace of mind, by exposing it to so many rude re- 
 membraiiccrs as must necessarily present themselves U)
 
 188 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 her ?OuSGS o i licr retnm. Mr.illia, Idnd and good as slio. 
 liail always been, until l.er friend tlioiiglit proper to cast 
 hcv off, was now the bap]))' and virtuous wife of a sensible 
 man (who understood nothing of romance, and hated pride, 
 ?ltIiouii;h he v.'as a Scot), and the careful mother of a pair 
 of chubby little Munster fellows. Without having one 
 
 blac]< drop of envy in her whole composition, Lady E 
 
 could not help feeling that Martha, the matron, would not 
 be the pleasautest companion in the world for Emily, the 
 forsaken and the neglected — and she had her doubts, more- 
 over, whether that lady would herself be anxious to renew 
 the early friendship that had constituted the hapjiincss of 
 so many joyous years to both. She made no overture, 
 therefore, and in a few years more, Emily Bury, her hus- 
 band, Eugene Hamond — and the story of their strange 
 courtship, were perfectly forgotten in the circles in which 
 they had mingled during their residence in Ireland. 
 
 We love not to dwell lunger than is necessary to the de- 
 velopment of our tale, on the history of feelings (howevti 
 interesting from their general api)lication to human natun), 
 in which no opportunity is adbrded for illustration of na- 
 tional character — that being the piincipal t'e-ign of these 
 volumes. Tiie reader, therefore, avUI allow us here to return 
 to our own Munster, congratulaiing ourselves on our escape 
 (if indeed we have escaped) from our adventurous sojourn 
 in a quarter of Ireland which is rendered formidable to lis 
 by the prior occupation of so many gifted spii ts — ai d 
 where, last of all in the order of time, thong); fir otiiirv\i e 
 in the order of genius, the vigorous hands that penned 
 the O'llara Tales, have wrung from the Irish heart the 
 uttermost relics of its character, and left it a dry and bar-, 
 ren subject to all who slndl succeed them. We retun^, 
 then, with pli\nsure, to Munster — an unsifted soil, whvw. 
 we may be likely to get more than Gratiano's two graii s' 
 of w^heat in a bushil of ck;li" for our puias.
 
 THE HALF SIK. 189 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Let me know some little joy — 
 We that suffer long annoy 
 Are contented with a thought 
 Through an idle faiicy wrought. 
 
 — The Woman .Hater. 
 
 We have onr own good reasons for requesting that tlie 
 reader may ask us no questions concerning the occurrences 
 which filled up the time between Hamond's fliglit and the 
 year pieceding that on which our tale commenced — a year 
 which is still remembered with sorrow by many a childless 
 parent and houseless orphan in Ireland, and which appears 
 to have been marked by a train of calamities new even to 
 that country — a famine — a phigne^a system of rebellion 
 the most fearful, silent, and fatally cahn that the demon of 
 misrule ever occasioned, and wliich seemed as if all the 
 hereditary evils with which the land was ever nfflicted had 
 welled out their poison from new sources upcn its surface, 
 to present a direful contrast to the hideous pageant with 
 which it had sutiered itself to be mucked on the preceding 
 year. 
 
 In the spring, or, rather, early in the summer of this year, 
 on a red and blo\\ing morn, the surface of that part of the 
 Shannon which lies between Kilrush and Loup Head, was 
 covered with the craft Avhich is peculiar to the river, the 
 heavily laden and clumsy turf bo Us, Galway hookers pro- 
 vided with fish for the Limerick market, large vessels of 
 bnrth u going and returning to and from the same city, 
 and revenue cutters, distinguished by the fleetness of their 
 speed and the whiteness of their sails from the black and 
 lumbering craft above mentiune'd, and presenting, by such 
 variety, a very lively and animated picture on the often 
 dreary and monotonous face of the sheeted river. The red 
 clouds, whi-h became massed into huge and toppling piles
 
 190 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 upon the ■western horizon, and confronted the newly risen 
 snii with an angry and tlircatening aspect, afforded an in- 
 dication, wliicli experience had taught him to appreciate, 
 of the weather which the boatman was destined to contend 
 with in the course of tlie day. All seemed to be aware of 
 this, and the utmost exertions were made by the helms- 
 men to accomplish as much as was possible of their pro- 
 gress before the southerly gale should become too heavy 
 for their canvass. 
 
 On the forecastle of one of the Galway hookers, a tight- 
 built little vessel, which, by the smallness of its bends, its 
 greylionnd length, and gunwale distinguished by a curve , 
 inward (teciinicaliy called a tumble- ho me) was enabled to 
 bear a heavier sea and make a much fleeter progress than 
 the other open boats of the river — on the forecastle of such 
 a vessel, two men were placed ; one, who belonged to the 
 boat, as ap|)earcd by his blue frieze jacket, ornamented 
 with rows of horn buttons, coarse canvass trousers, red 
 comforter, battered and bulged hat covered with an old 
 oil cloth, and tied about witii a bit of listen as a succeda- 
 neum for a hat-band; the other seated on the fluke of the 
 anchor, in a thread-bare brown coat and cord kn(!e- 
 breeches, old brown hat and dark striped woollen waist- 
 coat, and making it sufficiently manifest by his odd star- 
 ing manner and raw questions that he was a passenger, 
 and a stranger to the part of the country by which he was 
 sailing. 
 
 " Put down your ruddher a taste. Bat," said the former 
 to the man at the helm. " I see a squall comen." 
 
 " See a squall ! see the wind !" exclaimed the man with 
 the brown coat ; " that bates ail I ever heerd. They say 
 ' pigs can see the wind,' whatever the raison of it is, but 
 I travelled many's the mile of water fresh and salt, an' I 
 nnvur seen a sailor that would hold to seeing the wind 
 yit." 
 
 " You sec more no'vv than uvur you seen, far as you
 
 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 191 
 
 went,"' said the bontman. "Af you put your fiice tliis 
 way, sideways, on tlie gun'lo' the boat, you'll see the wind 
 yourself coincu over the waters." 
 
 Tlie passenger, supposing that he was really about to 
 witness a nautical wonder, did as he was directed, and 
 placing his cheek on the towlpin, looked askance in the 
 direction of the gale — nothing doubting that it wns the 
 very invisible element itself the boatman spoke of, and not 
 its indication in the darkening curl that covered by tits the 
 face of the waters. At the instant that he was making 
 liis observation, however, the helmsman, in obedience to 
 another command of " closer to wind," from his companion 
 on the forecastle, put down the helm suddenl}-, and caused 
 the little vessel to make a jerk with her prow to windward, 
 which clipped off the mane of the next breaker and flung 
 it over the weather bow into the face and bosom ot the 
 passenger. He shifted his place with great expedition, but 
 not deeming it prudent to take any notice of the jeering 
 smile which passed quickly between the boatmen, he re- 
 sumed his former place at the lee side of the vessel. 
 
 " It's wet you are, I'm in dread," said the forecastle 
 man, with an air of mock concern. 
 
 "A trifle that way," replied the other, with atone Oi 
 seenn'ng indifference — and adding, as he composedly ap- 
 plied his handkerchief to the dripping breast of his coat — 
 "Only av all the Munster boys wor nuvur to be drier* than 
 what myself is now, 'twould be a bad story for the publi- 
 cans." 
 
 "Why thin, I see now," said the boatman, assuming at 
 once a manner of greater frankness and good-will, " that 
 y(»u are a ra.d Irisliman after all, be your taking a jjke iu 
 good parts." 
 
 " In good parts ! In all parts, I'm of opini ^n," replied 
 the passenger merrily, extending his arms to alibrd a Itdl 
 
 • Dry — thirsty.
 
 192 THE HALF SIB. 
 
 view of iiis d cnchetl figure. " But indeed I am, as you say, 
 a sort of a bad Irishman." 
 
 " And your frind b'low iu the cabin, what is he ?" 
 
 " 0, the same to be sure — and a great giutleman, too, 
 only he's not a Milaysian like meself." 
 
 " Wasn't it a quare place for him to take — a man that 
 I see having money so flush about him — a place in the 
 cabin of a hooker, in yjlace of a berth like any responsible 
 man in the reg'lar packet ?" 
 
 To this query, the passenger in the brown coat only an- 
 swered by casting, first, a cautious glance towards a small 
 square hole and trap-door iu the forecastle deck, out of 
 wliich the wreaths of smoke which were issuing, showed 
 it to be a substitute for that apartment wluch is termed 
 the cabin in more stately vessels. The man then crept 
 softly towards the apertin-e, waved the vapour aside with 
 1)13 hand, and looked doun. The whole extent of the 
 nether region was immersed in an atmosphere, to which the 
 paradox of the "palpable obscure" might have been applied 
 and ceased to be a paradox. It was some time before the 
 objects beneath became sufiicicntly discernible for the pas- 
 senger to form any conjecture (if such were his intention) 
 on the transactions which were taking place in the cabin ; 
 but when they did so, his eye was enabled to comprehend 
 the circuit of a little excavation (as it appeared) about 
 four feet in height, eight in breadth, and nine or ten in 
 length, in which a number of persons, about eight or ten 
 men and two old women, lay huddled on a heap of straw 
 — the latter sitting ei'cct, nursing children — the others, 
 some looked in a phasing forgetfuhicss of the world and its 
 cares, and some quietly conversing on the state of the 
 coiintry — a subject of paramount interest, at tiiat period, 
 to all classes. Through the volumes of smoke which rolied 
 about his head, the passenger could desciy a little fire 
 lighted on a few bricks at tlie end of the cabin, beside 
 wiiicii sat a swarthy, wild-haired boy, roasting potatoes
 
 THE HALF SIR. 193 
 
 and eggs, and seeming as much at his ease as if he ■wore 
 inhaling the purest aroma. Opposite to this youth — iiis 
 arms fokled, his legs crossed, and iiis head reclining against 
 one of the ribs of the vessel — lay a person of a very sin- 
 gular and perplexing appearance. His eyes had all the 
 wildness which characterises that of a maniac, and were 
 only contradistinguished from it by the fixedness and in- 
 tensity of expression -with which their gaze rested on the 
 object, whatever it was, which, for the moment, awakened 
 the interest of their owner. His face was dragged and 
 pale — marked with the lines of sorrow, and a litile tinged 
 Avith the hue of years — but so very sliglitly, that if it were 
 not fur the assistance which Time had received from acci- 
 dent and circumstance, the man might yet have taken foot- 
 ing within the grcuud of maturity. He wore a loose blue 
 silk handkerchief on his neck — a sailor's jacket, and trou- 
 sers of fiieze, of the same colour — (the manufacture of 
 some village weaver), and a double-breasted bhick silk 
 waistcoat, which, opening above, afibrded (in better light, 
 however, than that in which he was now placed) a twilight 
 glimpse of a shirt whicli, from its fineness and whiteness, 
 accorded ill with the remainder of the wearer's costume, 
 though there was something in his attitude, and in the in- 
 telligent inquiry of his " hawking" eye, which would re- 
 deem it in soaie measure from the charge of total inconsis- 
 tency. 
 
 After he had reconnoitered the cabin to his satisfaction, 
 the passenger drew back from the trap-door, making a wry 
 f.ice, as the smoke penetrated his eyes, and assaulted those 
 uiiuameable apertures above the mouth, which, in this age 
 of refinement, it may suffice to indicate by an allusion to 
 the organ of smell. 
 
 " I might as well go down a chimbley," said he, ex- 
 pressing as much distaste by his manner, as Cob might be 
 sui.posed to do in uttering one of his genteel iavectivea 
 ai^aiust " that vile, roguish tobacco." 
 
 9
 
 194 THE HALF sm. 
 
 "The taste of smoke is convanient such a niglit as last 
 night was," said the boatman. " See how your iiieud 
 likes it." 
 
 The passenger replied to this observation, by looking 
 unusually wise, as if for the purpose of aifording, by a 
 counter-indication, a clue to the cause of his "friudV 
 peculiar opinions, and by touching his forehead mysteriously 
 with his finger. 
 
 *' Light?" asked the boatman. 
 
 *' Cracked !" said the passenger. " Innocent. In some 
 tings only, that is. For you never see how he can talk to 
 you, at times, as sober as anybody — and at other times 
 with a tongue that you'd think woultl never tire ; preachen 
 like the clargy — and at others again, man alive, lie'd ate 
 you up, you'd think, for the turn of a hand. He can't 
 abide any o' the quality at all — that's his great point — • 
 being brought into a dale o' trouble once, on their accouQt. 
 He mislikes all gentlemen — " 
 
 " And ladees ?" 
 
 "Iss, then, an ladies — although you seem to misdoubt 
 that part o' my story. He can't abide anything o' the 
 sort. Sure, av it wasn't for that, what sort of a livery 
 would this be for me — his own gentleman (for tliai's me 
 title be rights, though 1 darn't claim it in iiis presence) ? 
 or vvliat sort of a place would that cabin be (though indeed 
 it's a nate cabin and a tight little hooker, Jor a hooker, 
 consideriui; — ) but not at all fitteu for au estatcd man like 
 bim." 
 
 " Where is he from ?" 
 
 " yetiien, many's the place we're from this time back, 
 travellen hether an' thether, back'urds an' for'urds, to and 
 fro, this way an' tliat \\ay, be sea an' be land, on ship- 
 boord and every boord, in Ayshec and Europe, an' Africuy 
 an' j\lerrikey, an' among the Turkies and Flinch an' Creeks, 
 au' a mort o' places an' things more thau 1 can mintion to 
 you now — but latterly it's troin Loudon we're comen, hini'
 
 THE HALF SIR. 195 
 
 self being nppoii'itecl ono o' tlie people for given out tlio 
 money to the poor tluit's left ■witout anython, we hear, by 
 raiscu of the great rain that was hist year, that pysin'd 
 all the skiUaans in the airth, vhich the English (an' sure 
 it's a new story wit 'em) subsciibccl for 'em — an' sure 'twas 
 good of 'em for all." 
 
 " Why, then, it was. We must only take what w3 can 
 of a bad debt, and sorrow a much hopes there is of all they 
 have of ours, be all accounts." 
 
 " But it was a great relict, wasn't it? The male, an' tho 
 enii)!oyment, an' i\\\ them things." 
 
 " yethen, middiin, like the small praties. There was 
 a mort o' money sent over, I hear; but then it was all mostly 
 frittered away among shocpurvisors an' clerKs an' them 
 things, ont'l at last it was the same case a'most as with 
 the poor little natural that laid out all his money on a 
 purse, and then had nothen to put in it aflher. The bene- 
 fits that the English (an' sure they mam well, no doubt, 
 only being blir>dfolded about the way they'll go about 
 sarven uz) — the benefits they strive to do uz, their charter- 
 schoo-ls, an' their binnyfactions, and all them things, re- 
 niinds me of the ould fable of Congcullion, the great joy- 
 ant, long ago, which in diead you mightn't have heerd, I'll 
 tell it to you. Into Ulster it was they marched some 
 troojis, that is, of the king o' Connanght, and there they 
 wcr bate disgraceful, and they run for their life as you'd 
 see a [^roctor ran at sight of a pike ; and coiiicn to one o' 
 them ould castles that was blown up sence be Cromwell 
 (the thief o' the airth !) they saizcd it, and kep it, and 
 made tliemsclves up in it, so as not to allow the sodgers of 
 the King of Ulster withinside o' the walls. Still an' all 
 the Ulster bo3s strapped to, an' they tuk the castle, barren 
 the tower, that was defended by an ould woman only, all 
 the rest of the Connaught boys being kilt in the fight. 
 You see, the way up to this tower was very cross, intirely, 
 being up one o' those crooked staircases like a cork-screw,
 
 196 THE HALF sin. 
 
 n sccli as only onem.'^.n could mount at a time, wliich ho 
 v.as sorry tor, tiicre being a key-hole in the doore at tiie 
 t^p, fin' the oiild hag (the rogue !) used to shoot out an 
 arrow out of it and through it with it, and down he'd fall 
 stone-dead to be sure, Au' the same case wit the one, 
 wlioever he'd be, that would cooni up after hiai. Well, 
 the king of Ulster didn't know what to do, an' he cidlcd 
 a council o' war, an' says he to his ginerals, an' lords, an' 
 all the great people, ' I'm faiily bothered,' siz he, ' wit 
 tliis ould 'oman, an' what'll we do at all wit her?' siz he. 
 ' I'll tell you that, then,' says one of his great ginerals ; 
 ' send for the great joyant Congcullion,' siz he, ' an av he 
 don't make her hop,' says he, ' you may call me an honest 
 man.' ' Who'll go for him,' siz the king of Ulster, siz 
 he, ' or where is he to be had ?' siz he. 'Con of the Fieet- 
 fuot will go for Lim,' siz thegineral again, mcauing another 
 joyant that uas in hearen. Well an' good, Con of the 
 Floct-foot was sent fur Congculiion the joyant, the big o' 
 that hill ovcrright us, that was wandereu over and hethcr 
 in the woods be raisen of being bate in a fight be a grand 
 knight o' the coort, an' haven his hair cut oOf for a dis- 
 grace. Well, this Con (that used to take a perch o' ground 
 in one step) he travelled some hundreds o' miles, an' at 
 last he found my lad in a wood in Kerry fast asleep. 'Get 
 up here,' siz Con, ' an' come wit me, an' a pretty lad you 
 arc,' siz he, * to have me comen to call you, an' the king 
 en' all of 'era wauten you all so fast,' siz Con, siz he. 
 Well became Congcullion, he never made him an answer, 
 being fast ai^leep the same time. So what does Con do 
 but to take his soord and to cut off the little finger off of 
 him — and then you see, Congculiion stretched himself and 
 yawned a piece, and axed what was the matter, or what 
 fly was it that was tittlen him ? Sj Cou up and tould 
 him the wliolc bizniss from first to last, abuut the ould 
 'oman, and the rest of 'em. Well, I'm maken a long story 
 of it, they come to the king, the two of 'em, an siz Cong-
 
 THE HALF SIR. 1D7 
 
 ciillion, 'Now wlipre's tin's woman,' siz he, '-or wont am T 
 to do witli her, and sure it's .1 dioll tiling to be senden all 
 the ways to Keiry for a goisoon like meself to fight au 
 old hag,' siz he. ' Tiiere sl:e is in the air out froiiteu 
 you,' siz the king. So he looked np, and what slionld he 
 see above only aqneru stone, like that they uses in giinden 
 the whate, and the hag silten up upon it, and shooten down 
 arrows through the Iio!e in the middle at the king's men, 
 an' she llyen about that Avay be magic art in the air above. 
 'Aha, my lady,' thinks Congcullion in his own mind, but 
 lie said iiothen, ' I think I'll soon have you down oiF o' 
 j-our lilly-foal, although it will be a nice mark to hit off,' 
 siz he to himself, manen the hole in the quern. No sooner 
 said than done, he tuk and he shot upau arrow right through 
 tlie hole and through the woman moreover, an' down she 
 an' her quern came tumblen into the miildle of 'em and 
 whack upon the head 0' Feardia, one 0' the greatest sodgers 
 til ' king had, au' mcd smithereens of him. 'Well, didn't 
 I do it?' siz Congcullion. '0 yeh,"^ wisha you did,' siz 
 the king, ' an' more than it — an' I never seen the peer o' 
 you,' siz he, ' for whatever good you do you're always sure 
 to do it in a way that it would be better you didn't do it 
 at all,' siz he.* It's the same way wit the English when 
 they try to do good for uz here in Ireland." 
 
 " Why then 'tis in a great niCnsuie true for you — but still 
 an' all it's a groat thing for 'cm to mane well any way, be- 
 l^ays be that mains there's hopes they'll be set right one timo 
 or another, you see." 
 
 " jeh, then, there is. I'ut I'd be sorry there was as 
 little hopes of our comen safe to shore this holy mornen." 
 
 AVhile this conversation passed belweeu the politician", 
 
 * Tradition is a powerful mnj^nifier. Tiie Lero wlio is mentioncl 
 in tiie abxve legoiul, iiiviiiys in O'iiaU.irairs Ir.story as CongeuUiun, 
 a knight of the lied lirancli, wliere hid dimeuiioas sunnit into tUa 
 coumiuu Kcale of liuuianity.
 
 193 THE HALF SIC 
 
 the had wMtlierwnich liaJ b;-eu tliroitcnocl by the n.ppcar« 
 aiice of the moniiiig, began to make its word good. A 
 small hjiiids-omuly-rigged sloop was the ouly vessel that 
 seenicd likely to dispute the palm of superiority, in point of 
 speed, with the hooker, which last, as it appeared, was a 
 sailer of high reputation ou the river, and the trial of force, 
 which presently took place between them, attracted the iii- 
 teix'st of those who manned the more unambitious craft. 
 Loud were the shouts of the crews as the sloop attempted, 
 and almost succeeJed in coming between her rival and the 
 vvintl, and thus causing her sails to slacken and deadening 
 her way for some minutes at least ; and louder yet were the 
 sounds of gratulation and of triumph, when the latter, ob- 
 serving the manoeuvre, ran suddenly close to wind, and being 
 enabled by the snudlness of her size to run much nearer to 
 the shore than the sloop, soon left her lumbering far upon 
 the lee. But the interest of the spectators was excited to 
 a far higher degree when our friends in tlie hooker, after 
 calculating with a precision which experience enabled them 
 to use, the diffi-rence in the speed of both, formed the hardy 
 design of sailing round hor foe, and thus combining utter 
 and absolute disgrace with discomiiluro. She watched her 
 opportunity well, and taking as much "odds" as she thought 
 V, ould secure her triumph, she suffered her sails to fill, loos- 
 ened the main-sheet, and put the helm a iiltle to windward. 
 The sloop perceived her ins'jient intention and attemjjted to 
 bafde it by a similar procedure. Fimling that she was not 
 making siilllcient Avay, however, slie struck out a reef, at 
 the risk of some peiilous " hech'ng." This was a measure 
 onv, hich the hooker had not reckuued. She jiersevered in 
 her undertaking, nevertheless, and swept across the bjw of 
 her rival so closely that the next plunge of ihe haier di- 
 vided the froth which shone in the hooker's wake. Her 
 triumph was complete, ho\\ever, and the simut win. h her 
 crow rai^jcd us siie bounded lleciiy over the breakers to the
 
 THE n..LF SIR. 199 
 
 Icewarcl, was answerecl from shore to shore by theboa'men 
 of the surrounding vessels, who had watched the rather 
 pcrilnus assay with an iiilciise interest. 
 
 While sports like these ^vere used to checqner the tedi- 
 onsness of their river voyage, (tedious to them from their 
 perfect familiarity with all its magnificent details of scenery,) 
 they were making rapid progress up the stream. They had 
 now passed the islet of Scattery, with its round tower a' 1 
 eleven churciies — the ruins of which may he all compre- 
 hended in a single coiij') iVce'd — a little spot which iias 
 been immortalised by the legend of St. Seiianus, and wy 
 the sweet melody which our national lyrist has founded on 
 the sanie subject. The snn was now fully risen, and as 
 the vessel approached the Ihicc of Tarbort, where the river 
 dilates to the extent of several miles, and assumes the ap- 
 pearance tf a considerable lake, the most agreeable oppor- 
 tunity was afforded to the voyagers of appreciating all the 
 varieds plendours and changes of this celebrated stream. Ou 
 the left was the bay of Clonderl.iw, an opening of some 
 miles in extent, where the red and ruilled waters presented, 
 to a considerable distance from the shore, on either side, a 
 marked contrast to the dark green hue of tliose whicii r;:n 
 in heavy swells and breakers in the channel of the river. 
 On the right lay the villages of Tarbert and Glyn, (the he- 
 reditary domain of the far-famed Knights of the Valley,) 
 while the undulating face of the surrounding country pre- 
 sented an appearance of sunny richness and cultivation, 
 which rendered the scarcity of wood, (the only void by 
 which the eye could have been otherwise offended in glan- 
 cing over the prospect) scarcely, if at all, observable. Tlie 
 vide surface of the Kace was covered with innumerable 
 vessels of all kinds — brig^, ships, (as three-masters are 
 here emphaticaliy termed) schooners, sloops, turf-boats, and 
 Lookers. The heavy sea, which ran in the centre, ren- 
 dered 't rather a dau'zerous ])assagc to the small craft, and 
 many of them were obst-rved lowering their peaks andruu-
 
 200 THE TTALr SIR. 
 
 nm^ to flie anolionng places near shore — whiiP oflicrs, 
 with sails relied close, and presenting, from tlie liciglit of 
 their turf lading, the appearance of a lighter with tiie bot- 
 tom upwards, struggled on slowly, battling their wnj by 
 inches against tlie lieading wind, and steejing three rows of 
 the turf which covered the leeward gunwale in the heaving 
 brine. Now and then a huge porpoise was seen rclling its 
 black and nnwioldy bulk above the surface of the waves, in 
 its hungry pursuit of a terrified salmon (a fish in which the 
 river then aboundcil, though the weirs which have been 
 since erected, and the clatteriv'g and noisy Lim< rick steam- 
 boat have rendered them mucii nifre rare at present) — 
 and at longer intervals, the head of a Sfnl, which had come 
 np from his peaceful solitude in the river's bed to look about 
 him and see how the worhl was going on, floateil along the 
 surface, like (to use a similitude of our friend in the hooker) 
 "a sod of handturf." 
 
 They passed tho perils of the TJace, and entered a narrow, 
 and less boisterous channel, celebrated by a feat executed 
 by a knight of Glin, similar to that of poor Byron at the 
 Dardanelles, running lietween two rather elevated pdints of 
 land in the counties of Limerick and Clare, where the woi'd 
 was more generously scattered over the soil, imjiarting an 
 air of greater iinish and improvement to the numerous seats 
 which were within sight, and harmonizing well the many 
 ruins that lifted their ivied and tottering bulk on the emi- 
 nences in the distance. Farther on, the S'l-.nnon airain di- 
 lated to a breadth of several miles, atfonliiig a view ot a 
 hilly but cultivated country, on the shores of which tl e 
 waters formed numberless creeks and petty peninsulas, stud- 
 ded with cottages and old castles, and ornamented on the 
 Clare si<le by an oak wood of considerable extent, which^ 
 skirted the anchorage of Laba Sheeda (the silk led,) a fa- 
 vourite road for the weather-bound ship| ing. The night 
 fell before the hooker arrived at the Gut of Foynes, which 
 yuan her resting-place tor the night, and the final destination
 
 THE HALF SIR. 201 
 
 of twn of her crew — the brown-coated passenger, and his 
 companion, or master, in the ca'oin. 
 
 The night was too dark and stornij to admit of our frienda 
 landing with any convenience, so that the genteel politician 
 Mas compelled, sorely against his will, to avail himself of 
 the smoky shelter of the already crowded cabin, until the 
 dawn. This was not long in arriving, and the sun arose on 
 a scene as still and breathless, as if the elements, exhausted 
 by tlie labours of the preceding day, had agreed to celebrate 
 a Sabbath. While the passenger was occun'c 1 in getting 
 his companion's luggage safe to shore, the latter walked 
 slowly up toward the bold and jutting point of land called 
 the Kock of Foynes, whicli overlooked a scene that was 
 dear to him from many associations, and which, for these 
 reasons, and for its own beauty, the reader will permit us 
 to sketch, while we wait the approach of some new incident. 
 He stood on a road wiiich appeared to have been cutout of 
 the side of a solid rock, of a clumsy nature, and presented, 
 as far as the eye could reach on either side, one of the finest 
 highways that coukl be formed — as level, and nearly as 
 bi'oad as a ]\Iacadamized street in the l>ritish nietropulis. 
 At his back, the Rock ascended in, at first, a perpendicular 
 and then a sloping form, covered, in its crevices and on its 
 summit, with heath and wild flowers. At his feet, a !-nd- 
 denly descending earthy cliff, nnchccfpierod by the slightest 
 accident of vegetation, walled off thj waters of the shan- 
 non, and presented a well marked contrast to the green and 
 undulating surface of the small islet of Foynes, which formed 
 the eastern sliore of the Gut, and looked gay and sunriV in 
 the morning light. At the base of the ciiff, tiie waters of 
 the Shannon now lay hushed iu a profound repose, as if the 
 genius of the stream, who had yesterday filled the air with 
 the sounds of his own giant minstrelsy, were now lolling at 
 leisure and conning over the song of a summer strcandet. 
 A wide glassy sheet of water, on which a few dark-sailed 
 boats floated idly in the de;id cahn, lay between the clilf 
 9*
 
 202 THE HALF SIB. 
 
 and the north, or Clare shore, wliich again present-jd an 
 abrupt and broken barrier to the silent flood, and in others 
 fringed its marge wilh a rich mantle of elm a-nd oak wood. 
 Blue hills, cottages (which filled up the landscape not the 
 less agreeably tiiat t!i*y were the abode of sickness and of 
 misery) formed an appropriate distance to tliis part of the 
 hxndscape. Further on the right lay the dreary flat of 
 Ahanish, and further still, a distant prospect of a wide, 
 barren, and craggy eount.ry, t'.ie limestone surface of which 
 was baked and whitened by the summer heat. This ratlier 
 unfavourable portion of the scene, however, was so distant 
 as not to afl:ect in any degree the general air of richness 
 which formed the fundamental character of the landscape. 
 
 " Why thin we travelled far, sir, to see places in 
 foreign parts that worn't anytheu to that for beauty," was 
 the reflection of the humbler of the voyagers, as he sidled 
 up, noiselessly, behind his companion, and contemplated 
 the scene over his shoulder. However disposed the latter 
 might be to admit the justice of the observation, the un- 
 couth phrase in which it was couched did not appear to 
 please him, for he turned aside with an abrupt and fretted 
 "psha !" and walked up the road. 
 
 " If he hasn't any raisun himself, he might hear to it 
 from another," said Rimmy (for it was no other than he) 
 discontentedly ; " it's like the dog in the manger. Ho 
 hasn't but little brains of his own, and he won't let any- 
 body else use them any farther than he can." 
 
 At this moment the attention of both v/as attracted by 
 the app.'arance of a handsome tilbiiiy at the turn of the 
 rock, wiiich drove ra])idly towards them. IJefsire they had 
 time to observe the rank or quality of the travellers (a lady 
 and geutlcman), a startling incident, very strange and un- 
 accountable to the new comers, though of latally frcqucut 
 oecurrence in this quarter of Ireland at the period in ques- 
 liou, intcrrupLed llieir speculations. A slvjt, glancing trom 
 the hiil above the rock, grazjd the person of tlie gcnLieinau
 
 THE HALF SIR. 203 
 
 who hpid the rrin^, niid glancing' ofT tlie little Sf^otch coped 
 parapet near lleinmy, cut with a riisliinp; sound tiiruu::,ri| the 
 cahn bosom of the river. A shrill halloo of mistaken 
 triumph at the same instant rung through the peaceful 
 scene, and fiamond, looking up, saw on the summit of the 
 hill, giizing on the spot, and standing in dark relief against 
 the blue morning skv, the figure of a man, his long crane 
 neck extended to its full length, his enormous hooked nose 
 looking like the beak of an eagle uplifted over his prey, 
 and his long, thick, •white hair thrown straight backwards, 
 as if he had been (naturally as well as morally) all his life 
 running against the wind. Perceiving his error, he used 
 an action of disappointment, and disappeared. Hasiond 
 turned his eyes again on the tilbury, and perceived that 
 although Providence had saved the travellers from one 
 danger, they were not yet free from its no less peiilous 
 con-equences. The horse, terrified by the report of the 
 gun, had set back several yards, and turning its head 
 toward the clitt", began, in spite of all the exertions of the 
 driver, mIio had cause enough for alarm already, to back 
 rapidly towards the precipice. Remmy, starting from the 
 stnpor into which he had been thrown by this unruly wel- 
 come to his native land, ran quickly to\\ ards the travellers 
 and Succeeded in seizing the reins just as the wheels had 
 gained the little footpath on the verge. 
 
 "Fool anddoIt,"said Hamond, contemptuously, as Remmy 
 assisted the portly driver to dismount, and aided i.iui in ai-- 
 ranging the harness. " How lie bows and cringes ! He 
 touches his hat and fawns, as if he were the rescued wretch 
 liimselt^ — as if he had not given that pompous, pampered 
 thing, his very existence. It is so all over the world. lu 
 every corner of the earth, the same degrading tyranny is 
 exercised. The rich persecute the poor — and the licher the 
 rich. The proud insult the humble, and they too have their 
 insolent superiors. Ha ! he tosses him a piece of money. 
 It is tlius that the services of the poor ai-e always Viilued.
 
 204 THE HALF SIB. 
 
 Ko mntter wliat tlie sacrifice maybe — of per-'o^al safety — > 
 of toil — of health — of heart's ease and all self-interest, the 
 highboAMi ingrate thinks he is mor-e than quit of all obli- 
 gation, by flinging an atom from his hoards, to the real 
 owner — flinging it too as tliat man did, at his feet — not 
 to bo taken from the earth without defiling his fingers." 
 
 The tilbury at this moment drove up, and Hamond, al- 
 though he had purposely turned aside fi-om the road, fir the 
 purpose of avoiding them, could see that ke was closely ob- 
 served, by both the lady and her friend, whether that in 
 their fright they took him for one of the assassins, or re- 
 cognised him for his real self, he could not conjecture. 
 
 "0 murther, sir!" said llcmray, as he ran toward his 
 master with open mouth and eyes — " did you ever see the 
 peer o' that? In the broad daylight — and the open street 
 — maken no more o' you, than ov you wor a dog, just. 
 We'll be kilt, fairly, sir, in a mistake. S'lic there I was 
 meself shot — dead— -with a bullet in the middle o' me brains, 
 within — only just you see that it barely — barely — missed 
 me." 
 
 " Why did yon delay so long after you had done all that 
 was necessary ?" 
 
 "I'll tell you that, sir. Why did I stop so long? She 
 axed me — no — not me, naither — but when I was just piit- 
 ten up the bearen rein — the lady — 'pnn me word, sir, s!;e 
 is a spirited little woman, I declare she is now — the man 
 was twice as much frightened as wisat she was — I c(mldH't 
 liclp admiron her in me heart, she took it so aisy — A party 
 crathur too I declare. But as I was sayen, she hid her 
 face from me in her veil (though T know 'twas handsome 
 be the sound o' the voice) and whispered to t'iie gentlcniaa 
 (be the same token he made me a'most laugh, he was in 
 such a, flurry — calling me ' ma'am,' and ' my dear,' and 
 sometimes ' my lord' — being fairly fi-iglitened out of I'.is siviil 
 sinses — the poor man. He's a magistlirut, it seems, and 
 not over aa above quiet, for which raison one o' the lacls
 
 THE HALF 513, 205 
 
 comes clown to have a crack at him from the rock, as if he 
 was a saagull — thongli I'll be bound he isn't air a gull at all, 
 now) ; but as I was saycn, she whispered the gentleman, 
 aud he turns to me, and says he, 'Isn't your name Jemmy 
 Alune?' siz he. 'Not Jemmy, but; Remmy,' siz the lady 
 (I declare I never thougi.t me name would sound so sweet) 
 — 'Tisplase your honour, mi'am,' siz I. So she whispered 
 the genileman again, an' says he to me — ' Mr. Salmon, your 
 master,' says he, ' where is lie ?' Well, I thought I'd drop 
 down laughen, whin I heard him call your honour Salmon, 
 ' lie's no such odd fish as that indeed, sir,' siz I, ' but such 
 as he is, there he is a})pozzit uz on the road over.' So they 
 druv away, the two of 'em. Tiie gentleman is a Scotc'iman, 
 and I don'c know who can the lady be. He thrun me some- 
 thing, fur a 7'icompince as he called it. I suppose ricom- 
 jrince is Scotch fur one-an-eight-pcnce." 
 
 After having with subdued impatience listened to the 
 whole of this tedi jus harangue, Hamond dispatched his ser- 
 vant to the Castle for the purpose ot making the necessary 
 arrangements before his arrival, telling him that he would 
 saunter on slowly over the hill, by a path which he remem- 
 bered fiom his boyhoud, so as to reach Castle Hamond by 
 nuon. 
 
 " How selGihly and vainly,'* thought ITamond, afrer 
 lieramy departed, " Las all njy long life been spent, and 
 what would be niy ansAver if that shut had (as it might 
 well have done) taken in this weak head or v, icked heart; 
 ia its course, and sent me to hear the great accounting 
 question — ' In how much mankind had been the better or 
 tiie worse for iny sojouniiiig amongst them ?' Let me, as 
 I have lived so totally for myself hitherto, endeavour, be- 
 fore tiie sun goes down, to fulfil even a portion of my ne- 
 glected duty to others. Let me, since my own hope of 
 i.itjtpiuess in this life is now for ever and for ever eniLJ, 
 eudeavour to forget its sorrows, and occupy myself only in 
 auvaucaig that of others — f^r happiness is a gift which a
 
 206 THE HALF SIR, 
 
 man may want himself and yet bestow. I have seen 
 enough of the world to know that even if I had succeeded in 
 all my youthful wishes I sliould not have succeeded in 
 satisfying my ov/n wants. If I had married Emily Bury 
 (he paused, and piTssed his hand on his brow as the 
 tliought suggested itself to him) I might be now mourning 
 over her early grave. Is it not something that I knov,- she 
 yet lives — that she treads the same earth — breathes the 
 same air, and is warmed and cooled by the same winter 
 and summer as Ilamond is ? Let this content me. Let 
 me not risk the small share of peace which remains to my 
 heart by forming new attachments (new ? alas I) — rather, 
 I should say, by indulging the memory of the old, since 
 the ' covenants of the world' are sure to die. Let me 
 rather fondle and indulge the impulses of a generous bene- 
 volence, v.hich the action of my selfish sorrow has so long 
 retarded within me, and let my fellow-creatures be dear to 
 me for his sake whose wish it is to be loved through his 
 own bright creation, but not superseded by it. And where 
 should I tiud objects worthy of such care, if not in my 
 own impoverished and degraded country ? j\ly poor, 
 humble friends ! why did I ever leave your simple cottage 
 circles — your plain, rough, natural manners, and kindly, 
 though homely affcclion, for the tinsel of a world that has 
 deceived and disappointed me — ^the glitter and smiles of a 
 rank that has decoyed and scorned me, and the false- 
 hearted seeming of a love that has left me but a bruised 
 and heavy heart, a loaded memory, and a sapless hope fur 
 the even-tide of my life." 
 
 He was interrupted by some person's plucking his coat 
 skirt, and addressing him, at the same time, in a voice 
 wiiich seemed to be rendered feeble and broken by disease 
 or exhaustion. " Somethen fur the tubaccy, plase your 
 honuur, and the Lord in his mercy save you frum the sick- 
 ness o' the year." 
 
 ilamond turaci round, and beheld a countryman.
 
 THE HALF SIR. 207 
 
 mukl!e-ngccl, as it nppeavcd from Iiis dark and cnrling hair, 
 although his squalid, worn, and ragged appearance might 
 otherwise have left the matter in dnbiety. Our liero, who 
 had been absent from home sufHcientlv long to forget nearly 
 all the peculiarities of his countrymen, was not a little sur- 
 prised to hear this poor fellow, who seemed about to perish 
 for want of the common necessaries of life, petitioning for 
 what appeared to him a hixury. 
 
 " Something for tobacco !" he repeated ; " w'liy, my 
 poor man, you seem more in ^^ant of bread than of to- 
 bacco." 
 
 "A little o' that same would be no hurt, piase your 
 honour, but we can't expect to have everything." 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? — why do you walk so 
 fetblv ?" 
 
 " The sickness gncn I had, sir." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " The fever, plase your honour," said the man, staring 
 at him with some surprise. " Indeed, I'm finely now, 
 thank Heaven, but I think 'twould be a great strengtheneu 
 to me, inwardly, if I had the i)rice o' the tobaccy, it's oO 
 long since I tasted it." 
 
 " Do you live in tliis neighbouriiood ?" 
 
 " I do, plase your honour, in regard my wife and two 
 cM'der (poor crathurs!) has the sickness, above in the 
 field, an' I couldn't remove 'cm a while. Heaven is mer- 
 ciful, sir, an' only for it, sure what would we do ? for we 
 hadn't anython at all, an' the people (small blame to 'cm, 
 indeed, for it) wouldn't coom a-near uz, in dread o' the 
 sickness (being taking), ontil Miss 0'15rien, the Lord be 
 good to her, gev uz a ticket for the riiale, an' soom money 
 an' other things, an' she'd give more, I b'lieve, if she knew 
 I had more than meself i]i, an' that we wor wii'out a roof 
 over uz, which I was delikit of tellen her ; for 'twould be 
 too much to suppose we should all of uz have enough, au' 
 wliat ao one is born lo, hardly, except he was a geuti jmau."
 
 £08 THE HALF srR. 
 
 '■ Lot mc sr!e wliore 3'oii live," sakl IlfimonJ, "if .'t is 
 Lot very far out of the svay. " 
 
 " Ou!y a small half mile, plase voiiv honour. I can't 
 walk only poorly, but your honour is goo J, an' tlie place 
 isn't fnr." 
 
 While they proceeded alon,^ the path through the fields, 
 t!;e man gave, at Ilamond's desire, a short account of the 
 circumstances wliicli had reduced him to his present condi- 
 tion, which, as they are in themselves intorestinj', and pre- 
 sent a tolerably fiuthful picture of a Munster cottage life, 
 we shall veuture to transcribe. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 As for uJjsf'nence, or Jastinj, it is to them a famUiar Icind 
 of chustUemeut L'AM^IO^'"s Ireland, 
 
 *' Was it always^the same case wit me as it is row ? Is it, 
 your honour is axcn me ? Ah, no, sir, that would be too 
 b'^d ; I had my pleasure in me day, as well as others, and 
 inileed, I have no raison to complain, considering, thanks 
 be to Heaven ! and if I had only praties enough to keep 
 above ground for a few years more just to make my soul* 
 (a thing I was ever too negligent of), I tliink a prince 
 couldn't be better off. Do you see that large field over- 
 right uz, sir ? Whin I was a slip of a boy, about eight- 
 een or that way, that was a great place for the Kobertstown 
 an' Slianagolden girls to come, blachen their coorte thread, 
 an' bekays they sliould lave it out all night, they used to 
 stay themselves watciien it, (in dread it should be stulen 
 off the wattles) in the summer nights, tellen stories an' 
 cn!sh(€7ii)i(/'f away till mornen. At th.e first light then, 
 tiie boys o' the place would tome with fiddles an' flutes, 
 and there they'd be before 'em. Kitly O'Bricnceu with hcf 
 
 * To Ettcaii to Ins religious duties. f Gos.iippin<j. ■
 
 THE HALF SIR. 209 
 
 hnndliert o* tlirend, an' Nelly Kilmartin ■with her hnndhert 
 o' thread, an' all the rest of 'em with tlieir hundherts, 
 blacheii, an' then the hco'jh* v/oiild begin — daneen, an' 
 joken, an' laiighen, an' singen, till it was broad daj. Well, 
 of all the gals there, Kitty O'Brien was the favouiito with 
 the boys, sech a sweet smiien crathnr! though, indeed, my- 
 self didn't think very bauf of her, till one morncn axen her 
 to jine me in a slip jig ; ' She's goeu to dance a\ it a better 
 nan,' says Batt Miiiahan, that was very sweet upon her 
 the same time, an' i knowen nothen of it. ' She'll go 
 firdier than the tiehl, thin,' says I, ' for he isn't here any 
 way.' ' He is,' says Batt, ' stant'en out before you,' siz 
 he. ' Is it yourself you uiane ?' siz I, lookeu dovm upon 
 hiin. ' 'Tis, to be sure,' tiz he. ' 'Twould take another 
 along wit you to be ab:e to say it,' siz I. AVel!, whin two 
 foulish bo} s come together, an' a woman by, 'tis but a shori; 
 shp from words to blows. Batt an' I tackled to ('m suro 
 small blame to him, an' the sweetheart hstenen), an' v,e 
 culled, and we bate, an' mc kicked, an' we pulled, an' we 
 dr.igged one another, till there was haidiy a slcreed o' 
 c'-o.heu left upon our backs, an' the boys med a ring for 
 iiz, and they huUooen, and tiie girls screcchen, and the 
 A\hole place in one i)illilu ! An' tlien we pult the wattles 
 out o' Kitty's thread, an' we big'n wattlen one another 
 over the head an' shoulders, till the sticks was broke in our 
 hands. Well, it was the uill of Heaven I got the upper 
 hand o' Batt that same time, an' bet him, an' pummelled 
 him, till 1 didn'c lave him a leg to stand upon — an' then I 
 danced the slip jig with Kitty. Well, I never thought 
 much o' Kitty before, but my heart warmed to her after I 
 lighten for her, an' we wor married agen next Advent. 
 Batt (an' sure small blame to him) never could bear the 
 sigi.th o' me after. I lost a little by it, too, for I was 
 ihinkeu of another girl before that, a girl that had as good 
 as hfteeu pounds of her own — but she wasn't a patch upon 
 * Full. t Very liiglily.
 
 2'0 THE HALF Sir:. 
 
 Kitty for manners an' beauty. Little T tlionght I'd he one 
 day taken yci-iiunour to see that same Kitty, stretclied in a 
 d}ke, on the broad of her back, in the sickness — but Hea- 
 ven is merciful, an' we'll get her out of it again I liop'^ 
 'T would delight your honour to hear Kitty's cry — she had 
 the best cry in tlie parish." 
 
 "The best cry ? 
 
 " Yes, sir, for an 'ollogone,' or 'ullilu! after a funeral, 
 or at a v/ake-house. When Kitty had one ghiss o' sperits, 
 jest to clear her vice, you'd wonder to hear her. I]e.-ides, 
 Kitty had a very fine back, an' the other girl hadn't air a 
 back at all, notlien to spake of." 
 
 Haniond, who was hunself a connoisseur in female pro- 
 portions, entered with a readier sympathy into his compa- 
 nion's admiration of this hitter quality than the preceding 
 cue, hut was again benighted when the other went on with 
 nis eyc^raiam. 
 
 " Indeed, I had but a very poor back myself at the same 
 time, an' 1 could hardly 0])en my mouth or say a word any 
 where in regard of it. So I tuk Kitty's bade rather than 
 the fifteen pound forten, an' then I had as large an' as fine 
 a back as air a boy in the county — then who daar cough 
 at me, or tread on me coat in the puddle ? None — for 
 Kitty's back stood by me always, at fair or market." 
 
 "Aly good fellow, I can hardly understand you. It 
 seems you thought the larger Kitty's bacli was the better." 
 
 " To be sure, sir." 
 
 "And then you had no back at all yourself — " 
 
 " Till I married Kitty, sir — " 
 
 "And then you had as large a back as any body ? Wliat 
 am I to understand tVum this, if you are noL amusing yo ir- 
 fielf at my expense? wiiat do you mean by your l);»ck?" 
 
 " Back ! — Faction, sir — laetiou for fighteu. Is it I to 
 be funnen your honour ?" 
 
 '•O'-," Slid Ilamond. 
 
 *' Well, sir, we married, as I told your honour, an' if we
 
 THE HALF SIR, e.ll 
 
 did vro <:nt a small bit of land, very SRUg, and had a lase 
 of it, an' fiot on very well for a few years, an' a conp'e ol 
 cratliurs w'uh v.z, an' we wor finely off with plenty o' praties, 
 an' milk now an' ajjen, but that was too good a story to last, 
 and the big'nen of our troubles came on. This was the 
 way of it. Tlie owner o' the estate that we riiited the 
 cabin friira had a fine bog within about three miles from 
 us, an' he v/antcd us, and all the tenants, to cut our turf 
 upon it, an' not upon a bog bclongen to anotlier man liven 
 a-ncar uz ; but then we hadn't the mains o' drauen it such 
 a distills, an' not being in our I."SO, we didn't do it. He 
 didn't forget this for uz (indeed I don't blame him either, 
 consid;iing) — but he couldn't get a vacancy* at uz for a 
 long time, for we took care always to have the difference 
 o' the rent agen the gale day any way. Well, sir, at last 
 what do you think liajipened to uz ? The minister that 
 lived in the same parish, was made agent to our landlord, 
 an' so when v.-e went to pay our gale, what does he do but 
 take his own tithen out o' the rent I brought him, an' hand 
 me back the rest, sa3en, 'Here, me good man,' siz he, 
 you're onder a mistake — the rent is l)L more, siz he (fuc 
 pound being his own tithes). ' Well,' siz I, 'I ncvur seen 
 the peer o' that for — ' Tor what ?' siz he. 'Nothing,' siz 
 I, but I said, 'loguery,' within me own mind. 'Give me 
 the rent,' siz he, 'or I'll eject you.' 'Let me go for it,' siz 
 I. 'flow far have you to go ?' siz he. 'Something fir- 
 ther,' siz I, 'than I'd trust ^ou.' 'How far is that?' siz 
 he. 'Just as far then,' siz I, 'as I could throw a bull by 
 the tail.' Indeed, I did, sir, say it to him. AVell, he 
 never forgay me that word. 
 
 " When I came back with the rent, he wouldn't have 
 it at all. ri.iht go wrong. 'Very well, then,' siz I, 'if 
 you don't like it, lave it — you can't say but I offored it to 
 you.* ^\n' well the rogue knew the same time, that the 
 cli'br wasn't goi d in law, inasmuch as there wasn't air a 
 * An opporLuuity of revenge.
 
 2i2 71! 2 HALF sin. 
 
 witr.ess to it, fin' I l^nowen rollien of it at f'll, till Jnlinny 
 Doe coom down npon nio, r.n' let me know it when it was 
 too late. AVell I ncviir '11 forget the day, wljn poor Kitty, 
 and the childer, an' mcself, wor turned out, Avith the choice 
 of token a bng on onr back, or listing, whichever I liked.* 
 An' that's the way it was with nz scnce, ramblen over an' 
 hethcr about the oountrj-, ont'I this summer, when th.e 
 womanc?n tuk ill in the sickness, an' the crathnrs along 
 wit her, an there was an end of the whole biziness, when 
 I got it mesolf — an' the four lyen ill together, without one 
 to mind uz, ont'I the priest was so good as to have the 
 little hut made over uz wit a foew sticks and some scran'.<:,f 
 aixl straw onder uz, so that we wor quite comfortable — 
 and thanks to the ni:if>:ldjour,?, wor in no want of potaties, 
 an' male moreover, (that they say the English sent uz 
 over) — a thing we didn't taste for many a Icng year before 
 ■ — signs on Ave're getten over it finely — an' I tliink if I had 
 a pe'uorth o' tobaccy, I wouldn't a>: to be bettor, moreover, 
 when I see so many more worse olT than mesclf in the coun- 
 try. Plere's the place, plase your honour." 
 
 liamoud had heard much, during his residence hi Eng- 
 land, of the misery which Vvas at this time prevailing in 
 his native country — he had road many of th.e popuhir novels 
 of the day, ■which had made Ireland and Irish suffering 
 their scene and subject; but allowing a latitude for the ancient 
 privilege of story-tellers, he was totally unprepared to find 
 their representations actually surpassed by the reality. lie 
 beheld in the ditch before him a shed (if it could be called 
 so) not high enough to admit him without creei)ing on all 
 lours, and so small, that the person of poor " Kittj" oc- 
 cupied nearly the entire length. It was foimcd in the 
 manner described by the wretciicd owner, in the hollow of 
 a dryditcl!, with a lew sticks jjlaced by way of roof against 
 t!w lop of the next hcd^e, and covered with sods of thi; 
 
 ' Uei^-giiiij; and IKiii^c;-, <ite tlir u;ua! alNn?'*ti-'es 'a Aluasiler. 
 f Tliia sods (?(.' gieoi p^at
 
 THE UAhV s\n. 213 
 
 green tnrf. One end of this mis.'^rable edliico was sutfored 
 to remain open, and tliroiigli this aperture Ilaniontl was 
 enabled to take cognizance of a woaian half clad, and two 
 children lyii)ii; on a heap of strav/, moaning heavily, either 
 from pain or debiiity. The hot splendour of a summer sun 
 crisped and dried the short grass upon the roof about tlioir 
 heads. 
 
 " Is it possible," said he, " that year nights are spent 
 under uo better shelter than this ?" 
 
 *' Oh, what better would we want, sir, tliis fine weather, 
 praise be to heaven ? Indeed, the first nights we wor 
 worse off, for we slept in the open air, an' the iieavy dews 
 at niglit kilt us entirely, an' we haven nothen but boiled 
 nettles to ait. So that we ought to be very thankful to 
 heaven, an' after to the neighbours, that wor so good as to 
 make tliis snug little place fur uz. Well, my darlen, how 
 is it the pain wit you, an' the wakeucss ? See here's a 
 fine gentleman coom to sec you an' the crathurs, darleu o' 
 my hefw-t." 
 
 " The Lord be good to him for so doen, Duaat ; 'tis 
 batter with me." 
 
 " Well, heaven is good, Kitty, an we'll be soon all well 
 an sprightly agen, plase God." 
 
 A low sigh was the only answer to this consoling predic- 
 tion. Hamond, touched no less by these indications of 
 tenderness and affection in natures so unpolished, than by 
 the misery wliich made them necessary, placed in the hands 
 of his guide all that was wanted for present purposes, pro- 
 mising at the same time to take care for their future con- 
 dition as soon as he should arrive at Castle Ilamond. Tlie 
 poor people overwhelmed him with thanks and benedictions 
 — and '^ Dunat" (as the old woman called her husband) in- 
 sisted on conducting him farther over the hill. 
 
 "Tiicre's Dat Miuahan's house over, sir," said he, point- 
 ing out a neat wliite-washed cottage. " It was a lucky 
 day for Uat, the morucu he come off second best wit me.
 
 214 THE HALF SIR- 
 
 He gov np {iglitcn, and mavrlcfl the ^nrl with the fifteen 
 pounds, au' signs on there's the way lie is, an' here's the 
 way I am. An' there's the fiekl I fusht met Kitty. I 
 declare, sir, I never go by tliat iieUl of an' evenen, but my 
 heart is as heavy as lead, and I feels as lonesome as auy- 
 then yon uvrr s?e, thinken of ould times an' things." 
 
 " "Well, my good man, keep up your spirits, and it may 
 be as well with you as with Bat Minahan yet. But I 
 would advise you to make as little use of your bach as 
 possible." 
 
 " O'l, back or front, your honour, it's a long time since 
 thei'e was anytlicn o' that kind in the country', plase your 
 honour. Quiet enough the fairs an' the wakes is now, sir. 
 Their courage is down these days." 
 
 They parted — and Ilamond, as he passed over the field, 
 heard this strange, though by no means singular specimen 
 of his country's wretched, improvident, and yet light- 
 hearted peasantry, endeavouring, though with a foint aud 
 husky voice, to hum over "The Humours of Glin." 
 
 As he wa'ked along the more frequented part of the soil, 
 Hamond had op;)ortunitics of appreciating the full extent of 
 the miser)' whicii the misfortunes of the preceding season 
 had occasioned, and which excited so lively an interest at 
 the same period among the almost proverbially benevolent 
 and generous inliabitants of the sister island — for even au 
 Irishman cannot Avithhold this portion of their praise, what- 
 ever cause he may have for angry feeling on other subjects. 
 Numbers of poor wretches, who seemed to have been worn 
 down by the endurance of disease and funine to the very 
 s!:eleton, were dispersed through tho fields, some of theni 
 occupied in gathering nettles, the common fool of the 
 people for a long period, and prishoc weed from the hedges, 
 for the purpose of boiling, in lieu of a more nutritious 
 vegetable. The usual entreaties, and their accompanying 
 benediction that "the Lord might save him from the sick- 
 ness o' the year," v/ere ra iltiplied upon his path as he pro*
 
 THE HALF SIR. 215 
 
 ccedcd. Tii3 red crosses -nliicli were cinnlicJ on nlmo^t 
 every c 'bin-door as lie passed, and the sounds of pnin and 
 sorrow wliich came on Ids liearinjrfiom tlie interior, afiorued 
 liim a fearful evidence of the extent to which the ravap,es 
 of the disease had been carried — a disease attended by a 
 peculiar malignity in its application to Ireland ; for it was 
 seldom fatal in itself, but merely disabled the unhappy 
 countryman (whose sole hope of existence depended on his 
 being left the use of his arms) for a few Aveeks, until the 
 season for exertion had gone by, and then left him to gasp 
 a«ay his life in the pangs ot the fiimine which was conse- 
 quent on his involuntary remissness. The tillage, except 
 where the indications of unusual wealth and comfort showed 
 that it was tiie property of a considerable lioMcr, bore 
 marks of haste and negligence, and altogether the general 
 appearance of the country was affected iu no light degree 
 by the misery of its inhabitants. 
 
 Hamond could not avoid feeling a pang of deep remorse 
 ■when he compared his own fancifid miseries with the real 
 and substantial wretchedness which stared upon him here 
 at every step he walked. He felt his cheeks burn with 
 shame when he recollected how many of these poor beings 
 might have been made happy for life with the wealth which 
 he had wasted in endeavouring to banish from his memory 
 an adventure of comparatively very trivial importance, and 
 he hunk'd to escape fi'om the stings of self-reproach, wliich 
 the real criminality of ids conduct occasioned, by resolving 
 that every moment of his future life would be occrpicd in 
 retrieving the occasions of duty which he had hitherto 
 omitted. It was decreed, however, that he should before 
 long have deeper cause to regret the time Mhich he had 
 misspent. 
 
 We shall leave him, however, for the present, and fjllow 
 Eenuny O'Loue, who has ere now arrived at his mother's 
 col. ago. Thanks to some remittances made by himself, 
 and to Ilamoud's patronage, it was a more couiibi table
 
 2 it* THE HALF S!K. 
 
 cs(al:lisl'.r.icnt tl'.an many ■wliicli lie ];a(l ciiconiiterorl en 
 his roiite, and lie smiled with tlic priile of gratified affec- 
 tion, as every indication of rural comfort presented ilstlf 
 siK'cessivtly before his eyes. 
 
 " Why then, I declare, the old 'oman isn't getten on 
 badly for all ! — The bomireen* and the little goslens ! aa' 
 
 the clucks, I declare ! an' the no 'tisn't ! — Iss, it is — 
 
 'tis a cow, I declare ! Well, see that, why ! Fie, for shame 
 the old 'onian, why does she lave the doore open ? I'll 
 purtend it isn't meself that's there at all, till i have one 
 little risef out of her." 
 
 ^\"ith this design he adjusted his hat to an imposing cock, 
 buttoned his Itrown coat u]) to his chin, thrust both hands 
 under the skirts behind, and so strutted forward iiito the 
 open door with what he intended for a royal swagger. On 
 the floor of the kitchen sat a child about three years of age, 
 playing with a pair of jack-stones, wh.o did not appear at 
 all pleased Ijy the intrusion. Perceiving that no one el.^o 
 was in sigiit, Kenmiy judged that the speediest means of 
 procuring attentioa was by awakening some alarm for the 
 infant, lie therefore scjuatted himself on the floor anil 
 made a hideous grin, as if he were about to swallow the 
 little fellow up at one bit. The roar which the latter set. 
 up at this strange menace quickly brought two women from 
 an interior room ; but Reimny was on his legs again, and 
 as demure as (to useap(jpular similitude) a tiog at a lune- 
 ral before them ! The elder of the females dropped a low 
 womau-of-the-house courtesy to Remniy, who acknowl- 
 edged it by a condescendmg nod and a snnle of patronage. 
 
 " Y'our little lad, here, thought 1 was gocn to ait hiU!, 
 I b'lieve, my good 'oman." 
 
 "Strange, he is, sir — Ge, Jenuny, darlen, to scretch 
 at the genllemau ! Will your honour be seated V 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, honest 'oman !" said llemmy, 
 with an affable wave of the hand, and then laughing tc 
 
 * A liUlo I'iij t llicjuivi.IciiL lu ll.t Loiiuun lack. 
 
 -J
 
 r 
 
 THE HALF SIR. 217 
 
 himself as he pnssed to the chair (the hay bottom of which 
 the good woman swept down for him with her check apron) 
 — " My honour ! Well, that's droll from the pld n other !" 
 
 " I'll be wishen you a good evenea', Mfs. O'Lone," 
 said the young woman who was with her. " Come along, 
 Jemmy." 
 
 " Good mornen to you then, an' tell Miss O'Brien I'll be 
 over wit her to-morrow surely. I expect 'em both now 
 every other day, tell her." The woman and child departed. 
 " I ask your honour's pardon," the old lady continued, 
 turning to Remmy, who was endeavouring to keep his risi- 
 ble muscles in some order, — " may be you'd take somethen, 
 sir, after the road ?" 
 
 " No may be at all about it. Try me a little — it's a 
 maxura o' mine never to refuse." 
 
 "From foreign parts, I suppose, sir, you are ?" said 
 Mrs. O'Lone, after she had enabled Remmy to amuse him- 
 self in the manner indicated. 
 
 " Yes — I'm an Englishman born and bred," said 
 Remmy, with admirable eftVonterj^, trusting that his mother's 
 ignorance of dialects would not enable her to detect the 
 very lame assumption of the British accent which he used. 
 
 " If it wasn't maken too free wit your honour," said 
 Mrs. O'Lone, after hesitating for a considerable time, while 
 Remmy busied himself with a dish of wM^es,* "since 'tia 
 from foreign parts you are, sir, may be you'd meet a boy 
 o' the O'Lone's there.* 
 
 " There ! Where, my good woman ?" 
 
 *' Abroad, plase your honour." 
 
 " Many's the place that's abroad, honest wonwn. If you 
 hadn't a better direction than that goen looken for a man, 
 ye might be both abroad together tor a century and nevnr 
 coom within a hundhret miles o' one another — ay, two hun- 
 dhret, may be," 
 
 " Shastonef ! Tvisha ! It's a large place, sir.'" 
 * Pettitoes f An exclamation of aurpns* 
 
 10
 
 218 THE H.\LF SIR. 
 
 ^' But talken o' the O'Lone's, I remember meeten one o' 
 {'icm in me travels — Jeremiah O'Loue, I think — " 
 
 " Iss, sir — or Kemmy, as we used to call him, short — " 
 
 " Short or long, I met such a fellow — aud being coun- 
 trymen — " 
 
 " Countrymen, sir ! I thought your honour said you wor 
 ail Englishman." 
 
 " Ell, what ? an' so I am, honest 'oman, what of that ? 
 It's true I was born in Ireland, but what hurt ? No raison 
 if a man is born in a stable that he should be a horse." 
 
 " Sure enough, sir. But about Eemmy, sir, you wor 
 sayeu that you knew him." 
 
 " I did, an' I'il tell you a secret. If I did, I knew as big 
 a vagabone as there is from this to himself." 
 
 " dear gentleman, sir, you don't sity so ?" 
 
 " What should hinder me ? 'ra sure 'tis 1 that ought to 
 know him well. He was the worst iiinemy I uvur had. 
 
 "Maybe he had raison?" said Mrs. 0' Lone, her tone 
 of respect gradually subsiding into one of greater familiarity, 
 as her choler rose aud her fingers wandered in search of tho 
 tongs. 
 
 "The bla'gaard, what raison would he have to me? An 
 idle, theiven, seamen rogue, that'll coom to the gallows one 
 time or other." 
 
 " Your honour is maken fan o' me, bekays you know that 
 'tis his mother that's there." 
 
 " Are you hijs mother, poor 'oman ? I'm sorry for you." 
 
 " May be if 1 wanted your pity, you wouldn't be so ready 
 wit it." 
 
 " Well," said Remmy, " I heard a dale of Irish manners, 
 but if I'm to take that for a speciment " 
 
 " You'll get the worth o' what you bring, I see what 
 you are now, you nnnait'rel cratur!" — said his mother, ris- 
 ing fi-um her seat — " I asked you to a sate by the widow's 
 fire, an' u share o' the widow's male, an' there's my thanks.
 
 THE HALF SIR. 219 
 
 abnsen and poll-talken* o' the poor lad tliat's far away, and 
 that if he were here, would pummel you while uviir he was 
 able to stand over you, you contrairy cratur 1" 
 
 " He wouldn't," said Eemmy, coolly. 
 
 " He wouldn't !" replied Mrs. O'Loue, lifting the tongg. 
 
 " Would you strike me in your own house ?" said 
 Remmy, as the blow was about to descend over his eye. 
 
 The old woman seemed to hesitate between her desire of 
 vindicating Remmy's good name, and the obligations of 
 hospitality which held her hand. At length, flinging the 
 utensil into the chimney-corner, and throwing herself, with 
 a wild burst of grief, into the chair, " I'll lave you to Hea- 
 ven !" said she — " If it wasn't for that word, I'd make you 
 that you wouldn't be so free wit your tongue. 'Twasu't a 
 gentleman ever done or said what you did. 'Tis Hke your 
 frightenen the child a while ago, you crule man you !" 
 And here, unable to continue her invective any faiths., 
 Mrs. O'Lone lifted her apron to her eyes, and indulged her- 
 self in an unrestrained fit of sobbing and crying. 
 
 " Ah, now, see what this is 1" said Rcmmy, touched by 
 the too great success of his ruse. " I never saw you for 
 a woman, that there can't be any fun wit you, you're so 
 soft. Come here," relapsing into his natural tone — " throw 
 your hands about me and kiss me, you old fool, and sure 
 you ought to know Remmy before now." 
 
 With a shriek of delight and astonishment, his mother 
 flung herself about his neck, and overwhelmed him with 
 caresses. 
 
 " Easy now — that'll do, mother : take your hands o' me 
 I tell you, an' sit down there an' be quiet, an' let me finish 
 my dinner. One would think you wor goen to make a 
 male o' me." 
 
 By a great effort, Mrs. O'Lone commanded herself, and 
 taking a seat opposite to Remmy, remained gazing at hiln, 
 as if there were anything at all fascinating in his ill-favoaj^3d 
 • Backbiting.
 
 220 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 countjnance, while he gave her an account of his master's 
 intentions with respect to his future residence in the coun- 
 try, and his desire that his nurse, Minny O'Lone, should 
 come to live at Castle Hamond. 
 
 Minny seemed to be made rather thoughtful by this pro- 
 poshion. S!ie mused a moment, and then taking her blue 
 rug cloak from an old panelled cliest behind her, and pin- 
 ning a clean white kerchief over her head, she bade Remmy 
 to Avait half an hour for her, while she stepped over the 
 fields to Mr. Falahee's, to speak one word with a lady that 
 was lodging there, after which she v ould be ready to ac- 
 company her son to the Castle. 
 
 " "Twill be a hard thing to bring about," she said with 
 herself, as she crossed the fields alone ; " and still, poor 
 dear, if it was a Tuik tliat was there, they couldn't but 
 do all in their power for her. Indeed, to say the truth, 
 it's little admiration she should be afeerd to go near him." 
 
 For several weeks after his return Hamoud persevered 
 in the strenuous practice of the resolution which he had 
 fora)ed on his return to his native land. The dawn of the 
 morn beheld liim in the fields, on his way to the bed-side 
 of some sufiliring tenant, where he was accustomed to spend 
 whole hours, when the number of his afflicted dependants 
 was not so great as to claim a briefer division of his time. 
 Like all enthusiasts, his fervour, in the new course which 
 his smitten conscience had suggested to him, was pushed 
 to a degree of indiscretion which might have made its en- 
 durance questionable, but for its connexion with another 
 feeling which time did not seem likely to remedy. The 
 more Hamond saw of the misery and of the dispositions of 
 the impoverished classes of his countrymen, the more that 
 dislike of the weaUhy and hig!i-born, which had consti- 
 tuted the disease of his mind for many years, was irritated 
 and increased ; and (without seeking maliciously to de- 
 tract from the merit of his benevolence) we might say, 
 that the poor benefitted nearly as much by his resentment 
 
 [.__
 
 THE HALF SIK. 
 
 22X 
 
 to their superiors as by his compassion for themselves, 
 Thev, however, were unable to estimate his motives, and 
 their blessings and their gratitude were unreservedly 
 pouied forth at his feet. The family who were fortunate 
 enough to attract his attention on the morning of his arri- 
 val in an especial manner found occasion to i-ejoice fu his 
 bounty ; and, tainted as his motives were by a hue of self- 
 gratification and want of the unlimited charity which com- 
 prises friends and foes with indifference, and totally over- 
 looks, if it does not sometimes contravene, the impulses of 
 mere personal feeling, Hamond soon discovered that even 
 the boundi^d and selfish generosity which he exercised was 
 a surer means of acquiring habits of contentment and quiet 
 feeling than any effort to distract his attention from the 
 sorrows of his own soul by amusement addressed to the 
 senses. The peculiar habits of the people, nevertheless, 
 occasien:illy gave him a great deal of annoyance. One 
 scene, which took place during a visit which he made to a 
 sisL«r-in-law of Diniat (who was now become a snug steady 
 cottager), may furnish the reader with a general idea of 
 what those annoyances were. 
 
 *' Well, Dunat," said Ilamond, as l;e entered the girl's 
 sick room, and perceived the patient considerably ^vorse 
 than he had left her on the preceding evening, " was the 
 doctor with her to-day ?" 
 
 " He was, please your honour, an' indeed he didn't seem 
 over and above plased." 
 
 " Why so ?" 
 
 " Upon her head, sir, he wanted to put it — a blister 
 that is — an' he toult the women to have the hair cut off, 
 for it was the head-ache entirely that was killen her." 
 
 " And has it been done ?" 
 
 " No, plase your hunour, the women say 'twould spoil 
 her for a corpse !" 
 
 " How do you mean ?" 
 
 " To have the curls tuk off ; and besides, he was very
 
 222 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 angry in regard o' the linen. To have it changed ho 
 wanted, sir, but they haven't only tlie other pair clane, and 
 they want to keep them agen the wake." 
 
 " What wake ?" 
 
 " Her own wake, sir, if it pleased Heaven she went." 
 
 " Inhuman wretches !" Hamond excLiimed aloud. " Is it 
 possible that you were calculating the circumstances of her fu- 
 neral, while she v/as yet in the balance, and ready to saciifice 
 the cliance of her hfe to your own abominable vanity? Let 
 the directions of the physicians be complied with this instant." 
 
 " sure if your honour likes it, 'twonldn't be wishing 
 to us for a deal to refuse yon, sir," said Kitty, " but it 
 was the girl's own wish as much as the rest.'* 
 
 To his unutterable astonishment, Hamond found that 
 this was the fact. He remained, however, to see that his 
 wishes were complied with in edict, and departed in a 
 humour more meditative than usual. He regretted, never- 
 theless, the violence with which he had spoken to the poor 
 people ; for it was evident that the feeling was general, 
 and his common sense told him that the means which he 
 used would not be the most successful in removing it. 
 
 On the third day after this, Hamond had a better op- 
 portunity than ever of estimating the misery of his poor 
 countrymen ; for he lay himself locked fast in the leaden 
 chains of the heavy and wasting pestilence which rioted 
 in the land. 
 
 CHxVPTER IX. 
 
 I, that loved lier all my youth, 
 
 Grow olde, now as you see ; 
 Love liketh not the fallhig fruite, 
 
 Nor yet the withered tree. 
 For love is like a carelesse childe. 
 
 Forgetting iironiise pn^t: 
 He's blind, or deal', wheuere he l^t : 
 
 Ilis faith is never fast, — Peir^^s Tiellcs. 
 
 TiRD down as he now was to the mournful solitude of a 
 sick bed. Hamond was no longer able to amuse the enemies
 
 THE HALF SIR. 223 
 
 of his peace (his own memoiy and imagination), by fixing 
 his attention on other subjects. His brain was enfeebled 
 by the influence of the disease, and less calculated to resist 
 the illusions which, independently of any pre-existing cause 
 in Hamond's own mind, the alteration of the system alone 
 would have occasioned. The hallucinations to which he 
 soon became subject invariably connected themselves with 
 the reigning melancholy of his mind, and became more 
 striking and vivid according as his disease proceeded. Tho 
 manner, too, in which real and imaginary events and ob- 
 jects were blended in his mind afforded matter for curious 
 speculation, which the growing infirmity of his head did 
 not hinder him from indulging. A few instances may enable 
 the reader to comprehend our meaning, if (fortunately) his 
 experiencemay not have made him already acquainted with it. 
 
 He had, on one occasion, follen into a broken and 
 heated slumber, in which he remained for some hours, 
 dreaming of Emily, of her husband, and of her friend ; 
 placing the head of one upon the shoulders of another, and 
 imagining all the fantastical clianges which the despotism 
 of a fevered fimcy could suggest. He beheld his success- 
 ful rival (for his success had reached his ears) lying dead, 
 as he had been taken from the field to which some i)oliti- 
 cal quarrel had called him, (for this, too, Hamond h.^d 
 heard, though as yet the reader remains unacquainted wit'.i 
 the circumstance), while Emily bent over him in all the 
 agony of real sorrow. Hamond contemplated the scene in 
 silence for a few minutes, until it faded gently from before 
 him, and he awoke with a burning thirst. It was nearly 
 dark, and Minny O'Lone, who was his nurse, had left a 
 floating light upon a small table near the bed-side, dropping 
 the curtain so as to shade his eyes. He could perceive 
 that some person was seated at the table. 
 
 " Minny !" he said, fointly. The person moved, and 
 presently he heard a bell ring. A few moments elapsed 
 while his thirst became almost torturiu''.
 
 224 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 *' ^Minnr, is tins the way you treat me ? Have yon left 
 me like alf the world ? I am dy nig of tRirst,/ he murmured 
 iu II teeble voice, while his heart was filled with anger. 
 
 The curtain was slightly drawn, and a hand was pre- 
 sented to his view, in which was a cup of whey. He drank 
 it, and the hand was withdrawn. In a few moments after, 
 Minny drew back the curtain, and took the vessel from him. 
 
 '' Minny," said he, as he looked on her withered and 
 bony hand, " it was not you handed me that drink." 
 
 " Not me, darlen child ! 0, what else, sir?" 
 
 " Why did you not speak or look in upon me ?" 
 
 *' Getten it ready, may be. I was, sir." 
 
 "You rung the bell, Minny. For whom? Or who 
 rung it ?" 
 
 *' For a token to Remmy, sir, to have the seed o' the fire 
 ready for me." 
 
 Hamond was silent, rather because the weakress of his 
 frame disqualified him for sustaining the inquiry, than be- 
 cause the explanation of Minny perfectly satisfied him. 
 
 On the following evening, the window of Lis chamber 
 being thrown up by the physician's desire, to admit the 
 freest possible circulation of air, Hamond aw-ke from an- 
 other fitful slumber, to open his eyes on a red and cloudy 
 sunset. He gazed, as he lay on his bac'-, through ihc \\ in- 
 dow, and full upon the broad blood-coloured disk of the 
 luminary, as it slowly sunk below the horizon, while large 
 masses of thick black clouds were gathered, in rocky frag- 
 ments, about and above, as if ready to topple, and close, 
 and crush it. All the objects in the chamber were tinged 
 with the disagreeable light, and Ilaraond's eyes were pained 
 at every attempt to turn them away, at the san.e tmie tiiafc 
 he could not close them altogeth r — for when lie did so, 
 the balls felt as if they were bur.ing beneath the lids. 
 Strange und fearful figures (such as poor Fuseli would have 
 suflTered any night-mare to be blessed with the sight of) 
 darted rapidly upon his vision, and vanished as quick'y.
 
 THE HALF SIR. 225 
 
 At one time he fixed his eyes on a wrinkle in the curtai i, 
 and felt as if that were th'B cause of all his suffering. A 
 wind stin-ed it, and he fancied that an earthquake was 
 shaking the Avhole world to pieces about him. In thj 
 midst of the many spectres that presented themselves wit'.i 
 nead"ly all the vividness of reality before him, one in parti- 
 cular, which stared upon him from a fissure in the hangings, 
 rivetted his attention. It was that of a female face, palo 
 and wasted — with dark hair and eyes moist with tears — • 
 one hand holding the handkercliief Avhich was tied around 
 her neck, and the other putting back the chintz-hanging 
 from before the face. This appearance did not change so 
 speedily as the others, but vanished altogether -nheji Ha- 
 mond moaned in the excess of his debility. All the exer- 
 tions which he afterward made were insufficient to bring it 
 before his eyes. 
 
 On another occasion, when his disease approached its 
 crisis, the sound of his own guitar, coming, as it seemed to 
 hini, from a remote part of the building (an old pile almost 
 worn out in the service of the family fiom whom Ilamond'a 
 uncle had purchased the property) threw him back in ima- 
 ginaiion upon the days when he Iiad sat by Emily's harp, 
 to hear her sing those lines which he was fond of adapting 
 to the ancient music of his native country. While he 
 continued to indulge these recollections, her voice at length 
 came back upon his memory so clearly and sweetl\', though 
 still dreamil}- distant, that he was enabled to trace one song 
 (a little melody of the suautraighe, or sleepy mode, which 
 we arc told was formerly used by the natioucd bards to lull 
 the wearied warriors to rest in their chambers,) through all 
 its cadences. The words too sounded in his memory — ho 
 could almost fancy upon his ear. They were as folluvv : 
 
 I. 
 
 Sleep, that like the couched dove, 
 
 Broods o'er the weary eye, 
 Dreams, that with soft heavings move 
 
 The heart of memory — 
 
 10*
 
 226 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 Ijabour's guerdon, golden rest, 
 Wr-:ip thee in its downy vest ; 
 I'a'll like comfort on thy brain, 
 And sing the hush- song to thy paint 
 
 II. 
 
 Far from thee be startling fears, 
 
 And dreams the guilty dream ; 
 No banshee scare thy drowsy eara 
 
 With her ill-omened scream ; 
 But tones of fairy minstrelsy, 
 Float like the ghosts of sound o'er thePj 
 Soft as the chapel's distant bell, 
 And lull thee to a sweet farewell 1 
 
 III, 
 
 • Ye, for whom the ash.y hearth 
 
 The fearful housewife clears— 
 Te, whose tiny sounds of mirth 
 The 'nighted carman hears — 
 Ye, whose pigmy hammers make 
 The wonderers of the cottage wake — 
 Noiseless be your airy flight, 
 Silent as the still midnight. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Silent go, and harmless come, 
 
 Faires of the stream — 
 Ye, who love tlie winter gloom, 
 
 Or the gay moon-beam — 
 Hither bring your drowsy store, 
 Gather'd from the bright hismore; 
 Shake o'er his temples, soft and deep, 
 The comfort of the poor man's sleep. 
 
 Before the last stanza had faded on his ear, Hamoncl 
 v/as fallhig rajjidly into a shtmber as profound and sahi- 
 tary as that described by the melodist. The night passed 
 away before he woke, and when he did so, he found that 
 the usual salutary change had taken place iu his system. 
 
 " If you'd excuse me spaken to you, sir," said Minny to 
 him a few days after, when Hamond was able to sit up in 
 the bed and converse freely, " I have somethia to say that 
 I wouldn't witout your bidden."
 
 r" 
 
 THE HALF SIR. 227 
 
 *'Say on, Minnj," said Hamond, rather amusecl by the 
 tlioiightful manner in which slie prepared herself fur tlie 
 conversation, whatever it might be. 
 
 *' Why then, I will, sir, sence you desire me," said 
 Minny. Then seating herself by the bed-side, and turning 
 the tail of her cotton gown over her shoulders, she went 
 on. " You're as dear to me, Mr. Hamond, an' I think 
 worse of you than I do of my own a'most, for I nursed ye 
 both together, an' if I did, sure I was well rewarded for 
 it. But what's troublen me, sir, ever sence you tuk ill, is 
 to spake to you about goen to your duty, if it be long 
 sence you done it. You know. Master Hugh, dear, how 
 relHgious your family wor ever an' always — an' your poor 
 mother herself, heaven be merciful to her, was pious an' 
 good — so 'tis kind for you to look to yourself that way. 
 Forgi' me. Master Hugh, af I make too free, but I declare 
 it's lor your good I am, an' I couldn't rest in peace thinkcn 
 of it, while you wor so ill ; but now the Lord has giveu 
 you a safe deliverance, praise be to His holy name, an' you 
 ought to turn to Him and to thank Him, an' to think of 
 Him, and try an' make your peace witli Him for all you 
 ever doue, for I'm afeerd entirely, Master Hugh, that you 
 worn't Avitout goen astray an' neglecten Him in foreign 
 parts. Forgi' me. Master Hugh, if I'm maken too free." 
 
 Hamond, really affected by the tenderness and earnest- 
 ness of her manner, as well as by the uncouth way in 
 which she started a subject that had long lain dormant 
 •within his own bosom, thougli the blush of self-accusation 
 which rushed into iiis cheeks showed that its embers were 
 not extinguished, assured her wiih much warmth that 
 he felt grateful for the kind interest in his \\elfare which 
 her discourse manifested. 
 
 " I declare it makes my heart glad, sir, to see you so 
 willing, for there's always great hopes that way. Go on, 
 sir, an' with the blessing of heaven your bow will be greeu, 
 as they say, before long."
 
 228 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 " How do you mean, Minny?" 
 
 *' An old fable, sir, that they invented as a good morl 
 about a great penitent that was there long ago, but you're 
 too wake now to hear it." 
 
 " Not at all, IMinny. I feel quite strong since I took the 
 chicken broth. Say on, whatever it is." 
 
 Minny accordingly complied, and as her little tale fur- 
 nishes a good specimen of the naive ignorance and strength 
 of thought which are frequently combined in those legends, 
 we are tempted to transcribe it for the reader's information, 
 
 " A couple, Master Hugh, that had a son that used to 
 get his living ioft enough by stalen an' doen everything 
 that was endfffei ent* — an' his father an' mother could get 
 no good of him, for he bot 'em reg'lar when they talked 
 to him about his docns. Well, he went to the priest of 
 his parish coming on Aister, an' says he, among other 
 things, ' I bet my father an' mother,' says he, ' as often as 
 I have fingers and toes,' says he. The priest looked at 
 him, ' Have mercy on you, you unfo. tunate man,' says 
 the priest, ' how come you to do that ? Go now — for 
 I can't take you,'t says he, ' unt'l you get the Pope's api- 
 nion, an' accorden to the apinion he'll give of you, I'll take 
 you or not,' says the priest. AVell an' good, if he did, the 
 boy went an' told hi^ ftither au' mother, an' to be sure they 
 made a great lavaX about his goon to the Pope. Woll, 
 he got up airly next mornen before his breakfast, an' he set 
 off to the Pope, an' a long road he had to ti-avel before he 
 got there. When he did, an' when he set foot upon the 
 Pope's ground, Qviivy bit of it beg'n shaken onder him. 
 The Pope was sitten in his parlor the same time, an' he 
 kuuw be the ground shaken that it was some bad member 
 
 • Wicked. 
 
 f Receive you into the Church. The reader will find an expla- 
 nation of the practice alluded to by Miiiny in the Evidence on the 
 btate of Ireland before the late railiaiujulary Committee, 
 
 J Lamentation.
 
 THE HALF Silt. 229 
 
 •was comen to him. ' Jlun out,' says he to his servant, * an 
 see what poor cratnr is it that's comen to me,' says he. So 
 the servant done his bidden, an' see the boy comen along 
 the ground on his bare knees, an' he bronglit him before 
 the Pope. ' Erra, you poor creatur,' says the Pope, ' what's 
 the raison o' your comen that way to rae ?' says he. 'The 
 priest that sent me, plase your reverence,' says the boy, 
 ' to have your apinion o' me for bating my fatlier and 
 mother as often as I have fingers an' toes.' ' If you done 
 so,' says the Pope to liim again, ' you're in a bad way,' 
 says he, ' an' I can't give any apinion of you,' sa3-s lie, 
 ' ont'l you go to the wood an' get a withered tree an' go 
 an' stand Avith it in the middle of such a river,' says he, 
 ' an stay there ont'l your bough is green again,' says he. 
 ' murther,' says the boy, ' an' sure Pll be dead before 
 half that time,' says he. ' I can't help you,' says the Pope, 
 ' I can't give any apinion of you till you bring me the 
 withered tree again.' Well an' good, the boy went to the 
 wood, an' if he did he got a withered tree, an' went aa' 
 stud wit it in the middle of the river, waitcn till it would 
 get green with him. Well, one night, in the dead hour o' 
 the night, when he was standen there, two highwaymen 
 passed by, r.n' they driven a couple o' heifers before 'em. 
 So one of 'em see this boy a one side in the dark under the 
 withered tree. 'Who's there,' says he ? There was no 
 answer. Well, ' Who's there ?' says he again, ' or Fll put 
 the contents o' this through you,' says he, liften his gun. 
 ' Oh, go along wit you,' says the boy, '-an lave me alone,' 
 says he, 'to do my penance.' 'What harm is it you done?' 
 says the highwayman. ' I bet my father an' mother as 
 often as I have fingers and toes,' says he, an' so he up and 
 he told him uvurythen ; 'an' Pm waiten here now,' says 
 he, ' ont'l my buugh'll be green again,' says he. 'Murther 
 alive r says the highwayman, ' sure many's the time I bate 
 niy father,' says he, ' an' wor^e than that, 'says he ; ' an' 
 here,' turnen to the other highwayman, 'take thecows and
 
 230 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 the gun,' says he, ' for my heart is changed, an' I'll have 
 notlien to do wit you or your doens any more !' says he. 
 "Well an' good, he went to the wood, an' if he did, he got 
 a withered tree, an' he came an' stood by the boy. Well, 
 Master Hugh, in less than twenty-four hours after, the 
 highwayman's bough was gi-een, bekays he repented of his 
 own accord, when the grace of heaven came on him, an' 
 the other boy was there a twelvemonth before his tree was 
 green, when his penance was accepted au' he was free 
 again." 
 
 Although Hamond was not one of those estimable char- 
 acters who can find " sermons in stones, and good in every- 
 thing," (we request that this overworked apophthegm may 
 never he quoted again,) he found matter for deep reflection 
 in the quaint legend which Minny furnished him with, and 
 which evinced a deep-seated and delicate sense of religious 
 worth, a quality of which the poor peasantry are but little 
 suspected. Happily for Hamond, his conscience had not as 
 mucli to reproiich him with in act as in omission, and he 
 found the less difficulty in following up i\rmuy's suggestion 
 in the course of his convalescence. He found the immediate 
 benefit of the exertion in a return of an almost infantine 
 quietude and serenity of soul, which if it did not wholly and 
 in.stantly uproot the poisonous herbage which had overgrown 
 and overshadowed his spirit for many years, at least cut otf 
 the evil humours which fostered and encouraged it, and re- 
 lieved him from the responsibility of wilful spleen against 
 his fellows. 
 
 For several months after, Hamond continued, but in a 
 calmer manner than before his illness, to administer in every 
 way that his fortune (unencumbered though moderate) en- 
 abled liim to use to the comfort of his unhappy neighbours, 
 and had the sitisfaction of seeing the condition of all around 
 him daily assuming the appearance of contentment, and that 
 competence which constitutes the natural and legitiuiatc ex- 
 pectation of every member of the humbler classes, and tho
 
 THE HALF SIP. 231 
 
 StroDgtli of the entire country. He was not a little grieved 
 Eovertlieless, to find that the common prejudices of the peo- 
 ple, on the subject of high birth and family, ran, in direct 
 opposition to his own feelings, and that his services, gene- 
 rous and open-hearted as they were, lost something of their 
 influence on the minds of tliose on whom they were con- 
 ferred, by their recollection of his own humble origin, which 
 made him appear almost as one of themselves — a feeling 
 which on occasion they did not hesitate to express. This, 
 however, was among the least of the many mortifications 
 which poor Hamond had experienced in the course of his 
 life, and he made up his mind to endure it without much dif- 
 ficulty. Neither was his affliction extreme at finding the 
 usual ceremonial which a stranger or abstntec looks for on 
 his return from a long absence, or his occupation of a new 
 residence, negkcted by the gentry, in his neighbourhood. 
 Nobody visited him, but that was not the cause for which 
 Lis heart was pining. 
 
 He might, nevertheless, have worn out in peace the re- 
 mainder of his life (now faUing a little into the "yellow leaf,") 
 if it were not for an unexpected iticidcnt which intruded 
 fiercely upon his solitude, and brought back all his miseries 
 upon his heart in greater force than ever. 
 
 He was sitting in his apartment in the afternoon of a 
 cool November day, musing over the turf fire, which the al- 
 ready sharp frosts rendered agreeable, when lleuimy entered 
 the room, with a face of unusual mystery and importance, 
 to say that a strange gentleman was below, who wished to 
 see Mr. Hamond. "J\Ir. Hunter he says his name is, 
 sir," Remmy added, and then speaking in a whisper, and 
 ■with a face of deep v.isdom — "Tis the very Scutchmnn, 
 sir, that I caught his horse when he tuk head at the llock 
 O' Foynes." 
 
 Hamond remembered the name, as that of the gentle- 
 man to whom Emily's friend Martha O'Brien was betrothed 
 when he vv'as in Dublin, although that gentleman being then
 
 232 TIIK HALF SIR. 
 
 in Lis native country, Ilamoud liad no opportnnhy of know- 
 ing him personally. The sudden appearance of a person, 
 even thus distantly connected with the history of that un- 
 happy period of his life, agitated him in no inconsiderable 
 degree. It was some time before he could command him- 
 self snfficicutly to bid Remmy show him up stairs. 
 
 Mr. Hunter introduced himself in a gentlemanly modest 
 way ; referred with a delicacy, at which even Hamond's 
 critically sensitive heart could not take exception, to the 
 
 circumstances Vidiich seemed to warrant him in seekin^i Ha- 
 ft • • - 
 mond s acquaintance ; and apologised for having so long de- 
 ferred his visit, the interval having been wholly occupied by 
 the efforts which he had made to discover the fellow who 
 had fired on him from the rock. 
 
 " I have caught the ruffian at last," said he, " though 
 that very circumstance only renders my own chance of 
 safety from similar attempts the more questionable. This, 
 however, is but a very insignificant episode, in the dark 
 and bloody history of the fearful and silent system of re- 
 bellion which is fast spreading through the country. I am 
 looked to with a peculiar dishke, as I happen to be one of 
 those who exclaimed against the immortal pusillanimity of 
 the Round Robin, which was signed by the magistrates of 
 this county, at the beginning of the disturbances." 
 
 " Indeed, I heard of that abroad," said Ilamond, " and 
 blushed for my native Limerick," 
 
 *' 'T« ill never be done again," replied Mr. Hunter — " and 
 it was then rather the result of indolence than actual fear. 
 However, peace be with, politics ! let us talk of something 
 else. You have some iine paintings there." 
 
 " A few," oald Haniond. 
 
 " That is a good copy of Poussin, only (if my memory 
 serve me light,) a liltle inorc 2^(iperi/ than tlie original." 
 
 ** I have heard it said (fur I am no critic myself,) that 
 that was a general fault of poor Larry's colouring. You 
 see I am a patriot in n.y pictures."
 
 TUE HALF SIR. 233 
 
 " All fair, sir, all fair. I like Barry myself. But if you're 
 fond of historical paintings, I sliould recommend you to look 
 at some of Allen's. Ah, sir, that will be a brilliant fellow 
 — you'll see." 
 
 Hamond, while he could not avoid smilinr; at this piece 
 of nationality in his northern friend, promised to avail him- 
 self of his suggestion, ou the iirst opportunity. 
 
 " That is a bonnebouche over which you have the green 
 curtain drawn," said Hunter. 
 
 " Only a porh-ait," said Hamond, in a careless tone, 
 blushing deep crimson at the same time. 
 
 "Now that you talk of portraits, sir," said Hunter, sud- 
 denly recollecting himself — "you remind me of a commission 
 which my wife gave me, when she knew I was coming to 
 see you. Tiiere is a cousin of hers lodging in your neigh- 
 bourhood, at Mr. Falahee's, a Miss O'Brien " 
 
 " I have heard of her," said Hamond, " but I had no 
 suspicion that she was a relative of Mrs. Hunter's. Even 
 the identity of the names had escaped my recollection. She 
 had a fever lately, I believe ?" 
 
 " She had — almost immediately after your convalescncc. 
 It was a most extraordinary circumstance how she could 
 have taken the contagion, for though she was attentive to 
 the people about her, she never went in danger &f the dis- 
 ease. However, she has, it seems got some message for 
 you, which she longs to deliver in person." 
 
 "From from whom?" Hamond asked, hesita- 
 tingly. 
 
 *' From a friend of ours, with whom she spent a consi- 
 derable time on the continent. Excuse me, my dear sii'," 
 he added, laying his hand on Hamond's arm, as he observed 
 his head droop suddenly, and his cheek whiten — " I am 
 intruding strangely on matters of so deep an interest to 
 you, but I am a mere agent — yet no colJ one either." 
 
 " Pray, do not use ceremony with me," said Hamond, 
 still treiiibliug with an agitation which he could not com-
 
 234 TEE HALF SIR. 
 
 mancl. "Talk of Lady Emily and licr frieiKl, as yon would 
 of indifferent persons. My heart is interested in what you 
 said, rather from a long and bad habit in which I indulged 
 it, than from the positive existence of any strong feeling, 
 one way or another." 
 
 "Since you permit me to use the privilege of an old ac- 
 quaintance already," said Hunter, "I will tell you that 
 Lady Emily, after the death of her husband, of which you 
 must have heard" (Hamond bowed) — "expressed in a letter 
 which she wrote to my wife, a strong wish to see you — in 
 order to explain some mistake, which had at the first occa- 
 sioned the misunderstanding that led to your separation. 
 That wish she again expressed, more recently, to our friend 
 Miss O'Brien." 
 
 "I understand you," said Hamond, with firmness, "but 
 my answer to this is brief. When Lady Emily rf-jectcd 
 me, and married another, she exercised a deliberate judg- 
 ment, and I did not seek to obtrude my vexed and disap- 
 pointed feelings upon her. I forgive her sincerely — fully 
 — but I never will — never can, see or speak to her." 
 
 "And yet you forgive her! Ah, my dear friend, that 
 is not the language of forgiveness. It is not the forgive- 
 ness which is required from us, in return for the pardon 
 which we all need for our own transgressions. How would 
 you feel, if when you solicited that pardon from the Being 
 Avliom all oflend, more or less, the answer returned from 
 the seat of mercy, were, ' I forgive you — but I never w ill 
 gee you — leave my paradise for ever.' " 
 
 " Your rebuke is just, Mr. Hunter — but admittin;; that 
 it is so, of what use could it be to renew an acquaintance 
 that would ordy bring back intolerable recollections to both 
 parties ? Our hearts and our persons are both changed now. 
 I suppose I should scarcely know Emily, nor be known by 
 her. For myself, I am conscious that the world and my 
 own — ill temper, perliaps — have altered me strangely ; and 
 wiiere Emily might expect to find some remains of the warm
 
 THE HALF SIB. 23.5 
 
 and enthusiastic nature that she once said she loved, sho 
 would ouly be shocked to meet a dark and murose temper, 
 a furrowed cheek, and broken spirit in her old love. Let 
 us not meet, then, to give pain to each other. We are not 
 very fiir, perhaps, from the close of all our anxieties ; let 
 us then steal quietly from the world. Let us not vex the 
 fallen evening of our days (since fate has made us huriy 
 through our noon) with siorras which are ouly the right of 
 youth and youthful passion." 
 
 " If you knew the circumstances under which she ex- 
 pressed her wishes." said Hunter gravely, " it would not be 
 so difficult to prevail on you." 
 
 Hamond looked keenly into his eyes. " You are aware," 
 the other continued, " that her health bad been sullering 
 for many years ?" 
 
 Ever ready to anticipate the most gloomy posture of 
 affairs, Hamond now listened with a suspense approaching 
 to agony. Hunter too seemed to pause, as if attected by 
 some unusual emotion. 
 
 "The fact is," he resumed, " part of my conimission is 
 conditional ; and as I have the liberty of reserving it to 
 myself, in case you should consent to come and see us, I 
 am anxious to prevail on you — for it is of a nature that I 
 had rather trust to other lips than — " Hamund here in- 
 terrujited him. 
 
 " if all this, Mr. Hunter," said he, speaking in a hoarse 
 low voice, and almost sinking with apprehension — "if this 
 has been only a preparation to let me know that Emily 
 
 Bury is that the worst possible calamity in this world 
 
 has befallen me — it would be better, perhaps, that the con- 
 versation should rest here." 
 
 " I will only confine myself to my commission," said Hun- 
 ter. " Our c.jusin has a message for you." 
 
 " I understand," saiil Hamond, endeavouring to command 
 liimifU while he gazed on the other with an absent and
 
 233 THE H.VLF SIR. 
 
 dreadfully ghastly eye. " I thank you, ]Mr. Hunter — you 
 have uiscbarged your part well and feelingly." 
 
 " I will not leave until you promise to meet ]\Iiss O'Brien 
 at our place." 
 
 " I will, I will, but not now — 0, not now." 
 
 " In the next month then ?" 
 
 " Ue it so," said llamond, rushing out of the room. 
 
 " Poor fellow !" exclaimed Hunter, as he rode away, " it 
 will be a long lime to keep him in pain — but the women 
 will allow nobody to meddle with matters of this kind but 
 themselves," 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 If thou be'est dead, why dost thy shadow fright me ? 
 Sure 'tis because 1 live; were I but certain 
 To meet tliee in cue grave, and that our dust 
 Jlight have the privilege to mix in silence — 
 How quickly should my soul shake otl' this burthen ? 
 
 ■ — The yiyht Walher. 
 
 "\Ye now find ourselves in the position in which our tale com- 
 menced, when, as the reader may remember, we left Mr. 
 Charles Lane seated at Mr. Falahee's fireside, and expect- 
 ing the entrance of their fair lodger. In a few minutes the 
 lady made her appearance, prepared for the excursion which 
 she meditated, and in a very few more, she and Mr. Lane 
 were on the road leading to the house of JMr. Hunter, where 
 she proposed spending the remainder of the day. 
 
 Whether it was that the lady did not feel pleased with 
 her company, or that she had some secret cause for anxiety, 
 her young squire observed tliat she was more, far more 
 tiian usually meditative after they left the house — so much 
 so. as on two or three occasiins to have paid no attention 
 to ohtervatiovis which caused him no slight degree of htboui 
 lu coiicociing. Tbcy rode by Knock Patrick (a hill which
 
 THE HALF SIR. 237 
 
 is said to rise by a gradual ascent from Dublin), and he 
 pointed out to her with his switch the chair of roiiga 
 stones, near the ruined church, in which the great patroii, 
 Saint Patrick, had rested, after his apostolic toils, iuclud* 
 ing all the western district, in one general benediction — 
 he showed her the well at which the holy man had nearly 
 escaped poisoning, and related at full length the legend ot 
 the Munster Dido, the foundress of Slianet Castle, a sin- 
 gular and striking fortification, which occupied the whole 
 summit of a craggy hillock towards the south. But all 
 his eloquence was in vain. Miss O'Brien said " no" when 
 he expected her to say "yes," laughed ^hcn she ought 
 to have been shocked, and used an exclamation of really 
 appropiiate horror or compassion, when politeness should 
 have made her laugh at some piece of barbarous joke- 
 slaughter. He was perfectly satisfied, nevertheless, that 
 this inattention could not be the result of pride in Miss 
 O'Brien ; for though she was no fiivourite of his, he always 
 remarked an almost too acute anxiety in her manner to 
 avoid the slightest possibility of giving pain by any as- 
 sumption of superiority. Indeed, she sometimes carried 
 her condescension to an extent that young Lane would 
 have thought a step too low for himself, and was very 
 cartful to observe and acknowledge, with the ready sweet- 
 ness which is so peculiar to high rank and intellect, the 
 homely courtesies of the poorest peasants that passed her 
 on the road. Mr. Lane, too, was quicksighled enough 
 (although he was a kind of blockhead in his own way) to 
 perceive that this eager humility was an assumed or en- 
 grafted portion of the lady's character, and that her natu- 
 ral temper was directly opposite to it. 
 
 They parted, at length, at IMr. Hunter's door (the young 
 gentleman not half satisfied with the impression he had been 
 able to make of his own cleverness on the lady's mind), 
 and Miss O'Brien entered the house of her friend. Tha 
 lady of the house was alone in her drawing-room.
 
 
 338 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 ""Welcom-e, a thousand, and a hundred thousnnd Irish 
 welcomes, my own dnrliiig friend," she exclaimed affec- 
 tionately, as Miss O'Brien entered. The latter endeav- 
 oured to speak, l)ut could only fling her arms about 
 Martha's neck, and weep loudly and l)itterly. 
 
 " Is he come ?" she at length asked, in deep agitation. 
 
 " IS'ot yet — but we expect him every hour. He 
 renewed his promise most earnestly yesterday evening." 
 
 " Oh Martha, I fear I have miscalculated my lirmness. 
 I could tind it in my heart to turn back this moment, and 
 run into some secret place, and die at once, and in silence. 
 My heart shudders when I think of what I have under- 
 taken." 
 
 " Ah, now, what weakness this is, my dear friend ! — 
 'Tis but an hour's exertion, and consider what jicace of 
 mind it will purchase you. For the sake of my poor friend 
 llamond too, I would advise yon to sacrifice your own 
 feelings as much as possible. Do, now, love !" 
 
 " I will, Martha — but I fear — I know how he must 
 feel. However, I will try to exert myself." 
 
 They remained silent for a few minutes, Martlia Hun- 
 ter (we take tiie liberty of retaining the familiar appel- 
 lation of her youthful days) holding Miss O'Brien's hand 
 between both hers, an.d turning towards her a face which 
 was filled with the s^veetest interest in the world — a face 
 in which the sedateness of the mother and the wife had 
 not, in the slightest degree, overshadowed the beaming 
 affection of the srirlish enthusiast — a face as clear, open, 
 and sereue as a summer forenoon, which had never felt 
 any stormier changes than that with which it was now 
 gently clouded — the grief of ready sympathy for a dear 
 Iriend's woe. But Martha had passed tlirough life with- 
 out a care or disappointment of any serious khid. — She 
 was born to a moderate fortune — slie met a young gen- 
 lleman whom she liked for a husband, and she married 
 liitu --shti longed for children, and she had them — t:vo fine
 
 THE HALF SIR. 239 
 
 boys — then she wished for a girl, nnd a girl appears — 
 every thing, in fact, had run on so liniberly with her, thsit 
 if it were not for some rogue's tearing down her garden 
 fences on one occasion for firing — and that the drawing- 
 room window was three inches too high to enable her to 
 see the Shaiuiou from the sofa, she might be said to be a 
 happy woman. 
 
 To jndge. however, from the appearance of the lady 
 who sat next her, the reader, though he has yet heard lit- 
 tle of her personal history, had not, hitherto, been in any 
 great danger of pining from an access of good fortune, 
 like the merry Widow of Cornhill. The autumn of a once 
 brilliant beauty yet lingered in her face and form — but it 
 had that air of sudden and untimely change, which shew- 
 ed as if the causes of its gentle decay had been accidentid 
 rather than natural. The contrast in the expression and 
 appearance of both countenances was such as a painter, 
 fond of lingering on the pictures of female lovlin-ess and 
 interest, might have seen with a delighted eye. 
 
 While both remained thus silent and motionless, in- 
 dulging the long caress in the mute intelligence of old 
 affection, they were suddenly startled by a knock at the 
 hall door, INIiss O'Brien rose from her seat. 
 
 " Do not be alarmed," said Mrs. Hunter, " perhaps 
 'tis only Hunter." 
 
 "Oh, it is he, Martha — the very knock — that hesita- 
 ,ting knock— how often has my heart bounded to it ! — 
 but 'tis over- — All is over now !" 
 
 " Be comforted, I entreat you." 
 
 "They have opened the door," Miss O'Brien added, 
 grasping Martha's arm hard, and putting back the curls 
 from her ear—" I hear him — stop! hush! — " she listened 
 and bent forward in nu agony of attention — " 'Tis — 'tis he 
 — that voice— though more sori'owful in its tone — Oh, 
 Martha, I can never do it ! Oh hide me, my dear friend, 
 cover me — let me fly any where rather than meet him !"
 
 240 THE HALF SIB. 
 
 •■'My darling — ah, my own darling, take courage," Mar- 
 tha exclaimed, flinging her arms around the neck of her 
 trembling friend, and mingling her tears and caresses. 
 "Will you give all up now, after whole yeai's wasted in 
 preparation. What will Hunter say to you," she added 
 cheei fully, " after the great fib you made him tell ?" 
 
 " There again, Martha — what if he should revolt from 
 that crud deceit ! He will do so — I am sure — and the 
 breacli will be made wider than ever." 
 
 " How can you think so hardly of him ? Have you no 
 claims, then? Am I not your confidant, and do I not know 
 your secret services, your kind anxieties, and your long 
 suffering last summer in consequence ?" 
 
 This last reflection seemed to inspire the trembling lady 
 V ith a greater portion of confidence than she had hitherto 
 felt, and she followed Martlia to her dressing-room in some 
 degree of composure, where her fair friend disencumbered 
 her, with her own hands, of her riding-dress, and the Leg- 
 horn hat with silk handkerchief plainly tied over and fas- 
 tened underneath the chin, which formed the then popular, 
 and, to our taste, graceful substitute for the round hat com- 
 monly used. 
 
 We will leave the ladies to prepare, as well as they may, 
 {nr this meeting (which seems to be such a tenible affair, 
 whatever the reason of it is), while we return once more to 
 Castle Hanioud, the proprietor of which was preparing with 
 no less anxiety for the promised interview with the last 
 friend of liis once loved Emily — his first and last affection. 
 This true lover had led a wretched life from the day of Mr. 
 Hunter's visit; and all the exertions of his religimis and 
 philosophical mind were insuthcient to suppress the rebel- 
 lious sorrow that laboui-ed at his heart. The change that 
 had taken place in his [lerson, as well as in his mind, may, 
 however, be most easily indicated, by introducing the reader 
 into his apartment, as it appeared when Remmy O'Lone
 
 THE HALF SIR. 241 
 
 entered it, kettle in hand, on the morning of this very day 
 a few hours after the Wren-boys had departed. 
 
 Hamond was then seated at his solitary breakfast-table, 
 in the same dress which we have seen him wear on board 
 the hooker — a blue frieze jacket and trousers, with a black 
 silk handkerchief tied loosely about his neck — his hand 
 clenched fast, and supporting his forehead, as he leaned 
 upon the table. He suffered Renimy to make the tea, lay 
 the toast, and go through all the necessary preparations, 
 without seeming to be once conscious of his presence. 
 When he raised his head, at length, in order to answer a 
 question put by the latter, the appearance of his countenance 
 was such as made Remmy start and gape with horror. His 
 eyes had sunk deep in their sockets, while the lids were red, 
 and the balls sullen and bloodshot — his lean and rather 
 furrowed cheeks had assumed the pallid yellowness of death 
 — his forehead and temples were shrivelled, dry, and bony, 
 his hair sapless and staring, like that of a man wasted by 
 disease — his lips chipped and dragged — and altogether an 
 air of desolation and anxiety about him, which nothing less 
 than a luxurious indulgence of long sorrow could have pro- 
 duced. His voice, as he spoke to Remmy, was rough, 
 harsh, and husky, and the sharpness and suddenness of his 
 manner showed as if his mind were in some degree shaken 
 by the continuance of painful and laborious reflection. 
 
 " 1 will imlk there," he said in reply to Remmy's ques- 
 tion. *' Leave me now, and do not come until I send for 
 you." 
 
 Remmy left the room. 
 
 " Yes !" said Hamond, starting up from the table and 
 making the door fast. *' I will meet this envoy. A dying 
 message — or dying gift, perhaps. No matter! Inhuman 
 as she was, I can't forget that I have loved her — and her 
 last thought and her last present will be dear to me, for 
 they can never change. Oh, Emily, why did you wrong 
 yourself and me so foully ? W^hen all the world left you 
 11
 
 242 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 — when you were lying on your tloath-bed in a foreign 
 land, did you remember old times ? did you think of Ha- 
 mond and his injuries with regret ? and if so, why was I 
 not apprised of your repeutauce ? why was I not kneeling 
 at your bed-side, to comfort the spirit that I loved with 
 the words of forgiveness and afFtction ? But no !" ho 
 added, stamping his foot against the floor, and setting his 
 teeth hard in a sterner mood — " Lot me not fool my nature. 
 She died the death she earned for herself — the death of the 
 proud and the high-hearted. Let me rather rejoice that it 
 is so — for in her grave alone could she become again the 
 object of Hamond's love. I could not tell her, living, as 
 I now tell her dead, that her image is still treasured among 
 the dearest memories of my heart — that Emily Bury, the 
 young, the gay, the tender, and the gentle, is still the queen 
 of that blank and desolate region. " My heart is worn, 
 Emily," he went on, raising his outstretched arms as if in 
 invocation of some listening spirit — "its atfections are 
 grown cold — its passions, all but this undying one, are 
 blasted and numbed within their dens, its earthly hopes are 
 withered, and all its sources of enjoyment broken up — yet 
 even there you have not ceased to govern. The interval 
 of many years of gloom has not yet bani.-^hed from its de- 
 serted chambers the influence of your sunny smiles — the 
 echo of that voice that poured comfort on it v/Iicn it was 
 wounded and torn by the haughty insolence of the worth- 
 less world around you, still lingers on its fibres, and tem- 
 pers the dreary voice of memory with a tone of sweetness 
 that time and sorrow can never utterly destroy." 
 
 After paciug his chamber in silence for a few minutes, 
 he would again stop suddenly, and with a look of absence 
 and wond'jr, ask himself whether the events, that had 
 lately chr quered the sulenin monotony of his lonely lilc with 
 a shade of still darker feeling, were indeed all real. Dead ! 
 Emily Bury dead ! Was there actually an end of all 
 hope? Had the world lost her for ever.'' Should ha
 
 THE HALF SIR. 243 
 
 never indeed see her on enrth '(gain ? She was cold — dead 
 — coffined — the earth was over her — the heavy grave-stone 
 was pressing on her hght and fragile form. She was gone 
 from him for ever and over ! 
 
 " It is past and done," said he, " and all that remains 
 to me is to master as I may the disquietude of my own 
 heart. This high-born friend of hers would probe and 
 humble me — she would try me with a tale of deep interest. 
 She shall fail. I will hear her message, and take her 
 death-gift with a stony eye and an unmoved demeanour. 
 I will show her, that it is not in the power of the proud to 
 subdue the will of all whom they hold within their influence. 
 My heart may burst within me while she speaks, but my 
 eye and tongue shall tell no tales. I will be cold as mar- 
 ble — cold as Emily was — is — cold as my own heavy heart 
 — as the grave-stone that divides us." 
 
 Having fortified his spirits in this resolution, he rose 
 from his untasted breakfast, and with few preparations of 
 the toilet, took his way over the fields to Mr. Hunter's re- 
 sidence. 
 
 It was nearly dusk when he arrived there. Mr. Hunter 
 V as not yet returned from a neighbouring court of petty 
 sessions, where he had spent the day ; and a peeler, in un- 
 dress, who opened the door to Mr. Hamond, went to inform the 
 lady of the house of his arrival, while he entered a neat par- 
 lour on the ground floor, which was made " a double debt 
 to pay," — a kind of study and sitting-room. Here he sat, 
 endeavouring to put on a hardness, and even roughness of 
 demeanour, than which nothing could be more foreign to 
 his character. 
 
 His agitation, however, returned upon him with a sud- 
 den force when he heard the rustling of female dresses in 
 the hall outside. There was a pause of several seconds 
 when they approached the door, and Hamond coidd hear 
 some whispered words of encouragement, answered by a 
 short sigh. The door at length opened, and two ladies
 
 24:4 THE HALF SIH. 
 
 entered. The liglit was not strong enough to enable Ha- 
 mond to distinguish the countenances of both as perfectly 
 as he might have wished ; but he had not much difficulty 
 in recognising tlie sweet-tempered companion of Emily 
 Bury. Prepared as he was to act the stoic, he could not 
 resist the winning kindness of her manner, when she 
 walked towards him, and held out her hand with a smile of 
 real gladness. There are some people in the world whose 
 whole existence appears to be composed of acts, thoughts, 
 and wishes of benevolence, and whose happiness is made 
 up of the joys which they are able to confer on others re- 
 flected back upon their own hearts. Their very manner 
 informs you that your presence gives them pleasure — that 
 your happiness is sincerely desired by them — their smiles 
 are too sweet and kind for mere acting — and the very tone 
 of their voice seems as if it were turned to please your ear. 
 In no country in the world do warm and jcent^rous natures 
 of this kind abound more than in Ireland, smd in no part of 
 Ireland could one individual be found more highly gifted 
 with it than Martha Hunter. Hamond felt his heart soften 
 within him when she gave him her hand and inquired with 
 an interest, which he saw was not assumed, for his health 
 and the circumstances of his present life. 
 
 *' But I must not be so selfish, Mr. Hamond," said she, 
 turning towards the other lady, "as to gratify my own 
 anxiety while yours remains yet unsatisfied. Another time 
 you shall tell your old friend Martha, all that has happened 
 to you since our last meeting. Here is my friend, jMiss 
 O'Brien, who has news for you that you are more eager to 
 hear. You have seen the lady before now at a distance, 
 she tells me — " Then in a low w'lce to her fair friend, as 
 she felt her hand grow cold aad tremble within her grasp — 
 "For shame, darling, will you not be firm yet? Consider 
 all that depends upon it." 
 
 Hamond bowed to Miss O'Brien. *'' I have had the plea- 
 Burc of hearing Miss O'Brien's name frequently mentioned
 
 THE HALF SIR. 245 
 
 in a way that was most honourable to herself — and I believe 
 I can guess at the occasion to which Mrs. Hunter alludes. My 
 servant was enthusiastic in his description of Miss O'Brien's 
 heroism on that occasion." 
 
 "Oh, she is quite a little warrior, sir," said Mrs. Hunter, 
 " but apropos of warriors, I think I hear one of my young 
 rogues beating his drum a note too loud in the meadow. 
 My absence too may relieve me from some degree of un- 
 welcome feeling. Make acquaintance then as soon as you 
 can, for I can tell you, Mr. Hamond, this lady is worth 
 your knowing. Courage," she again added, sotto voce, to 
 Miss O'Brien, as she passed her. "Was not that well thrown 
 out ? I will take care that nobody shall disturb you, or re- 
 main within hearing." 
 
 A pause of some embarrassment to the lady and gentle- 
 man took place when Martha left the room. The former, 
 however, feeling the necessity for exertion, stimulated by 
 the pressing nature of the occasion into something like self- 
 command, and at once throwing off all mere weakness, as- 
 sumed, in a few moments, an easy and natural carriage, 
 while Hamond, remembering his own resohition, returned 
 ouco more to his cold and darkly morose demeanour. 
 
 "^ly friend, Mr. Hunter, has made you aware, I believe, 
 of the occasion wliicli induced me to request the favour of 
 this interview," said Miss O'Brien, at length. 
 
 "He has," said Hamond, calmly, "and has relieved you 
 in some degree from what must have been a painful under- 
 taking to one of so benevolent a disposition as I know Miss 
 
 O'Brien to possess. You were the friend of Lady E 
 
 on the Continent ?" 
 
 "Pray do nut call her by that name," said Miss O'Brien. 
 "She had reason to be weary of it herstlf — and in my ears 
 I am sure it is an ungrateful sound. Let us speak of her 
 as Emily Bury, for it was only while she bore that namo 
 that I could ever esteem or love her." 
 
 " Yet you were her friend long afterward, I understand."
 
 246 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 "Fiienrlslnp is l3ut liglitly grounded that will grow cold 
 at sight of a friend's error, particularly if that error should 
 be followed by a punishment so severe as liers. You thought 
 her beautiful once, Mr. Hamond, but you would have been 
 shocked to see the startling havoc that nine years of sorrow 
 and of sickness had made with her loveliness, before I left 
 France. This trinket was hers," Miss O'Brien continueJ, 
 handing him a small miniature set in gold. "It is the same 
 which you returned her on the morning of your departure 
 from Dublin, though some circumstances prevented its reach- 
 ing her hands for a long time after. She wished that you 
 would take it once more, as a token that you forgot and 
 forgave. Look — that discolouring on the gold was made 
 by her own tears. Does not that touch him ?" she added 
 to herself, as he took the miniature coldly, and without look- 
 ng on it plaCL'd it in his bosom. 
 
 " I have long since taught myself to consider the one as 
 my duty," said Ilamond. " For the other — but, pray, let 
 us pass to another subject. E nily and I have had but a 
 hard life here. Her sufferings, I hope, are ended — and mine 
 shall not be tamely fostered. I have long since discovered 
 the secret of my own mistaken hope — and found the cure 
 too. I have entrenched myself iu this hill solitude, where 
 I once more breathe the air of content and freedom, I hang 
 my peace upon the humour of no high-born coquette. (Vou 
 will forgive me for having learned to speak coarsely). I 
 watch no beck. I court no smile. My heart does not, as 
 it once did, start, like a coward's, at every sudden footfall. 
 I walk, or write, or read the whole day long, or else sit at 
 ease by my turf fire, and think what a happy man Adam 
 might have b^cn, if it were not fur the rib he lost in para- 
 dise." 
 
 " Yet," said Miss O'Brien, entering freely into the spirit 
 of Hamond's tlioughts, though she could have dispensed 
 with the politeness of the last sneer, "if it be fear that in- 
 duces you to turn anchoret, there is but little merit in thi^
 
 THE HALF SIR. 247 
 
 Parthian warfare. The world — the busy world has joys for 
 the deserving as well as for the ingrate and the proud one. 
 Why should we leave them the undivided enjoyment of those 
 pleasures, when we might meet and share them in calm and 
 steady defiance ?" 
 
 " You should be wiser," replied Hamond, shaking his 
 head. " You will forgive my saying that you are an enomy 
 ■v^ho must be fled — not fought with. In our strife with ynu 
 we must keep our hearts out of eye-shot. You make our 
 ears the traitors to our peace — for there is a seductive and 
 over^^ helming grace in the very music of your accents. 
 What ? Defy you ? Ah, no — I thought that once, and my 
 heart bled for it — and all that remains to me, as you per- 
 ceive, is to use the privilege of a beaten gamester — to revile 
 and tax you with false play." 
 
 " I do not know, Mr. Hamond, whether I am to take 
 ■what you said as flattery or the contrary, but it has a strange 
 mixture of both," said Miss O'Brien, who felt really a little 
 piqued by the bitter virulence of his manner. " You say, 
 you were 07ice mistaken ? Would ycu think," she continued 
 more playfully, " that a general did his duty who would 
 change his whole plan of warfare after one defeat? That 
 is a brief experience. Besides, is it not possible that the 
 hermit in his silent solitude, might sustain as painful a con- 
 test with the memory of the world as those who live in the 
 midst of allurements with its real dangers ? Does he not 
 buy his safety with an enduring sameness of regret that 
 makes those dangers look almost amiable in the corapaiison? 
 Are there not moments of intolerable reflection, when con- 
 templation puts on even a stormier hue than action itself, 
 when the brain is almost torn asunder by the violence of 
 its own thoughts, and the heart is oppressed almost to break- 
 ing with the memory of past social happiness, and the 
 sense of present loneliness. Must you not sometimes sit 
 down ;ind think on the hopes you once cherished — the vain 
 and f Jed visions that made youth so sweet — the stirring
 
 248 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 ambition, that even the apathy ofsedusion cannot suhdiie? 
 Oh, I, fur my own part, should fear the soHtude that was 
 peopled by my own memory — the silence that my own 
 gloomy fancy filled with sounds long loved and lost for ever, 
 far more than all the mischief that the laughing world in its 
 worst malice could inflict upon me. I am no speculator in 
 human nature," she added, reigning in the flowing torrent 
 of enthusiasm into which she had been betrayed, and speak- 
 ing in an humble voice — " but if I have erred, your expe- 
 rience will set me right." 
 
 " So far from it," said Hamond, who was much struck 
 with the manner of his fair companion — "you liave told 
 me secrets of myself, which surprise and startle me." 
 
 A pause here occurred — when Hamond, who already 
 began to feel strongly prepossessed in flivour of the lady's 
 frankness and ready cordiality, petitioned for an ample de- 
 tail of the circumstances of Lady Emily's life on the Conti- 
 nent, which was given with little hesitation. The conver- 
 sation, as it had been long, now grew perfectly familiar, and 
 the lady and gentleman talked as if they had been old ac- 
 quaintances. The former, at length, ventured to become 
 inquisitive in her turn. 
 
 " Pardon me,*" said the lady, "if I am intrusive. But 
 you have already given me half a confidence, and it is ou 
 that I would presume." 
 
 " You will show me a kindness," said Hamond, " if you 
 use no ceremony. Pray, speak freely." 
 
 "I know the cause of your retirement," said Miss O'Brien, 
 after once more holding her peace for a few minutes. "Yet, 
 if I should judge by the demeanour of Emily, and by my 
 own heart, I should say that your state was far happier 
 than hers who wronged you." 
 
 " Why should you think it ?" 
 
 " I have played her pnrt — and met her fiate. Ay, I soe," 
 said she, as Hamond almost involuutaiily moved his chair 
 farther from her — " I see that I have already by this single
 
 THE HALF SIR. 249 
 
 avowal forfeited the little interest which you have taken in 
 my history. I am hateful in my own eyes, and must be so 
 to all who know my guile, and who cannot know my peni- 
 tence." 
 
 " I beg pardon," said Hamond, " I hope — I — have no 
 reason to form a judgment. Played her part?" 
 
 " A prouder, viler part than hera appears to you." 
 
 " It cannot be !" he said, with a vehemence that made 
 her start. " You have uot broken plight — you have not 
 given your promise to one, and your hand to another. 
 Played Emily's part ! You have not deceived, decoyed, 
 duped, and blasted the heart that loved you — that lay for 
 years at your feet in slavish fondness. You have not acted 
 
 thus. You are not a fiend, a demon — a pardon me !" 
 
 he added, suddenly arresting the loudness of his passion, 
 as Miss O'Brien covered her face with her hands,, and shrank 
 back in her chair. " The violence of my recollections com- 
 pels me to throw aside the decorum that is due from me. 
 I did not remember that you were her friend." 
 
 " Oh, sir," said the lady, " this is the very least that I 
 deserve. 1 wish not to preserve a mis^jlaced respect. My 
 conscience is so galled with the burning weight of my 
 eriors — crimes I should call them — that I feel a dreadful 
 luxury in avowing them, even though positive contempt 
 and detestation must be the consequence. Hear me, I en- 
 treat you. Since vow have learned enough to hate me, let 
 me tell yon all. For you can serve me well. You know 
 he person I have injured." 
 
 Hamond resumed his chair in an attitude half irresolute, 
 half attentive, while the lady, retiring still farther into the 
 s'.i.idow thrown by the window curtains on the already 
 d rnening apartment, spoke in a tone of deep agitation. 
 
 " I was baund, as Emily was, to a young gentleman 
 
 wliom you know, and who, I believe, sincerely loved me. 
 
 tie was handsome, witty, accomplished, elegant in mind 
 
 and mauuer — ^passionate, and young — but lowly boru— at 
 
 11*
 
 250 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 least It seemi-d so, compniing both our fortunes. Indeed^ 
 I may truly sav, that iove never was deeper than his fof 
 me " 
 
 "Pardon me once more," said Haraond, rising impatiently, 
 " I cannot ahv ays govern myself. This is not a tale for 
 ears like mine, that are wearied with the sounds of false- 
 hood." 
 
 " You will not treat me so unfairly," said Miss O'Brien, 
 using a gentle action to detain him in the chair. " Hear 
 all that I would say. I wish not to escape your just re- 
 proaches, if you should find me worthy of them." 
 
 Hamond, chafing under the restraint, returned to his 
 seat, while Miss O'Brien continued. "We were betrothed 
 — bound by a registered contract, and still more by the in- 
 telligence that subsisted between our hearts — but yet, united 
 as we were by anticipation, it wys my hourl} sport to play 
 upon his sensitive nature — to awake his jealousy — to see 
 him watch me with an anxious glance through the whirl of 
 the ball and rout, Avhere I had smiles and quips for all but 
 him — and pretty sentences strung up like pearls for every 
 ear but his — " 
 
 " Must I hear this ?" said Hamond, struggling violently 
 with himself — " Fit companions ! Worthy friends ! Pray, 
 madam — let me beg — " 
 
 " I loved to see him," jMiss O'orien continued, not heed- 
 ing Hamond's impatience, " when he aftv.'r\vards crept to 
 my side with a pale and fretted brow — and a gentle and 
 reproachfid eye — I loved to point out to his notice the va- 
 rious meuibers of the youthful aristocracy that passed us 
 — 'o speak admiringly of their wealth — their titles and high 
 birth—" 
 
 "Hold! torture and malness ! — hold!" Hamond ex- 
 claimed, starting up in a paroxysm of ungovernable fury, 
 and flinging the chair across the room, while Miss O'Brien 
 recoiled in terror at this unexpected burst of violence. 
 " What ! taunt him with his lowliness — with the station of
 
 THE HALF SIR. 251 
 
 life in rv'liioh the niislity Lord of life and nature had placed 
 him ? Did you tax tliat poor being with the will ol Pro- 
 vidence ? Why do you not chide the wren that it canncn 
 ontsoar the eagle ? or those dwarfish shrubs before us, that 
 they do not up'.ift their boughs above that pine or oak ? 
 Shame on you ! Shame and sorrow on you ! In this 
 manner was it that my brain was stung, even to the very 
 verge of madness — I feel the scourges of my heart renewed 
 — but yon are not yet too late — you have not yet flung 
 your false vile person into another's arms — ^yonr injured love 
 may yet be sought and satisfied. Oh, fly then ! fly (since 
 you speak of penitence) return to that poor wretch's feet 
 — you know not the misery he endures — you know not how 
 his heart is burning and his soul darkening within him — 
 how restless are his nights, how bitter is his food — how 
 lonely are his thoughts — how he howls and groans in the 
 anguish of his spirit. You know not what that anguish is. 
 1 do. Fly to him ! Find him out ! If you leave a cor- 
 ner of the earth unsearched, and save him not, you are a 
 murderess! Seek him out — fling yourself at his feet — ■ 
 moisten the dust around them with your tears — and if his 
 pride — his honest, injured, manly pride, refuse the amend, 
 and he should justly spurn you in your humbleness — go 
 then, and hide you in your shame, where the eye of man 
 may never look upon you more, and pray that the good and 
 the virtuous may forget you, for a blessing." 
 
 *' It is a just judgment that fulls upon me," said the lady, 
 faltering, " yet I would be penitent." Then with a still 
 more hesitating voice, " but where's the hope from that ? 
 He never would forgive me." 
 
 *' Go, do your part," said Hamond, as he passed his 
 handkerchief over his damp and heated brow — " your sin 
 will end, at least." 
 
 "Judge " she again fliltered some seconds, "judge 
 
 by your own heart, sir. If she whom you once loved, 
 
 L,
 
 252 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 Emilr Bury — pray forgive my boldness — but if she Tvcre 
 now living to " 
 
 "Peace!" Ilamond exclaimed sternly. Theit with a 
 graver and gentler tone, "She's in her tomb, young lady — ■ 
 there let her rest. Her fate is long since in His hands, in 
 whose eye the titles and distinctions of human society are no- 
 thing more than the holiday sport of chUdien in the thought 
 of serious manhood. And yet, if that great change of 
 being can purify the earthly nature, and make the soul once 
 more white from its woildly follies, and if her spirit," he 
 continued, raising his hands and his eyes, moist with tears, 
 to heaven, " can read the heart it blighted — she does 
 not see the silent agony of that heart more clearly than its 
 full forgiveness and afiection." And here, as if to compen- 
 sate to his heart for the piivation which he had before tO 
 coldly inflicted upon it, he drew the miniature from his 
 bosom, and gazed long and fondly upon it, while the lady 
 watched him with an emotion which almost bordered on 
 tumultuousness. 
 
 " I ask not of the dead," she said, at length, looking fix- 
 edly and solemnly upon him. " I ask of that Emily whom, 
 living, you have loved, and who, living, wronged you. 
 Suppose she lived yet. Do not start nor wave your hand 
 in scorn — such things have been. The gi-ave has yielded 
 forth its tenants, coffined and shrouded though they wese 
 — buried men have sat again beside their living friends — 
 the sea has given its half-devoured prey to life and ligl t 
 once more, in a relenting mood — mothers have taken ro 
 their bosoms their children long thought dead — wives, hus- 
 bands — fathers, sons. Might this not be again ?" 
 
 Hamond dropped the portrait from between his hands, 
 and remained staring on the speaker in an attitude as set 
 and stirless, as if her eye had been Medusa's, w hile she con- 
 tinued : — 
 
 *' Suppose, I say, Eugene Ilamond, that Emily Bury
 
 THE HALF SIR. 253 
 
 lived again, would your hatred revive with her? Siip« 
 pose," she continued, panting heavily, and wringing hel 
 extended hands, " say that she stood before you now, here 
 where I stand, her form thus drooped in shame and peni- 
 tence, her hands uplifted thus " 
 
 " Yes," Hamond said hoarsely, his eyes still rivetted on 
 hers, while he spoke in soliloquy — " There is a meaning in 
 those words, wild as they are. Is not earth, earth ? death, 
 death ? Docs not the grave-stone press heavily where it 
 has betn laid ? The tomb is not so merciful. It is im- 
 possible." 
 
 " You have not answered me," said the lady, bending 
 low before him. " Suppose that she did more than this — ■ 
 that she washed the earth before you with her tears- 
 poured out the gushing penitence of her heart — and thus in 
 her iigony of sorrow -" 
 
 "lla! hold! Stand back! Avoid me!" Hamond al- 
 most shrieked in a tone of hoarse anger and horror. " You 
 are not she — 'tis false! — Alive? What! living? Near me 1 
 Speaking with me ! Once more, I bid you in mercy tell me 
 who you are — give me but a word — a sign. My heart is 
 bursting — speak ! your name — " 
 
 '' You have guesed it, Hamond, Emily!" 
 
 Uttering a burst of loud, delirious laughter, Hamond ex- 
 tended his arms, but his strength failed him in the action, 
 and he staggered, groaning heavily, to a chair, while Emily, 
 mistaking the action for one of repugnance and disgust, 
 threw lierself again at his feet. 
 
 " Do not spurn me, Hamond, nor look so dreadfully into 
 my eyes. Yuu have already pronounced my pardon. Do 
 not retract your word. I have suffered deeply, Hamond — 
 I have sought you in toil and danger — I have watched by 
 your sick bed hour after hour — do you not know this face ? 
 Did it not ever mingle with the phantoms of your delirium ? 
 Oh, do not reject me. I will, if you desire that I should dc 
 60, leave you this instant, and never vex your sight again;
 
 254 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 but let me for once, from your owu lips, be assured that I 
 am fi irgiven." 
 
 While she spoke, Hamond gradually recovered, and mut- 
 tered, while he gazed steadily ou her — " Merciful Provi- 
 dence ! It is, indeed, her form — warm, living, and real ! 
 The eye is dimmed with tears, but it is the same — the cheek 
 is palor and colder, but the same soft relief is there still — the 
 same high forehead," he continued. " I have been cheated 
 many years with a dream of miseiy, and here comes my 
 early happiness, waking and bright. Reject you ! " he added, 
 as tlie eclio of her words came back upon his memory. 
 " Oh, let me Hft you from the earth, and place you on the 
 throne where you only have reigned as a queen since we 
 first met — my owu dark and desolate heart. My owa 
 dear Emily !" he continued tenderly, " my resentment 
 was not so dear to me as you are. Nay — nay — no 
 more imploring looks, you have my heart's forgiveness 
 now." 
 
 " And I will treasure it more hecdfully than your first 
 confidence, Hamond." 
 
 " Hush," said Hamond, " I hear a footstep." 
 
 Emily turned her head and beheld Martha Hunter, hold- 
 ing the half-open door in her hand, and gazing with her 
 owu sweet and benevolent smile on the scene of reconciha- 
 tiou. When she met Emily's eye, she lee the door close, 
 and in a moment the two friends were clasped close in each 
 other's arms. 
 
 " I owe all to yon, my darling Martha, to — yoa and 
 your kind husband. But this is only one act in your whole 
 life of goodness and charity." 
 
 " i'oh ! poh! no speechjs now. Well, Mr. Hamond, 
 did I not tell you this lady would be worth knowing. Come 
 now, and let us make the toilette. Huntir has agreed to 
 take an Irish dinner f >r once, and is waiting for you in hia 
 dressing-room. Take Emily's arm, pray," she added merrily, 
 as they were leaving the room — " I will dispense for oucii
 
 THE HALF SIR. 255 
 
 wifli ceremony. Tliat's a good boy and girl — go, and never 
 qnnrrcl before strangers again." 
 
 Hunter M'as only less delighted than his wife at the =nC' 
 cess of their common stratagem; and tlie evening was worn 
 pleasantly in nintnal exjjlanations — that of the letter, and 
 the fair hand that ministered to him (like the prince in the 
 tale of the "White Cat) in his midnight fever, not being for- 
 gotten. 
 
 " I have only one quarrel yet remaining against 3-ou, 
 Emily," said Hamond ; " and that is, that you should havo 
 trusted so little to my own sense of justice, as to suppose 
 that any thing more than these explanations was required, 
 to reconcile me to all that has taken place since we parted. 
 But you have duped me into happiness — and I should be 
 an epicure indeed in good fortune, if I took exception at 
 the means. I do so only so far as my own Emily's suffer- 
 ings are concerned. But I will take care to compensate to 
 you for those. I do not know, notwithstanding the many 
 years that have been lost, to me at least, why we sh mid 
 not still live happily. ^Ve have our experience in return 
 for our suffering — the fervour of our youth is cooled and 
 subdued — but there is the less danger that the flame of our 
 affection may waste or change. We will love as well though 
 more calmly than in younger and simpler days, and live 
 the ha|)pier for our saddening recollections — " 
 
 "And advise our neighbours to take warning by our 
 tale," said Emily, "and to be convinced that they can be 
 all that true Irish men and women ought to be ; that they 
 may retain Irish spirit — Irish worth — and Irish honour, 
 in all their force, without suffering their hearts to be warped 
 and tainted by the vapors of Irish pride." 
 
 Whether the anticijiations of the lovers were fulfilled-— 
 whether their old contract, so unhappily broken, was now 
 again respected^or whether they were content to wear out 
 the remainder of their days in the quiet enjoyment of a
 
 256 
 
 THE HALF SIR. 
 
 steady esteem antl friendship, are questions in which, pro* 
 bably, the reader may now have ceased to take an interest ; 
 I will intrude yet so for upnn his time, nevertheless, to tell 
 him that Castle Ilamondsooa became (what all Irish houses 
 are, with few exceptions) the abode of hospitality, and 
 (what all Irish houses, alas ! are not) the seat of hap})iness 
 and comfort. The traces of a female hand and taste soon 
 became evident in the improved appearance of the little de- 
 mesne ; the hay-band no longer aspired to the office of a 
 gate-lock — the avenue was cleared and weeded — the bundle 
 of newspapers was no longer permitted to act as deputy 
 for a window-pane — and the economy of the establishment 
 was no longer so confined, as to involve liemmy in such 
 degrading implications as that thrown out by the wren-boy 
 at the commencement of our tale. 
 
 "My master is delighted at the thoughts of Miss Emily 
 comen to life agcn," said llemmy O'Lone to his mother, as 
 he sat dangling his leg over the corner of the kitchen table 
 one evening. "May be 'twould be another story with him 
 after they're married a piece." 
 
 It was not " another story" with them, however. Ha- 
 moud and Emily persevered in the benevolent course of 
 life which both had adopted for some time before ; and the 
 condition of their tenantry, and of all the cottagers who 
 came within the sphere of their good offices, aftbrded a 
 pleasing proof of the benefits that might be conferred on 
 even the most destitute portion of Munstcr cottagers by a 
 single well-disposed resident proprietor. 
 
 Lady Emily Jlamond was seated in a rustic chair, on a 
 fine summer evening, near the gravel-plot before the hall- 
 door, while Mr. Hamond was walking dov>n the lawn with 
 Mr. Charles Lane and his young wife, who were now sober, 
 sellled bodies in their neighbourhood. Looking on one 
 side she saw llommy O'Lone sidling towards her in a half 
 bashful way — now pausing, .aid looking sheepishly at his 
 toes — now pushing his hat up behind, and using more
 
 THE HALF SIR. 257 
 
 comical actions than I have time or space to describe 
 When he had at length approached within about a yard oi 
 his lady's side lie made a grin, and with a half-laughing 
 aflectation of freedom : 
 
 " Why then, please your ladyship," said he, " if it 
 wasn't making too free, ma'am, there was a little girl that 
 I had a sort of a rattleu regard for — ^^^dly, you know, 
 ma'am ; 'tisu't living with you or anybody belongen to 
 your ladyship still she'd be, ma'am, I wonder?" 
 
 " Oh ! Nelly ? she was married very soon after your 
 master left Dublin, to a sergeant, Ilemmy." 
 
 " Gondoutha ! Wisha an' I never seen the peer of her. 
 That's the way of it, Nelly ? Wint off wit a sodger ! "N^ery 
 well, why " 
 
 " Indeed she Avas a foolish girl, Eemmy," said Lady 
 Emily. 
 
 " Oh then — not contradicten your ladyship — not an 
 ounce of foolish flesh was there upon her carciss. Ayeh, 
 fuol indeed ! If you bought Nelly to sell for a fool } ou'd 
 lie a long while out o' your money. 'Tis like all their doeus 
 — the thieves." 
 
 " Whose doings, Remmy ?" 
 
 " The women, ma'am, with submission to you. Women 
 an' pigs bate the world." 
 
 " Oh ! fie, liemmy. How can you be so ungallant, so 
 im-Irish as to say that in my presence," said Lady Emily, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Irish or no Irish, ma'am, I speak the plain truth, an' 
 sure 'tis well I knows em," said Kemmy, stoutly. " liarr- 
 ing what's of 'em that's ladies, an' under proper govern 
 mint, there isn't such i-o^ues goen." 
 
 " Oil, fie, Eemmy, I am quite ashamed of you." 
 
 " Sure I say only what isn't ladies, please your ladyship. 
 I'd go down on my two knees to yourladysliip if I thought 
 there was any offence in me words ; but as for the women 
 o' the lower order," said Kjmniy, with an aristocratic curl
 
 258 THE HALF Slfi. 
 
 of tlie upper lip, " it stands to raisoii what I say, an' 1 
 stand by it." 
 
 " 01), shame ! Rcmmy ! you a Munsterman ! You 
 shoukl tidk of them as angels sent down to guard and 
 cheer you." 
 
 " Angels, ershishin ?"* said Roramy, with a toss of the 
 head. " Ay, angels like them that they put upon hearses 
 — all head and wings — with gingerbread gilding — an' 
 death under — an' sorrow after 'em. That's all the angels 
 I can see in 'em !" 
 
 The plot of the foregoing tale is identical with that of a 
 drama, in two acts, sent by the writer to Mr. Arnold, lute 
 of the English Oitera House. Subsequent occurrences in- 
 duced the author to reUuquish the desire of seeking an in- 
 ti'oduction to the public through the medium of the stage, 
 notwithstanding the kind and pressing instances of the 
 gentleman just named. The incidents of the tale are, so 
 far as the writer is aware, entirely imaginary, but the mau- 
 uer in which they are treated still bears a strong impres- 
 sion of the moukl in which they were originally cast, and 
 it is probable that what might have aid.-d tlieir etVcct ni 
 scenic representation has a directly opposite eflect in a per* 
 formance intended solely for the calm and quiet cousideiu- 
 tiou of tlie parlour lire-side. 
 
 * Duei she say ? 
 
 END OF THE HALF SIR,
 
 gONNETS— IKTRODUCTOKY. 
 
 I hold not out my hand in grateful love 
 
 Because ye were my friend, where friends were few| 
 Kor in the pride of conscious truth, to prove 
 
 The heart ye wronged and doubted, yet was true- 
 It is that while the close and blinding veil 
 
 That j'outh and blissful ignorance liad cast 
 
 Around my inward siglit, is clearing fast 
 Before its strengthening vision — while tlie scale 
 
 Falls from mine eyeballs — and the gloomy stream 
 
 Of human motive, whitening in my view 
 Shows clear as dew sliow;ers in the gray morn beam — 
 While hearts and acts, whose impulse seemed divine, 
 
 Put on the grossness of an eartldier liue — 
 I still can gaze, and deeply still can honour thine. 
 
 Judge not yonr friend by what he seemed, when Fate 
 
 Had crossed him in his chosen — cherished aim — 
 When spirit-broken — baffled - moved to hate 
 
 The very kindness that but made his sliame 
 More self-induced— he rudely turned aside 
 
 In bitter hopeless agony from all 
 
 Alike — of those who mocked or mounied his fall, 
 And fenced his injured heart in lonelj^ pride, 
 Wayward and sullen as Suspicion's soul; 
 
 To his o^vn mind he lived a mystery 
 
 But now the heavens have changed — the vapours roll 
 Far from his heart, and in his solitude, 
 
 Wliile the fell niglit-mares of his spirit flee, 
 He wakes to weave lor tliee a tale of joy renewed. 
 
 2G0
 
 SUIL DHUV, THE COINER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Truly to speak, sir, and with no addition, 
 
 AVe go to gain a little patch of ground. — ITamht, 
 
 It is a very usual remark among those wlio pretend to be 
 acquainted with the conditions of Irish society, that it is a 
 I "111 more favourable to the stranger than to the native — 
 that the foreign a^lventurer finds the various avenues to 
 good fortune which it presents less encumbered and blocked 
 up witli difiiculties and disappointments, than the indigenous 
 children of the soil ; and this observation appears to be 
 equally confirmed by experience, whether it is applied to 
 the humble artizan who confines his hopes and prospects to 
 the acquisition of the ordinary comforts of domestic life,' or 
 to the armed aggressor who comes to conquer and lay 
 •waste for conquest's sake alone. To endeavour, even by 
 conjecture, to account satisfactorily for this — one of the 
 very slightest among the anomalies of the country's polity — 
 would lead to a disquisition on national dispositions and 
 habits, and an inquiry into historical influences, into which 
 we arc not at present disposed to enter. The most obvious 
 and usual cause assigned, however, is the superior industry 
 and perseverance of the naturalized inhabitant. 
 
 One class of persons in particular have verified the obser- 
 vation to its utmost extent. We allude to the descendants 
 of those emigrants from the Palatinate of Germany, who 
 i^ere invited over into these countries by the liberal polic/
 
 262 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 of the Whig ministry of 1708, a measure which afterward 
 gave such displeasure in Enghuid, and drew down so weiglitj 
 a censure from the succeeding cabinet of 1710. History 
 informs n.i, that at this period the indigence and misery 
 which prevailed among the disappointed aliens was such, 
 as to occasion a not ill-founded apprehension of a conta- 
 gious distemper — no less than ninety of them being accus- 
 tomed to take up their abode beneath a single roof, in some 
 of the lowest neighbourhoods of the British metropolis.* 
 
 In the sister isle, nevertheless, the exertions of the same 
 race have been attended with incomparably better success. 
 Unmingled and uninterested as the adventurers necessarily 
 were with the politics and the factious prejudices of the 
 people, and having no internal or external cause to divest 
 them from the even course of steady and persevering 
 industry, which their habits and inclinations suggested to 
 them as the most likely to attain success, they were in every 
 way prepared to take advantage of the encouragements held 
 out to them by the lauded proprietor. These Mere, as 
 they still continue to be, very considerable — and this cir- 
 cumstance, together with the difference of religion, of dis- 
 position, and of civil habits, laid the foundation of a deep 
 and rooted hatred and jealousy, which the moral and political 
 changes that have, since the first introduction of the aliens, 
 taken place in the relations of the country, have contributed 
 rather to increase and confirm than to alleviate. The Pala- 
 tines, or Falentins as they are more usually termed among 
 
 * The class of sufferers has been changed — but such misery as 
 the above fact furnishes an example of, may yet be found in Ire- 
 land. In the last census for that countiy, no less than ninety-live 
 individuals were returned from one house in tiie St. Giles's of a 
 principal city in the west of the kingdom, and this Cliiuese mode 
 of existence seems to be by no means confined to partial instances. 
 '•How many beds have ye?" asked the author once of a poor men- 
 dicant cabin-holdet. " Why thin, not one but the one, sir," waa 
 tlie rL'ply. -'And how many sleep iu it together <"' "Uh! thir, 
 only the nine of us that's in family, your hon-ur."
 
 THE COINEB. 263 
 
 their rustic neighbours, still continue to be favourites with 
 the lords of the soil. The facility with which they obtained 
 long leases, at a time when the great proportion of the 
 peasantry of the country were mere cottiers to fariners. 
 enabled them to turn their knowledge of husbandry to great 
 account; and although their hopper-plough (which answered 
 the double purpose of ploughing and sowing) has, I believe, 
 generally gone out of use, their custom of producing crops 
 in drills is still almost universally adopted. They are im- 
 proving and industrious tenants — punctual, whether for the 
 preservation of their independence, or the satisfaction of 
 their consciences, in all their engagements — attentive, even 
 to a degree of puritanical exactness, to their religious obli- 
 gations — presenting, in the unremitting exertion which they 
 employ in the acquisition of money, and the caution which 
 they manifest in its distribution, a striking contrast to the 
 people among whom they have become naturalized — (a con- 
 trast which, perhaps, as much as any other circumstance, 
 tends to foster the contempt with which they are regarded 
 by the latter) — precise in all that regards their domestic eco- 
 nomy — addicted to neatness and to the appearance as well 
 as the feeling of comfort in their houses, and imbued in 
 heart and soul with a tincture of religious bigotry and na- 
 tional prejudice which enables them to return, with ample 
 interest, tlie evil feelings and wishes of the low Cathohc 
 population of the country. 
 
 Assuming the above to be the general characteristics of 
 the class we are describing, it may perhaps be added that 
 there are many individual exceptions ; but even where mem- 
 bers of the caste are found to derogate from its usually i-e- 
 spectable character, it is seldom, perhaps never, observed 
 that they fall into what are looked upon as the peculiar or 
 ruling vices of the more ancient inhabitants, and there re- 
 mains as wide a distinction between the bad Palatine and 
 the bad Irishman, as may be traced between the estimable 
 and amiable ot b»th classes. Like the scattered suns ol
 
 264 suir riiuv, 
 
 Israel, tlie former are careful to prevent any amiilgamation 
 of interests or aflections with tlieir neighbours, and the 
 circumstance of an intermarriage is, to say the least of it, 
 an exceedingly rare occurrence. People may be found to 
 adduce this fact as one cause of the continued prosperity 
 and happiness of the provident aliens — but a more satis- 
 factory one may be found in the superior inducements held 
 out to, and consequent success attending, their exertions. 
 The Palatines, in short, are amongst those who " feed fat" 
 npon tbe birth-right of their elder brethren, -who are, by 
 the peculiar policy of their governors, debarred the custo- 
 mary means of existence, and punished for endeavouring 
 to devise new expedients for themselves. 
 
 Time, the great alembic by which all incongruities are 
 reconciled and all distinctions amalgamated, has not yet 
 exercised its customtiry influence on the hereditary habits 
 and external peculiarities of the people we are describing. 
 Tliey still retain, even in their manners and language, as 
 well as in tlieir character and disposition, indications which 
 it Avould be impossible to misconceive, of their German ori- 
 gin They are, for the most pai't, scattered thinly over the 
 southern and Mcstern districts of the island — but instances 
 are not wanted in which they form the almost exclusive 
 population of hamlets and small villages — and where this 
 happens to be the case, the traces of their extraction are 
 evident and decided to a very remarkable degree. 
 
 At the time when the events which we have selected as 
 the material for the following tale took place — in the eight- 
 eenth century — the points of distinction were, as may be 
 supposed, a great deal more stiiking; and the comparative 
 novelty of their introduction into the country, rendered 
 them more liable than at present to the resentment of the 
 indignant peasantry of the island, although the dislike of 
 the latter was uot more deeply rooted than at present. 
 There was, however, a distinction. It was then the hatred 
 of injured and excited foeliiigs which was cherished against
 
 THE COINER. 265 
 
 the tisiiq^ers ; it is now tlie hatred of prejudice, and of an 
 ahiiost excusable — at least, a very accountable envy. 
 
 We have, ourselves, found a little generalising explana- 
 tion so useful and agreeable as a preparation for the intro- 
 duction of characters and events in a work of this kind, 
 that we are induced to calculate with confidence on the in- 
 dulgence of our readers in devoting this short chapter to 
 the same purpose. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 John Nobody, quoth I, what ne^vs ? thou soon note and teD, 
 
 "What manner man then mean that are so mad — 
 
 He said tliese gay gallants that will construe the gospel, 
 
 As Solomon the sage wuth semblance full sad: 
 
 To discusse divinity they nought adread — 
 
 Move meet were it fur them to milk kye at a fleyke. 
 
 Thou liest, quoth I, thou losel, like a leud lad, 
 
 He said he was little John Kobody, that durst not speake. 
 
 — Little John Nohody. 
 
 A NUMBER of peasants were occupied in trenching* a field 
 of potatoes, in a fine soft summer evening, in the earlier 
 portion of the last century, on the borders of one of the 
 south-western counties of Ireland. Their work proceeded 
 merrily — all being engaged, as is customary in Ireland, in 
 relieving the tediousness of their monotonous labour by 
 wild tales, and light and jocular conversation, which we 
 shall take up at random. 
 
 " An' so you tell me Segur is off, Mick ?" said one to a 
 young peasant who worked beside him. 
 
 " He never 'II see daylight again," was the reply. 
 
 " An' how coom that ?" 
 
 * Forming trenches by throwing up from between the ridges the 
 loose earth, so as to form a fresh coat around the stalks of the 
 vegetable as they begin to appear. 
 
 12
 
 266 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 " Simple enough — be killen of 'm.'* 
 
 *' Wlio kilt him ?" 
 
 " Oh then that's more than I'll tell you this time — ont 
 o' the gang aistwards they siy." 
 
 " An' why did they kill him ?" 
 
 " Sanow one o' me knows — bekays he was alive, may 
 be." 
 
 " It's little hurt it was done, an' little matter who done 
 it," said a dark-looking man on another ridge ; and biting 
 his lip hard, while he struck his spade with great violence 
 against a large sod, he added — " an' the same loock to the 
 rest of his race, an' that before long — the left-handed 
 thieves — them Palentins !" 
 
 " You might as well.be cursing, Davy." 
 
 " D'ye hear the minister ?" 
 
 *' Oh, it isn't from the heart that coom, any way ; and 
 them curses doesn't be heard that falls from a body's lip 
 when they do be in a passion, and don't main what they 
 say." 
 
 " It's done a fi'penny bit with you, now, we have a 
 fable from Jerry on the head of it," was uttered half aside, 
 a few paces from the last speaker — a fair-faced youth, who 
 almost immediately verified the anticipation. 
 
 " I'll tell ye a story, then, about that very thing, if ye 
 like to hear it," said tlie young fellow. 
 
 After a few jibes on the propensity of the story-telling 
 genius, Iiis companions proceeded with their work in silence, 
 while Jerry cleared his voice and commenced as fol- 
 lows : — * 
 
 " I wonder entirely," says a most learned doctor, that 
 used to be tliere in old limes — " I wonder entirely," said 
 he, and he going along the road — " what is the reason that 
 the devil doesn't come upon the earth in some borrowed 
 
 * The English reader will at once perceive a striking similitude 
 between thij popular cottage legend and oue of (Jliuucer's Canter' 
 |jiu-y Talus.
 
 1UE COINER. 267 
 
 shape or another, and so tempt people to sin ; it -wouIJ bt 
 80 much easier to talk them into it than to draw them by 
 means of their own thoughts. If the devil would hearken 
 to me, I think I could put him in a way of getting a deal 
 that's voted to him, and that he knows nothing of." And 
 saying this he turned off to take a short cut across the 
 fields, the road having a great round in that place. 
 
 Passing by a little fort tliat was in his way, he was met 
 by a man who came out from among the trees and bid him 
 a good morning. He was as handsome a man as could be 
 — only the doctor remarked him for the smallest brogues, 
 and of the queerest shape that could be imagined. 
 
 " Heaveji and Saint Patrick be with you 1" says the doctor. 
 
 " Hum !" says the strange man. • 
 
 " And who are you now that say ' Hum !' when I bid 
 Heaven be with you ?" says the doctor, looking down 
 towards his heels, where he saw, just peeping out under the 
 great riding-coat, something like the end of a hurly, curl- 
 ing, only very hairy. 
 
 " 1 am the devil," says the strange man. (Lord be- 
 tween us and harm !) 
 
 "I was beginning to have a notion of the kind myself,'' 
 says the doctor agnin, eyeing the tail now very hard ; but 
 not at all put out of his way, being used to all sorts of 
 wickedness himself from a creature up, having been once in 
 his time a tithe proctoi'. " I thought no less ; and jt 
 proves an old saying very true, for I was talking of you to 
 myself just as you started up before me." 
 
 " No good, I'll be bail." 
 
 " BeLeve it, then. No good in the world, only harm. 
 I was wishing that you would employ me iu collecting your 
 dues — what's yours by right only, and let us go halves iu 
 the profits." 
 
 '' It's a match — give me the hand," said the devil, 
 •' Lee us go along the road together, and whatever you 
 snake out to be mine, I'll have it surely."
 
 '"^08 suiL Tijiuy, 
 
 Away t'uey went, the holy pair, and they soon got out 
 apon the liigh road again. As they were passing along 
 by a cabin door, they saw an old. woman standing with 
 some oats in her apron, and she trying to entice some of 
 her geese and goslings in to her, from the middle of a 
 pond where they were swimming about, only the rogue 
 of a gander wouldn't let them do her bidding. 
 
 " Why then," says the old woman, "the Diconce talie 
 3"0U for one gander ; there's no ko at all with you." 
 
 " There !" says the doctor, nudging his neigbour, (Lord 
 save us !) "did you hear that?" 
 
 " Ah ! my honest friend," says the devil, "that gan- 
 der is a fat bird, to be sure — but 'tis none o' mine stiU. 
 That curse didn't co??/e from the heart, though it was sin- 
 ful enough to give me power over the woman." 
 
 In a little time after, the blessed couple were met by a 
 countryman with a little slip of a pig that he was driving 
 to the fair, to make up i\\(i defferenccd' the standing gale. 
 He had a siigan (hay-rope) tied about one of the hind legs, 
 and a good blackthorn switch in his hand, and he doing 
 bis best endeavours to entice him on, but he couldn't. The 
 j)ig, as young pigs will do, darted now at his side, now at 
 that, and would run every way but the right one — until 
 at last, he made a start right between the legs of his dri- 
 ver, tumbled him clean in the mud from which he rose 
 painted all sorts o' colours — and saw the pig skdping along 
 the road home, in the height of good humour. 
 
 " Why then, the Diconce take, fetch, and carry every 
 bone in your carcase, crubes* and all !" says the [toor man, 
 shaking himself, and turning into a meadow to roll him- 
 self in the grass, beibre hekifal/y the creature home again. 
 " Have 1 all my morning-'s work to do over again — bad 
 'cess to it for a story !" 
 
 " There ! There !" cries the doctor. 
 
 " iS'ot so fast," cries the devil — " that was but u slip o 
 
 * Pettitoes.
 
 THE COINER. 269 
 
 the tongue after all. The man that curst is mine, but not 
 the thing he curst, for the heart was not concerned in it." 
 
 Well! away they went; and, in passing by a potato- 
 field, they saw a tithe proctor valuing a pit o' the cu2:>s, 
 and a man standing upon it, with a hammer in his hand, 
 going to cant it off to some Palentins tor the rent. There 
 was a poor man standing at the road-side, with his arms 
 leaning on the ditch,* looking at the sale of his little pro- 
 perty. 
 
 '"• There's ten barrels, all going for an old song, that I 
 raised by the labour of these hands. May the Diconce fetch 
 all the tilhc-proctors in the laud, and Heaven bless them 
 that sent 'em to us, to take the little means he gave us out 
 of our hands — " 
 
 "Well!" said the doctor, "now you have a proctor at 
 any rate — that was a hearty curse, I'm sure. 
 
 At this, the devil put both his hands to his sides and 
 burst out in a fit of laughing. " Sisnd you sense ! you foolish 
 man," said he, " if the devil had nothing else to do but to 
 carry away all the tithe-proctors that's voted to him in a 
 sumnier's-ilay, he'd be soon compelled to look out for a new 
 corner to take up in, for they'd have all hell to themselves 
 in less than no time." 
 
 " Whew !" says the doctor, " if this be the way with you, 
 I'm likely to make a great deal by my bargain. Get out 
 o' my way, 30U lazy gafter," said he (growing cro.<s) to 
 a little boy that was sitting on a style where be wanted to 
 pass. 
 
 " I'm no lazy gaflPL'r, you great natural," said the lad, 
 " and I'll not stir out of this, for you have no right to tres- 
 pass on my mother's ground." 
 
 Tlie doctor made no answer, only looked at him for a 
 minute, and then viz his stick, and laid him on the gruund 
 quite easy. 
 
 " Oh, mui'der alive ! you Turk, you killed my boy," cried 
 * Hedge.
 
 270 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 the mother, who was sitting combing her wool at the cabin 
 door. " Wliy then," said she, falling on her linees, and 
 lifting up her two hands, " the mother's curse upon youf 
 head ; and may the Diconce carry you this night, for draw- 
 ing the blood of my child !" 
 
 " Come, my good man, come !" said the devil, seizing 
 the doctor by the collar, "the favour o'your company down 
 hzhoio* The mother's curse is on you." 
 
 " Oh ! nonsense, nonsense ! easy, easy, man !" said the 
 doctor, " but 
 
 Before he could well know what he was about, his friend 
 whisked him up and about into the air,f and warm was the 
 corner he had for him before night, I'll be your bail." 
 
 " Well, Jerry, you bate cocklighten for them ould fables; 
 but aisy, an' tell me who are those over the hill ?" 
 
 The speaker pointed to three horsemen who had just 
 turned from beneath the projection of a small hillock, through 
 Avhich the wild and broken liigliway had b^n cut, and who 
 were i>ushing on w ith as much rapidity as their ill-conditioned 
 horses could be prevailed upon to use. The better mounted 
 and better looking of the two foremost wayflirers belonged 
 to that numerous class of itinerant preachers, one of whom 
 may at this day be always discerned in tine harvest weather, 
 hovering about the Palatine villages, and may be recog- 
 nised at the distance of half a mile, jogging it softly duwa 
 hill on a well-f.d, fat-hainmcd, rough-coated pony, an um- 
 brella tightly folded and placed in rest upon the thigh, while 
 the smooth and glazed oil cover of his hat flashes 
 
 " back again the western blaze, 
 
 In lines of dazzling ligiit — '* 
 
 at the same time throwing his perhaps too jovial rotundity of 
 
 * English-Irish for below. 
 + Perhaps, the i<lea of connecting the cordkditj of the curse with 
 tlie workings of maternal affection, renders tlie conclusion of iho 
 fable, as it is here (juoted, superior in poiut of nature, to that uaed 
 by the great poet above mentioned. 
 
 m.
 
 THE COINEK. 271 
 
 conntenance Into a becoming and devotional shade. The 
 specimen of the order hci"e presented dlft'cred bnt little from 
 the generality of his brethren. He was a person of im- 
 mense proportions, particularly as regarded the paunch, 
 which was a region of unparalleled richness and extent, and 
 showed to particular advantage as he sat on horseback, 
 his position there causing it to project considerably farther 
 in advance than was its natural wont when on foot. His 
 pony was a sturdy Uttle animal, but of stature so diminu- 
 tive, that the feet of the rider might have materially as- 
 sisted his progress along the road, were it not that the sack- 
 like formation of the members caused them to describe an 
 equilateral triangle, in order to afford space to the fat little 
 beast between — an arrangement which made a clear course 
 of nearly half the king's highway. 
 
 The horseman who rode beside him, and who, fi'om his 
 brick-red complexion, sloping forehead, and small eyes, 
 supplied very sufficient evidence of his Palatinate extraction, 
 had the appearance of a wealthy farmer, considerably ad- 
 vanced in years, though not sufficiently so to abate or 
 qualify, iu the slightest degree, the expression of a counte- 
 nance which was marked by the strongest and hardest 
 liu.'S which an habitual violence of character could product!, 
 or to soften the fire of a small and piercing eye, which 
 glanced from beneath its grizzled, sandy brow, with a spirit 
 of strong inquiry and resulutiou. 
 
 The third traveller, who rode at a little distance behind, 
 as if rather in the quality of servant than companion to the 
 other two, we shall suffer to be described by the group of 
 peasantry, who, in the in lulgeucc of that idle curiosity which 
 furms a shade on that d irk side of the national character, 
 left uff their work as the strangers approached, and loaned 
 furward on their spades, to bestow a gibe on the passing 
 Palatines : — 
 
 "Mark tiie nose," said one, "was there ever the aiq'l of 
 it seen? It starts out betune the two eyes fair euuagh.
 
 272 suiL Duuv, 
 
 only then it do be growen hetlier and tlietlicr, and every 
 way as if it didn't Icnow tlie way to tlie mor.tli, down." 
 
 " Lilve tlie gintleniin's boreens,"* said a second, " that 
 they doesn't care how many tiirnens they'll malce, so as 
 they coom out upon the high road at last." 
 
 " Taken a ramble about the counlcnance for sport, this 
 fine even," 
 
 " An' the legs ! You'd imagine the calves o' them got 
 hungry, an' went down about the ankles, seeing would 
 there be a Avisp o' hay in the brogues at all." 
 
 " Paddy Moran needn't ax a better bow to his fiddle at 
 air a dance in the parish, any way." 
 
 " Heaven bless your work !" said the eldest of the tra- 
 vellers, in a strong German accent, not unminglcd with a 
 degree of the broad, drawling ji)«^02's of the peojtle he was 
 addressing, as a turn in the road brought both parties 
 within hail. 
 
 "An' you likewise!" was returned by a few voices, 
 while some (such is the influence of wealth) conquered their 
 contempt for the race of usurpers so far as to touch their 
 hats. 
 
 " The village of Court-Mattress is fifteen long miles from 
 you yet," said an elderly labourer, in answer to an inquiry 
 made at him by the old Palatine. " Who can them be, 
 now ?" he continued, as, after a short consultation, the two 
 strangers put spurs to their steeds, and quickened their 
 pace from an equivocal kind of canter to a jolting, bone- 
 breaking trot— " An' the sarvint after 'em, too! Gon- 
 doutha ! It's easy for ye ! But stir — stir, Jerry ; wliat 
 l.'izniz is it of ours ? an' Paddy Barret six seeds a-head of 
 uz, an' the master coming over the gap, see." 
 
 We will follow the travellers. Tiie evening was bright, 
 
 still, and sunny. The air was quiet, the sky cloudless, the 
 
 calm so profound that the voices of some sportsmen on tho 
 
 distant hills were heard almost as plainly by the wayfarers 
 
 Avenues.
 
 THE COINER. 273 
 
 83 if they bad been speaking in the aLljaccnt field?, and the 
 sound of the Race,* though many miles distant from them, 
 came with a faint, but deep and perceptible influence upon 
 their hearing. It was ab-eady far into tbe season of ear 
 and blossom, and tlie country side over which they rode 
 presented a scene of beauty and abundance which, had 
 they passed the same way in a lew months after, would 
 have formed a wonderful contrast to the general appear- 
 ance of want and misery which, then as well as now, the 
 great encouragement held out to exporters of provision oc- 
 casioned in the Avintcr season in Ireland. Here a wide 
 plain covered with barley yet green in ear undulated like a 
 summer lake, and there the potato spread its dark green 
 coveiing over many an acre, one particle of the produce of 
 which was doomed never, perhaps, to supjjly a day's sus- 
 tenance to the wretch by whose labour they had been cul- 
 tivated. On one hand, the sober wheat contrasted its 
 grave and wealthy air with the h'ght rustling of the oatfield 
 that adjoined it ; while further in the distance many a 
 field of rape, already in blossom, showed like broad sheets 
 of gold, inlaid, as if to impart addiiional splendour to the 
 gigantic mosaic of nature. 
 
 After they had passed out of the hearing of the group 
 of the peasants, the two foremost of the travellers resumed 
 a conversation which appeared to have been only inter- 
 rupted I'or the purpose of obtaining information as to the 
 progress of their route. 
 
 " ludeet, Mr. Sliine," said the old man, after he had 
 compressed his lips and given vent to a heavy sigh — " the 
 cause is more than I gan tell you : that some change must 
 have taken place, I am perfectly certain, and zome unplea- 
 sant one, too ; for poor Sarah was one of the most dutiful 
 cliildrcn that ever parent blessed. It is very true that I 
 suspected something when she mentioned in one of hct 
 
 * The liace of Tarbert — an estuary iu the River Shannon several 
 tniles in extent 
 
 12*
 
 274 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 Litest letters the appearance of that young ruffian about the 
 village, and my heart burned withia me when the poor de- 
 luded creature hinted the possibility of his becoming a 
 reformed and graceful member. She might as well talk of 
 the Evil One becoming a reformed and graceful member ; 
 for except wliat amendment the gallows will work in him, 
 Dionysius will never be anything better than an iugrate 
 and a profligate." 
 
 "He that can ingraft strange branches on the tree may 
 surely at his pleasure revive the old and dissevered," said 
 his companion, " But the common accidents of life may 
 have caused an intermission in your correspondence with- 
 out any failure of duty on the part of your cliild, whom I 
 bless in my soul — remembering well her comeliness, and 
 her docility on the occasion of my sojourning an evening at 
 her aunt's, to whose care, I believe, you committed her, on 
 leaving the laud, some years past. How long since Ls tho 
 date of her last letter ?" 
 
 '' Five years." 
 
 " And how long have you been absent ?" 
 
 The (piestiun appeared to excite some disagreeable asso- 
 ciations in the mind of the old Palatine, and he paused for 
 a considerable time, as if following up the train of melan- 
 choly recollections which it awakened, before he returned 
 an answer. The details of the conversation which followed 
 the interruption may be more briefly and conveniently 
 given to the reader in our own words. 
 
 A sturdy -looking, black-haired, black-eyed liitle boy 
 about nine or ten years of age, and clothed in a misera'tle 
 shred of coarse frieze, was observed, at the blush of a fine 
 summer dawn, trotting at full speed along a crooked and 
 bioken-up avenue, or borheen, leading to the firm-hoiiseof 
 Isaac S.'gur, a comfortable Palatine landholder in the 
 neighbourhood of the vill i^e which we have before nieu- 
 tioncd. From the anxious and hesitating expression which 
 was mingled wiih the natural boldness and darkness of his
 
 TAE COI.XLR. 275 
 
 conn ten nricp, it wouli] have appeared to a stranger that the 
 ciiiid v/as conscious of possessing no apology or aiitliority 
 for the intrusion which he contemplated, and he cast 
 cautious and wavering gUuices on all sides before he ven- 
 tured to clamber over the stile which brought him on the 
 neat green plot before tlie cottage door. The windvws 
 were still closed, and everytiiing around bore the appear- 
 ance of perfect repose, insomuch that the adventurer paused, 
 and remained seated on the stile for a few moments, with 
 the air of one who has a purpose to accomplish, and sees 
 a thousand terrors and ditiiculties between him and its 
 fruition. A light curling smoke from one of the chimneys 
 at length caught his eye, and having once assured himself 
 on the preparatory indication within, he bounded from the 
 hedge upon the little lawn, disturbing by his sudden and 
 fay-like descent the yet slumbering animals who composed 
 the stock of the industrious and well-appointed propiietor 
 of the place. A flock of geese, goslings, and ganders flew 
 with outstretched necks and loud hisses of unwelcome from 
 beneath the hedge, and then raars'iallcd themselves in 
 battle array between him and the house, the male bird 
 marching like a tield-officer up and down the lines, and 
 warning him, by most warlike cacklings, of the dangers of 
 an assault. Some newly -shoi'n wethers bounded in dismay 
 to the furthest limit of the area, and there huddled them- 
 selves together in a corner, as if in expectation of instant 
 annihilation. A staggering bony calf threw up its hind 
 legs, whisked its tail, cut a few strange capers, and fol- 
 lowed their example. The little fellow did not appear' 
 much daunted by the confusion he had occasioned or the 
 formidable host of enemies who seemed prepared to oppose 
 bis progress, and ho was about to advance with great 
 spirit ; but his cheek grew pale, and his quick, jet-black 
 eye began to assume a more expanded and watery appear- 
 ance, when the deep thunder of a huge mastiff watch juined 
 in terrific diapason with the cackling of the geeiCj the
 
 276 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 bleating of sheep, the quacking of dncks, the grunting of 
 pigp, and the clatter of a hundred dilFerent species of do- 
 mcslic fowl. Nevertheless, the invader stood manfully to 
 his ground, and stooped forward in the vain hope of mak- 
 ing- an eflcctual struggle with the excited animal, on whom 
 his eyes were fixed, when one of the front windows was 
 thrown open, and a friendly voice interrupted its onset in 
 good time. 
 
 " Faust, down ! down, ser ! back here agen — back !" 
 The countermand was given by a female who leaned h;df- 
 drcssed out of the window, while the young stranger, flush- 
 ing witli renewed courage, advanced to the door of the 
 cottage, the dog Faust following, and snuffing inquisitively 
 about him as they proceeded. 
 
 " Well, au' who are you, my little fellow ?" 
 The " little fellow" raised his hand to his brow, and 
 plucked himself by the forelock (a black and shining curl), 
 in token of courtesy as he replied — 
 " Dinny Mac, thin." 
 
 " An' what brought you here, Dinny Mac, at this hour 
 in the morning ?" 
 
 " Wisha, I dun know." 
 
 *' Where do you live — or who are yon at all ?" 
 " then, I dun know, ma'am — only my mother, west- 
 wards, married another husband about a month sence, and 
 I couldn't stand her at all after for bating me without any 
 raison ; and the man she took to was as bad as her, and 
 they both tuk an' turned me out o' doores 'isthorday, with- 
 out sayen a word only bating me the two of 'em, wit the 
 brooiustick till me back was broke intirely." 
 
 " And what do you mean to do with yourself now, 
 Dinny Mac?" 
 
 " Wisha, I dun know." 
 
 " What is it you were coming here for ?" 
 
 " Seeing would I get me buckisht agin the road." 
 
 iiv this time the cottage door was opened, and a stoufc-
 
 THE COINER. 277 
 
 looking hale man made liis appearance, accompanleJ by an 
 exquisitely bcaiitiial girl, wbose clear rosy cheeks, long 
 flaxen hair, and full, well-opened eyes, contrasted finely 
 with the strongly- marked and darkly-shaded features of the 
 adventurous " Dinny." The latter remained leaning against 
 the rough-cast wall, and picking off the little protuberances 
 with his fingers, while he cast from time to time a shy and 
 irresolute side-glance towards the fair daughter of the far- 
 mer. The man contemplated the intruder for some time 
 in silence, and appeared doubtful of the course which he 
 should adopt, when it was decided by a movement of the 
 child who stood by him. After gazing with a soft and ex- 
 panded stare of wonder upon the dark boy, she slided cau- 
 tiously towards him, and again renewing her gaze of admi- 
 ration, while the otlier returned her glance with one of 
 unusual fire and intensity ; half in intimidation, half in good- 
 Avill, the little girl protruded a pair of cherry lips, which 
 were instantly honoured with a greeting that " came twang- 
 ing off," by tlic unhesitating youth. The old Palatine's 
 heart was struck in the soft place. 
 
 " Come, gaffer," said he, " since you have made yourself 
 welcome with the young mistress, you'll have your break- 
 fast at any rate. In with you, and behave yourself." 
 
 Dinny Mac went in as he was dosircd, but not, as the 
 event proved, to make so brief a sojourn in the household 
 as the proprietor intended. A succession of circumstances 
 not worth detailing prevented his dcpartuie that day, and 
 the next, and the next after that, until habit, hospitality, 
 and convenience combined to estabhsh him among the re- 
 tainers of the domicile, in that equivocal office which in Li^h 
 rustic families is designated by the word ^orsoow. His duly 
 ior many years was to run on messages to tlie neighbouiing 
 hamlet — to fetch a daily pennyworth of tobacco for the old 
 woman — to keep the pigs upon their good behaviour — drive 
 home the cows at night — watch the gardens at seed time 
 — aud ia short, " turn his baud," and his feet too occasion-
 
 
 278 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 ally, to anj thing wliich it needed not the exertion of ma. 
 tiirer limbs to accomplish. As far as attention to, and 
 cheerfulness in the execution of every trust confided to him 
 could go, it was inipossible for Diuny — or Dionysius, as his 
 new and more formal protectors called him — to give greater 
 satisfaction to his patron than he did ; but there was one 
 evil occasioned by his presence in the house, which more 
 than counterbalanced all his merits. The effect which his 
 first appearance had produced on the infant daughter of the 
 Palatine continued progressively on the increase, through 
 the subsequent stages uf childhood, girlhood, and youth ; 
 and at fifteen 3'ears of age the sensation with which she re- 
 garded the daring and dark-minded Lid, might be found to 
 resemble, in every particular, the mingled emotion of fear 
 and admiration which he had occasioned her on the morning 
 when accident first conducted him to her father's house. Tho 
 real nature of the feeling continued precisely the same, but 
 that time, long habit, and unavoidable proximity of iutei'- 
 course, and the gradual development of her own character 
 as it approached the seriousness of womanhood, had strength- 
 ened and deepened the affection into a rooted and engross- 
 ing passion — a circumstance evidently unfortunate for the 
 poor girl, and the more extraordinary as the progress of in- 
 timacy with, and consequent insight into the character and 
 disposition of her father's dependant was not calculated to 
 add a well-founded esteem to the emotions which he had 
 already excited in her mind. With this, however, we, as 
 her historians, are not disposed to quarrel, for it is apparent 
 that if love were not in the gentler sex altogether an ano- 
 maly — if woman made her reason on all occasions the coun- 
 terscarp to her affeciions, and never jielded her heart on 
 any terms but those of convenience, the very foundation of 
 all romance would be annihilated. Her father, however, \\ ho 
 was no philosopher, and could by no possible train of rea- 
 soning bring himself to discover points of coincidence or 
 euitability between two characters hlliug situ;aions almost
 
 THE COIXEK. 279 
 
 as distinct as those of incni;i,l and mistress, was overwhelmed 
 with indignation and astonishment when the probabihty ot 
 go presposterous an attachment first broke upon him. A 
 fev/ words of fierce recrimination ended in an oath of eternal 
 hatred and enmity between liim and his protege, and the 
 latter was ejected from the dwelling where he had spent the 
 greater portion of his life, with as little ceremony as was 
 used in a similar predicament by the Baron of Thuntcrden- 
 tronck. 
 
 Some confin;.'ment, a little reasoning, a great deal of 
 menace, and a natural phabiUty of character, soon produced 
 all the efl'ect Avhich her father could have wished on the 
 affections of the imprudent Sarah Segur. The proud 
 spirited beggar-boy never appeared in the neighbourhood 
 after — and seemed even to have extended his ready hatred 
 to the gi'Utle and suffering cause of his disfavour. 'Twas 
 but a few weeks' peaking and pining — some duzen sighs — 
 half dinners — tears — and one fit of hysterics, and Sarah 
 Segur was again the briglit-haired, blue-eyed, sofi-checked 
 ornament of her native village, and delight of her flither's 
 heart. What became of her first love, she neither asked, 
 nor seemed to care. 
 
 Two years after this transaction, a very strong induce- 
 ment held out by a commercial relative in Germany, occa- 
 sioned a total revolution in the affairs of the worthy far- 
 mer. Committing his farm to the care of a cousin, and 
 his daughter to the guardianship and tutelage of an expe- 
 rienced female roLitive, he exchanged, during some years, 
 the laud of his birth, for that of liis ancestors, and found 
 the advantage of the sacrifice he m:ide of his domestic con- 
 venience, in a Considerable iucreasj of wealth. For some 
 time, the accounts which he re eived from home were such 
 as to Lave him no ground to regret the step which he had 
 taken, and he went on, hoarding money, and forming a 
 thousand different schemes for its disbursement, when a 
 letter from his daughter, informing him, though in the most
 
 280 SUIL DIIUV, 
 
 gnarcled and cautions mannor, of tlic re- appearance of the 
 delinquent Dlnny in the neighbouihood, and even at the 
 cottage of the Palatine, startled and filled hira with dismay 
 and apprehension. She described him in the most touching 
 manner, as presenting a picture of misery, of repentance, 
 and abject poverty, which would make resentment not only 
 inhuman but ridiculous, and ended by suggesting,', in a very 
 circuitous way, the possibility of an entire reformation in 
 the young man, in case her father should give him another 
 trial. The sagacious Palatine, however, judged tha\ either 
 the inexperience or the enthusiasm of the letter-writer had 
 led her into error, so far as her p'-ognostio was concerned ; 
 and he was, although much against ^:Is inclination, compelled 
 to suspect that she had used more or less- exaggeration in 
 her account of the young rebel's mean submission. His 
 estimate of Dinny's character was right, although it was 
 very true that the latter had, as Sarah mentioned, made 
 his appearance on the farm. Segur immediately answered 
 the letter in a tone of violent and unabated indignation, and 
 the subject was not again renewed. In a little time after, 
 an account reached him that his kinsman had been struck 
 with blindness, and that several losses in consequence had 
 accrued to the property. This latter circumstance, how 
 ever, which he was sufficiently provided against, gave him 
 not a tithe of the uneasiness which was occasioned by the 
 irregularity, and at length the infrcquency of the letters 
 v.'hich were transmitted to him from his family, and the con- 
 viction that some dreadful change had taken place, was 
 soon confirmed by the total cessation of all communication 
 whatever. Filled with a thousand alarms and uncertain- 
 ties, he was now relurning to a-ceitain the cause, what- 
 ever it might be, of the singular neglect v/hich had paineu 
 liim. 
 
 In the meantime it is necessary that we should glance 
 at the fortunes of his young foe during the interval, lie 
 had contracted, soon alter his expulsion from the Palatine'a
 
 raE COINER. 281 
 
 honsehold, a close fneiiclship with the sole offspring of his 
 unkind mother's second marriage, who had Ijeen, for some 
 years past, left with himself in a state of orphanage, nndef 
 circumstances peculiarly calculated (if that alone had not 
 been sufficient) to bind them to each other; in a league, 
 too, much closer than that involved by the general claims oi 
 their relationship, which, according to the opinions of the 
 class in which they were brought up, are sufficient grounds for 
 St, casus foederis of mutual offence and defence on all occa- 
 sions. The brothers resided together in the cabin in which 
 they had first seen the light — held their acre of potato- 
 ground in common, lived together, worked together, fought 
 together, and drank together. This very closeness of at- 
 tachment, however, had unhappily the effect of involving 
 them in a greater number of quarrels with their neighbours 
 than that to which the hereditary privilege of an Irish pea- 
 sant might be supposed fairly to entitle them. The secret 
 of this tendency to disunion might be fuund in the fact that 
 either of the friends was far more apt to resent an insult, 
 real or imagined, offered to the other, than if he had recei\ ed 
 it in his own person ; and the natural consequence was, 
 that before long, their hands, like those of Ishmael, were 
 against every man's, and every man's hand against theirs. 
 Still, however, there was no deep moral offence, of such a 
 nature as could awaken the serious indignation of their 
 neighbours, imputed to them, and their extraordinary fond- 
 ness for fighting had only the eftect of injuring themselves, 
 and increasing the custom of the village apothecary. 
 
 Great therefore was the consternation which spread 
 through the cottage circles, when one summer morning as 
 the Macuamaras were leaving their humble cabin with their 
 slanes on their shoulders, in order to proceed to their daily 
 toil — a party of soldiers, with a magistrate at their head, 
 intercepted their progress, and laying hands on the younger 
 brother, arrested him in the name ot the king for a midnight 
 a&jauit on the dwelling-house of the very man who waa
 
 282 suiL Dur\', 
 
 appointed the guardian of his property and his child, by 
 the Palatine. It came like a thunderstroke upon the mind 
 of the elder brother, Diany — as he was still called — he 
 thought it impossible that the transaction could have taken 
 place without his knowing it ; he remonstrated violently — 
 but the civil officer persisted in the course he was pursuing, 
 and the sullen silence of the younger, joined to the pale- 
 ness and conscious anxiety which overspread his features, 
 operated with a more fearful influence upon the incredulity 
 of the youth, than all the confident pertinacity of his accu- 
 sers. The prisoner was led away and flung into the county 
 gaol, after wringing the hand of his relative with a bitter- 
 ness of feeling, which those only can imagine avIio part for 
 the last time with a good friend, and leave him no legacy 
 but shame and loneliness. 
 
 Neither has it fallen to the lot of many to know what 
 the degree of that loneliness Mas in the instance of the elder 
 Macnamara. Unacquainted with, from the manner of his 
 education, as well as unfitted, from the nature of his dispo- 
 sition, for tlie exei'cise of any of those noble resources by 
 wliicli more cultivated minds are enabled to support them- 
 selves beneath the pressure of an unforeseen affliction, he 
 abandoned himself, without an eflbrt at resistance, to the 
 spirit of desolation which came upon him. He became 
 spiritless, and despor.ding, neglected his employments, for- 
 sook the wake, the dance, the fair, the hurling match, and 
 the public-hou^e, and awaited in helpless anxiety the issue of 
 his brother's trial, stalking like one that is m_o]}ed with sor- 
 row, around the precincts of the prison, shunning the sight 
 and converse of his old acquaintances, and pitied even by 
 those whose heads bore frequent testimony to his prompti- 
 tude and ready spirit in earlier and prouder days. Had the 
 offence with which his brother was charged b^en merely an 
 outrage, it would only have aftlcted his fortunes, or his per- 
 sonal safety, and left some consolation to those wha boro 
 h.. uanie j but theft — sheep-stealing had been superadded,
 
 THE COINEE. 233 
 
 and (iHorace was fixed upon his repntatiou ; for, among the 
 pciisaiiiry of Ireland, their proverbial honesty is not so much 
 occasioned by their abliorrence of the positive injury wiiich 
 the contrary practice inflicts on their noiglibour, as by their 
 contempt for the indication which the Litter affords of a 
 low and mean spirit on the part of the perpetrator. Thus, 
 for instance, on one occasion, when the elder brother over- 
 heard a neighbour " wondering that any body wouldn't 
 drop down with the shame, to be caught doen such a m.ane 
 thing," and retorted on the hag, that she had herself had a 
 son hanged for murder, she replied, with infinite composure 
 and satisfaction, " Oh, the heavens be praised that it wasn't 
 a cow or a sheep he stole!" 
 
 The compassion entertained for the elder and unsuspected 
 brother, was sufficient to procure him admission on the day 
 of Macnamara's trial, within the precincts of the bar, and 
 at the foot of the table appointed for the accommodation of 
 evidence and of the crier, a bustling and im[)ortant person- 
 age, whose duty it is in Irish courts to be as noisy as pos- 
 sible in procuring " silence" — to perform the part of mouth- 
 piece to the clerk of the crown — marshal the spectators to 
 their different places — thrust out the orange-women — knock 
 little boys on the head with a long white wand — and con- 
 vey by means of a slit in the end of said wand, epistles 
 from all quarters of the court. Under the patronage of 
 this great man, poor young JMacnamara was permitted to 
 occupy one of the steps leading to the witness table, while 
 his brother was called on before God and his country, to 
 answer to a charge of life and death. 
 
 It is needless to enter into any detail either on the par- 
 ticulars of the case, or the feelings of the friends, according 
 as every circumstance of corroboration was brought forward; 
 until at length, the deep and deadly conviction of the guilt 
 ot the accused became stamped upon the mind of every 
 spectator, and was manifested by the emphatic nod and 
 compression of the hps, which passed in silence aoion^ tho
 
 284 suiL Diiuv, 
 
 more intelligerit of the listeners. Still, however, the eyes of 
 the devoted wretch and his forlorn relative were fixed, in 
 all but utter hopelessness, upon the door of the jury room ; 
 the stake at issue being too awfully great to permit them 
 to yield up their reliance upon the hope Avhich they knew 
 to be unfounded, until circumstances should have forcibly 
 torn it from them. That door at length was opened, and 
 the doom of the prisoner was manifest in the solemn and 
 reluctant manner of the foreman, as he tendered the written 
 verdict to the clerk of the crown. The criminal cast a 
 dreary glance around him, when called upon to plead 
 against his sentence, but could not utter a word : and the 
 judge had already proceeded far in his discourse to the 
 prisoner, and was approaching the usual form of condem- 
 nation, when a figure, pale, wild, and haggard in gesture 
 and appearance, appeared on the witness table. It Avas 
 that of the elder Macnamara. He raised his hands im- 
 ploringly toward the bench, while his frame shook and bis 
 features quivered with emotion. 
 
 "My lord !" he exclaimed, "stop talkcn to the boy, for 
 'twas I done the deed." 
 
 A universal murmur of astonish.ment passed through the 
 court at this declaration. A whisper at the same time waa 
 circulated among the counsel, the import of which seemed 
 to be confirmed by the half-crazy appearance and demean- 
 our of the youth. The prisoner was appealed to. 
 
 " My lord," he replied with a mournful toss of the head, 
 " I wouldn't have you give in to him — I won't say it was 
 meself done it — but it wasn't he any way." 
 
 The young man was in consequence removed, as a per- 
 son whose enthusiastic affection had affected his reason, and 
 (as the legal phrase is) judgment and execution followed 
 accordingly, in the person of the younger brother. 
 
 The original character of the elder Macnamara was now 
 c^impletely restored. He once more resumed all, and n)oro 
 thau all, the ready violence and fierceness of decii;auuur lor
 
 THE COINER. 285 
 
 ■which he was formerly far more remarkable than his dead 
 brother, and seemed to exist only in the hope of being one 
 day enabled to avenge tlie blood of the latter, against his 
 prosecutor, the guardian Segur, and the whole of his family, 
 excepting perhaps the innocent object of his own early at- 
 tentions. He noAv seemed to have abandoned every other 
 care but that of gratifying this single passion. His cabin 
 w'as forsaken, his garden left untiiled, all his accustomed 
 haunts appeared to be forgotten or deserted, and he might 
 occasionally be observed gliding at night-fall, like a spectre, 
 among the sally-groves and along the hedges in the neigh- 
 bourhood of his enemy. The latter felt that he had deep 
 cause to regret a transaction which rendered him obnoxious 
 to a being so desperate and ill-conditioned as his persecutor. 
 He was a weak, sickly man, of a nervous and almost femi- 
 nine feebleness of mind and frame, and never dared venture 
 out unaccompanied by some person of strength sufficient to 
 protect him against any attempt which could be made on 
 his life ; aad even Mith these jirecautions he found himself 
 compelled to eat his bread amid all the terrors of insecurity. 
 All the exertions and persuasions of his friends, his niece 
 among the number (who calculated much on her own in- 
 fluence over the mind of the young man, if they could but 
 fiad an opportunity of using it,) were iueifectual in restor- 
 ing calmness to his mind. His sleep was broken by fright- 
 ful dreams, and the oath which his foj I ad taken ia his 
 own hearing, that he would have "blood for blood before 
 the gr.iss should wither on his brother's grave'," sounded 
 for ever in his ears. After many fruitless etforts, however, 
 to obtain an opportunity of accomplishing his threats, young 
 Macnamara suddenly disappeared from the neighbourhood, 
 and nothing more was seen or heard of him for several 
 months. Better hopes began to break in upon the mind 
 of the object of his hate, and he ventured, after some time 
 spent in many vaiu endeavours to ascertain the position of
 
 2S5 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 his enemy, to resume liis wonted occupations about the farm 
 without fear of personal danger. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Now all you demons tliat delight in blood — 
 Ye spirit-stirring agents — whose it is 
 To fan hate's embers when they smoulder — now 
 Hover about me ! Wave your burning pinions 
 Till you shake flame into my inmost soul — 
 And let pale INIemory's hand mark but one point 
 In the wide circle of past time — and that 
 Will goad me to the task — " 
 
 He was returning on a bright moonlight night from a 
 water-mill in his own neighbourhood, where he had remained 
 to a late hour, superintending the grinding of a consi- 
 derable quantity of corn, and making the night jovial with 
 the miller, in the excess of his delight at a piece of good 
 news with which the latter had been entertaining him. This 
 ■was no other than that one Dennis Macnamara had been 
 tried and convicted at the assizes of Cork, for some felo- 
 nious otfence, and obtained a free passage in a king's ship 
 bound for the new world. They had been quaffing to the 
 favourable passage of the young emigrant, until Segur 
 became 
 
 «' Na that fou 
 But just a drappie in his ee," 
 
 and solemnly protested, in a speech much more remarkable 
 for the emphatic energy and needlessly vehement gesticu- 
 lation with which it was delivered, than for its eloquence or 
 sound sense, against taking another tumbler. 
 
 He had proceeded already a considerable distance on bis 
 wiiy home. His health appean^d to have beun restored at 
 a word. He trod the earth as if he were not of the eartli, 
 he threw his hat airily upon the side of his head, stepped
 
 THE COINER. SS7 
 
 on his toes, and with gay and expanding bosom clian'eJ 
 (in a manner which sounded to liis own ears extieinely 
 loud, articulate, and musical, but which in those ut an un- 
 prejudiced listener appeared remarkable for the u regularity 
 of its cadences, the unreasonable vehemence of an occasional 
 bar, and a general tendency in the pronunciation of the 
 words to dispense altogether with the use of consonants) — ■ 
 chanted, we say — a recollected stanza of the famous national 
 air: 
 
 " He that goes to bed, and goes to bed mellow, 
 
 Lives as he ought to do, 
 
 Lives as he ought to do, 
 Lives as he ought to do, and dies aa honest fellow.*' 
 
 He was in the act of ascending a slight acclivity covered 
 with furze bushes, through which the pathway winded, 
 when a heavy panting, and a sound of footsteps in rapid 
 pursuit, alarmed, and made him turn round. He beheld, 
 in the clear moonlight, not more than three yards from the 
 spot on which he stood, the figure of his enemy in the act 
 of rushing upon him, while the pautings of his weariness 
 were mingled with a horrible half-suppressed laugh of ecs- 
 tatic expectation. The light shone full upon his counte- 
 nance. It was wasted almost to the very skeleton, the eyes 
 were distended and protruding to an unnatural degree, and 
 the thin lips were dragged back by the ghastly smile, so as 
 to expose the teeth which were fast clenched, half in rage, 
 half in triumph. The sight instantly and perfectly sobered 
 poor Segur. Uttering a low cry of horror, he clasped his 
 hands above the head, and fled down the hill with the speed 
 of winged Fear itself, in the direction of the mill. It lay 
 at a considerable distance from the spot, and the poor sickly 
 wretch's heart sunk within him when he recollected, even 
 in the extremity of his affright, the reputation for agility as 
 well as strength which the youth had obtained in his nei"'h- 
 bourhood. But the latter was no longer the man he had 
 i>..i;ii m those days. Famine, disease, and anguish of mind
 
 288 suii. DHuv, 
 
 ai)il frame had f;iptenecl upon liim, and reduced his personal 
 vigour Eicarly to the same level with that of his intended 
 victim. Fear, moreover, is perhaps a fleeter passion than 
 revenge, and Scgur did not speedily lose the advantage 
 which he had at the outset. His pursuer Avas so close upon 
 his track that he sometimes felt his fingers upon his shoul- 
 ders, but the slight touch operated with an electrical influ- 
 ence upon his frame, infusing new and sudden vigour into 
 his limbs, and enabling him for a moment to place a wider 
 distance than before between his enemy and himself. Lights 
 were seen still burning in the Avindows of the mill as they 
 approached, and the broad door stood invitingly open at 
 the distance of a few hundred yards, while several figures 
 passed to and fro in the interior, fully revealed in tlie strong 
 light. Both noAv made a desperate effort — Segur, cheered 
 by the prospect of succour — his pursuer, maddened by the ap- 
 prehension of losing this single opportunity of vengeance. 
 Putting, therefore, to its extremcst trial a frame into which 
 a morsel of food had not entered for the last two days, he 
 closed on the frightened Palatine just as he gained the door- 
 way — fixed his fingers on his throat, and staggered with 
 his prey into the centre of the mill house. Half suffocated 
 by the pi'cssure of his neck, the latter could only give vent 
 to a low and gurgling sound, and extend his arms for aid 
 towards the astonished workmen. The desperate youth 
 endeavoured to drag him toward that part of the room 
 where the great machine was performing its rapid and gi- 
 gantic evolutions — but his strength failed him — the strug- 
 gles of his victim Avere sufticient to baflle his efiorts until 
 the workmen rescued him from the death-grasp — when ex- 
 tending his fingers in a feeble and delirious effort to renew 
 the hold which he had been compelled to relinquish, he 
 fell forward on the earthen floor in a state of utlcr exhauS" 
 tion. 
 
 A f(W days after this aLhcnture, while the young maJi 
 V, as still confined to a sick led in the neighbourhooJ, hy
 
 THE COINEh. 289 
 
 the cotiscqnoTices of the dreadful exertion of body and mind 
 ■which he Iiad undergone ; and while the object of his hate 
 still continued half bewildered by the recollection of the 
 hair-brcndth escape he had experienced, a foir arab.issadress 
 arrived on the part of the latter. It was a long time since 
 the youth had seen Sally Segnr, with her light straw hat 
 tied simply under her small chin — her gentle soft eyes, and 
 blooming, healthful countenance — her light and neatly at- 
 tired figure, so characteristic in all its details of cottage 
 peace and comfort — and the sight aiFccted him more deeply 
 than he imagined anything could have done. It was not 
 that his love for her was at any time of a deep or ardent 
 nature — on the contrary, he had been suspected by some 
 few individuals of being visionary enough to entertain such, 
 a sentiment towards a young person, far his superior in 
 rank and endowments, v.ho had once condescended to hon- 
 our him with her hand at a village merry-making, but be 
 had regarded Sally with feelings of affection notwithstand- 
 ing, and her appearance now, unexpected as it was, sud- 
 denly threw him back upon the memory of happier days, 
 and overpowered him with the anguish of the retrospection. 
 It was long, too, since Sally had seen her old lover, but all 
 that she had heard, and all that she could imagine, was in- 
 sufficient to prepare her for the shocking,alteration which 
 he had undergone. She i-eached him her hand, and turning 
 in dismay and agony from the wild and sepulchral stare 
 which he fixed upon her, sunk with a burst of tears into a 
 chair at the bed-side. 
 
 All that the eloquence of passion, and of virtuous en- 
 thusiasm, all that youth, beauty, and suppliant tears could 
 do to move him from his purpose of revenge, was done by 
 the affectionate girl. She bade him remember their former 
 friendship — modestly urged her own sufferings and truth — 
 and conjured him, for his sake and hers, to forget what was 
 past, and wait patiently for a time of happiness that was 
 sure to come. He heard her without arguaieut or acqaies- 
 13
 
 290 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 C3nce, and suffered her to depart with the conviction that 
 she had prevailed nothing. 
 
 Her visits were frequently renewed, as the convalescon-t 
 began to improve in health and spirits. She had, nnfortii- 
 nately, at length an opportunity of strengthening her plea 
 by tlie intelligence that her uncle and guardian, whose 
 nerves had been completely shattered by this last shock, 
 had on that morning, when all the world arose to the en- 
 joyment of light and mirth, awoke to the dreariness of an 
 eternal night — he had been struck with blindness. 
 
 The news gave no pleasure to his enemy. He appeared 
 even to regret a misfortune which had not proceeded from 
 his own hand, and in the prosecution of what he considered 
 hi? just revenge, but he could not altogetlicr appear insen- 
 sible to the anguish of the gentle mediator. He took re- 
 Tuge from her entreaties in counter solicitations — urged, as 
 slie had done, their ancient vows, and stipulated as a con- 
 dition by which his amity, or rather his inditference, was 
 to be purcliased — that Sally should at once consent to have 
 those vows accomplished, and accompany him to a distant 
 part of the country. He met, as in all probability he had 
 himself anticipated, a direct, though not an indignant i-e- 
 fusal ; but the young maiden did not deem it necessary to 
 avoid his society, while she persevered in the observance of 
 what she was taught to consider her duty. 
 
 Again the evil spirit appeared to have taken possession 
 of the soul of the young man. Finding that he could not 
 prevail on his love to sacrifice to him her obedience to her 
 parent, whom she both loved and feared, with an intensity 
 only inferior to that whicli she felt for the youth himself, he 
 overwhelmed her witli rrproaches, renewed his protestations 
 of vengeance, and left her half dead with grief and fear. 
 Several months rolled on, and nothing more was heard of 
 him in the neighbourhood. Divers reports then got into 
 circulatiou ; it was asserted by some that he had joined the 
 smuiijgkrs on the western coast — by others, that he had
 
 THE COINER. 291 
 
 enlisted nndor the banners of the successor of the notorions 
 Kedmond O'Hanlon (the Robin Hood of his time and country) 
 and his mates — while a few were found to say that he had se- 
 lected the more lionourable and legitimate standard of his law- 
 ful sovereign. Nothing certain, however, was learned of his 
 proceedings, and in some time further his name appeared to 
 have been forgotten. Sally, in tlie meantime, had greater 
 difficulty in reconciling herself to this his last desertion of 
 her than to the former — for, in the unresisted intercourse 
 which subsisted between them, the passion which she in- 
 dulged had become more firmly rooted in her heart than 
 ever. 
 
 It was an unfortunate circumstance for her, likewise, 
 that her uncle's misfortune prevented him from exercising 
 that rigid surveillance over her motions, which might be 
 necessary to the prudent government of a young maiden 
 of her rank, gifted with spirits so light and heedless, and 
 feelings so deep and susceptible as hers. She contracted 3 
 greater number of intimacies among the girls of her owi\ 
 rank in the neighboin-hood, than was in accordance with the 
 injunctions of her rigid father — frequented their houses — ■ 
 pastimes — nnd festive assemblies — furnishing, on those oc- 
 casions, when she happened to be detained from home for 
 an unusual length of time, such excuses as were likely to 
 satisfy her querulous old guardian. 
 
 Considerable agitation was produced in the adjacent vil- 
 lage, by the appearance, one Sunday morning, of a placard, 
 nailed against the trunk of an old elder tree in the chapel- 
 yard, written in characters which the schoolmaster declared, 
 with a c'junten ince of deep and serious reproof, he could 
 compare to nothing more intelligible than " the scratcheu 
 of a b intam-cock in a hape 0' sand" — and stating that 
 Mr. O'Flanagan, travelling dancing-master, would give les- 
 sons during the ensuing fortnight at Davy Dogherty's baru, 
 at tlie low rate of two skilleens* and a testerf the \\?ek— 
 • Shillings. f Sixpence.
 
 292 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 (precisely wnst the villaije I ionysius aforesaid, as lie him- 
 self declared in terms ol high indignation, charged i'or a 
 whole quarter's instruction in the rudiments of general 
 learning; marvelling deeply in what consisted this superior 
 impoitance of the heels above the head, unless it originated 
 in people's conceit and vanity) — the said handbill moi'cover 
 announcing that the Meek's lesson would be concluded by 
 a ball — tickets, including a tumbler o' punch, ten-pence — - 
 gentleman taking a ticket, allowed to trate a lady, &c., &c. 
 ■ — and concluding, as it has been maliciously, and we be- 
 lieve falsely asserted, with a request that " no gentleman 
 would come without shoes and stockings." 
 
 The inhabitants of an Irish village must be reduced very 
 low indeed, when a call, such as that just mentioned, is suf- 
 fered to pass away unheeded and unanswered. The Albert 
 of the bogs had many pupils — and before the evening of 
 the " ball" arrived, he had disposed, on his own terms, of 
 nearly twice as many tickets as the barn could hold. 
 
 Sally was ignorant of the village etiquette which pre- 
 sumed that no " lady" would appear among the belles of the 
 evening, who had not been " trated" by a " gentleman" — 
 Dtherwise, as she would have allowed no cAa/Jej'o??, she must 
 have remained, much against her own inclination, in her own 
 house. She hesitated not therefore to indulge the strong 
 curiosity which she felt to witness the village festivity, aa;d 
 having provided herself with the master key of all public 
 amusements, she stole away from her uncle's side, and joined 
 a motherly female acquaintance, who was proceeding to the 
 "dance-house" to ascertain the progressmadeduring the pre- 
 ceding week by a hopeful, sleek-headed "• boy of her own." 
 lliey arrived, fortunately for Sully, as she thereby avoided 
 the sneers and whispers of those more fortunate maidens, 
 whose attractions had procured them the protection of cicis- 
 beos, some time before the ball opened, and while the greater 
 y Jrtion of places were yet unoccupied. 
 
 2lr. O'Flauagau received Uiem, violin in hand, at the door
 
 THE COINER. 293 
 
 of tlie bnrn, or asscmlily room (as it had the hoiionr of fiil- 
 iiig that oflice tl;is evening) — f1o?cnbecl a flourish with his 
 bow in the air, and then lowered it sniartl}^ to the ground — 
 drevv liis heels gracefully into the first position, turned out 
 his toes like Sir Christoplier Houghton in the Critic, and 
 completed the ceremony of reception with a bow ^Ahich waa 
 evidently intended as a pattern for all the male spectators 
 ■ — lowering his head until the queue of his peri\\ig (a fash- 
 ionable article of dress which added materially to his impor- 
 tance in this region of shock heads) arose, and culminated 
 to the zenith. He then marshalled the ladies to their seats 
 on one of the forms Avhich were ranged along the walls for 
 the accommodation of tlie guests — and whicb was strewed 
 Viith fresh rushes, in order to afford a " saft sate" for the 
 gentlesex — whilehe proceeded to putthe youngpupil through 
 his evolutions. 
 
 " A very fine boy, indeed, ma'am — if he had only a little 
 polish. Now, sir, spring up off o' the ball o' your futt, an 
 come down in the third position. Very good. Hold up 
 your head, sir, — no fear yoiiv feet will run away from you 
 vhile you Match them so close — keep in your tongue, sir, — 
 there's a handle o' your tongue thrus-t out, as if that would 
 be any use to you in the step. Now — one — two — three — 
 very good," &c., &c., &c. 
 
 The company soon began to thicken, and in a little time 
 complaints began to arise of the scantiness of room, which 
 were ingeniously obviated by arranging a few forms in the 
 open air — and preparing a second dancing area in the bright 
 moonlight, the master of the ceremonies canfully dividing 
 his time and attention between the guests within and those 
 without, so that neither party might complain of a deficiency 
 in this respect. The hitter were accomracdated with the 
 violin of the dancing-master himself, while the company within 
 nceived sufficient reason for dancing from a long and lean 
 piper wlio had been hired for the evening as an assistant in 
 the orchestral departaieut.
 
 294 siriL Dntrv, 
 
 The bnll oponsrl with a most tovtunns dnnoe called the 
 Ecel ot Tliree — \vhic!i, however scientific, did not fully 
 satisfy the longings of the vnercnrial spectator-:, whose met- 
 tlesome heels were eager for livelier oper.itions. For some 
 time no occurrence took place to disturb the gravity and 
 decorum which prevailed in the asseniblv, with the excep- 
 tion of an awkward blunder made by Sally, who during a 
 pause in the nsusic leaned back unwittingly on the piper's 
 unexhausted bag, from which procee('e(l a squeal so mourn- 
 ful and so like the remonstrance of ?. living creatm-e in pain, 
 as convulsed the hearers v.'ith laughter, and covered our poor 
 heroine with confusion. Soon after, while the floor was again 
 clear, and the gentlemen were plying their fair ones with agree- 
 able attentions in variouG parts ot the room, the piper seein<^ 
 Sally disengaged, and perhaps willing to shovv that he har- 
 boured no malice, danced up to her, throwing the drone i,p 
 over his left shoulder, playing a rapid jig tune, and capering 
 away with a pair of enormously long legs, looking — in his 
 close cropped head, black worsted stockings, torn biue jacket, 
 tight pantaloons, and red woollen cravat or comforter — 
 more like the ideal of an evil genius than any thing human. 
 When Sally cheerfully danced forward, amid the shouts of 
 delight and approbation which broke from the assembly, 
 her strange partner retired to the centre of the floor, where 
 he continued to time his own music, nowprunding the earth 
 like a pavier's rammer, now flying from side to side, as if 
 he trod on air, and anon remaining to grind the floor in one 
 spot, throwing back his head, and moving it from one side 
 to another with a certain ravished air. Thi guests gradu- 
 ally gathered around the danci-rs, following, with eyes and 
 mouth distended to ecstatic admiration, the feet of the ex- 
 traordinary piper, and unable to rej/ress a cheering shout t4 
 rapture when, by a fresh wild bound, he seemed to recover 
 all his former vigour as last as it was exhausted. The conta- 
 gion at !eng;h spread — the floor was covered with emulitivt» 
 groups, and the daucin^-master'o genteel reels and figures
 
 THE COINER. 293 
 
 WJ'-e all merged into the national and inspiring monnieen. 
 Overpowered with fatigue, Sally at length i)cruutted her>elf 
 to be danced and played to her seat by the piyier, who whis- 
 pered in her ear as she turned to sit down — •' There's one 
 you know \a aiten for you in the sally-grove, Miss." 
 
 The words Mere ahnost inaudible, but such as they were 
 they made Sally start and look up suddtnly. The speaker 
 was already in his former place, playing on, and directing 
 his attention to the dancers. She imagined either that licr 
 senses deceived her or that the words were addressed to 
 some other person. 
 
 The dancing and music proceeded with no less enthu- 
 siasm on the green plot without. Longing to breathe the 
 cool night wind, atter her exertions in the house, Sally 
 Avalked to the door, and, leaning against the jamb, contem- 
 plated the motions of the dancers in the moonlight. While 
 she remained in this position, tlie name of her old lover, 
 Macnamara, pronounced by some one of a group of persons 
 ■who occupied a seat near the door, caught her ear. 
 
 "And did you hear," said one, "how Miss Byrne her- 
 self was getten on ?" 
 
 '"She never '11 get over it," repli: d a middle- agid 
 ■woman. " I spoke to-day with James Mihil, tlieir ser\ ant- 
 boy, an' he toult me himself that she was getten worse 
 and worse every day. It seems the match is bro.^e 
 ott" out an' out betune herself and Mr. Robert Kumba, a 
 kind-hearted boy he is too, indeed, but not over and above 
 knowing. She never was heard to screech or cry afti r her 
 father's death, an' that's a bad sign, for the silent gi ief is 
 always that that lies heavy on the heart an' breaks it." 
 
 " I'd be torry anything should happen her," said one oi 
 the hearers. " bhe was a good, sweet-tempeied young lady, 
 an' a nice dancer. Did you mind her the day she danced 
 with Diuny Macnamara, that tiicy say is listed since, afi 
 the May pole i"' 
 
 " 1 did," replied a young man, who had just been 
 
 I
 
 IT 
 
 29 G suiL Diiuv, 
 
 dnncecl out of his plnce, " .iu' it you'll b'lie' me, I didn't 
 think so much of her. She trod so hght, there wasn't 
 hardly a blade o' the ;^'rass turned under her. Not so with 
 Dinny, I'll be bail. That was the boy for pounden ! 'I cm 
 place was as if a pig had been rooten it after him." 
 
 " They say Diuny Macnauiara was taken with her him- 
 self after that, in spite of all that come and went betweeu 
 him and Sally Segur, the Palatine's daughter, over " 
 
 A sudden " husht !" and a low murmur which passed 
 among the group of gossips informed our heroine that her 
 proximity was discovered, and she retired a little farther 
 in, continuing to fix her eyes on the dancers ^^ithout, 
 where a new spectacle had caught her attention. 
 
 This was a young man, much better dressed than the 
 remainder of the company, who had not made his appear- 
 ance in the interior of tlie house, and who seemed anxious 
 to partake of the amusements that Avere going forn ard as 
 fieely as it was possible to do without exposing himself, in 
 any remarkable degree, to observation. In a short time, 
 as he turned round and approached her, so that the glare 
 of liglit from the open door fell on his features, her lieai t 
 bounded at the sight of her lover, once more restored to 
 h'alth and bloom"; and apparently eijoying a degree et 
 i fHucnce to which he had never at any time been accus- 
 tomed. 
 
 "■ is it you, Denny ?" she asked, in a low whisper. 
 
 " llu&ht I" replied the man ; " that is not my name 
 now, Sally. I'm going to the little grove, beyond, and do 
 you follow me in a little time, for I want to speak to 
 you." 
 
 He disappeared, leaving the astonishment and curiosHy 
 of the girl excited in the hi- best degree. She did not hesi- 
 tate to give him the meeiing as he requested. 
 
 Soon after she had left die dance-house, tlie mirth of the 
 evening became more uproarious tiian cvur, until it seemed 
 Ukely to terniinate as Irish fesUA ilies frequently do, in a
 
 THE COINER. 297 
 
 general ensjagement of a serious nature. The syniptomg 
 began, as usual, in vehement protestations of eternal friend- 
 ship, after ■\\-hich a few blows were given in pure love, and 
 gratefully returned with good interest, until, at length, 
 tlieir excited affections began to be demonstrated in a series 
 of kicks and fistycuffs, which a stranger might mistake 
 for indications of earnest resentment. The men hulioocd 
 and fought — the girls screamed and fled — the dancing- 
 master himself, interfering to keep the peace, received an 
 unmerciful drubbing, which prevented him from renewing 
 the exercise of his profession for some •\\eeks, and the 
 sounds of rage, wailing, and lamentation terminated an 
 evening which had been devoted, by common consent, to 
 purposes of mirth and harmony. A few were killed (tliat 
 is, severely beaten), many wounded ; but the list of " miss- 
 ing" on the next morning was found to be confined to 
 Sally. She was seen no more in her native village. 
 
 We now feel it necessary to return to our travellers, 
 whom we deserted, for the purpose of laying these details 
 before the reader, in the second chapter. 
 
 After riding about two miles farther on a narrow, broken 
 road, leading through a tract of alternate crag and marsh, 
 or bog — daring the progress of which Segui- gave his old 
 companion, the only old acquaintance whom he had met 
 since his return, the principal f icts of the detail with which 
 I have just furnished the reader — the travellers, m idc 
 anxious by the fall of the first shades of evening, sought to 
 obtain farther information as to the proximity of their des- 
 tination. As they looked round them for some person 
 from whom they might make the necessary inquiries, a 
 stout, wild-haired svench jumped on the road from a stile 
 leading to a little avenue, along which she had be?n run- 
 ning towards them, and dropping a short courtesy, was 
 abijut to pass on, when the Palatine put a switch before 
 her, and made his question with as nmch civility as he 
 could muster. She looked at him for a moment, then at 
 
 13*
 
 298 SUIL THUV, 
 
 his fat companion, then at the comically shaped attendant, 
 shook back her thick and greasy hair, so as to disclose a 
 countenance that showed at least a week's abstinence from 
 the luxury of an ablution, and curled her dark and har- 
 dened lip into an expression of the most forcible contempt, 
 after which, without answering the question, she tuckcd^np 
 her stuff gown, so as to disclose an enormous unstockinged 
 ankle, and making a short run at the fence on the road- 
 side, jumped, with considerable agihty, on the top, where 
 she waved her huge arm above her head, and shouted, at 
 the top of a shrill sojirano voice — " Hoo ee ! — Shane, 
 Dick, Davy, Ned, and 8hamus, come in to the pzaties — • 
 Hoo-eel" 
 
 The men to whom this welcome exhortation was ad- 
 dressed, M ere at a quarter of a mile distant at least. Per- 
 ceiving them depositing their spades in the furrows, the 
 (air herald drew an enormous reeking cup [[jotato] from 
 her own piuned-np stuff petticoat, and seating herself down 
 on the fence, condescended to notice the individuals of the 
 despicable race of Falentins, who stood waiting her leisure, 
 half amused, half irritated : — 
 
 " How far are we from the village of Court ilattrcss, ray 
 good girl :"" 
 
 Another pause ensued before the reply (as usual, a 
 counter interrogation) could be elicitc d : — 
 
 **Ti u't aistvviir is from behind ye're coineu?" 
 
 Segur explain, d. 
 
 " \Vliy then. Court Mattress is twenty long mile from 
 ye ylt, every spade o' the road." 
 
 The preacher and the layman interchanged a glance o( 
 surprise and disappointment. 
 
 ''■ Our jiiuiney is lengthening then as we lessen it, for we 
 have travelled two miles since it was only fifteen." 
 
 *' fcLere scvijxr fugiadaii Italiavi" said a voice close 
 lehiud them. Segur turned, and beheld a thin-faced lad, 
 bra less and shoeless, a ragged coat, surmounting a still more
 
 THt COINER. SOS 
 
 patched and racrged under-costume, and a leaflicr covered 
 ink-bottle dangling by a strap from the only button he was 
 master of. " Tace^-piiella viea, whisht! howl,* you jade 
 — why mislead the gintlemin?" 
 
 "A pretty fellow you are, indeed, to hope for any luck, 
 an* yort here directen the Palontins. 
 
 " IJarharitable being," said Mr. Shine, "the Samaritan 
 inquired not the creed nor the country of him whose wounds 
 he dressed by the wayside." 
 
 " Faix, I meant no harm," said the girl. " Av ye take 
 the long and the safe road, ye'U find it's twenty good miics, 
 every wattle of it ; but to be sure, an' ye like to fall in with 
 the highwaymen (the plundherers, that are murtheren the 
 country), ye may take the short cut across by Mark Spel- 
 jacy's iuu, on the common, an' ye'U shorten the way four 
 miles." 
 
 " It is worth trying," said Segur. 
 
 "Who toult you dat the highwaymen was out, now?" 
 inquired the thin-faced lad, bending a sharp look on the 
 girl. 
 
 "Who toult me, inagh? Wasn't it themselves, with 
 Suil Dhuv at their head, that shot Segur in the glyn,. there 
 isn't hardly a fortnight there seiice." 
 
 The old Palatine bent forward on the neck of his horse, 
 and repeated the name in a low and anxious whisper, as if 
 to assure himself of the reality of what he heard. 
 
 '"Iss, thin, Sc'Tur, — the Palentin, the blind man that 
 was returnen by the glyn from the pattern, and was shot 
 through the head upon the haith, nobody knows for what, 
 nor for why, only them that done it." 
 
 "It is no matter," said the old man, who had recovered 
 his self-possession during the last speech — " I am well pro- 
 vided against such accidents, and I will take the short way, 
 Switze-r! ride close behind us — J\Ir. Shine, come, dash on, 
 man — I'd like to know what we have to learn next." 
 * Hold! -be silent. 
 
 1
 
 300 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 " It is a tempting of Providence," muttered the reluc- 
 tant Sliinp. 
 
 " Dere's enoogh o' de daylight before ye yet if ye stir,'' 
 said tlie poor scholar. " Af ye'd want a guide across tlie 
 
 common " he concluded the sentence by a significant 
 
 gesture, and shuffling of the feet, which was readily under- 
 stood. 
 
 " We intend to ride hard, and you have no horse," said 
 the Palatine. 
 
 ' ' never let dat trouble your hononr, dere's many a 
 worse roadster than old Shanks' mare." And throwing 
 himself into an easy flinging trot, he dashed forward at a 
 rate that showed he had some ground for his confidence. 
 The three travellers followed at a brisk rate. Doctor 
 Shine, whose condition showed that he had been accustomed 
 to regular hours and comfortable living, did not at all ap- 
 prove of the sudden and seemingly hazardous resolution 
 formed by his companion. They had been trdvelling to- 
 gether for more than eight hours, having falkn upon one 
 another accidentally at the inn where the worthy self-con- 
 stituted ecclesiastic stopped to breakftist. The doulile duties 
 of lunch and dinner, neither of which this conscientious di- 
 vine would have very willingly neglected, remained yet un- 
 discharged, and he felt exceedingly reluctant to prolong the 
 season of abstinence if by any contrivance it could be ter- 
 minated. No means of doing so, however, appeared likely 
 to present themselves in the dreary tracts of soil over whicli 
 they were now journeying; and the tone of feeling inlo 
 •which the last conversation had thrown his friend, was such 
 as to make him altogether oblivious of his own, as well as 
 of the doctor's necessities in this respect. All the sympathy 
 of which he could confidently assure himself, was such as 
 Abie Switzer, the queer-shaped servant of the Palatine, and 
 their horses afforded. The perils, too, of another and darker 
 natiu-e which belonged to the route they were pursuing, and 
 which becaaie invested in the mind of the man of peace
 
 TH^ COINER. SOI 
 
 wifli gradr.nl'v (Tppppriiifi: linos of terror, in proportion n- 
 tlie sliades ot evening advanced — and the road, migiiardcd 
 by ditcli or dyke, began to assume a still more rugged raid 
 unfrequented appearance, as it wound among a series of 
 black, craggy, and close set liillocks, covered only in a few 
 places with the tufts of broom and brushwood — the dangers, 
 we repeat, of every description, which now became more 
 strikingly evident, afforded new grounds of reluctance to 
 the unadventurous Shine. Nevertheless he proceeded for a 
 lime in silence, judging that a proposal of delay originating 
 in merely sensual or carnal motives would come with an ill 
 grace from a mortitied professor of religion ; and he even 
 began to entertain thoughts of a martyr-like perseverance 
 in the purpose laid down by his conspanion, when the plans 
 of the whole party were couuteructed by a resolution of the 
 preacher's little puny. 
 
 They had now ariived at the head of an acclivity, from 
 Tfliich a somewhat more extended tract of country was 
 visible than had as yet been afforded them by the nature 
 of the laud which they had passed. Immediately before 
 the door of a ])ublic-house, which formed the only dwelling 
 ■within sight, the road divided and cast off on both sides 
 of a steep and toilsome ascent (which we believe is one of 
 the minor national evils that have lately been removed by 
 the English benefaction of 1822). A few yards from this 
 iunction of the ways stood a ruined bridge, which 'made 
 but " two paces and a stride" across the Ovaan, or the 
 White River — a little stream so called, perhaps, from ifs 
 waters being of an unusual blackness, owii)g to the buggy 
 ground in which they have their source. The inn, which, 
 as is customary, went by the name of its owner rather than 
 its sign, was a low thatched house, with a witl.ered branch 
 and sign protruded over the doorway. One side of the 
 latter presented to the view of the carman, returning with 
 vehicle uiiburthei ed and groaning pocket from the nearest 
 coru-market, a rosy-!aced, weil-veal'jd, full-length portrait
 
 302 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 of the Patron Saint of the kingdom, -n-ith crook hi hanrl, 
 and extended arms, gesticidating a significant welcome, 
 made still more significant and irresistible by tlie following 
 lines scrawled in white paint underneath : — 
 
 Pass You Est 
 
 or Pass you West, 
 pass Spellacy's Punch 
 
 And You 11 Pass the Best. 
 Morgaii's Entire. 
 
 The day-labourer, who with spade on shoulder, and fore- 
 head pale and moist from the forenoon's toil, descended tho 
 hill on the other side, had his admiration excited by a 
 fl iming battle scene, which was also explained underneath 
 to represent — 
 
 [the Storniiu of Dendermond be Mark Spellacy's, Good 
 Beds.] 
 
 And if abundance of smoke and fire can be supposed to 
 compensate for the absence of all other characteristics of a 
 battle scene, the artist had been most successful iu his re« 
 presentation of the horrors of war. 
 
 The comparatively comfortable air of this mountain 
 hostelrie soon arrested the acute and experienced eye oi 
 the preacher ; and it appeared, too, as if his faithfid pony 
 shared his feelings, for as soon as the travellers arrived 
 opposite the feeding- trough, which was placed before the 
 doorway, the sturdy little animal, to the great delight of 
 its master, pulled up, and remained stock still, with an air 
 of determination in its eye which was sufficient to show 
 that no inducement whatever, but the gratification of its 
 desires, would be able to influence its movements. What 
 those desires were the doctor readily perceived. 
 
 " The creature," said he, " has been accustomed to havo 
 its daih- sustenance administered abjut this hour, and il;s 
 bowels yearn for the usual allowance." 
 
 " Dere's good lodgen for man or beast at Mark Spel- 
 lacy's," said the young man.
 
 THE COINER. 303 
 
 The P ilatiiie nrged tlieir rlepartnre. 
 
 " We have temptations enough to strngf!;le with," said 
 Mr. Shine ; " we pray to be delivered fi'om them, and we 
 ought consequently to seize every opportunity of avoiding 
 them where there is no end to be gained by exposing our- 
 selves to their influence. Mechanical modes f-re sometimes 
 allowable in fitting the mind for successful resistance against 
 the assaults of the Tempter." 
 
 " Manen," said the poor scholar, *' that a good dinner 
 will prepare and strengthen a man for the spiritual com- 
 bat?" 
 
 "The Turks," continued Mr. Shine, not heeding the 
 query, " shout from tlie top of a minaret, the steeple folk 
 announce the word by claidiing together a club and prodi- 
 gious cylinder of metal, even the great advocates of self- 
 denial, the papists, administer a sensuous stimulus in music ; 
 and we who are of the wiser cluss conceive that the best 
 possible mode of preserving a Christian-like evenness of 
 temper, a saint-like indifference to the operation of events 
 around us, is by using all such internal and external appli- 
 ances as Heaven has furnished us with, fur the purpose of 
 preventing unprofitable irritation. And that such has been 
 the object of allotting us a number of senses capable of re- 
 ceiving gratification is sufficiently evid-ent ; for, what were 
 noses made for, except to smell, what mouths made fur, 
 except to eat?" 
 
 " Not a ha'p'orth," said Abie Switzer. 
 
 " Bari'en to drink now an' den," said the foot-traveller. 
 " Soomthen dat way mesclf talks when I owe a man Ji 
 grudge, an' see a fair vacancy for giving him a knock on 
 de head. What were fists made for, except to strike? says 
 I. I wish I could persuade de priest of it. May be yuur 
 honour would try it wit him ?" 
 
 " As for myself," s dd Abie, " I'm abvays most patient 
 after dinner or a good hot sapper, an' 1 don't care who 
 knows it."
 
 304 
 
 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 " AnrI for TTip," rcpnn^ed the preacher, " 1 see not?iTnr» 
 sliort of a visible tempting ol Providence in rejecting a 
 proffered consolation. Resides, the instinct of my animal 
 decides against any further postponement: of the customary 
 refection, and seems to agree with me, that to proceed on 
 our way with mortified appetites would be merely a monkish 
 and papistical resolution." 
 
 After pausing a moment, the old Palatine dismounted in 
 silence, and led his horse to the door of the inn, in the 
 manner of one who had been prevailed upon by a train ot 
 reflections in his own mind, rather than by the reasoning 
 of the self-ordained divine. The most convincing argu- 
 ment, perhaps, which the latter employed might be indi- 
 cated in the obstinacy of his pony. He did not enter the 
 inn until he had seen the sturdy animal accommodated 
 with a due poition of oats, wliich he tied iu a bag about 
 its head. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 From oiir infancy we have some ideas, tliough originally intro- 
 duced by tlie most trifling incidents, wliicli direct us during tlie 
 nhole course of our life, and iuspirerus eitiier nith courage or cow- 
 araice, rasliness or superstition. 
 
 Ganganelli's Letters. 
 
 Some circumstances having taken place in the interior ot 
 the inn, a few hours before, with which it may be useful 
 that the reader should be made acquainted; we will leave 
 tlie travellers just at the point to which we have brought 
 tliem at the close of the last chapter, for the purpose of 
 introducing a new group of performers on the scene. 
 
 The kitchen, or principal apartment of the house, pre- 
 sented modes of accommodation by no means usual iualonely 
 abode of this class among the highlands of Eriu. Although,
 
 THE COINER. 305 
 
 fi'om its f?p!=prtorI nnd solitnry position, it liad appeared im- 
 possible tii;it tiie cliance custom of passing strangers could 
 constitute a very considei-able portion of the landlord's re- 
 venue, and the distance at which it stood from anvthin^;- 
 deserving the appellation of the word " nerghbouriiood," 
 seemed to form snflicient grounds for supposing that the 
 permanent customers could not be very numerous either — 
 the appearance, nevertheless, which the interior presented 
 was not such as to estimate any lack of company. It was 
 abundantly though plainly supplied with articles of furni- 
 ture, such as svgaan chairs, a table, settle-bed, wooden 
 dresser, t\\Q shelves of which were well stocked with pewter 
 dishes, plates, and wooden pi<j</ins, or drinking vessels. 
 The rafters, well seasoned by the influence of a settled cloud 
 of smoke, were graced «ith sundry flitches, hams, and 
 other departments of bacon which were visible through the 
 bluish mist, and from the many fresh indentures observable 
 to the glance, gave the most direct negative that could be 
 wished to the sneer of the apostate Goldsmith — or proved, 
 at least, that this was not one of the " Irish houses where 
 things are so-so." By the confused and rakish manner in 
 which all the furniture, however, was tossed about — a chair 
 lying prostrate in one corner — the table pushed awry, and 
 strewed with drinking vessels, which appeared not to have 
 been meddled with since they had fallen from the impotent 
 and infirm grasp of the last toper — it would seem that the 
 apartment had been made, a very short while before, the 
 scene of a riotous merry-making. The fire yet lay mingled 
 with the ashes into which it had been ralced on the previous 
 evening. A miserable half-burnt cat sat near the hearth, 
 vainly employed in an endeavour to impare a degree of 
 comeliness to her face by washing it Mith her feet, and 
 sometimes casting a sleepy blinking stare on the dull em- 
 bers before her. The shutters of the window being yet 
 closed, admitted scarcely enough of the mid-day light to 
 enable the drowsy inmates to distinguish the lateness of the
 
 3CG SUIL DIIUV, 
 
 Iionr. A feniiile figure, slipslioJ and in niidrcps, glided 
 into tlie apartment from an inner and still darker room, 
 and often stumbling fig;iinst various articles of furniture 
 ■wiiicli were scattered on the earthen floor, and opening the 
 \vindow-sliutter, used a gesture of astonishment as the 
 bright noon-tide glory rushed iu upon and around her. 
 Raising her hand quickly to her eyes to protect and shade 
 them from the effect of the dazzling light, and retiring from 
 the spot, she proceeded, in some appearance of haste and 
 anxiety, to re-establish a degree of order in the house. Tiie 
 woman was of a slight and perhaps graceful figure, although 
 her hard discoloured skin, and bony wasted arms forbatie 
 the conjecture th;it she could, under any circumstances, lay 
 claim to the praise of feminine loveliness — yet there was 
 something both in her manner and her appearance which 
 was calculated to attract the attention, if not to excite the 
 interest, of the spectator. Her countenance was wasted 
 and yellow — appare'Htly rather from the influence of iil 
 healili, than of age ti'toil. Her long, dry, liglit-coloured 
 hair, dabbled in dust and ashes, and hanging neglected about 
 her sunken cheeks, and over her thin sinewy neck, would 
 have given her an air altogether hideous, if its effect were 
 not met and contradicted, by the expression of a full, soft, 
 clear eye, which, the instant that it met the observation of 
 the spectator, engr('ssed all his attention, and altogether 
 abstracted it from the remainder of her person. A soilud 
 white muslin wrapper buttoned up in front, and a pair of 
 brownish, ashy, light slippers, coustiuited nearly all the 
 visible portion of her costume. 
 
 While she was occupied in regulating the furniture, and 
 brushing off the coat of turf ashes with which every article 
 was covered, with the wing of a goose, a man made his ap- 
 pcaance at the same inner room fiom which she had en- 
 tered, and stood for a few moments lazily stretching liim- 
 sfcif on the thrL'shoId. From the way in which liis dress 
 liung about him — his neckcloth turned awry — his coat co-
 
 THE COINER. 307 
 
 verefl with feathers and ashes, his knees luibuttoned, auil 
 his cuaive gray v/oollen stocl^iiigs ''down gyved to his ankle" 
 — it evidently appeared that he had retained the same ha- 
 biliments during his noctarnal repose which he had worn 
 on the iirevious (hiy. The woman gazed at him for a n^o- 
 ment with a slight emotion of that disgust which the "gi tn 
 and sober" look of the companion of an unlimited dcba ch 
 is apt to excite in the mind of one not yet wholly inincd 
 by custom to the hideous and nauseating consequences of 
 excess, when the gay and healthful morning light steals in 
 upon tlie scene of revelry, and pours its rosy splendour 
 over pale and yellow cheeks — dull, dim, and sleepless eyes 
 — sickly and expiring Hgiits, and all the disgusting details 
 of a spectacle of prolonged indulgence. The individual lure 
 presented seemed to entertain a kind of unacknowledged 
 sen-;e of his own repulsive appearance, for he walked in a 
 shuHiing, yawning, sliambliug way, to the darkest side of 
 the apartment, while the woman continued her occupa- 
 tion, turning away her eyes from his person, a- if unwilling 
 to contemplate, under circumstances so unfavourable, au 
 object in v.-hich her affections had an interest. From the 
 purirait we ha%'e given of the man, it may appear impro- 
 bable that this should be the case, but we omitted to state, 
 that no portion of the distaste which his costume and bear- 
 ing on tiiis occasion were calculated to excite, extended 
 themselves to his person and features. The latter were, in 
 fact, remarkably striking, and, perhaps, beautiful. His hair, 
 short, curling, and glossy, revealed, by its perfectly classical 
 disposition, tiie shape of a finely formed head, which itjitted 
 •with a Grecian exactness. His features, sharp and sudden 
 in their expression, were rendered still more poignant and 
 charactei-istic by the fire of a violent eye, of excelling dark- 
 ness and brilliancy. His ligure, rather low, though by no 
 means stunted, was slight and muscular; and his limba 
 were set with that firmness and ease which renders the 
 moveniept of a vigorous man a spectacle of so much deliglit
 
 soy SUIL DHUV, 
 
 and beanty, even in moments of the most arduous exer- 
 tion. 
 
 "Ye had a noisy night of it last night, Mark.'* 
 *' Iss." 
 
 " I couldn't get the child quiet the whole night long, for 
 the noise." 
 
 " I heard him indeed." 
 A pause. 
 
 "Are they to be here again to-night, Mark, darling?" 
 
 "Where else would you have 'em be ?" 
 
 "And when are we to have peace and a quiet house ? 
 Or is the child to be brought up here in this way, and to 
 be as bad — as — ourselves — in the end ?" 
 
 A fierce look wms the only aus^^er which the man re- 
 turned to this query, and both were again silent. 
 
 " What more of Mr. Kuuiba, Mark ?" was the next 
 question put by the woman. 
 
 It appeared as if, whither by accident or intention, she 
 had now started a theme more likely to lead her companion 
 into good humoured converse than the last, for he raised his 
 head from its drooping, meditative posture, and his face 
 brightened, as he replied : — 
 
 " We have him, heart, we have him. Come, sit near 
 me, here on the settle, love, an' I'll tell you all about — 
 how it was — an' every thing." 
 
 '* You told me, I think, yesterday, when Mancy O'Neil 
 interrupted us, that he went that morning to J\liss Byrne, 
 and that she would have nothing to say to him." 
 
 " Because her friends would have nothing to say to him. 
 He went, thinking himself sure of her, because her father 
 wasn't in the way now." 
 
 The woman groaned. 
 
 " Young Kumba himself is, as we all know, a wild hnrnm- 
 skarum sort of a latl, and between us two, not at all likely 
 ever to attain to a creature of that kind, white and delicate, 
 and reared like a lady in all respects. So he has come into
 
 THE COINER. 809 
 
 niy advice, not witliout a great deal of arguing, to take her 
 wliether slie likes it or not. And lie's to be here this even- 
 ing, and I'm to take him abroad to make him known to the 
 boys, ]\Ianey O'Ncil, an' Awny Farrel, his nian, and three 
 more sperited lads that wouldn't fall back of any thing we 
 ^)ropose." 
 
 " And when is it to be?" 
 
 " To-night — or never. Nothing like keeping time be- 
 hind you — and that's what I said to you, the niglit in the 
 sally grove estwards, when 1 had your hand in mine, and 
 the horses waiting, and you wanted me to let it alone till 
 niorncn, till you'd see the old people once more, and leave 
 a token on j our dressing table for 'em, and I wouldn't stop 
 an hour, and wasn't it w^ell for us, for there was a watch 
 eet for you that very night." 
 
 The soft eyes of the female glistened and expanded on 
 the speaker, but the sigh which accompanied the look of 
 tenderness rendered it a doubtful matter whether she really 
 did consider it as " well for her" that she had escaped the 
 watch set foi' her on the occa-ion alluded to. 
 
 Before the conversation was renewed, a slight knocking 
 at the door of the inn announced to the ear of the male 
 speaker the approach of the young man whose affairs had 
 constituted its chief topic. His dress, manner, and language 
 were such as to place him, at first sight, in a superior point 
 of view to those whose society he was about to seek, although 
 those of the latter were not of the very lowest grade, and 
 there seemed to be in the manner of his greeting, as he en- 
 tered, an unconquerable and involuntary consciousness of 
 self-abasement, though so fleeting and so slightly marked 
 that tiie quick eye of the host could not, had he been so 
 inclined, arrest it with sufiicient certainty to take offence. 
 Before we proceed to lay the consequences of his arrival be- 
 fore the reader, it may not be amiss to enter once moi'e into 
 detail on the character and fortunes of the new-comer. 
 
 Robert Kumba, the youngest son of a comfortable faroicr
 
 310 SUIL DHcrv, 
 
 in the ncig1iTx)nr1ioocl of the inn, was one of those anoma- 
 lous personages whose characters are made up of a series 
 of paradoxes. He was siiy, to the appearance of a repre- 
 hensible timidity, and yet daring to a degree beyond rash- 
 ness itself, both in the formation and the execution of any 
 design in which his happiness was at all involved — unsatis- 
 fied with ordinary means, and still more so with ordinary 
 ends, seeking for higher, yet unequal to these — scrupulous 
 to a perfect exactness in all transactions where his heart 
 exercised no influence over his conscience, but frequently 
 led into the wildest and most apparently dishonest practices, 
 by mistaking tlie arguments of passion and feeling fur those 
 of reason — sensitive even to finery^ when tried with mode- 
 rate and limited excitements, yet easily capable of being 
 wrought up into a savage disregard of all social and moral 
 restraint when heated by a skilfully-used and violent im- 
 pulse — suspicious in the minutest trifles, yet flinging him- 
 self and his fortunes with the most unguarded confidence on 
 the chance-honesty of a stranger whom his enthusi.ism or 
 his weakness of mind led him to select as a friend, untried 
 and unknown — proud, fierce, and irritable, when any, even 
 of those who might reasonably claim such a right, attempted 
 to assert a natural dominion over him, yet submitting liim- 
 sJf with a voluntary, and sometimes amiost a pitiable do- 
 cility to the guidance of a man who was his inferior in rank 
 and education, and whose only advantage, in point of intel- 
 lect, was in tlie possession of that quality which lago so 
 flatteringly and falsely attributed to his Venetian dupe, Ko- 
 derigo, a firm and resolute " purpose." 
 
 Circumstances had contiibuted to render the character of 
 the young man more positive and confirmed, at the same 
 time that none of its contrarieties had been blended or 
 softened down by the lapse of years and the growth of ex- 
 perience. His family, of which, as I have before mentioned, 
 he was tlie youngest member, was numerous ; and being placed 
 precisely in that rank of lile in which appearances are con*
 
 THE COINEB. 311 
 
 suited with the greatest anxiety, as one of the faiK^i'slfi 
 modes of rendenng its position, witli respect to the rclatiuiis 
 of society above and below it, less equivocal, their humble 
 means were tasked to an extent which made it absolutely 
 necessary that a mortifying privation should fall on some, 
 or all. Little Bob felt the influence of this necessity before 
 he was able to remonstrate against its particular appllcatioi? 
 to himself. By a course of reasoning very pardonable, if 
 not free fi'ora error, his older friends and protectors measured 
 his wants by their own estimation of his claims, and tliey 
 would, in all probability, have laughed at the idea ol 
 taking the little urchin's feelings into account. It was by 
 no means, therefore, considered either unwise or unreasou- 
 able that Bob, about whom nobody cared, should run bare- 
 foot, while the extremities of his elders, who had b?gan to 
 assume a place in the consideration of their neighbours, 
 were vested in the shining hixury of polished calf-skin and 
 lambs-wool; nor for the same reason did any of his friends 
 question the propriety of allowing Bob's little bandlci-cloth 
 shirt to hail the light of day through the fissures which tiinc 
 had made in the elbows of his coarse frieze jacket, while the 
 well-ironed and neatly-frilled inner garments of his brother 
 were protected by a yearly suit of glossy broad-cloth, illu- 
 minated with rows of the most resplendent gilt buttons, and 
 modelled after the most approved specimens which the ca[>i- 
 tal of the country (the emporium of all fashion and taste in 
 costume) could supply. The very circumstance, moreover, 
 of the mortifying distinction which was thus unwarily drawn 
 between him and his brothers, subjected him to whit his 
 boyish spirit felt to be still further degradation ; and his 
 ragged and neglected appearance seemed, in the eyes of ins 
 philosophic friends, to afibrd good reason forempNying hini 
 in many menial olHces about tiie farm, which woul 1 utlierwise 
 have been allotted to a menial, or shared with him by the 
 other members of the horsehold. " Bob is uot dressed, so 
 he can help to foot the tuif." — " Bob has no shoes uar v.hito
 
 312 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 stocldrgs on, so he can turn home the cows.** — " Bob will 
 run to the village for " whatever it might be " for no- 
 body will remark his carrying a bundle," were sour.ds no 
 less familiar to the ears than graticg to the feelirg of the 
 boy — although the custom which he had been in from his 
 iuiiincy of taking upon trust the opinions of those above him, 
 and adopting them without consideration, prevented his once 
 entertaining a suspicion of the justice of any arrangement 
 of the kind. His parents were the best-meaning people in 
 the world, but they laid, without being aware of it, a train 
 of circumstances very sutiicient to darken a character of a 
 much gayer and less sensitive nature than that of the subject 
 on Avhich they now practised. i\ccordin2: as his mindfdlcd 
 and strengthened, and began to originate its own sensations, 
 the peculiarities of his situation pressed upon him with in- 
 creasing acuteness. He began to ponder on the cause, as 
 well as to fret and chafe at the effect. The circumstance of 
 his natural guardians' having neglected to furnish him with 
 the means of appearing on an equality nith his friends, did 
 not any longer appear a quite satisfactory reason for de- 
 priving him of their society a\ hen any prospect of amuse- 
 ment or advantage called them from home ; or if it did 
 apjiear so, his anger now referred itself from the privation 
 to its apology, and found quite as exciting and irritating a 
 subject in the one as in the other. The comparatively slight- 
 ing and careless manner, moreover, in which he was re- 
 garded by the visiters of the house, and the occasional stare 
 of contemptuous scrutiny which he underwent from the rude 
 eye of a stranger, rankled in his soul and turued all the current 
 of his thoughts and feelings to gall and vinegar. A young 
 and ardent mind has airivcd at a terrilic crisis when it begins 
 to suspect that it is treated M'ith injustice or neglect; and 
 more especially if that injustice is inflicted by those on whom 
 it is dejiendent for instruction and support, and who are, by 
 tl'.e authority with which they are invested, exempt from 
 the possibility of rcmouslrancc. isaturally of a shy and
 
 THE COINER. 313 
 
 resei-ved Iialiit, the course of life -which we have h en c!e- 
 scribhig, was higlily calculated to increase the timidity and 
 consequent susceptibility of character which young Kumba 
 already manifested — and this apparent blocking up of every 
 avenue tln'ough which his feelings, d;irk, light, dangerous, 
 or landaMe as they were, might tind their way to the obser- 
 vation of those whose censure or approval could have any 
 influence upon them — threw the youth back upon himself, 
 and forced him upon habits of brooding and gloomy medi- 
 tation which hiid the~ foundation of many a black design 
 and many a \^ retched hour in his after life Before we dis- 
 miss the subject of his education, one observation may be 
 allowed on a very general mistake which is made with re- 
 spect to childish reserve and backwai dncss. \Vc have seen 
 it usually commended by teachers and guardians as indi- 
 cative of gentleness and a proper docility of temper, most 
 probably for the obvious reason that such children occasion 
 them least vexation and annoyance at the mument ; but it 
 by no means follows tliat the quality, though convenient, 
 is at all beneficial or estimable. Every possible meana 
 should be put in use for the pui-po;e of drawing a child in 
 whom this disposition to secrecy is observed, into a bold 
 and frank habit of declaring Lis mind on all occasions ; and 
 this habit would be very lightly purchased by the omission 
 of punishment for certain instanc. s of m'schief or crimina- 
 lity. An over-bold, noisy, passionate disposition in a child, 
 is always safer than a temper too easily governable and duc- 
 tile. It is the business of etlucation to restrain, direct, and 
 expunge, but it can never supply a positive want in cha- 
 racter. 
 
 It Avas with the result of all the unhappy influences we 
 have been detailing, fresh upon him, that the mild and the 
 mettled, the soft-worded and the violent, the crouching and 
 the fiery, the confident and the suspicious, the shy, and 
 shrinking, and daring youth of whom we speak, found him- 
 self, Avith all his crudcness of heart and mind, established, 
 14
 
 814 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 bj one of those impossible accidents which occur every day, 
 ill the possession of that property on whicli he had been 
 •tafFeivd to vegetate from his childhood. It will not be diffi- 
 cult to suppose, that as his fortunes tlius su(klenly outstript 
 his expectations, so they found liim imfittcd, from inexpe- 
 rience as well as indisposition, for the management of the 
 means Avhich they placed under his government. Miscal- 
 culation of their extent was the obvious and immediate 
 evil ; anil the unsettled and wavering mind of the young 
 proprietor precluded all hope of an industrious inquiiy in 
 that particular, or a persevering and rational system in their 
 application. A few years of expense and indolence, or ra- 
 ther fitful and misdirected exertion, did all for the farm 
 which indolence could have done ; and Kumba, almost be- 
 fore his minority was ended, found himself the possessor of, 
 or rather the responsible agent for a ruined ;ind encum- 
 bered proi)eity ; — neglected by his acquaintances, censured, 
 and only censured, by his friends, ouce more flung back 
 upon liimself ; and more — hv more — than all, rejected with 
 a wholesome and almost laudable spirit of displeasui'e from 
 one house, which contained for him an object of the mo-t 
 siiriing ambition which had ever been excited within his 
 soul, after the dcgiadaiion of unsuccessful solicitation, and 
 by one in whose eyes he liad, in times of j;rcatcr h.ippine.'-s 
 and prosperity, read a promise of a kinder and more endur- 
 ing interest. 
 
 Tiiis last blow, wliich he could not bring himself to con- 
 sider as other than undeserved, succeeded in unsettling the 
 purposes and pursuits of the young man He was now 
 placed in a more immediately dangerous position than when 
 he lived in a state of dependence on the will of others ; for 
 although the world might exercise just that degree of in- 
 fluence over him, which made him keenly sensible ot its in- 
 justice, it could not govern the consequences of that sensi- 
 bility. The most immediate was a seeking to supply, by 
 lie excessive use of every species of mere vulg ir excitcmcat,
 
 THE COINER. '61b 
 
 the loss of til at tender aucl delicious incentive, upon which 
 his spiiit had lived for years; and, finding himself, as we 
 have before stated, shut out by his unfurtiinite circumstances 
 from that society to which he had lately been accustomed, 
 and to which his habits and his feelings induced him to cling- 
 most affection lately, the natural result was his reasoning hiui- 
 self into a toleration of any whatsoever, in which he cotild 
 secure himself a phce. This groat imiirndence met w ith a 
 fatal retribution. Among the many Ioav fellows who sought, 
 yet vainly, to fasten themselves upon his rogard, the fiery 
 young man who now rose to bid him welcome beneath his 
 roof, and in \^hose character, at least, though not in his 
 habits of life, he had Tiund many traits of resemblance to 
 his own, succeeded in fixing a single claim on his attention. 
 This person, however, had a great advantage, so fir as the 
 heart's ease was concerned, over his superior friend (for 
 such he speedily became), in his pn-fect freedom from, and 
 almost ignorance of, all those delicate susceptibilities and 
 compunchons which education, no less than nature, had 
 breaihed into the soul of the latter; and he found, conse- 
 quently, much less diflaculty in complying with the violent 
 impulses which were common to boLii. Few descriptions of 
 characters are more likely to acquire au influence over au 
 unformed and self-diflidtnt mind, than one of a more vigor- 
 ous and persevering energy ; and the contact between two 
 such spirits is dangerous or fortunate, precisely in relation 
 to the good or evil nature of that which is in the ascendant. 
 Our readers may ere now have conjectured, and not un- 
 wisely, that the character of the young landlord was not 
 such as to render a conjunction indicative of very great 
 benefit to Kumba. Sptliacy, who, from some motive which 
 it is not necessary here to explain, seemed to look on his 
 new associate as one whose co-operation might be of in- 
 calculable importance to his own designs, managed their ac- 
 quaintance with the art of a master. Never presuming to 
 afi'ect anything like a cojsciousn ts of the influence which
 
 315 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 lie was acquiring most rapidly over the mind of liis com- 
 panion, he was, on all occasions, when the absence of a po- 
 tent stimnlus left the reason of the other at liberty to dis- 
 criminate and decide, the humble and piirasitical dependant 
 — honoured by the presence of his superior — governed, or 
 seeming to be governed by his breath — gratified by his con- 
 verse — grateful for his fiuendship — all, in fact, that Kuniba's 
 vanity could desire; and it was only when he had flung tlie 
 latter off his guard, when he had startled him with some 
 astounding difficulty, oftentimes existing only in the lying 
 imagination that had framed it, that he assumed the privi- 
 lege of leading the way, and gained himself credit for genius 
 as well as intrepidity — tliat he dared to point out his course 
 to his superior — to fill his ears with the accents of command 
 > — to say " Do thij !" without qualification, and it was done. 
 
 Far, far, by this artful and sinuous course, had the rufEan 
 succeeded in conducting his dupe from the equator of moral 
 rectitude, before the evening on which both have been pre- 
 sented to the acquaintance of the reader. He had not yet, 
 hoAvcvcr, ventured to propose to him a participation in any 
 act of foul and positive guilt ; but the last train which ho 
 h-.d laid was so perfectly skilful and deceptive as to jilaco 
 the youth entirely within the dominion of his temper. The 
 circumstances, at least as much of them as is needed to 
 make the narrative comprehensible, may be gathered from 
 the scene which followed. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Spcllacy, in obedience to a slight action 
 from her husband, had left the room, Kumba, wlio till that 
 moment remained half dubious of his course, holding the 
 open door in one hand, and gazing intently into the eyes of 
 his host, nodded, as we have before mentioned, with a very 
 slight air of superiority, and passing in silence to the centre, 
 took one of the rude chairs which lay scattered about, and 
 sat for several minutes in apparently a total recklessness 
 of the presence of a second person. During this mood, the 
 cbserver maiulaiucd a rcspectliil and delicate sileucc, wau-
 
 THE COINEIt. 317 
 
 dering about tlie room ■\vil:!i noi'^ele^s stops, to nran^e a fish- 
 hia' rod, or examine some domestic 'itensil ; occtisioiially di- 
 recting a glniico, into which he contrived to throw all the 
 interest and humble attachment whicli be was capable of 
 assuming, at the contemplative and rapidly changing coun- 
 tenance of his friend. One of these glances, at length, as 
 was the intention of the man, met the eye of the latter, and 
 the efTect -whicli it produced was as he desired. 
 
 " Well ! Spcllacy, what is your genius now to do for 
 me ? T come to you, a ruined man, to tell you that yt ur 
 sclieme hns fdled, and I am now left wiihout one hope in 
 the world. I have a great deal to say to you, Spelhicy, 
 on the subject of those repeated disappointments. I do 
 not suspect your sinceriy, but I think you careless cf my 
 fortuni'S, and that, with your professions, is Utile better 
 than foul pi iv. Never look upon me — what I have said, 
 I say. You told me yes'erday that you had laid a plan 
 which could not fail to res' ore me to all I had lost, and 
 you made n)y head dizzy with hope. You spor.ed with 
 me, sir — you mocked me. I have been disappoin'ed." 
 
 " Cireat Heaven!" Spellacy exclaimed, drawing back 
 Avith a stare of confusion and dismay, blended with an ex- 
 pression of deep dejection. The emotion was suflicicntly 
 well counterfeited to impose on Kumba, who thought he 
 could discern, moreover, a certain degree of self-reproach 
 in the attitude, downcast and diooping, in which hi; friend 
 remained — his hands clasped, and hanging dovsai bcf ro 
 him — his mouth agape, and his black eyes fixed on the 
 ground w ith the ah- of one who has received news of a 
 sudden misfortune from a quarter to which he looked for 
 joyous intelligence. 
 
 " For my part, Spellacy," the young man continued, 
 " I do not come to ask you to tax your ingenuity for any 
 nc'.v advice. All is over \vith me now, and I only sfck 
 you for t!ie purpose of hiving before you n y in' en i ion ; fo: 
 1 have at last turuicd a dcsigu for m\self. And first hear
 
 318 SUIL DIIUV, 
 
 m'^. You know that it is to me you owe tliis lionse iu 
 which you dwe'l, and all that you po-sess." 
 
 " I am proud to own it, Mr. Kuinba, I am proud to 
 own it." 
 
 " You came to me poor, destitute, and moneyless — and 
 you came to me iu a hicky liour. I had just received Mrs. 
 Byrne's ct'ld-hearted letter, in which she bargained w ith so 
 much keen-sighted precision for the exact quantum of pru- 
 dence and good behaviour which was to entitle me once 
 moie to a re-admission into their f miily circl ". You found 
 me endeavouring to droun the consciousness of the heart- 
 less repulse in the fames of strong drink. You seized the 
 moment — you told me th:it a lovt ly girl had elped wiih 
 you from the comforts of a ^^ ealtliy home, and that }ou 
 had not one guinea in tho world to secure her even the 
 means of subsist' nee for a week. There was some story 
 about your lo-se^, too. You told me, I thii:k, that you 
 h id been reiluced to that extreme poverty by having hail 
 the misfortune to foil in with the remuant of Redmond 
 O'llanlon's gang, who had taken up their residence for 
 some time in ihis part of the country, and who, by th3 
 way, are strongly su pecteJ of being the fabricators and 
 utter^rs of the false coin that has spread to such an fxteiit 
 through our towns anil villages, althougli every attempt to 
 discover their retreat has beon hitherto unavailing." 
 
 Spellacy fere tm-ned aside for the purpose of concealing 
 a Siviile, which lie seemed unable wholly to suppress, 
 
 " Jily heart," Kumba continued, "torn and wounded as 
 it was A\ith its own injuries, was open to your plea; and, 
 what perh;ip3 was more to the purpose iu }our eyes, my 
 purse was open also." 
 
 "It was — I f (Cly own, sii," said the other, " 1 he ly 
 own it, Mr. Kumba." 
 
 '• \\\11," t^aui the young man, "since tluit lime, ytii have 
 been forming p'an alter plan, to enable me to cany ia;o 
 Cllect the views which you knew 1 em rlaii.ed, with respect
 
 THE COINER. 319 
 
 to tliat dear — bnt rigidly righteous being — and every scheme 
 has ended in fixing my despair upon me more fiimly than 
 ever. I will not tuspcct your truth. 1 believe you re dly 
 were grateful — but you I'.ave brought me to the gatt s of 
 ruin, and I will take the liberty of lilting the latch with jut 
 your a-sistance. I have resolved on stlliug oft' the remain- 
 der of my httle property, and purchasing a pair of col urs 
 with the product. I am careless now of life or forti lie, 
 and' had r.ither di3 in the noise and tumult of a camp, tiiaii 
 let sorrow waste me to death in this ditert. I have not 
 forgotten you, however. You meant well, Spellacy, al- 
 though you were not so successful as I could have wished ; 
 and 1 have, theiefore, taken care to secure the leasehold of 
 your house and small farm to you, for the original term of 
 uiy hulding. Here is thj instrument." 
 
 " You had always a generous heart, Mr. Kumba," said 
 Spellacy, whose manner expressed at once satisfaction at 
 the gift, and alarm at the step that Kumba meditated, and 
 which appeared likely to thwart most eftectually the pro- 
 gress ot iiis own designs ; " but suiely, s-ir, I haven't heard 
 you rightly. Go into the army ! And is that the way 
 you'll give her up, after all that lias been doi.e — and witli 
 li.e f lirest chances in your favour, that mortal man could 
 wish for? Let me know the cause, sir, at any raie ; what 
 is it that has made yuu giv^; up all h^pe at once, that w, y. 
 I heard to a certainty that iVIiss Byrne would pass throuj^h 
 the sally grove this morning. I knew how much one word 
 from yuu to herself, face to face, would do to soften I.er 
 heart towards you once more ; and at any rate, I was quite 
 ceriain, tiiat she would not be angry at just being forced to 
 go oft, if it was neccs.-ary, and s j 1 sent word to yuu aijout 
 it ; but 1 suppose she uiihi't Ci m , by what you say ?" 
 
 " Siie did nut. On the contrary, I discovered that she 
 had ri.cei\ed, by sonie unkn iwn hand, an intimation ot my 
 design. 1 thought you would keep the secret better, Spei- 
 lucy."
 
 320 SUIL DIIUV, 
 
 " Me keep it !" the other replied, in some confiirion. 
 *' Iliinum ear8 did not hear me breathe a word of it, ex- 
 cept tlie pair that belonged to Awney Farrel, who carried 
 
 you my messoge — and if I thought he 0, but that's 
 
 impossible." 
 
 " I do not charge hira with treachery. However, no 
 matter where the treason lies, my doom is scaled, at all 
 events. I will not run the risk of farther diiappointmeut. 
 Suspense is worse than hanging." 
 
 " Why s'lould you say any such th'ng, sir ? Is thit 
 actini: cither with sense or spirit ? There is one of the 
 most beautiful creatures that ever walked the ground, dying 
 for you, and you talk of leaving her and the country for 
 ever, on account of a little dilficulty thrown in your way 
 by licr friends ! Think for a moment, Avhat a prize it is 
 you are leaving after you." 
 
 " Have you ever seen her then?" said Kumba, encou- 
 raging th;^ subject, in the manner of one who was not un- 
 willing I be dissuaded. 
 
 " I saw her," Spellacy replied, " on an occasion that I 
 never \\ill forget. It was on the first of May, when the 
 mummers of our village stopped on the laAvn before Drum- 
 scanlon, her fither's house, and the fixmily came out ujion 
 
 the field to see our dance. Miss Byrne herself was but 
 
 I bi^g pardon, sir ; I'm interfering with your time." 
 
 "Co on," saidlvumbi, " I could hear you spjak on that 
 theme until my hairs were gi'ay." 
 
 " i\Iiss Byrne herself," Spellacy resumed, " was dres«ed 
 in lier fine llovercd-silk gown (a thing that woidd stand on 
 the ground of itself), and her red, gold laced Spanisii-lca- 
 ther shoes, as small as robin-redbreast's — her fine scarlet 
 silk stockings with silver clocks — her darling real Spanish 
 cloth jacket, fastened over her boso;n so handsomely with 
 rii)bons — and on her fine lady-like head, so stately and so 
 sweet at the same time, her beaver hat with the be lutiful 
 silver-lace triminiii;c and the buckle ! — V7cll 'twas a alAit,
 
 THE COINER. S21 
 
 for .1 Idncj to look at. And with all tliat now, slie hau no 
 more pride than an infiint. She talked toi; all, just ?.s l> 
 she took a delight to see us that way, dancing J' bout the 
 ]\Iaypole. And she gave her hand to myself with such a 
 smile, uhen I asked her just for one turn of a slip jig, just 
 to have it to say. And she did dance in style. 0, the cut- 
 ting — and the shuffling — and the pretty liitle quibbling o' 
 the feet over the ground !" 
 
 " You speak as if you were in love yourself," said Kumba. 
 
 " Me in love !" Spellacy replied, starting in some confu- 
 sion ; " that's all over with me now, sir, I have only the 
 one love, and I desire no more." [This was said in a loud 
 tone, evidently with the iniention of being heard in the next 
 room.] " Herself is listening to us," he added in a low 
 voice, nodding his head aside towards the room door, with 
 a knowing smile and wink. " No, Mr. Kumba ; but I 
 tliou.;lit then, and I often thought since, what a happiness 
 it would be to your tenants, and to us all, if they could have 
 such a mi tress over 'em. What a delight it would be, if 
 we could all meet tiiat way once a year befoe your own 
 door, to see you come out and join the dancers, with that 
 beautiful yoiing lady locking arms* with you. And she'd 
 be a treasure to any man too, for, let alone her beauty, there 
 isn't a better housekeeper in the country, I hear.' 
 
 Kumba paused for sometime, and sighed in secret, while 
 he ran over in his mind the picture of rural happiness uhich 
 Sjiellacy had presented to it, and which he had often be- 
 fore, in days of prouder hope, loved to summon up andcoa- 
 template, as the ideal of his own ambition. 
 
 " If there was a possibility of its acconipiishmcnt," said 
 he — '' but why will you vex me by tiiose idle dreams ? 
 Her father is dead — and cannot recall the |jledge which ha 
 extorted from her in dying, that she would never more re- 
 ceive me to her confidence. Her coM and formal mother is 
 confirmed in her hatred of me by the Hue of coudact which 
 * Leaning on him. 
 14*
 
 322 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 I Iiave pursupcl — and I have not the remotest hope of being 
 able to tempt her to disobedience. They want me to toil 
 like Jacob fur seven years, and to prove myself a true peni- 
 tent. I am not one of those cold and patient spirits — I 
 Ci^nnot wait day after day to gratify a liumour that may 
 change aitd deceive me after all. They have made me des- 
 perate, and I had rather now risk all on one bold cast, than 
 tiiruw up the tables and repair my losses by tardy industry, 
 as they desire." 
 
 " If you are disposed that way, sir," said Spellacy, with 
 some hesitation, " there is one way left that would be cer- 
 tain enough, I think, but I was loath to propose it to you, 
 as it is more violent and dangerous than 1 believed would 
 please you." 
 
 " I shall like it th- better," said Kiimba, " what is it ?" 
 " It is too long now to talk of, sir, but if you'll meet me 
 this evening, late, say about seven o'clock, at the Ratli on 
 the hill above, I'll exphdn everything to you, and we'll set 
 about it as soon as can be. Stop ! Who is it that's knock- 
 iug?" 
 
 The interruption was occasioned by the arrival of the 
 travellers, and tlie tintinabulary application of the handle 
 ot tlie old Palatine's whip to the plain impanelled door. 
 
 "Trasclleis!" said Spellacy tohimself, altvr hehad peeped 
 through the window ; " a new decoy of Awney Fan-el's, I 
 suppose. Come away, out the back door, Mr. Kumba, 
 for 'twould be as well, may be, if you weien't seen by 'em. 
 Mvs. Sp.Uacy, look to the door, honey, ami attend to the 
 travellers. Mr. Kumba, you won't forget seven o'clock — at 
 the K.tth." 
 
 *' ril be pun':tual," said Kumba, as he closed the door 
 behind him. 
 
 " Now," Spellacy continued, turning m ith sudden energy 
 to his A\ ife, as she made her appearance from the inner 
 room, "you'll not forget our usual plan. '1 ho.^c appear to be 
 co'-iifji''abL' people, and you know we are reduced to our
 
 IHL CU1N2R. (i23 
 
 last aliifts. Yoa will see whether tlicy are armed, ami take 
 care to pruvide against that misLhicf." 
 
 " More guilt !" exclaimed the woman, " more blood I Oh, 
 Mark, when will our measure be completed ?" 
 
 "Poh ! no blooil, fool," exclaimed the man, " I wish to 
 prevent it. Listen to n:e. Do as I desire you to do this 
 one night, and I never again will ask you to serve me in 
 thfe same manner." 
 
 " If I could believe this " 
 
 *' Here is my hand and word.** 
 
 •• I have no choice but to take it," said the woman- 
 " The time is gone by wlien I could have made one." 
 
 *• What do you say that for now ?" said Spellacy, fiercely. 
 *' Didn't you know who you were marrying when you same 
 Witli me ?" 
 
 " Yes, Mark — but — " here she hesitated, as if unwilling 
 to Dazard the whole truth. 
 
 "Oil, I understand you," said Spelhcy. "You didn't 
 know all — you didn't know what a com^ le'e ruffian I was. 
 You thouglit you were only marrying your father's swon; 
 eneni)' — you were very ready to destroy the old man's com- 
 fort for ever, but you had no notion that you were risking 
 your own — and now you have found it out, you are sorry 
 for it." 
 
 The woman bowed her head in deep feeling, as if she 
 would say — " I am answered, I deserve this ;" and b'^fora 
 Spellacy could add another word, the knocking at the door 
 was repeated. Softening the effect of his last speech with 
 a few words of rough kindness, and charging her not to ne- 
 glect his injunction, he hastened through the same door b) 
 which Kumba had takeu his departure.
 
 324 suii. DirjT, 
 
 CHArXER V. 
 
 " Who puts a douVilet on a horse— 
 
 Or on a man a saddle — 
 Or cliips a stocking on his head — 
 
 Pure that Iran's brain is addle ! 
 
 Then let not men ungit'ted paddle 
 In streams of sanetuarv — 
 
 Teiich withoul knowleilge — basely meddle 
 With what their heads can't carry." 
 
 Cobbler of Preston. 
 
 Mrs. Speu.acy hurried to admit the company. The old 
 Palatine first entered, and was closely followed by his com- 
 panion, the preacher, whose inmiense proportions darkened 
 the doorway so completely as to leave little opportunity, for 
 the moment, of observing or acknowledging the courtesy 
 with which they were both received by the good lady. 
 
 " Fence be on this house !" said the preacher. " Wo- 
 man, what have you for dinner ?" 
 
 "Travellers I brought yon, Mrs. Spellacy," said the 
 poor scholar. Then apart to her, " Tell Suil Dhuv I gev 
 de note to Miss Byrne's man." 
 
 Abie Switzer's salutat.'on wns a mute nod, and a most 
 extraordinary contortion of the face, which he would ))er- 
 haps have been surprised to hear, was more like a griu 
 than a smile. 
 
 " Come, come, my cood woman, stir yourself a little," 
 said the old Palatine ; " get these gentlemen something 
 to amuse themselves with as they desire — and show me to 
 a room, where 1 may lie at full length for half an hour ; 
 my old bones ore aching with fatigue." 
 
 The woman glanced listlessly from one to another of 
 the speakers, while her thouglits were evidently yet wan- 
 dering after those who had just de[)arted, and whose con- 
 versation, overheard as it luid been, contained matter of, 
 to her, a far more absorbing interest. Tiie Pahitine waa 
 obliged to repeat his n (|ucst for a separate chamber.
 
 THE COINER. 32i) 
 
 *'The parlour is tins way, sir," she replied, still abstract- 
 edly — "there'.'? an old bed in it," And having placed the 
 materials of a plain dinner on the table, in a manner so 
 careless and absent, as to draw down some very sevei'e 
 though silent reprehensions from her sectarian gnest, with 
 respect to her total inaptitude for her calling — she conducted 
 Mr. Segur into the room to which she had pointed. The 
 preacher, unwiling to leave any portion of his time unoccu- 
 pied, set himself with a very commendable industry to com- 
 plete the dinner arrangements — observing wittily, that " the 
 beef, for country beef, was very passable" — while Abie w ent 
 to look after the horses ; and their thin-faced guide, Avhose 
 5nances obliged him to wait the summons of his superior, 
 before he ventured to incur the expense of so unusual a 
 luxury as a good dinner, sat by the tire, rubbing his hands, 
 and directing, in the intervals of some snatches of merry 
 talk, a glance of intense interest and admiration townrils the 
 board where the worthy preacher was signalising himself by 
 a display of really extraordinary prowess — wati-hing, as a 
 well-regulated house-dog might be expected to do, every 
 mouthful of provision that was sacrificed — following it with 
 his eyes from tlie dish to the pi ite — fiom the plate to the fork 
 — undergoing the stimulating application of niust;a-d and salt 
 — then the didicious ablution in th-e lake of rich gravy — and 
 subsequently in its upward flight, until it disappt'ared behind 
 the ivory portcullis of the hero of the board — while the ob- 
 server's own jaws opened and shut with an involuntary and 
 sympathetic action — closing, however, like those of a Shc.ca- 
 bac, upon a vision of unsubstantial air. 
 
 " AVhere's de little master ?" he at length exclaimed, look- 
 ing gaily about him, as the lucky thought suggested itself 
 — " Ha, are you dere, sir ? are you ? High jockey ! here 
 sir," stretching out his arms to a fine, sturdy little boy, who 
 came crowing and tottering from an inner room. " Deie 
 he was — dere he was — do tief! Come here now, — ride a 
 cock horse ! — here — put your foot upon my toe — ^ive me
 
 n20 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 de hands — de two little fiit paws de wor! — dnt's it! Up 
 we go. Hoo-ee hoo-ee! heigh jockey — lio ! ho-ho-ho-ho! 
 Dat's it. Sit down here upon ray linee. — Cetchee! Cetdiee! 
 Cetchee ! de 'eetle tief he was — and de 'ittle fat neck 
 he had — and de two blue eyes, lil<e de moder — two beauty- 
 tid eyes — Creep mouse — creep mouse — ! ho-ho-lio-ho ! 
 Come, where's de song? Come, now — stopde laugh, and 
 give us de song. Come on — sing — don't be afeerd o' do 
 gentleman — open de 'ittle mouth and sing — 
 
 " My fatlier died, I don't know how ; 
 
 He left me a sixpence just to guide de plough. 
 
 Wit my whim wham waddle, O I 
 
 Jack straw straddle, ! 
 
 Tretly boy bubble, 1 
 Under de broom." 
 
 Mr. Shine here fonnd sufficient time, while occupied in 
 transferring tlie fourth reinforcement of cold roast mutton 
 from the disli to his phue, for an observation — 
 
 "■ The infant memory of that child," he said, " might be 
 stocked witli words of greater pi'ofit, than tliose idle rhyuies " 
 Ttien after a pause — '■ Some of the steeple divines think 
 otherwise : to wit, that member of the esta'Dlislied church, 
 who, at a very late period, excited so great a sensation in 
 the metropolis of the kingdon), by his strenuous opposition 
 to the introduction of the brazen coinage, for the patent had 
 been accorded unto the niau. Wood. I allude to a man of 
 whom you, in your station, may be ignorant — the dean, as 
 he is enlitled by those of his belief, of St. Patrick's Church 
 — Jonathan Swift — who hath employed a portion of time 
 which he might nave turned to far better uses, in compos- 
 ing certain ridioulous verses for the service of the nursery 
 — replete with nothing salutary or instructive." l^y this 
 time the Loctor had replenished the plate whieh was before 
 him ; but, unwilling to leiincpiish the subject upon which he 
 had launched — he continued speaking, inteirupting himself 
 at each of the breaks, thus wiiich follow, in his speech,
 
 THE COINER. 327 
 
 for the purpose of administering yrt fiirtlier consol.ition to 
 the interior — " uoihingsi.liitary or insiructive — but tnrmcd 
 altogeiher of a certain absurd and iioubeiisical combinatiou 
 of unmeaning terms — to wit : 
 
 'Here we go up, up, up 
 
 And here we go down — down — downy- 
 Here we go backward and forward — 
 And heigh for Dublin towny — ' 
 
 and tlie like. And this — this is the man 
 
 who lias all 'Dublin to>vny' — to use his own ridicu- 
 lous phrase, congregated in his track, with shouts 
 
 and apphiuses which tliey M'ould not accord to SAvedenboig 
 himself, if he sojourned anion ji;st them — " 
 
 " Gondoutha !" interposed the apparently edified and 
 admiiing guide. 
 
 "For my for my part — I am of opinion, that.. 
 
 my lord Carteret, with all his worldly civility, will 
 
 make the dean ri'pent his 6ro2e?4 interference in so 
 
 unclerical an aff'iir. Fu* I am convinced by the i-epcrt of 
 Isaac Newt in, though he diiier fi'oni me on many points of 
 faith, as one by his othce in the mint necessarilv skilled in 
 all varieties of metal coins and medals — that the man 
 Wood hath worihily apjiroved iiis irust." 
 
 " 0, dcre is no doubt o' dat," said the guide, tossing 
 his head in the mannci- of one who speaks of a thing assin\d 
 — then resting liis head on the soft n ck o: the child, and 
 turning Ids eyes downwards towards the lire, l.e hummed, in 
 a very low murmuring key, the following words of a ballad 
 then popular in a certain part of Ireland — and which, iu 
 all prob.ibility, some ot my readers may recognise : — 
 
 ' Ojine hidd r and try, 
 
 I'll teaili you to buy 
 A pot o' goud ale fur a fardeu— 
 
 Coii.e — netpiuce a score, 
 
 I ask you no more, 
 And a-jifj fjr de Drai)er and Ilardlng F
 
 323 suiL Dnuv, 
 
 Mr. S'liine's eyes 1iri=t dilateJ in astoniMiment., and tlien 
 contracted with as mudi of darkening scrutiny as the fleshy 
 protuberances around tiicm could be made to assume, upon 
 his humble companioD. It may be usfful to say, that the 
 preacher's opinions on Wood's celebrated brass coinage — a 
 subject of which he knew no more tiian it \\ as impossible 
 for any but a deaf man to avoid learning — were entirely 
 modelled from Ids re'igious iuiluences — and he needed no 
 more than the whispered report which had readied liim of 
 the name of the real author of the Drapier's letters — to de- 
 cide liis judgment at owe, and array all the little argnmeut 
 he possessed on the opposite side of the question. Few 
 oyiftortunities, however, Avere afforded of achieving any- 
 thing like a triumph for his gratuitously as-sumed opinions 
 in his converse with the city people, every one of wliom 
 was as familiar with every possible hue and form of the 
 subject as with the faces of his family. It w;;s something 
 hke a gratification to him, tlierefore, to light upon even this 
 poor youth, whom he easily cab ulatxl on impressing with 
 what opinion he pleased, and from whom, in this wild re- 
 gion, i;e did not certainly expect to meet with this gentle 
 sneer — indica'ing at once a superior acquaintance with the 
 subject, and a settled conviction in the other way. 
 
 The lad did not ajipear to observe t'le effect which he 
 had produced on the mind of the preacher, but recom- 
 menced his noisy play with the lively child, whom he s;ill 
 held on his knee — intermingling the " combination of un- 
 meaning and ridiculous terms" with sundry sly hints, which 
 womM have snccec'ed even with the p'.ilegmatic Doctor, if 
 they had been addressed to him at a le>s iiue/csting mo- 
 ment : — 
 
 " Look at de gentleman— now — do — who is dat ? who 
 is dat dcre ? Whnt's dat ? what do you say ? you 
 tief ! He's aien all de beef and de mutton intircly, is he ? 
 0, have manners, master ! tie, sir! Av he afcs de mut- 
 ton, he has de money to pay lor it, and dat's wliat he got
 
 THE COIXEE. 329 
 
 be his leaiTien' — be liis miiiden Ids A, b, ab — an* l)is e, b, 
 eb, — aa' liis b, a, ba — and liis b, e, bay — ;ind every whole 
 tote dat way. And do you mind 'em, sir, an' you'll be 
 like him, haven' money to spend for what you like best, ;tnd 
 enoof o' dat to lave for the smart boy dat would be showeu' 
 you over de wild mountain in an eveuen', and would be 
 liungiy for his dinner may be, and not haven' de price of it 
 in his pocket — so he wouldn't — " 
 
 Although no impression was yet produced by these ma- 
 noeuvres, which could be discerned on the equable and dis- 
 tended countenance of the preacher, it is impossible to say 
 with \\ hat success they might liave been ultimately attended, 
 liad not a new and most startling interruption cut short 
 the design of the operator. A scream — wild, fiercing, and 
 sj)irit-riving — sucli as might be imagined of the possessed, 
 whose heart was torn by the departing fiend at ti:e com- 
 mand of Him whom " they knew," — one long-continued 
 aiid shrilly note of sudden agony rung through the house, 
 and transfixed the hearing of its inmates. The young man 
 quickly put down the child, and started to his feet. P]ven 
 the fat Shine followed the example, and sprung — no — clam- 
 hered to a standing posture — his eyes staring and p'-o- 
 truded — and his fair rosy hue changed to a piirple-jja'.e — 
 one hand grasping the back of the hay-bottomed chair, and 
 the other elevating a fork, on the points of which th« un- 
 tasted particle of roast meat remained impaled. The sound 
 Avhich occasioned their alarm proceeded from the chamber 
 into which the landlady and Mr. Segur had retired. 
 
 Suddenly, and with the rapidity of thought, the figure of 
 the woman was seen darting through the still open door. 
 She cast one swift and shuddering glance behind her, again 
 darted forward — struck her bosom with a maniac violence 
 — looked wildly around her, like one in search of some place 
 of swift concealment — gaped on the two astonished gursts 
 — on the child — pressed her expanded hand on her biow 
 — ou her heart — sighed heavily and repeatedly — -tossed back
 
 330 SUIL DKUV, 
 
 her hair from about her face — then clasped her haa ^s to- 
 gotlier — wrung them above her head — and with a renewed 
 scream of anguish, if possible more harrowing than the last, 
 dashed herself head'ong ag.iinst the closed door of the bed- 
 room on the opposite side. It yiekhid, with a crash of 
 wrenched and flittered latches, to the wild assault, and she 
 disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 For a few moments all again was perfect stillness. The 
 preacher and his companion remained staring on one another 
 in all the helplessness of astonishment and ignoran( e. and 
 the child gazed in anxious silence from one to anothir, un- 
 til at length, unable to account in any way for this unusual 
 conduct in its mother, the little creature set up a passionate 
 clamour of tears and lamentations, which in a little time re- 
 called them to their senses. Both turned their eyes on Se- 
 gur, who now made his appearance at the door of the par- 
 lour, with a countenance of still more vivid alarm and asto- 
 nishuicnt than they seemed themselves to feel ; as if ex- 
 pecting from him some explanation of the mystery which 
 perplexed them. 
 
 Nr.t' ing, however, wa- revealed in the series of inquiries 
 which ensued. The old man was as ignorant of the cause 
 of (he poor woman's agitation as thote who were in the 
 outir room. lie had flung him-ell on the bed, aficr shortly 
 Conversing with her on some intliffercnt sulject, in the couise 
 of which she had evinced a great deal oi' listlessness and 
 inatteuiion. AVearied as he liad been, he was in the act of 
 dozing before she left him, and while she was yet occupied, 
 as he believed, in some arrangement at another end of tiie 
 room, when that piercing cry, the effect of which on hia 
 hearing he could compare to nothing Lss than the pass'ng 
 of a small sword tlm.ngh his brain, stnrtlcd him from his 
 s'uuiber. As he sjirung Irom his bed and gazed around him, 
 he bchuld the woman in the act of flitting througii the door- 
 way, with the same frantic action whieh had amazed the
 
 THE COINER. 331 
 
 gncsts in the onter-cliambcr. Ami this was all the iiifor' 
 mation wliich he could give them on the siibjecr. 
 
 "An apparrislain she seen, I'll go bail," said the guide. 
 
 "Truce with your levity, fellow," said the Palatine, with 
 a sternness which at once banished the smile from the other's 
 counteniince, and drew forth an humble apology. Tiien 
 turning toward the still open door of the bedroom, he con- 
 tinued — " I am unwilling to let the aflair rest here. The 
 cood woman may do herself a misehief." 
 
 " don't, sir — don't — lor the bare life !" said the lad, 
 i:i a loud and earnest whisper, as he saw Segur moving to- 
 ward the bedroom. " I know the place and her ways bet- 
 ter, and I'll see after her meself." 
 
 lie was prevented by the re-entrance of the woman. 
 She stood a moment at the door, gazed firmly, with an ex- 
 pn ssion of devouring inquiry, successively on each of the 
 travellers, and then, in slcnce, and with t!ie unconscious 
 lofiincss of carriage into which the humblest and gentlest 
 n; tur. s may be struck by the application of some powerful 
 excitation, she put her extended hiind against the breast of 
 the youth, removed him from her way, and walked forward 
 slowly, and with a steadines:?, in which only tlieir observa- 
 tion of her movements during the previous scene could en- 
 able the behold rs to distinguish the calmness of high- 
 v/rought passion, governed and restrained by its own energy, 
 from the repose of a spirit jjerteclly at peace. 
 
 " I ask your pardon for disturbing you, sir," she ^aid to 
 Segur, "and 1 would not have done so if I could have 
 heliied it, but this yuuti; — " laying her hand on the shoulder 
 of the jioor sch jlar, while she continued gazing on S.'gur — 
 "this youth k lows my intirn)ity. Will you sleep again? 
 The fooTf-tcps of a mouse shall not disturb you. Sl/ep, 
 and 1 will sit on the threshold of your door myself, and 
 watch every stir and motion about the Louse till yt>u wake." 
 
 '' I tliaiik you very much," said the old man, a little 
 touched by the earnestness of her apo o^y, " but there is no
 
 332 £UiL DHirv', 
 
 occri-ion for so much care. I nm used to li.ird bods and 
 rough usnge enough, so tliat I can promise m^'self a very 
 sound sleep if I were sure of hearing no more such n!usic 
 as that.'* 
 
 "They shall tear my heart out before you hear a mnr- 
 niur," said the poor woman. " Do — take your rest — sleep 
 — ar.d see this — see !" plucking a huge Avoollen cloak from 
 the back of Mr. Shine, dragging it impatiently through the 
 hands of the latter, without seeming to bestow a thought 
 on him as he made a slight effort to retain his property — 
 '■■ See ! I will spread this over you when you lie dov.n, and 
 I'll draw the little dimmity curtain between you and the win- 
 dow, to keep tlie light from your eyes — and I'll watch by 
 your bed side if you wish, and I'll not cry out again if my 
 heart was on fire." 
 
 " Nay, n:;y, my cood woman, you are perfectly welcome 
 to act as you please, if you should be used so hardly as 
 that; but give iNlr. Shine iiis coat again for I don't w^ail it." 
 
 ''Let him stand in his fat garment of fle-^h," said the wo- 
 man, Avith a tone of bitter contempt; '-let him sit there in 
 the midst of his own mountain of gross substance, built on 
 his bones out of lean fools. The raw wind that pierces the 
 marrow of the old man, might bluster and chafe upon that 
 heated and shaking lump of earth without duiiig any more 
 harm than v/arming and quickeiiing the nd curients within 
 it, while yours were frozen and ckiven back upon your old 
 heart." 
 
 " I desire, woman," said Segur. greatly offended, " that 
 you will do as you are directed ; and it would become you, 
 unfortunate creature, to obtain the forgiveness of that wor- 
 thy man, for the prufane insolence of which you have been 
 guilty."' 
 
 In the instant, and before the last word had passed the 
 lip of the'speaker, the cloak was replaced on the shoulders 
 ot the bewildered Sldne, while the woman, with a tremb- 
 ling and officious eagerness, fastened it about his neck,
 
 THE COINER. S33 
 
 clasped hor hands, and, sinking at his feet, solicited his 
 pardon with so rapid and affecting a cl'.ange of tone and 
 manner, and such a repentant vehemence of action, that 
 tlie great cheeks of the doctor (\\lio like most fat men had 
 his proportion of good-nature) shook with emotion, and his 
 eyes g'istened v ith moisture, as he was about to pat her 
 on the head, with a word of encouragement and forgive- 
 cess. The intention, however, Avas as much as the peni- 
 tL^nt seemed to require, for she instantly sprung to Iicr feet 
 a.iain, turned her back on the doctor, as if no such person 
 were in existence, and, 1-aying her hand on tiie arm of the 
 old man, hurried him into the parlour. 
 
 The preacher turned round, while his eyes were still di- 
 rected in amazement toward the parlour, to the thin-fiiced 
 lad. He found the latter, however, had been much more 
 profitably occupied than in attending to the preceding 
 scene. He liad slipped quietly into the preacher's chair, 
 and busied himself witii the ntmost eagerness in complet- 
 ing the task A\hich the oiher had kft unfinished 
 
 " Eat, friend," said the preaclier, after pausing and 
 staring on the lad for a few moments, " eat, and be tilled. 
 I/.'t no resp'.ct of persons iiLash or trouble } ou in the per- 
 formance of a ne dful duty." 
 
 There was little occasion for the advice. The lad did 
 not even suspend his operations to sny a word of acknow- 
 ledgment, but merely nodded, steadily returned the stare 
 of the honest divine, and made a kind jf soldier-like saluie 
 with the knife, as he was about to plunge it once more 
 into the nut-brown surface of the rati, in the side of which 
 iie had speedily effected an excavation that attracted the 
 adm'ration e\ en of Shine himself. 
 
 i;o:h reaiained gazing on one another in sSlncc for a 
 few minutes, when a third mute made his app'aiance oa 
 the scene. Mr. Shine's attention was first attracted to him 
 Dy the aciiou of the young guide. Tlie latter suddenly 
 suspended his operations at the board, started from his 
 
 T2
 
 334 suiL Diiuv, 
 
 seat, looked full on the stranger, no'liled Ids head towards 
 Shine, slapped his pocket, tossjd his hands higli above his 
 heaJ, and darted by the man toward the back-door, tlie 
 same by which Kumba and t^pellacy had departed, and by 
 which tliis new comer had enteied. As he stood on the 
 th'reshold, half out, half in, he snid, in a jeering tone: 
 
 '' Well ! you'll not part the 'i^iti?" 
 
 " Aih ?" 
 
 " Aih, yourself! AVon't you part the ingits ?" 
 
 "Och! Noa!" 
 
 The door was instantly slapped to by the departing 
 gu'de \\itli a burst ot contcmi'tuous laughter. 
 
 Shine now gazeJ on the stranger. He was an exceed- 
 higly tall, awkwardly constructed fellow — presenting, as he 
 stood bolt upright near the door, returning Shine's open 
 stare with an air of peifectly stupid sheepishiiess, his long 
 gaunt arms hanging before him, and his bony, coarse, and 
 huge-knuckled iingers emp'oyed in beating time upon the 
 iront of a patched and glossy pair of c^^rduroy " small- 
 cljtlies" — pies uiing, we say, a picture of helpli'i-s and 
 anxious stupidity, which pcrliaps could not approach a ^hade 
 neariT to thj vi-rge of positive idiotcy than it cid ; ai;d 
 which, bv the very lingering hue of re.ison ^hich formed 
 tlie distinc ion, was nn re striking and pitiable iu its effect 
 than tlie absolute consummation of imbeei iiy would have 
 been. 
 
 " Who was that left us, friend ?" said Mr. Shine, after 
 having perfectly s itisKed his curiosity by a perusal of tlie 
 strange ligare and features of the virion that was thus un- 
 expect dly conjured up before him. " Do you know that 
 youth ;•" 
 
 " Is it Awney Farrel you mane ? To be sure I do. He's 
 a kind o' sarviut and coiumerade o' mine." And peering 
 on the preacher thiougli his bei'tiing eyebrows with that air 
 ol low cunning which becomes the coiinteu u:ce of a lool aa 
 gracefully as vuuge would the cheek of a corpse, he sauntered
 
 THE COINER. 335 
 
 in a shambling, awkward p;ait toward the chimney co-ncr, 
 where he took his seat on the hob, spread his great skeleton 
 hands before the blazf, and clattered thcni together occa- 
 sionally, in the v;iin effort to bring back the blood ihto their 
 rigid and obstructed channels. 
 
 Presently, the preacher being still occupied in a wonder- 
 ing perusal of the person and action of the stranger, he drew 
 fi'om the breast of his gray frieze coat a small piece of a 
 ye'low shining metal, m hich the active mind of the f jrmer, 
 assisted by many wavering recollections of the regal evi- 
 dences frequ'.'utly discovered in the wildest bogs and quar- 
 ries of the country of its former wealth and splendour, in- 
 stantly stamped with the authority of gold. He was not 
 Induced to change his opinion by what followed. 
 
 " I'm a poor man," said the stranger, " and in Avant o' 
 mains to carry me to my own people, down near Dublin ; 
 an' I'm told I have more than the worth o' my expenses in 
 this. I think it's nothing but Jbrass, but more tells me it's 
 raal gold. May be you'd look at it, sir ?" 
 
 Shine examined the metal, and satisfied himself to his 
 gre it astonishment, that it was inJeed an ingot of pure 
 gold. 
 
 " It's brass, isn't it, sir?" repeated the stranger, wliohal 
 been anxiou§ly glancing from the ingot 1 1 the preacher's 
 eyes, while the latter was estimating the value of the metal. 
 
 " What is your name, friend ?" asked Shine, eluding the 
 query. 
 
 " My name ?" echoed the man distrustfully — " Oh, what 
 has that to say to the ingot ?" 
 
 " Why are you unwilling to tell me ?" 
 
 " If I thought," said the stranger, pausing for some time 
 in a mood of stolid deliberation — " that I'd be safe to tell 
 yo:i — and indeed by the looks o' you, I think I would." 
 
 " You may depend upon me," said his companion. 
 
 '• May I ? Oh, well sui-e that's enough to satisfy any bod v. 
 My name is Mac O'Neil. An' if I thought it safe — bur sure 
 
 L
 
 o3G SUIL DHUV, 
 
 you say it is — I'd tell you where a great deal more o' the 
 same kind might be had." 
 
 The person accosted felt, at the same time, a deep emo- 
 tion of pity for the simplicity of the owner of the treasure 
 — and a strong temptation to render him an object of still 
 greater compassion, by making his own nse of the intelli- 
 gence he should convey. He encouraged him therefore to 
 proceed, and Maney Mac O'Ntil, after sundry misgivings, 
 ventured to make the confidence he asked. 
 
 " Tiiere'^ some years since I was a 'prentice wid a mason 
 by trade — and one time at Easter, when my master left 
 myself an anoder 'prentice, to make a pair o' piers for a 
 gate there, just hard by the ould buildings, an went some- 
 Avhcreelse\\id himself — I was sarchen amongthe ould ruins, 
 to see ^.'ould I get some good stones for the peers, when I 
 seen one place just about the big of a door, an it filled up 
 with the sort o' stones I wanted — so to \^ ork I went, striven 
 to get 'em out, an taken 'em along 'id me to my commerade ; 
 but before I got passen the hidf o' them out, what should 
 I see only steps in before me, an they goen down like stairs ! 
 \^^ell an' good, af I did, I went in to see what sort of a place 
 was it that was there, an whcie should the stejis be after 
 carrying me to, but into tlie middle of a dark room (1 b'lieve 
 it's a wault you call it, where the gentlemen puts their 
 friends when they die) — and what should I find there, but 
 a great panel of chests, or cofllns, as I thought they were 
 at first, which they Avor not, being made of iron, as I found 
 out when I struck my crow again 'em. Well, Avhen I found 
 that, I went oat an stopt up the hole again, ' for fear any 
 one would find it cut upon me,' says I to myself, ' until I 
 come to-night, and know more about it.' Well an good — 
 when it was dark, I cam-e back myself, an' my commerade 
 along id nic, and we went in to the same place Avid a 
 candle and a dark lantern, an' Ave broke the ciiests Avid the 
 crowbar, and Avliat shduld we fi:ii in them (that's in one 
 of 'ciu), but liulc bais like th's . showed you, piled a top
 
 THE COIKER. 337 
 
 o' one another, a yard high — an' I declare it T think it's 
 goold, eh ? though I woukln't give into it before strangers 
 There was another o' the chests full o' candlesticks — and 
 more of 'em wid crosses, an' cups, an' rings, an' fine shincn 
 stones — so we took 'em all out o' that, an' buried 'em in 
 another place, in dread the landlord, if he come to hear of 
 it, would come down on us wid the Royalty o' the place, an' 
 take every whole tote to himself. So you won't tell any- 
 body — only af you had a friend that would give us a little 
 monies we'd give him a bargain — for I'm afeerd to speak 
 to the goldsmits in Dubhnor anywhere, in dread he'dclial- 
 lenge us openly wid 'em, and may be all we'd get for 'em 
 is nothing, an' to go to jail besides." 
 
 " Are you willing then to part with this bar which I 
 hold in my hand ?" said Shine after some hesitation, during 
 which he began to jingle a few old pistoles (a coin then 
 current among others in the country) in the iiapped pocket 
 of his waistcoat — the remnant of his dividend from a lale 
 field collection. 
 
 0, af I got anything for it that would be worth men- 
 tioning — or as much as would carry me to — " 
 
 The speaker interrupted himself in the midst of the sen- 
 tence, to gaze with dilated and Avonderiug eyes on the ex- 
 panded hand of Shine, which exposed three shining pieces 
 — at the same time that the ingot was elevated in the other 
 in a nianner which seemed to propose a choice between both, 
 to him who owned the latter. The other, fool as he was, 
 understood the action, but appeared to dislike the bargain, 
 for he snatched his ingot, and thrust it into his breast — • 
 shutting his eyes — and waving his head in token of refu- 
 sal. Shine placed another piece in his hand — Maney again 
 produced an ingot, and tossed it to the preacher, while he 
 gathered with his long, knobbed fingers, the four pieces from 
 the fat hand in which they were placed. 
 
 " It's brass, though, mind. It would rune me av you 
 eaid otherwise — an' sua-e 'twouldu't be the case neither." 
 
 15
 
 338 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 Shine laiiglied, although a slight qnalm troubled his con- 
 science when he considered the gi-eat difl'erence between 
 the value of the article and the price which the fool had 
 consented to take for it, 
 
 " I'll see you another time, an' I'll tell you all about the 
 ould Abbey and uvery thing," said Maney, as he turned to 
 depart. 
 
 " You say you have more of these, friend Maney ?" said 
 Shine. The fool nodded an assent. " You'll find me libe- 
 ral," concluded the preacher. 
 
 Shine did not at all like the expression of Maney's eyes 
 when he Siiid this. There was an ugly light about them 
 which made the preacher's heart sink witliin him. Before 
 he had time to digest the half-awakened inquietude how- 
 ever, the back-door again openec?, and Spellacy entered 
 alone. 
 
 He took off his hat and bowed to the Doctor — spoke to 
 Maney as to one well known to him — and bade him go re- 
 lieve Switzer from the care of the horses — adding some- 
 thing in a whisper which did not roach the preacher's ears. 
 Maney departed, laying his finger on his lips in token of se- 
 crecy, as he looked nt the preacher. Spellncy went into the 
 inner room, and Shine remained in the cliimney-corner, his 
 heart fluctunting between compunction for the knavery he 
 had been guilty of, gratification at his gain, and alarm at 
 riie recollection of Maney's parting glance ; though an in- 
 different person could see no further inference to be deduced 
 from it than a testimony of the great feebleness of conscious 
 wrong, which it was in the power of natui-al stupidity to 
 abash 30 easily.
 
 THE COIKEE. 839 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It has a strange, quick jar upon the ear, 
 That cocking of a pistol, when you know 
 
 A moment's space may bring its mouth to beai 
 Upon your person — two yards off — or so. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 The evening hung heavily on Kumba's hands. NotAvith- 
 standing the repeated disappointments which he had met 
 with in the schemes devised by Spellacy, the alternative 
 which he proposed to himself in case of rejecting this final 
 one, was so little in accordance with his inclinations that he 
 bad almost determined on acceding to the latter, long be- 
 fore the hour of appointment came, and before he was even 
 acquainted with its nature. He hurried over his solitary 
 evening meal, but when that was dispatched, he found that 
 it in no wise accelerated the hour Of meeting, which was 
 yet distant. He read over the letter of his mistress's pa- 
 rent, which stipulated a term of probation that his impatient 
 temper could never have endured — flung it aside — took 
 down his violin — and accompanied it with some words which 
 seemed melancholy enough to suit his own fortunes ; — 
 
 I. 
 The sally-coop where once 1 strayed 
 
 Is faded now and lonely — 
 The echoes in the leaticss glade 
 
 Wake to the waters unlj' — 
 My early haunts are perished all, 
 
 My early friends departed — 
 And I sit in my native hall 
 
 Forlorn and broken-hearted. 
 II. 
 When last I lay beside that stream 
 
 I dreamt of fame and splendour, 
 And bliss was mingled with my dreaill| 
 
 Domestic, sweet, and tender — 
 Now I would give tiiat fame and all, 
 
 Were this soft starlight gleaming 
 On my old fnends in their old hall. 
 
 And I an infant drea!n::^L^
 
 540 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 Tlie hour of appointment at length drew nigh, and he 
 repaired to llie Rath indicated by his companion, which was 
 made remarkable by one of those table stones, or cromleachs 
 — enormous tabular masses of rock supported on five or six 
 pedestals of the same material, great numbers of which are 
 to be met with in various parts of Ireland, of Great Britain, 
 and even on the continent, and which are supposed by some 
 antiquaries to have served the purpose of altars in the cele- 
 bration of the mystic rites of Odin, while the vulgar tradi- 
 tions of the country represent them as the rural dining-tables 
 of the ancient gigantic colonists of the island. 
 
 He had not arrived many minutes before he was joined 
 by Spellacy, who appeared to labour under some perplexity 
 of mind as to the course wliich he should pursue. 
 
 "Mr. Kumba," he ^^t length said, after much hesitation, 
 " to be plain with you, if you should not choose to come 
 into my plan, it will put my life in your power, and that 
 puzzles me a little." 
 
 Kumba stared on him in some surprise. " I am total'y 
 unable to conceive your meaning," said he, " but on that 
 head, you may be assured that I am not base enough to 
 avail myself of any information by which you may commit 
 yourself." 
 
 " It is enough, sir," said Spellacy. " Follow me, if you 
 please." 
 
 They proceeded down the hillock, over a little rocky 
 rivulet, into a small dark copse of stunted elms and hazels, 
 through which an almost imperceptible pathway overgrown 
 with brambles," prishoc-weed, and underwood, conducted 
 them to the door of a small thatched building, having the 
 appearance of a stable, and connected with a ruined smithy. 
 Spellacy hastily pulled the string of the latch, and admitted 
 his friend into a stable, which was occupied by four stout 
 rough-coated horses, whose furniture hung against an uu- 
 cast wall of mud and stone on the opposite side. The con- 
 dition of the animals, and the conilortable air of the place
 
 THE COINER. 3 11 
 
 in which they were accommodated, might, at a moment of 
 leaser interest, have excited the surprise of Kumba, but he 
 was now too completely overwhelmed even to exercise a 
 distinct judgment on the very circumstance which absorbed 
 all his attention. A small ladder leading through a narrow 
 opening in the boarded ceiling to a loft overhead, was next 
 disclosed by his companion, who now relinquished his hold 
 and motioned Kumba to ascend. 
 
 "Stay! cried the latter, at length, "whither are we going?" 
 " Hush ! no words here — at laste, talk smaller than that, 
 if you value our lives. Up, and ask no questions !" 
 
 « But " 
 
 "Hush! up, I say again!" Kumba yielded, and they 
 ascended." 
 
 " Xow, Mr. Robert !" said SpcUacy, in a low tone, " only 
 act like a man for one half hour, and you're made. Dc 
 you know where you are ?" 
 
 Kumba stared wildly around him. They stood in a space 
 about four feet square, the rest of the loft being to all ap- 
 pearance blocked up with hay and straw, except on one 
 side near the wall, where a fissure in the mass had been 
 formed, apparently by the gradual use made of the article 
 tor consumption in the lower apartment. To this narrow 
 opening, Spellicy beckoned his friend, and seizing his hand, 
 as he hung back in wondering hesitation, drew him into a 
 long passage, dark, and becoming somewhat wider as they 
 advanced. The first intimation the young farmer received 
 of tbe nature of the place to which he was about to be in- 
 troduced, was conveved in a sound resembling the clink of 
 Siuall hammers faintly heard, and an occasional murmur of 
 human voices, alternated by the creaking of some great 
 nir.cliine, the working of which caused a degree of tremu- 
 lous insecnrity in the floor beneath them. All, however, 
 was hu-^h: d into a perfect stillness, the moment Spellacy ap- 
 plied his fingers to the latch of a small door, which yielded 
 to the etfurt, and disclosed the interior of the apartment.
 
 342 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 " Chaishin a moch ?"* was grumbled by a hoarse voico 
 Lorn within. 
 
 "/SitiV Lhuv /"t exdaimt'd the compaiiiou of Kuraba. 
 
 " G'udhain ella ?"J asked the same vuice. 
 
 Spehacy made iio answer, but motiuiied Kumba with his 
 hand to remain in the daikuess, where he was, and passed 
 into the room. This, with its inmates, was fully visible to 
 the latter, whose already excited brain wp.s filled with a 
 thousand new visions of terror, as his eye wandered over 
 the details of a scene, with which were associated even the 
 horrors of his infant life, when the name of the blood-stained 
 gang, on the thrLshold ol whose lair he now stood, was used 
 to quell the pee\ish querulousness of his childish heart — 
 and made him cling with murmurs of dependent anxiety to 
 the bosom of his fosterer. 
 
 A large fire, formeu with a mixture of culm and heavy 
 turf, supplied the principal poriion of the light by wliicli 
 the inmates ot the place were enabled to carry on their se- 
 ciet toil. Near the ceutie of the room, the further end of 
 which was almost completely enveloped in the evolutions 
 of a black and su'phnrous smtlio, was an engine at work, 
 the whitish and wavering light of the fuinace revealing, in 
 fitlul alternations of briHi;incy and gloom, the aged coun- 
 tenance of the artificer, a white-haired man, v hose large 
 gli^tL'ning ey.s, and hoary, straight locks presented a 
 ghastly contrast to his suiutted and wastid features. The 
 efi'ect of tliis figure on Kumba's heart was such as might be 
 occasioned by a siulden iudic.iiion of life on the features of 
 a mummy. Around this [lersoii a nuaiber of figures were 
 constantly flitting through the uncertain light, sonic young, 
 soiue advanced in years — the couuienances of all marked 
 with a degree of sternness which could not but be consi- 
 dered as the result of a habitual fciocity of temper, and 
 wliich was rendered doubly forcible and repugnant in iis 
 
 * Wlio is there y t Tlic dark-eyed. 
 
 j is there any one eLe?
 
 THE COINER. 343 
 
 effect by the murk and dnsky hne wliich the features ha(^. 
 acquired from the tiiickencd atmospjiere around them. — 
 Kumba shrank back involuntarily whenever any of their 
 eyes i^appened to glance in his direction, although a mo- 
 ment's consideration might have satisfied him that he was 
 perfectly sheltered from observation by the darkness in 
 Which he stood. The men were, for the most part, uncoated, 
 the sleeves of their coarse and blackened bandk-llnen 
 shirts being tucked up, after the fashion of blacksmiths, 
 about their shoulders — their harsh, brown chests half ex- 
 posed, and their hands employed with various tools, of tlie 
 immcdi;ite use of which the unseen spectator was ignorant. 
 Notwiihstanding the anxiety, even approaching to teiTor, 
 which made th. heart of the latter knock fiercely against 
 his ribs as he gazed u[)on the scene, and although he 
 deemed an introduction to this fearful circle of desperadoes 
 as little less than a death-warrant, he could not resist the 
 emotions of that violent and unaccountable curiosity wliich 
 compels a man so strongly to neglect all other considera- 
 tions when weighed again.-t the opportunity of its gratifi- 
 cation, and Avliich seems to increase precisely in proportinu 
 to the extent of the danger which it involves. Heaiiiig 
 Spe'lncy engaged in conversation with a number of persons 
 at a little distance inside, and anxious, he thought not 
 wherefore, to learn the purport of their cctnversation, he be- 
 gin to meditate a nearer approach. A heap of tiu'f, gra- 
 dually ascending to the veiy roof, and extending several 
 feet into the room, appeared to aflbrd the best means he 
 could desire of accompHshing this purpose. He crept cau- 
 tiously up, trembling in all his limbs, as the action of his 
 person seemed to menace the unstable pile of peat sods 
 with a general downf'al. In a few seconds he lay lengthwise, 
 within a footof the thttched roof, while the knot of confabula- 
 tors was visible injmeuiaely beneath his eye. His friend 
 Spellacy, whom he now surveyed with a new and fearful in- 
 terest, since he became invested, by his owti avowal, with all
 
 344 SUIL DHDV, 
 
 the terrible associations connected with the name of Suil 
 Dhiiv, the Coiner, was standing in the centre of the gi'oup, 
 one of whom was in the act ofconchiding a detail, which ap- 
 peared to excite a feeling of displeasure and perplexity in tae 
 mind (f their leader, 
 
 " And tl;at's the way of it, just," the fellow continued, 
 throwing up his hands in a hopidess way, " all at a stand 
 i'liY the wash to give 'ein a colour. I rise out of it for a 
 bnsine?s entirely. I'll take a spade, like Jerry O'Gilvy, and 
 work a drass, av I don't want to be starved, all out." 
 
 " Whist ! yon innocent !" said a fair-faced youth who 
 stood near, and saw the black eyes ot tlieir leader kindle on 
 the speaker. 
 
 " Och 'iss — av I could wash over a guinea be tollcu a 
 fable or an ould story, I needn't go past 2/oit, I know." 
 
 " Where's Maney O'Neil's ingot ?' asked Spcllicy. 
 
 " ! what's that Suil Dhuv is talken of?" exclaimed a 
 strange voice from a far corner. " Let Maney and his 'git 
 alone, do ye. What could ye make of it in a wash, in com- 
 parison of what I make of it the way ye k;iow ye'rselves ? 
 Tis Awney Farrel jiut that iu ye'r heads, but he had best 
 change his tone, the Dublin clea'-boy* that he is, av he has 
 a mind to stay iu my sarvice." 
 
 " Was Awney out to-day ?" asked the old man near the 
 engine. 
 
 " He was ; and I lieard a party coming to the doir as T 
 left the house, with Awney by tlieir side," said Spellacy. 
 
 " Well, that's sometheu any way. What road do tiiey 
 take ? and hoAV many of us is to be on their track ? And 
 how much o' the money do they look to liave ? Eh ? Tiiat 
 Awney is a smart lad. With his scrap o' Lalin and his 
 cfl-hand free an aisy way, he'd desave the airtli." 
 
 " I'll arrange all tho^e particulars, when I return to the 
 inn," said Spellacy. 
 
 *Cltave or basket- boy — in the service uf the victuallers.
 
 THE COINER. 345 
 
 " Do then — nncl do somethen fn- uz at list— as row gi^fc 
 nz to do uvnry thing for yon. What gain hail^ve by blow- 
 ing ont the brains of the onld dark Segnr, only pleasing yon, 
 bekays his rehition in Garmxny kicked " 
 
 Tiie sound of a hewy b!ow and a doep groan cut short 
 this speech, to which Kiimba was !en Ijng a terrified atten- 
 tion. 
 
 " Xow, mffian !" excLiune^l Snelhcy, " have i/02C gained 
 nothing ? I have the use of my ohl hand yet, eh ? Take 
 him to the far end o' the room, one o' ye !" 
 
 The stunned and speechless wretch was instantly con- 
 veyed from the circle, and a deep silence followed. Kumba 
 listened with renewed anxiety, aUhough tlie qnickne5S and 
 boldness of this assertion of his authoiity by Spellacy con- 
 veyed an immediate sense of security to liimself, whieli was 
 only qnalilied by Ids awakened doubts as to the real charac- 
 ter and intentions of the man. 
 
 " There's no occasion for ye to be looking at one another 
 that way," said Spellacy, determine lly. " As I served him, 
 so I'll serve every one of ye that dares to question the 
 command you yoiirselves gave me, while there's a drop o' 
 blood in this arm," — and lie ex'enued one, the rigid mus- 
 cles of which worked like small cable*, as he slo'.vly clenched 
 his tist; while he spoke. " Ye'ilmind my orders — and 'twill 
 be better for ye. Isn't that calf done bleating yet?" 
 
 "He axes your pardon for forgetten himself?" said the 
 fair-faced lad, in a soft and conciliating tone. The wounded 
 man dissented, with a noise similar to that short thick bark 
 which a mastiff gives in its sleep. 
 
 " I never make words with Snil Dhuv," said the old 
 white-haired man near the engine, rising from his place, his 
 limbs all siiaking with the palsied impotence of age— -and a 
 horrible hyena convulsion, too Iri'jiitlul for laughter, min- 
 gUng its hoarse and sudden peals witii a fit of heavy cough- 
 ing and wheezing, which seemed as tiiough it would shatter 
 bim momentarily to pieces — " I never qiiarril wit him t'ov 
 15*
 
 345 6UIL DUUV, 
 
 cllndien abizniz well— 'tis — — luigh— Intgh '. — this chcsl 
 o' mine! — 'tis the safest and the surest course bv half. 
 That was our word — hugh — hugh — among the Rapparees 
 of ould times — in my young — this back o' mine ! — hugh 
 — hugh ! — young days — when they used to be laughen at 
 strong John Macpharsou* for never passen a good squeeze 
 — and he coum to the gallows be thar same, too. I seen — 
 hugh — hugh ! — I seen him myself playen up Macpliarson's 
 tune, and he goen to the tree. Ah, ha, John, thought I 
 Avit meself (butt I said nothen) — av you tuk the advice o' 
 Redmond's lads, you'd be sporten on the highway still, in- 
 stead o' bcin' pluyen at your own funeral — hugli — hugh ! 
 
 Misthur darh n Suil Dliuv ! gi' me soinetheu for this cough 
 o' mine ! Nothen — nothen — t\e used all to suy to Shawn, 
 like a taste o' blood for salen a matter up. I'm sixty-eight 
 years now in the worLI, an' I never seen a dead man mount 
 a witness table yit. Ah ! never ir&st one of 'em, Suil darlen, 
 an '} ou'il laugh at the law all your days — an' the comfort ov 
 it too, whin you're used to it — aiid — " here a fit of cough- 
 ing seized tlie speaker, so violent and suffocating, tliat 
 Kumba, whose whole attendon had been fascinated and con- 
 centrated by this display of peikct depravity, imagined that 
 the ruthan had consununatea his iniiueties in thepatiiut ear 
 of liejiven, and was about to be summoned to an instaufc 
 and awful judgment. 
 
 " This cuhu-snioke that's klllcn' me intirely," the fellow 
 continued, taking his seat at the bottom of the very heap 
 of turf, on which Kumba lay, and causing it to shake tinder 
 hiai, "No ! Suil Dhuv — folly my ways. As long as evet 
 
 1 live, I'll kill. Kill hrst, and rob after, is my word — and 
 I'll stick to it — a\e — always — (J my pvor b.ick, intire.yi" 
 
 " Poor deceived wretch!" thought Kumb.i, an emotion 
 of great pity nuiigling its^'lf with all his honor. " Loes 
 thit) hoary viikun, with the red guile of a life of ulood iipou 
 
 * A notoriou.i Irish robber.
 
 THE COINEH. 347 
 
 his sniiT — the nrra of an anoiy God made bnre above his 
 head, — this m"39rab1e crenturp, tlie stiings of whose life ap- 
 pear to be nil let doAvn — with a frame whose least motion 
 is almost sufficient to shake its structure to pieces — who sits 
 tliere shnkinc;' and laiii^Iiincj and ready to fall bone aft:^ bone, 
 already mouldering, into the grave — does this idiot demon 
 plan future scenes of murder for himself? Poor deceived, 
 unhappy -uTctch ! This is horrible." And in an emotion 
 of deep feeling, such as people of an enthusiastic temper 
 and susceptible mind are liabh to experience at witnessing 
 any extraordinary novelty, eitlier in the moral or physical 
 ■world, he clasped his hands together, and felt his eyes till, 
 and his whole frame tremble with a wholesome and soften- 
 ing agitation. 
 
 Immediately, and by one of those startling bounds which 
 Reason makes, when accidently fi-eed from the restraint that 
 was imposed upon her by passion and convenience, she 
 springs into her own free dominion, and mounts 
 
 " with pi-osperous wing full snmmed," 
 
 to her real station in the soul — ascending, not by the slow 
 steps of inference and deduction, but piercingwithoneglanco 
 the mists which worldly interest have gathered around the 
 naked brightness of truth — dashing aside at a sinale effort 
 the cobweb snares of her fal:^e sister sophistry, and tramp- 
 ling and hurling downward in her flight the loose and crumb- 
 ling obstacles, among which she has been long imprisoned 
 by selfish motive and human re>pcct — in an instant — and by 
 a transition as rapid — a perfect and illuminating change 
 Avas work'd in the soul of Kumba. "While he gazed o i 
 the old man, the feirfu! and terrifying suggestion dartel 
 through the b'-ain, that his was the close of a career com- 
 mencing like his own. His heart froze A\ithin his bo=om 
 — and then burned — and grew cold again, while a sudlen 
 damp s'^ood on his brow and limbs, and his eyes became 
 riveted aiRl fixed in spite of himsjlf on the hoary and pal*
 
 Oib SUIL DHUV, 
 
 sied murderer — whom he began now to look on as a future 
 pelf of himself — the double-goer of his age ! — a spectre 
 conjured back from the days to come, for the purpose of 
 startling him, like another Hazael, Avith a reflection of liis 
 future soul. He clasped his hands once more fearfully — and 
 lost, in the intensity of his agitation, a part of the conver- 
 sation which ensued. The first sound from beneath tliat 
 again fixed his attention, was the mention of his own nnme 
 pronounced in a heated and passionate tone by Spellticy. 
 The old man was replying, when Kumba's attention was 
 aroused — 
 
 " don't mind that, Suil Dhuv, 'tis like the dhrams o' 
 whiskey. Let him get the taste of it wanst, an' see av he 
 won't long fur it again. 'Twas the same way wit me-e'f 
 jest. The fimt blood I uver tuk was that of a 'ittle mcus- 
 cen that bit me finger in a mail-tub. Ah ha, fait my hid, 
 siz T, an' I not four 3'ear ould the same time, I'll ha' my 
 rivinge 0' you any way ; an* I caught him be the tail an' I 
 hung hira over the blaze of a slip of bog-dale — ;ind he 
 screech': n an' I laughen' an' grinden' my teeth as it niiglit 
 be this way — til! he died, burnt in the blaze — and my fa- 
 ther laughen' an' houlden me mrther, that was for rnnucn' 
 and tairen' the 'ittle cratur from betune me finsrirs." Here 
 a renewed convulsion of coughing and laugliter seized tlie 
 wretch — " Then I used to slit the throats 0' the chickens to 
 save the maids thethrouble — this way wit the scissor — and 
 aftlier, I'd get one 0' the pigs to give 'um a knock 0' the 
 hatchet whin the butcher would come to the house at Ais- 
 ther or Christmas — an' sometimes, may be I'd haucih* the 
 stent cow fur him when she wouldn't stand steady — I wish 
 / couM s'nnd steady, now I know — millia murlherl and 
 'tis / that ousihf to say that ! How the butcher an' all of 'em 
 laughed the fusht time when I tuk tlic sharp ed^e, instid o' 
 the broad back 0' the hatchit — ha ! ha ! 'Tw.ts that fiist 
 
 • Divide it witli a Iviiive tliL- lenJuii Achilhs.
 
 THE COINER. 310 
 
 made 'em put the uame o' Eed Rodynpon me — thongli it's 
 W'liite Eody wit me now, any way,'" be concluded, raising 
 Ids long silver hair with a sn ile which had so mucii of me- 
 lancholy in it, as to astonish Kmuba with the conviction 
 that the haid and ungentle natuie even of such a being as 
 this, was not incapable of retaining amid the petrifaction of 
 all its benevolent susceptibilities — a seltish softness and ten- 
 derness of fLeliiig in its own regard. 
 
 '• Faugh ! "What has all this to do wit the robben' o' 
 Lilly Lyme and her " 
 
 " Hush-sh-sh !'' Spellacy hastily interrupted the speaker. 
 
 " For what ? Eh ? Who's there ? Are we beirayed. 
 Ay — do! strike me agin an' agin after tliat, if you have a 
 mind, but I'll do my duly — Have you any body listnen' to 
 us ?" 
 
 The name of his mistress, pronounced in such ruffian 
 fiisl.ion, occasioned such an agitation of rage and honor in 
 Kumba's soul, that it was with difficulty he restrained him- 
 seh from rushi.ig into the midst of the group and hazard- 
 ing everything for an instant elucidation of the desi;Lua. 
 wiiich were under debate. Chance did for him what pru- 
 dence, however, forbade his atiemi.ting. The old man, 
 Ilody, quic'.ly rising from his seat at the base of the turfcu 
 heap, disluibed materially the already frail structure that 
 sustained the listener. A few Suds fell — in the ef')rc to 
 prevent a further peiil, Kumba siiook the whole fabric and 
 came tumbling headlong, amid the ciatter of the falling 
 fuel and the savage yells of the outrageous gang, who staited 
 back from theeiicle with exclamations of rage and terror. 
 
 '■' Theioni a-shhien ! Alauriga Spy T* shouted one, 
 in a rapture of vengeance. 
 
 " Uosth erdhai fier dhen thinna."-f cried another, 
 springing on the youth will a yell of ferocious anger. 
 
 " Fausccd — )mgh ! hugh ! — fauscai vioch a nikin leshai 
 
 * Give me the knife— Kill the Spy 1 
 t Ito^ist him ufchiiid the live i*
 
 350 suiL Dutrv, 
 
 press /"* wheezed out Red Rodj — all clamouring together 
 in their veiiacular idiom, in their sudden excitement of ihj 
 •iiunient. 
 
 " Cunnidh-a-lauv ! Esaun-dha sucur a hherom 
 lath .'"I Sptllacy suddenly shouted out, in accents that 
 made the floor shake beneath them, while he placed himself 
 in an attitude ot determined resistance between the gang and 
 his p:0itrate friend, over wlioui Red llocij had uplilted a 
 short bar of iron, with a degree of strength which nothing 
 less stimulating than the prospect of an immediate gratify 
 cation of his ruling patsiou could have struck into his pal- 
 sied arm. 
 
 'ihere was a pause — while the eyes of aU were directed 
 on their leader. 
 
 " Fools, dolts !" he at length exclaimed, his round 
 black (yes sparkling with alight which might have readily 
 accounted to a stranger for the cognomen which had been 
 confv.ncd upon him — "a brass pin would maAC me lave 
 him to ye, to kt ye see what ye'd g, t by ye'r mane suspi- 
 cion ot one that's a better friend than ye'rselves to ye ! An' 
 you, you graat ba-te, that nothing '11 ever taehe" — address- 
 ing the wounded man — '• it's the dint o' the bnre conipa-i- 
 sion that prevents me makcn' a mash o' your licad upon 
 the floor. Get up, Mr. Kumba, an' tell 'em who you are." 
 
 Kumba arose and gazed around him. Tl:e men slowly 
 relaxed their atiitudes of rigid pasJon, and old liody, lower- 
 ing his we:ipon, tottered with many discontented mutterings 
 toward Ills ancient place, near the stamping press. 
 
 " We meant no harm," said t'.ie wounded man ; " but 
 there's little admiration we shouldn't know afiindthat tooai 
 that way, so droll, tumbling down ov a hape o* turf into the 
 middle of us, all at wanst, out." 
 
 "May be," said Jerry, with a very soft sneer, " that's 
 
 • Scivucze out Ill's l)raiiis uiih tlio press. 
 f Hold j'our Ijaiid ! Stop, 1 tell vou 1 
 
 J
 
 THE COINED. 351 
 
 the way of intherducshias among the gliitlemhi, that we 
 knows nothen about ?" 
 
 It was some moments be&re the young man fully recol- 
 lected himself. When he did so, all the consequences and 
 difficulties of his situation came rushing swiftly upoa his mini ; 
 and as he had already, in one rajiid glance at the approach- 
 ing possibilities, determined upon his course, the peril which 
 they involved made his heart beat and treuible within him. 
 He felt himself, nevertheless, amid all the gathering anxiety 
 that began to creep within his bosom, more at liberty to de- 
 bate and decide them, while he was yet in comparative 
 safetv — fur there are doubtless many natures, whih^ yet un- 
 formed and undecided, in \\ hich the elements of vigour and 
 energy are loosely scattered, and Avhich require tlie impulse 
 of extremity itself to call them into confident action ; as a 
 vane, that flaps from point to point of the compass, Avhile 
 it is visited by feeble currents of air, will firmly fix and set- 
 tle when the black tempest is poured about it. 
 
 AVhile Kumba thus remained, gazing upon the c^rcle — • 
 and cliarged (to use a chemical metaphor) with an intense 
 and imeom_jro'nising pnrj ose — his frame covered with the 
 dew of aixiety, and trembling for itsjlf, while the mind 
 maiutaine 1 that fearful and clear-sighted serenity Avhich 
 goveriied the tottering steps of the martyrs of the early faith, 
 or that feeling which, to use a more familiar though less noble 
 illustration, throws a degree of grace and dignity into the 
 mjvements of the hopeless wretch who journeys to his fate 
 at the suaimons of the injured spirit of justice — while he 
 remained buoyed up, amid a tumult of agitating reflection-;, 
 by this sudden firmne-^s of resolution, the men with whom 
 lie was pr.'parin;' his heart to endure a keen encounter of 
 moral or physical strength, as the c^se might be (^the latter 
 cviilently hopeless), recommenced their deliberation of the 
 n.y-terious design of which Ku nba iiad already received so 
 terrifying a glimpse. 
 
 " 'Tis .I'.no^t time for us to be stirten, I'm thiaken," said
 
 352 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 Jcny, withdrawing a heavy clolh, and exposing a small 
 pane, throngh which the dark red, level lig'i>t of a sullen 
 evening sun darted across the room, forming a singular con- 
 trast to the whitish, giiastlj lustre of the furnace, as it struck 
 in succession on the outlines of stern and smutted features, 
 and fragments of scattered tools, tinging the white and ed- 
 dying volumes of vapour with deep crimson, and losing it- 
 self in the dense gloom long before it could have struck the 
 further wall of the apartment. 
 
 Spellacy glanced at Kumba before he replied. The look 
 ■with which he was encountered by the latter, as fixed and 
 resolute as his oivn, did not appear to please him. 
 
 "• Mr. Kiuiiba has no. means o' goen," said he doubt- 
 ingly. 
 
 " An there four able bastes under uz, an only #iree of uz 
 goen wit him ?" 
 
 " I forgot that. Go and saddle them, Jerry. Did you 
 bring your arms, Mr. Kumba?" 
 
 " Just Providence ! no " the young man exclaimed, 
 
 suddenly thrusting on? hand into his bosom, and clasping 
 his brow with the other, while a pang of disappointment 
 s!iot into his heirt. The real cause of his regret was for- 
 tunately not understood by the hearers. 
 
 " Pho ! don't mind that. I'll Imid you a pair of the best 
 feather-springs that ever said ' pop !' for touch 'em. Put 
 these in your houlsther." Kumba eagerly reached at the 
 weapons, but almost gasped his renewed disappointment, 
 when the wounded man who had been narrowly watching 
 his eyes, put the pistols down with his hand and waved 
 Kumba back. 
 
 " Easy !" he exclaimed ; " fair an' easy goes far in a 
 day. ^^'e'll know your mauing first, a' yon please." 
 
 •' Hold !" said Kumba, mauuing himself by a stror-g cf- 
 for: — '' We mn^t all c'.ea.ly understaiid each ot'ier. What 
 are year designs, and what do you expect fro n mo ? Speak, 
 f.r I vivst know them '" The firmness with which he
 
 THE COINER. 353 
 
 spolce the last sentenco, commanded for tlie first time an 
 involuntary sentiment of respect among the ruflians. over 
 whom the spectacle of aroused-up virtue had not ceased 
 to exercise an influence akin to that whiicli, as wo are 
 taught, the demons feel in the contemplation of diviniiy. 
 
 " Let me exphiiu all to l\Ir. Kumba," said Spellacy, 
 moving towards him, and about to lay his hand on tlie arm 
 of the latter, wlio shi-unk back as if he thought the touch 
 would liave blistered him. 
 
 " No colloguen /"* said a voice from behind. 
 
 Spellncy darted a rapid glance in the direction of the 
 voice, but no lips moved there. 
 
 "No cott'ncn' in corners !" said another. 
 
 Again the black eyes of the Coiner endeavoured to pene- 
 trate the darkness, but with no greater success. His blood 
 seethed in its channel?. 
 
 " Let uvery thing be abo' boord !" muttered a tliird 
 voice. Suil Dhuv, who at once filt the danger of any com- 
 promise of dii;nity, made no further etf'ort to discover M;e 
 di^alFected, but assuming a perfect indifiei-ence of manner, 
 proceeded towards Kumba. 
 
 " Let it be as he says," said the latter, whose spirit fainted 
 as the anxiety of a hope stole upon it. " Couie Spellacy, 
 come to your own house and we'll speak of it there, and de- 
 pend upon it, if the plan appears reasonable to me, I'll not; 
 
 be backward in " He stopped the sentence and 
 
 compressed his lips, as In turning his head aside he belield 
 Ilea Rody slipping the door-bolt into its place, and regard- 
 ing him with a horrible side-long leer. 
 
 " A' then — hugh ! — a' then wasn't it the little chicken 
 he was? — ' Coom to ye'r own house, Spellacy,' siz he — 
 thin the kncwcn' boy he was! — hugh — hugh! '7/' your 
 plans be raiz'uubble' — Gondoutha wisha ! — 
 
 Secret wliispering.
 
 354 SUIL DHUV. 
 
 ' Tf if If an nns 
 M'or kittles an pang 
 Ther'd be small use for the tinkers— 
 
 Slinsthonc ?// You bad your liberty wit tbe ifs before you 
 coom liere, niasther, you'll liave to dale wit the musts now, 
 I'm tliinkeu " 
 
 Kumba's heart once more ?unk within him, but his de- 
 spair wns perfectly aci^omjilislied when he beheld Spcllacy 
 endeavouring to repress a smile at the incident. The liol- 
 lowness of tbe ruffian's friendship at once rushed upon MS 
 understanding, and showed him that he stood in this pe- 
 ril, solitary and unfriended, and even unfelt for. 
 
 "Coom, coom!" exclaimed the wounded man — "let 
 the jintleman know what's wanten'. Siir, av you plase, 
 we're in want o' money, an' we're goen to look fur it at 
 Drumscanlon. Bekays you know the ways o' the place, in 
 regard o' being coorten' the young lady tlw^re, of ou'd — we 
 ^^ ant you to try it wit us, and take Miss Lilly Byrne (an a 
 lily she is — an' a diirlen lily, all over, sitre) — fur your 
 share o' the plunder." 
 
 The gradually incre:'sing pacsion which nerved and ex- 
 panded the figure of Kuniba as he listened to this speech, 
 and at length b"iled within his heart, now burst forth with 
 a degree of violence which made even the ruffian start 
 and change colour. " Villain !" the young man broke out 
 — but the torrent was checked in the very bound. The 
 instinct of nature and hubit suggested his coiu'se almost in- 
 voluntarily to the m in. He levelled a pistol at the head of 
 the \ outh, and looked coldly and wondc ringly in Ids eye. The 
 latter reuiainrd in the attitude of the interru|it('dpassion, gap- 
 ing on his opponent, his limbs shaking audibly beneath hini, 1 is 
 arms still extended, and his fists clenched, until a sudden 
 change came over his person. The hot anger that tided him 
 exuded in a cold and chilling sweat — a sickening sensation 
 ercjit through his breast — a hard throbbing struck painfully 
 through his brain — and mists floated befurc his eyi'S, thri ugu
 
 THE COINER. 355 
 
 wliich the form of t' e coiner, who still kopt the weapon 
 steadily presented, seemed by degrees to acquire a Satanic 
 grandeur and indistinctness of outline. Theyuuth relaxed 
 his closed hands, and endeavoured, while lie still stared like 
 one spell-bound into tlie bore of the pistol, to catch at 
 sonic support. 
 
 '' Let us lose no time," said the man, making Kumba 
 start, Avith a sudden gasp of tear, at the first sound of his 
 voice. "t^Ioom, sir ! Are you fur us, or aga'nst us ?" 
 
 '' Spellacy ! Spellacy ! " mut i ered Kumba, 
 
 in a lovv and listless tone. But Suil Dhuv did not answer 
 him. 
 
 " Wance for all, I say, will you be wit nz ?" 
 
 " I am alone ! I am unarmed ! I am betrayed !" Kumba 
 again murmured, in a tonj so expressive of utter agony, 
 that it touched tlie heart of Jerry. 
 
 " Murther, murther in Irish ! the poor lad !" he ex- 
 cLdmed, "let him think a little." 
 
 x\g;nu the query was repeated, and again Kumba ne- 
 glected to ausw(r. The man vented an oatli, and cocked 
 the wc.ipon. "Is it game you're makea ?" he asked 
 fii.rcrly. 
 
 "No n — n...no ! I do not insult you I 
 
 no Spellacy, hurry hurry ! slay ! 
 
 One moiuint !...Ah ! Spellacy, is it all come to 
 
 this '•'" 
 
 " ."-"peKacy can't help you, sir, !" said Suil Dhuv, " but 
 you can lie!p yourself.'' 
 
 "Ciioo.^e betune a ' Yes' and a ' No,' for that's all the 
 arj,uiag we'll hear fr.'ui you." 
 
 A long silence 'ii-ujd, while Kumba made an effort to 
 take the il'ctioii. He cndeavoiu-cd to s vt his frame, ai.d 
 stand more erect — a short, panting terr>r — a swift glance 
 at his past life — a sudden and giooniy fear — a doubtful 
 prav, r — and an ins a it and cheering ivsolution to make 
 u ia.st con;pei;satiou by dying for the right — all glanced in
 
 35 G suiL Diiuv, 
 
 rapid succession tlirongli his miiul. Wlien the question was 
 rep.^att'd he set his teeth hard — and said through then), 
 hoarsely but firmly, "Never!" 
 
 At the same instant a tall, ungainl}', straggling fig:ire 
 darted between botli, struck up tlie pi-tol — and 11 d in o 
 the darkness near the door. Kuniba heard it oj.en and shut. 
 
 " Why ih 'U, bad 'cess to you, Maney," exclaimed iLc 
 
 coiner — •' wait till " Eefure the sentence was tinished 
 
 Kumba seeing liis advantage, sprung upon the speaker, 
 levelled him upon the earth with a despairing blow, and 
 })lan;ing one foot upon his bi east, wrenched the pi.-tol from 
 the unconstious fingers of his victim. He was in a pos- 
 ture of vigorous and vi;;ilant resi>tance before one of Lis 
 enemies had recovered from their astonishment. Setting 
 oae shoulder against the press, and bending his frame so as 
 to concenirate all its strength and elasticity, he remained 
 glancing from face to face, and wa:chingthe motions of all 
 with that exquisite instinct oi vigilance to which extremity 
 awakens the senses. A vigorous struggle ensued. The 
 co'ners began to hem him closely round — and a few mis- 
 siles — sods of turf — pieces of loose iron, or timbtr, wire 
 Ihmg a' him fioni ihe darkness. Tiie more di.ngvrous mis- 
 siles, however, fortunately, were not numa-ous — the peat- 
 fcod he scarcely felt, and the few blows he received from ihe 
 heavier Aveapons, \\ere not immediately or deeply injurious ; 
 and as none of the gang appeared indined to teiiipt the first 
 fire of his single weap> n, he began almost to entertain hoijcs 
 of being able to cai)itula e, when he heard sen ebody 
 scrambling on the press over him, and saw Suil 1 Iiua's 
 eyes giis.en with approbatien as he looked in that dirvCtion. 
 In an insiant he received a bloiv en ihe crown of the head, 
 Avhich made the room appear all \\rapt in one led llau.e, 
 and then as instanilv envelup d in total gloom. His s ull 
 felt, as if it w>.:re about to ds^olve upon his shoulders. His 
 arms dropped — his heart swung and fluttered in his bosoin, 
 and all was — darkness.
 
 THE COINER. 
 
 357 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" chuckled the white-haired rnffinn, as he 
 endeavoured to descend from his hold — " I thouglit I hadn't 
 lost the knack of it, yit. Quiet an aizy, he is now, isn't he, 
 why ! He'll tell nobody now, only tuo sorts of peojjle — 
 thiiii that axes him, and thim that doesn't. Gi' me a hand, 
 Jerry — this cough of mine ! — luigh !— hugh ! A cough 
 — a coffin they say. Wipe the blood from his forehid, do 
 ye, boys — and go about ye'r bizuiz, file I stay au' watch my 
 lad!" 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I am not now the blooming maid 
 That used to love the valley's shade; 
 Mj' youth and hopes are quite decayed, 
 And all my joys are gone ! 
 
 Irish Ballad. 
 
 That which hath made them drunk, hath made me bold — 
 A\ hat hath quenthtd them, liatli given me lire. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Rejoiced, at length, to breathe a purer atmosphere than 
 that Avhich has been suffocating us through the last chapter, 
 we request the reader to return, for the last time, with us 
 to the sleeper and his blue-eyed sentinel, in the parlour of 
 the inn. The interest which she had evinced for the old 
 man, and which had excited so much astonishment in his 
 mind, did not appear to subside after she had accomplished 
 the object which she desired, and beheld him once more 
 locked in the unconsciousness of a profound repose. She 
 remained pacing softly and anxiously through the room, 
 sometimes pressing her brow with her expanded palm, at 
 others clasping and wringing her hands hard, but with a 
 perfectly noiseless action — now starting and biting her thin 
 lip, as the voice of i\laney and the preacher iu the kitchen
 
 358 suiL Diiuv, 
 
 made her tlread the waiving of her guest — now gazing fondly 
 toward the old man's bed, wliile her large soft eyes became 
 watery, and her wasted and yellow countenance changed 
 and saddened under the influence of some mela-^choly asso- 
 ciations, until she stretched her arms forth to their furlh st 
 limit, and her bosom heaved and panted with a longing ten- 
 derness — and then by a sudden transition, shuddering with 
 horror, gathering her hands fearfully to iier bosom, and en- 
 deavouring by an impatient gesture to shake off the startling 
 recollection, whatever it was, that had checked the flowing 
 kindness. At another time as she crept across the room, the 
 valiseof the Palatine caught her eye, and made her start and 
 tremble so violently, that it seemed to require a powerful 
 effort of self-command to prevent her renewing the wild cry 
 of agony with which she had before startled the household. 
 She then, with a light, tiptoe movement, crept to the bed- 
 side, seemed about to lift the dimity curtain, paused, clasped 
 her hands, looked upwai'd, aud finally withdrew it, and gazed, 
 upon the sleeper. 
 
 " His /" she exclaimed, muttering, In a soft whi.-per a 
 link frjni the chain of her silent conference with her own 
 
 heart — "•his ! if I could only by tears, and kneorng 
 
 and moistening the very dust about his feet, obtain his that 
 I wronged more cruelly than by saying a word of truth in 
 his ear ! how softly, and kindly, and warmly his word 
 of anger and command fell upon my heart ! I thought I 
 was a child again, and that my own father stood before me. 
 Where is my father now ! Ay, have you a father, you 
 miserable dupe? — You rohber's wife! you worse rubber 
 thin the worst, you plunde'i'r of the old man's [eace! you 
 
 thief of his rest and happiness ! — and for what ? — For " 
 
 here an uneasy motion of the sleeper alarmrd her. She 1 t 
 the curtaiu fall, and taking hers ,' it i-n a low chair near the 
 I'td, she commenced, in that low and inurniniing me'o ly 
 of tone which Irish niirscs use to lull the ea of i fancv, and 
 which scarcely exceeds in the extent of its cunipi.ss or t'.ia
 
 THE COINEE. 359 
 
 variety of its intonation the drowsy rise and fJl of the hum 
 of snnimer bees, a simple and phiiulive air, the words of 
 •which, Hide as they were, we will venture to transcribe. 
 
 The mie-na-mallah* now is past, 
 
 O ■wirra-sthru ! O wirra-stliru ! 
 And I must leave my home at last, 
 
 O uirra-sthru ! O wirrastliru! 
 1 look into my lather s eyes — 
 I hear my mother's i>artin<; sighs — 
 Ah; fool to pine for other ties — 
 
 O wirra-tthru! O wirra-sthru 1 
 
 This evening the^- must sit alone, 
 win-a sthru! O wirra-sthru! 
 
 They'll talk of me when I am gone, 
 wirra-sthru ! O wirra-sthru ! 
 
 Who now will cheer my weary sire, 
 
 When toil and care his heart shall tire? 
 
 My chair is empty by the fire! 
 
 O wirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 
 
 How sunny looks my pleasant home! 
 
 O wirra stliru! wirra-sthru! 
 Those flowers for me shall never bloom- 
 
 O wirra-.'-thru ! O wirra-sthru ! 
 I seek new friends, and 1 am told, 
 That they are rich in lands and gold ; 
 Ah! will they love me hke the old? 
 
 wirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Farewell ! dear friends, we meet no more-" 
 
 wirra^thiu ! wirra-sthru 1 
 My husband s horse is at the door ! 
 O wirra-sthru ! wirra-sthru ! 
 Ah, love! ah, love, be kind to me 5 
 For b_\- I ' ■» breaking heart you see 
 How diarly I have pun hated thee I 
 O wirra-sthru! wirra-sthru! 
 
 Honeymoon.
 
 360 SLIL DHCV, 
 
 As tne sinr^er paused on the last,cadence of the air, tlie 
 pathos and simplicity of which she rendered infinitely touch- 
 ing by the delicate mana:^eTnent of a voice of great softness 
 and tenderness of tone, a short-breathed sigh proceeding 
 from some person near her, mingled with and checked it in 
 the close. Raising her eves, she beheld Suil Dhuv bending 
 over her, his arms folded, and an expression on his features 
 which might be indicative of mingled kindness and delibe- 
 ration. Her thoughts ir.stantly recurred to her guest, and 
 with a movement of swift alarm she aose from her seat, and 
 endeavoured to lead him from the place. 
 
 " Stay, Sally 1" she exclaimed, " I want to know about 
 
 the " but the woman stopped his speech, putting her- 
 
 tinger on her lip, and pointing to the bed. The Coiner 
 followed her. 
 
 " Wha-t are they? — where are they going? — and by 
 what road ?" were the iii-st questions which he asked, when 
 they had passed through the kitchen, where Shine was now 
 slumbering by the fire, and gained the apartment in the 
 further end of the hou^^e. 
 
 "My love! — mv own love I" said the woman, laving 
 her hand on his arm, and pressing it aftVctionately — we 
 have been now four years married, living together, true to 
 one another, in sickiiess, in want, in jov — (;ind we^fl^ our 
 share of that too, Mark) — and in guilt — (and ui' that too, 
 Mark, hadn't we ?)— and " 
 
 '• (Jome ! come!" said Spellacy, impatiently — ''what 
 preachment are we to iiave now ?" 
 
 " I was only saving, Mark, that we had been now so long 
 married, and i never — never oi>ce made you a request since 
 the first day we wedded.'' 
 
 "And whose fault do you want to s;iv that was?" • 
 
 " My own, darling !" she said, laying her hands caress- 
 ingly on his shoulders — "sure 1 know 'twas my own ! but 
 it won't be my fault any longer, for I have something to 
 ask vou for now at last."
 
 THE COINER. oCl 
 
 " AVell, -wliat's that to Le ?" the husband muttered dla- 
 ti'u St fully. 
 
 " P'irst tell me, darling, what you intend." 
 
 " Poh ! the old plan always. To make sure o' the 
 horses and the aims you know, and then the four of us to 
 ride off to Drunitcaulon, and do our business there — and 
 be back so as to take these here upon their way. 'Twill 
 be a biisk night's work," he added looking into the air. 
 
 " You will not use violence ?" she said t'alteringly, while 
 she watched his eyes. 
 
 " Poh — no — no — no — to be sure," the fellow replied 
 carelessly. 
 
 The negative wp.s not sntisfactory. 
 
 " Mark," said the woman, twining her aims close about 
 bis neck, and looking with an agony of entreaty in liis 
 face, " my request — my first and only one — is this — that 
 you Avill spend this evening with me, and let those men de- 
 part in peace" 
 
 Suil Dhuv stared upon her. 
 
 *' I charge you," she continued, raising her voice and 
 assuming a more solemn tone, " harm them not ! Lay not 
 your iinger on a hair of that o'd nnin's head, as you value 
 your life ! Do not brush the dust from his psth ! If you 
 give him one evil eye — one b.id wi-h — one ruffian thought 
 — it were better for you, your nurse had strangled you upon 
 her lap ! Let the morning dawn see you as innocent of 
 liarm, thought or done, towards him, as the child that is un- 
 born !" 
 
 '' Why Sally !" 
 
 "Keep off your hand ! You know me not ! — I tell you, 
 man, you know but little of me yet. Observe my Avords, 
 or fear 'em ! — Fear for your soul ! or if that will not startle 
 you, fear for your neck ! — for as sure as that man's way is 
 troubled — ay, if only by a pebble cast in it by your hand^ 
 you shall die the death of a dog !" 
 
 She was about to leave the room, as if conscious of her 
 16
 
 3G2 smL Dnuv, 
 
 lEubiiity to sustain the commanding and enercetlc tone she 
 iiad assumed in her fit of enthusi;ism, when Suil Dliuv, at 
 lenp;th recovered from liis astonishment, though not at all 
 touched either by tenderness or her menaces, seized her 
 firmly by the arm — shut the door fast, — and looking fix- 
 edly into her eyes, asked : — 
 
 " Who is this man f 
 
 " No matter !" said the woman, avoiding his gaz e and 
 clearing the per:?piration from her brow, " that is ray re- 
 quest, grant or refuse it as you will." 
 
 The Coiner slowly relaxed his hold, while he remained 
 gazing with an exertion ff intense scrutiny on her changing 
 and agitated features. She seemed to understand the ac- 
 tion, though she dared not luok at him, and tliis conscious- 
 ness served only to increase her anxiety. A creeling, cold, 
 malignant smile at length parted his hard lips, and glis- 
 tened with a triumphant light in his eye. He let her hand 
 fall, and walked in silence toward the door. 
 
 It was now ^er turn to interpose. " Hold! stay !" she 
 exclaimed, " is my request granted ? tell me what you 
 intend !" 
 
 " You can be secret, Sally — so can I." 
 
 " He is a friend of mine, Mark, i?n't that enough ?" 
 
 " Enough of what ? Don't you know, there are some 
 friends of yours that are worse than enemies to me." 
 
 The poor woman did know it very well, and so she told 
 him by a mournful shake of the head 
 
 " Well ! well !" she said sullenly, " I will tell you some- 
 thing presently. But leave me to think awhile." 
 
 " I am. going to say a word to Awney Fairel — remain 
 here until I come. So you can talk, can you?" he added 
 in soliloquy, as he left the house. " Wt'll see if Lilly Byrne 
 won't fill your place a little more sofily. Not a better 
 sport I'd wish, than to see you take up with the mudhaun 
 that's lying, brained, abroad in the loft. And sure ye can 
 do it, the two o' ye, and welcome, can't ye ?" 
 
 I I
 
 THE COINER, 363 
 
 " Tliere.is one other clifince," the woman saitl, after me- 
 ditating alone for a moment on tlie courso which she oiig;h{ 
 now to pursue. " One chance to save all ! What i'f it 
 fail ! Hate is as black and deadly in the old as in the 
 
 young, and sometimes more so. He may refuse What 
 
 then ? Avow all ? Rain ! death, and horror ! — Stay ! 
 let me think — let me pause a moment — for some frieiil ! 
 
 some kind adviser — some Heaven !" she clasped her 
 
 hands and uplifted them, but again repre-sed the feeling. 
 " No — no — it is my human agony that speaks, and Heaven 
 that calls for pentience, will not heir me for my own sel- 
 fish interests. My hmds are bloody too — had I forgotten 
 that?" and compressing her lips wiih a shjcking stare of 
 desolation, she walked to the door of the room, and be ;k-- 
 oned the old Palatine, whose voice she heard in the next 
 apartment, to enter. 
 
 " Do not hurt the poor child," he said, as the woman 
 fiercely repelled the little boy, who attempted to force his 
 way in with the old man. " 1 don't know why it is," he 
 added, patting the little fellow on the head, and looking 
 pensively in its open face, " but I like the boy. Here my 
 man, is a tester for you ! — That's a hero ! I've seen an eye 
 like that child's somewhere, certainly." 
 
 The woman fell on her knees, and clasped the child to 
 her bosom, with a burst of hysterical passion, kissing his 
 neck, and suffering her hair to fall in long, abandoned 
 tresses over its back and shoulders. 
 
 " Strange creature!" tliouglit the Palatine, "what a mix- 
 ture of affection and unkindness ! what a changeful sud- 
 denness of motive and feeling appear to be in all her ac- 
 tions !" 
 
 While he again caressed the boy, the woman rushed 
 into the other room, dashed the tears from her eyes, and 
 glancing quickly reund, snatched, from the extended hand 
 of Shine, a vessel of raw spirits, from which he was just 
 ibout to replenish his tumbler of punchy and placing it t(
 
 864 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 her lips, (Iraincd it to the very last ; then tossing the ves- 
 sel oil the table, slic re-entered the apartment, fortified with 
 that dreadfid enei-;:j, with which rlie royal murderess ot 
 Scotlanil, on another occasion, sought to invigorate the na- 
 tural feebleness of licr sex — and utterly regardless of the 
 impression vliich she left on the mind of the guping 
 and astoundid SLine, both with re.-pcct to her morality and 
 her good breeding. 
 
 " Your name is Segur?" she said, after pausing a mo- 
 ment to collect herself. " Don't start — " she added, " it 
 was that informed me," pointing to the valise which he held 
 in his hand. 
 
 " That is my name, certainly," said the old man in some 
 surprise. 
 
 " You are travelling to your native village— your cottage, 
 uear Court Mattress ?" 
 
 " I am." 
 
 *' By the Crag road ?" 
 
 *' Yes." 
 
 *' Return the way you came, or take any road but that, 
 there's daai^er in it." 
 
 The Palatine gave her a sharp, and very suspicious 
 glance. 
 
 " I am well armed," said he. 
 
 The woman smiled, " if no road but that will serve 
 your purpose, remain here to-night. The heaven itself is 
 bent against you," — and she pointed through the window 
 to a small black cloud that hung above the tUlated disk of 
 the parting sun. 
 
 *' I am well provided in that respect also," said the old 
 man ; "but wiiat dangers do you speak of?" 
 
 " The road is infested. Every body fears it lu those 
 times." 
 
 " 0," said the Palatine, " if your counsel is only grounded 
 on such a general suspicion, we won't say any more about 
 it." And he turned away.
 
 THE COINER. 365 
 
 " Stfiy !" snid tlie woman, detaining Lim, anrl casting 
 
 her eyes on the e;ivth. " You had " a long pause 
 
 '*■ there was — " 
 
 " You are ill, my good woman." 
 
 " Sir !" 
 
 " Sliall I give you a chair ? Sit down. Wliat would 
 you say to me ?" 
 
 " This ague plagues me so. One moment, sir. You 
 had a friend, in care of your farm, an old blind man — 
 Adam Segur ? You are a"-are of his fate ?" 
 
 " I am. He was murdered y" s lid the old man eagerly. 
 
 The woman shivered in all her limbs. " He was — 
 and—" 
 
 '• ^Fy diinghter ! I see you know my family ? What of 
 her my good woman ?" 
 
 '• your daughter — your daughter is well — merry and 
 Avell — I'll engage — very well and haj>py indeed, thanks be 
 to Heaven." 
 
 "Thanks ! humble, heartfelt thanks be to Heaven in- 
 deed !" the old man repeated with a devout emphasis, un- 
 covering his head, and turning his moistened eyes upward. 
 He wa-; aijiin painfully interrupted by a renewed passion 
 of convulsive laughter from the woman. 
 
 " The night and the coming storm bring on my ague fit. 
 You must not mind it. I suppose you are astonished at 
 my acquaintance with your affairs, but I was an old neigh- 
 bour, and a dearfriend of your daughter's ; but marriage se- 
 vers fonder ties than ours. We are but poor friends now." 
 
 The old man hesitated one moment before he asked 
 doubtiugly. — " Were you at all in her confidence, then?'' 
 
 " — a little. She was taken with a young man — so 
 she wa^ — at the same time." 
 
 " A villain ! a low ruffian I" said the Palatine, clenching 
 his fist, and using a passionate gesture. 
 
 " Never truer word you said in your life — so much I c-lti 
 tell you — aiuim'iro t!uin that may be."
 
 SG6 SUIL DHUT, 
 
 " My Sarah," the old man continued, in tremulous 
 hesitation — " was always a good and dutiful cldld, 
 and—" 
 
 " Don't be so sure o' that. Heaven bless your simple 
 soul and body, I knew her better than you did a great deal 
 — A great deal," 
 
 " She know my wishes with respect to that young vil- 
 lain, and I'm sure she obeyed them." 
 
 " Are you, indeed? and why shoidd you now? Had 
 she no will of lier own, do you think ?" the woman said, 
 with a rapid and angry petulance of tone, like that which 
 soaieiinies precedes an access of delirium in sickness — 
 '• Was she only to be a little bit of a puppet iu your hands, 
 to pull her this way and that, and lock lier up, or let her 
 dance, just as you liked? Eh! — Sarah, do this — Sarah, 
 do that. And Sarah was to do it all ! — Ha ! She was no 
 Buch fiiol, she tiianks yuu — " 
 
 " You do not mean — " 
 
 " Or if she did — was she to be the only saint upon earth ? 
 Others disjb.yed their parents — and was she to be the only 
 jood little slave in the world — OIi, oh ! Because she was 
 your daughter, I suppose, she was to be as white as the 
 snow ! Pride, my dear sir — piide made the angrls fall. 
 Think more humbly of your nwn. I had a f'atlier as well 
 as she — aye, a goud, kind father — and 1 disobeyed him. 
 1 left him in his ai;e — and destro3'ed his quiet — and 1 knew 
 I w.is doing it when I did it, and 1 did it for all that. IJnt 
 don't be fiightened," she added hastily, observing the p de- 
 ue-s of a sudtlen alarm whitening on the brow of the old 
 nmn — '' She was less guilty than I. She was not such an 
 abandoned, unhappy wretch as I am. Few are, indeed," 
 she added, mournfidly, tapping with her feet on the floor, 
 l:ke one in pain. 
 
 " I have been so long absent," said the Palatine — " that 
 I have !■ rgotien many things which perliaps some pers 'Us 
 will say 1 ought to remeaibji'. You say you are an old
 
 THE COINER. 367 
 
 neiglibour, yet I cannot by any exertion recall yonr person 
 or yonr name to my recollection." 
 
 " Can you remember a family of the name of Spailin?, 
 who lived within a few perches of the high road near \our 
 village ?" 
 
 '• Phil Sparling ? I do, very well. His wife died in 
 giving birth to an only danghter — " 
 
 " That's it, just !" said the woman, la} ing her hand 
 quickly on his arm — " I'm that daughter — that's just ic, 
 now. I am, indeed. I'm that girl." 
 
 " And your father " 
 
 " Listen — r;nd I'll tell you every thing. When Mark 
 — no — no — whin your daughter's sweetheart, Dinny, I 
 think she called him, used to be coming about the cottage, 
 Jlaik Spellacy here, my hi^sband, used to be along with 
 him, and wliile Saruh took his arm, and walked w'uh him 
 in the monniight, i walked with Mark — leaving my old fa- 
 ther thnt loved me, lonely in his house. Mark was poor 
 and Wiiuted money— i?.nd when we had agreed to go ot^' to- 
 gether, unkuown to th'j old man, I robbed him and gave it 
 to Mark— so I did. I did, indeed. And I left my old f i- 
 ther without so much as one^ust one word for all hi,-, love, 
 in the dead of night — and no one to care for him — with- 
 out so much as a ' this' or ' that' — or ' by your leave, fa- 
 ther' — or ' God be with you for your kindness.' Not a 
 word indeed — no more than if he was a stone — or 7. And 
 I rubbing him too, think o' that ! Did you ever hear u' 
 aichalady? L'id you now ? Omyluait! My biain ! 
 Oh God, vengeful, terrible God ! Oh, hell ! hdl ! 'tis with 
 me, sir—] have it—" And sufiering her voice to fall su.U 
 dcnly from its shrilly and painful height to a low and 
 h( arsely muttered sound of horror, as siie rep at. d ihe last 
 excLiuiation, she paused a moment, gazing with hot, drv, 
 jind distended eyeballs on the earth. The Palatine je> 
 gar 'ed her with great, anxiety and commiseration. 
 
 *' Poor creatine I" he said, with tenderness, " so much
 
 368 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 feeling cannot be without some beneficial influence. Why 
 don't you return to your father ?" 
 
 " J/e / me go near him ! Ah ! no I am not quite so 
 bad as that, yet. 'Tis terrilole enough to think of him, 
 and think of him I do, enough. Many a long year it is 
 now since I left him, and yet his voice sounds as plainly in 
 my ears as if he were constantly about me. When I wake 
 in the morning I hear him call my name, and Avhen we sit 
 down to our n;eals, I see his old hand closed, and hear his 
 holy, contented jnayer, and think of all his fondness and 
 his iove, saying a thing from his heart, and seeming to 
 make a joke of it. No bragging love, like a young man's. 
 And sometimes too, in the dead of the winter night, whin 
 I lie alone in my bed, and the rain beats on the thatch, and 
 the wind blows, and my first, frightful dreams come on, I 
 see him then with his white, bony cheek, and his red and 
 angiy eyes, and his long gray hairs hanging down about 
 his face, standing on ihe floor, and looking doAvn towards 
 me, upbraiding me with every thingy* ' Sallv, look at your 
 father, how you have served him. You have left his arms 
 fur a common robber's. Ah, Sally, when I held you in my 
 arms, a little child, when I kissed your cheek, and taught 
 you to know the right from the wrong, I little thought you 
 would make me sucii a return as this one day !' And some- 
 times I £( e him in rags and poverty, and he bends over me 
 with his cold blue lips, and presses his hands donn upon 
 my throat till I gasp for breath, and screech out o' my 
 sli ep, and wake in the midst o' the darkness, the black, 
 thick darkness, all about, about me, and I wave my hands 
 through it, and that horrible pale face is there before me 
 still." And with a chilly shudilering, she placed both hands 
 en her face, and simk back in her chair. 
 
 '' Yet I would advi.-e you to lose no time in returning to 
 your father. You will at all events have done your duty 
 by making the effort at reconciliation, and don't think so 
 hardly of him as to siii)pose he will reject you, Avoman. If 
 
 . I
 
 THE COINER. 369 
 
 f judge by myself, he — no — " the old man paused, and shook 
 his head. 
 
 " Well ? well ? Eh ? M'hat Avere you goii g to say ?'* asked 
 the woman- eagerly, " if you judged by yourself — what:" 
 
 " Nothing. I'm afraid I misc;dcu!ated." 
 
 The poor woman gave a deep sigh, and cast a disap- 
 pointed look around her. 
 
 *' But I have no cause to judge of others by myself. I 
 have discovered many sym[)toins of hardness and inveteracy 
 about my own character, which I am sure b Jung not to 
 all men." 
 
 " No matter. Tell me how you would act yourself — for 
 that only cuuld give me satisfiiction." 
 
 The PaLitiue stared hard upon her. 
 
 " Ay^speak!" she continued, "place yourself in poor 
 Sparling's situation. Suppose your daugliter had served 
 you, as I served my father — -and suppose she was as sorry 
 for it as the Almighty, that sees my heart, iuiows / am 
 — and suppose she was to come to your door again, and 
 stretch her h;nids out to you, and cry to you fur furgivenoss. 
 Would you slap the door with a curse in her face — ur wuuld 
 you tliink of the dead mother that bore her and that loved 
 vuu dearly — -and of the God that foi'gave, and cumin mded 
 all to forgive— and take the poor, weeping, heart-bruken 
 creature to your heirt again? Would you forgive her .? 
 ^^'ould you ble^s her? Oh, you wouli, sir — your heart 
 woull soften — your eyes would fill — you would tliink of old 
 times — you would feel for her — -you would we.'p with hcir 
 — ^)-ou would pirdou her !" And flinging hers.df in a con- 
 vulsion of tears and agitation at the old man's feet, she re- 
 mained with her hair mi igled with the very dust around 
 them. 
 
 It would be difficult to give the reader a just idea of the 
 change which this sp3ech occasioned in the person and fea- 
 tures of the old Palatine. Far from appearing affected by 
 the grie.'" of the wretched woman, an expression, nrst, ol 
 16*
 
 870 SUIL DHUV. 
 
 strong surprise — then of -sickening terror — and lastly, of 
 great dislike passed over them. He paused for a moment, 
 like one who is struggling against the conviction of a 
 dreadful truth — set his teeth — and fetched a hard breath 
 before he raised her fro:n tlie earth — then putting back her 
 hair from her face with one hand, while he grasped her arm 
 with the other, he looked long and nmazedly into her eyes, 
 both remaining fixed in the attitude, and affording for se- 
 veral minutes no further indication of life than could be dis- 
 covered in an exqu'sitely fat^hioneil group from the pale marble. 
 At length, after sutfering his eyes to wander over the whole 
 person of the female, he drew a free breath, as if relieved 
 fiom a dreadful npprehension and letting her arm go, he said: 
 
 " I have looked over all your person, and am satisfied 
 that you are not my daughter — but I'm afi-aid I'll find it 
 hard to forgive yon the shock you caused me. Go along, 
 you wicked woman, it was a shame for you !" 
 
 The poor woman could but sigh and weep, and cling 
 entreating'.y about him. Her perseverance appeared to in- 
 crease his anger even to rage. 
 
 " Go along !" he repeated, shaking her off rudely — 
 " Heaven forgive me ! 1 never felt that it could be in my 
 nature to use a worn in ill since I was the height o' that — 
 b'lt — go along! I cou'd abnoit strike you for the horrible 
 fright you gave me ! Puh ! poh ! I wont do it for all that," 
 he added softiy, as the woman flung her arms wide as 
 as if to court the outrage — " but you're a shocking creature !" 
 And he hurried out of the room, disengaging himself un- 
 gently enough, from the imploring grasp of the miserabk 
 wretch, who to'tered, muttering deliriously, and casting 
 around her glances of utter desolation of spirit, towards 
 the cliair. 
 
 "Come along, Mr Shine !" said the old man impatiently, 
 " I could not look in that woman's face again if it were to 
 tiave my life I" A id he hurried in his pre})aration to depart. 
 
 lu a (aw minutes, the trampliug of horses' feet outsidu
 
 THE COINER. 871 
 
 tlie door announced to her tho approaclimg departure of her 
 guests. Looking through the window she beheld Maney 
 O'Neil standing in his usunl foolish attitude tapping his 
 thighs with his long bony fingers, and gazing loosely about 
 him. As soon as he caught her eyes, he winiced, nodded, 
 and elevated a coarse smith's file, at the same tiuie tapping 
 his fo it knowingly with his finger. She beckoned him 
 quietly toward her. 
 
 " I done it, I'll be bail, mistress," he said in a whisper. 
 " If they go past the Crags, any way, call me an honest 
 man, 1 give yiu free leave." 
 
 " Where's Suil Dhuv ?" she asked anxiously. 
 
 " Aih ? Suil Dhuv ? 0, he's gone — himself and the rest 
 o' the lads." 
 
 " Gone !" she almost shrieked the word — " Impossible!'' 
 
 "Aih?" 
 
 '* lie's not gone, he cannot be." 
 
 *' — iss, dear, he is, ma'am." 
 
 " He lias deceived me !" she said, retiring in great dis- 
 tress of soul from the window, " his bio )d be on his head ! 
 Mr. Segur !" The Palatine did not answer, but seemed 
 to quicken his departure still more. 
 
 "■ Yo:i n ed not fi-ar, sli-," she siid, bitterly smiling as 
 she opened the door and looked on him. " You have no 
 more bad news to hear from me. You said you were armed, 
 sir!" she added, as he sullenly entered the apartment. 
 
 " I am, thank Heaven," he said carelessly, stiU avoid- 
 ing her eyes. 
 
 " Look to your pis'ols, sii- !" she said. The old man 
 now stared openly again upon her. 
 
 On flinging back the pins he started in real alarm to see 
 both empiy. He hastily dashed tiie ramrod into tiie bar- 
 rels. The charges had been drawn ! 
 
 " Now exauiiue your horses' feet," the woman added. 
 "The shoes wei e g ■o^ enough, perhaps, but on these roads, tna 
 clenching of the tprigs is apt to wear faster than elsewhere.
 
 372 SUIL DHQV^, 
 
 The Palatine was effected even to trembling. 
 
 " You c:iii>get both these little mischiefs remedied at the 
 other side of the hill," continued Mrs. SpeiUcy, " there is 
 a forge there. And here is your ammauition," she added, 
 lianding him powder aud bid from a corner cupboard. 
 '• This affcdr may. and most prob ddy loill cost me my life," 
 she said, mournfully, " but I do not care for that. All that 
 1 entreat is that you will not fire — oh — do not ! until you 
 are compelled, I have my reasons for this request." 
 
 Sjgur held out his hand iu silence, and wrung hers with 
 kinduL'Ss and gr.ttitude. 
 
 '• Bless you ! Go 1, God bless you for tliat act !" she 
 exclaimed, kissing the hand with a bui'st of the first gene- 
 rous heart-eising tears she had shed for many a long day. 
 "But go — hiuvy — hurry — !" she added, checking her- 
 stdf and risaig hastily. " My blessings are not umiuous of 
 much good. Ride hard and fast — the night wid be lost. 
 Farewell, sir! Since you will not stay, even to save bbod." 
 
 The Palatinj departed iu silence. 
 
 "Now 1" the woman exclaimed, after gazing wit'i fi-vcd 
 and staring eyes upou the old nam, until hj disappeared to- 
 gether witu his company behind the hid on the rear of the 
 inn, "Now, Sir ah, your time is come ! Which of 'em i^ it 
 to be? Eh, whose throat hive you cut? His or y )ur 
 husban I's ? Tae father of your child^that loved— diat 
 trusted you — that tossed his life into your hands as fre.dy 
 as he would his money into a st ong box. You have armed 
 his worse enemy against hiai ! Eh ? you Dalilah you ! what 
 have yuu done ? great Heaven, was [ mad ? Come 
 back? llo, ho ! old man, cmuc back! He's gone — he [)re- 
 tjneis he can't hear me, because he hates him dea Uy, lutl 
 lie wau.s io take hi:i lifj witii th^ two pistols that 1 lo uL'd 
 f,.r hill. Ho! ho! ho! bravely d^ni', wife. You're a line 
 hdv, aru't you? Indeed yoa are. my boy, my chil I, 
 iny tir^^t and onlydarhngl" she continued, clasping the 
 terrified urchin wildly to hjr bosdn— "0 my h. 'art's
 
 THE COINER. 873 
 
 Kglit ! my treasure ! Look at me ! Do you };now mc ? 
 I'm your mother ; and I sent that man, that gave you tlie 
 tester, you know, I sent him to shoot your father ! Wasn't 
 I the fine mother to you ? Don't curse me, you young vil- 
 lain, or I'll clash your brains out ! He was going to take 
 the life of my friend, and I took his, that's all. Don't tell 
 any body, darling. my love, my sweet love — here ! put 
 your li tie head into my heart, and comfort it, for it is 
 breaking, and burning, and leaping within me! That's it, 
 my dove," and gathering the pale-faced little creature with 
 a trembling tenderness to her heart, she suffered the torrent 
 of fierce passion to which she had abandoned herself, to 
 die away in murmurs of mouinfiil fondness and agitation. 
 Suddenly starting up, and thiowing her long hair l-iick 
 from her ears, she reniained in an attiiude of intense atten- 
 tion. "Ha! — Was that a sliot? Ko — not yet — suie. 
 Stay, Dinny — i^tand back, sir. What am I to do, now ? 
 Hide your bl; ck eyes, child, I can't lotk at them, 'lie 
 young suihen dhuv. Look, the storm will soon begin i:o« . 
 Must I stay here all alone in the b'ack night until one or 
 either of them returns to me ? My head would rive and 
 burst. Stop, stop a moment ! Wliat if the storm should 
 come on dreadlully, and the thunder, and lightning, and 
 rain ? and hinder his passage ? He can't go past the Crag 
 road, if one shower more should moisten the earth, under 
 
 the Carrig-ou-DhioL send it Heaven, forgiving 
 
 Heaven, look at me." She flung herself on h(r knee-, 
 clasp: d and wrung her hands, as she looked upward in a 
 rapture of dcsp; ir — "look at me on my knees, and that's 
 v.here you didn't see me for five years and morc-^ — for J 
 dared not to do it — but look at me now, praying to you to 
 send down all your thunders, and your lightnii gs, and your 
 floods of rain, and keep them two asunder this dieadtul 
 nigbc ! Do i for your own glory, if not in pity lo them or 
 me, fur so sure as they meet, there will be blood spilt ir. 
 your sight ! — Uid blood tliat will lie heavy on the shedder'a
 
 S74 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 soul ! and leave, may be, an angel the less for jour bright 
 kinjilom ! Ha! is that my answer?" she exdaiiiied, 
 stiirii'ig from the earth, as a distant clattering of thuudcr 
 soiii'.iled through the silent eveni.ig. " My heart does not 
 tell me that my prayer is heard, as it used to do when I 
 knelt ill my father's house. My conscience is louder than 
 the thunder, and it says, that I deserve no mercy ! What 
 am I to do ? I can't stay here — to hear the clock tick, and 
 the wind blow, while my brain is all one flame — I have it — 
 I'll know all. Here Maney, take care o' the child !" she 
 exclaimed, as the tall fellow presented his awkward frame 
 at t!ie door — and dashing fiercely past him, she huiried 
 along the path leading to the Coiner's retreat. 
 
 In the mean time, Mr. Segur, Shine, and the trotting 
 guide, Awnt^y Farrel, proceeded on their way towards the 
 for 40, which i\Irs. Spellacy had indicated, and where a new 
 accident awaited thi-m. 
 
 As they app.oached the builling, from which the sound 
 of chin'dng anvil and h imnier proceeded, so as to give inti- 
 mation of the premi:?es being pre-occnpied, Sliine obsei ved 
 their guide start and use a gesture of alarm. The action 
 instantly awakened the dormant suspicions of the preacher, 
 who was not oblivious of the coaversatirm on the brass 
 coinage. Awney, however, did not suffer the emotion to 
 remain vi>ib'e in his countenance or manner lunger than 
 was absolutely necessary to establish its existence even for 
 the moment, but carelessly turned his eyes from the door of 
 tlr- hovel 
 
 It was a low, miserable-looking shed, the raff^rs br iken, 
 and the blackened thatch f dling in in various places, so as 
 to give free admission to the torrents of rain which were of 
 Ireipient occurrence on this mountain district, and kept the 
 little nndulaiions of the eartlicrn floor constantly supplied 
 with an abundance of the flind. As the travellers drew 
 nearer to the place, an elderly-lookinij, dressy soit of man, 
 eqiiijjjod at all points, to an agony of elegance, and st.iuding 
 
 J
 
 THE COINER. 375 
 
 (a coarse, iU-fashianed block of clumsy vulgarity) in the 
 midst of a blaze of liaery, looking like a black ragged cloud 
 ill a sunny sky — or a draught of muddy innkeeper's wine 
 in a gold tankard (traveller's fare), presenting, as he crept 
 (juf of the midst of a cloud of black smoke, which issued 
 with him through the lov battered door of the forge, the 
 most apt illustratioa that could be desired of the hedge- 
 school doggrel — 
 
 " A man without leamlncf and wearing fine clothes, 
 Is like a pig witli a gold ring in liis nose." 
 
 snch a being — leading after hi n a fine gelding, caparisoned 
 in the finest style, and looking a great deal more worthy of 
 those fine accautre nents than its mister — such a being, at- 
 tired iu a full, snow-white wig forming a frieze, of which a 
 shining, jet-black, soft-furred hat of the best Limerick 
 manufacture was the capital — a smart, flowered silk waist- 
 coat, and fine green coat, with stlver-liilted sword, and tight, 
 plush breeches, the shaft — and a pair of bright, shining, 
 clocked silk stockings, with shoes, and gigantic silver buckles, 
 the pedestal — such a being, so tine, so vulgar — issued, like 
 a meteor out of a bog, from the smoke and vapour of the 
 miniature ^E.na of this Munster Vulcan. 
 
 " Tnat is very odd what you tell me," he exclaimed, ia 
 a long County Cork drawl, " but I'm sure it isn't true for 
 you. I don't mean to doubt your word, but you can't say 
 you have told me the truth. I know the rogue is in this 
 neighbi'irhoxl, and I'll find him too, you miy be sure." 
 
 '• Where did your honour see him ?" asked the smith, 
 susp jiiding his sledge-hammer in the hoUow of his sooty arm, 
 while he directed liis eyes to the newly-shod feet of the 
 gelding. " Because if it be long sence, there's but a Flem- 
 ish account o' the two o' them by this time." 
 
 " Hang the fellow, and his stupid eyes, they would have 
 impjsed upon a Jew, let alone a County Cork grazier. 
 His ' 'jjits,' as he called them ! AVait till 1 get a vacancy
 
 876 SCIL DEUV, 
 
 at him, l^\ 'git h\m, ?o I Avi!]. Forty ponrcis, sir!" he 
 continucfl, turning ronnd, in tlic communicativeness of pas- 
 sion, to Sliine, -who had just ridden np, and was beginning 
 to listen with a cruel anxiety and .nterest to his complaints 
 • — "forty foiirds the fellow cl eated me of, for such trash 
 as this!" holding out several ingots, on one of \\hich a 
 quantity of verdigris had ccl'ected, which, combining in- 
 stantly, and by a vivid fssociafion of ideas with Maney's 
 memorable parting leer, showed like a hcrrid spectre in the 
 eyes of the prer ch.er. 
 
 "Have you tried them, sir?" he asked in a faint and 
 failing voice, while big drops of perspiration began to 
 sparkle on his nose and forehead. 
 
 " Try 'em !" exclaimed the man of the Mhite wig, " Avly, 
 sir, look !" and with great agility he ■\\hi] pcd a small bottle 
 of aquafortis from his flapped pocket, uncorked it with his 
 teeth, and poured a little on the metal. A sudden f-injiner- 
 ing, and then a dark steam arising, left no spell to raise the 
 ghost of a doubt upon the quality of the ingot. 
 
 " It's not gold, I believe," said Mr. Shine, moumfiilly. 
 
 " Gold !" shouted he of th.e silver buckles, " sir, 'tis not 
 only brass, but bad brass !" 
 
 "The same goold that's in the copper kettles," said the 
 smith, grinning through his black lips. 
 
 "Who gave it — to — you ?' asked the preacher, hesitat- 
 ingly, his hand wandering fearfully about the pocket in 
 vhich he had deposited his own treasure. 
 
 " Poll ! 1 oh ! I'm ashamed to tell you — hut it was a If ng 
 stupid fellow, with a story of an old abbey, and his land- 
 lord, and his royalty, and I can't know how much trash be- 
 sides — One Mancy O'Neil, the groatest rogue unhanged in 
 Munstcr, and that's a bold woid." 
 
 Mr. Shine groaned audibly. He need not have blushed, 
 however, at finding himself IboUd by a n'; n. v. ho had, with 
 the same tale, imposed u| on n.en of naik and learning far 
 surjerior to his.
 
 -■'? 
 
 THE COINER. 3 77 
 
 ** A fellow tliat travels about in company -with a Dubliu 
 clea'-boy, named Awney Farrel," continued tlie complain- 
 ant, " a .'■haijj-faced young — ha! "he paused as his 
 
 eyes fell on the guide, who stood close at his elbow. 
 
 Instead of appearing at all disconcerted, Awney blinded 
 invitingly w ith his eyes, tossed his head back, and beckoned 
 the gentleman of the silver hilt to step aside Avith him. 
 The latter followed in some brow-knitting suspicion and 
 1 esitation, which, however, began to dissipate and brighten 
 up under the influence of the information, whatever it was, 
 that ihe guide was conveying to him with an infinite deal 
 of gestiu-e and grimace. They often looked and nodded 
 their heads towards Shine, Avho remained fixed in an atti- 
 tude of as much honor as so fat a man could assume — his 
 globular hands clasped before him, his lips disparted, and 
 his eyes staring heavily on the distance. After a little time 
 the man of the p!u-h breeches laid his finger along the side 
 of his nose, protruding his brow and lips, as much as to 
 say, " I understard you ;" and Awney with one farewell 
 wink bounded over the ditch at the road-side and disap- 
 peared, both Shine and Segur being too much occupied with 
 their own thoughts to observe his desertion. 
 
 While the unhappy purchaser of the single ingot remained 
 in a state of suspense, which momently approached the verge 
 of agony, the man of the clocked stockings beckoned to a pair 
 of myrmidons in the forge, w ho presently made their appear- 
 ance at the door, w ith red, sulky eyes, and coarse, trim-cut 
 frieze body-coats buttoned on their stout, squat frames Avith 
 horn taches, and suffering a gleam of red to appear at the 
 breast, like the ominous streak in the dawn of a gray morn at 
 the equiuox. lie of the soft-furred hat pointed towards 
 Shine and clapped his OAvn elbow to his sides, signifying to 
 them what course they should adopt, adding some farther 
 hints concerning his amazing strength and agility, which 
 were not lost upon the hearers. 
 
 The preacher was just iu the act of heaving a piofound
 
 378 suiL Diiuv, 
 
 sigh, wlicn I'lis arms were suddenly pinioned down, one man 
 knocking off lus hat, another throwing a small bag, or 
 Johny Doe, such as the carmen feed their horses in, ovet 
 his head, and drawing the ruiniing string about his nec'c, 
 wiiile a third ran with a piece of jack-line two or three 
 swift circuits about him, as the hound does about a buffalo 
 at bay, belaying the tether finally in the angle (the only 
 anglethat could be found in the preacher's wholeperson'jof his 
 elbow. Th's done in less time than one might take in sup- 
 posing it, the man of the wigLnsnrely tripped up his heels, 
 and laid the poor culprit, as they do a huge turtle, on " the 
 broad of his back," on the road, where he remained help- 
 less and too utterly overwhelmed with astonishment to give 
 vent to a rem )iistratory groan. In fact, the whole affiiir 
 was over before one thought could have displaced another 
 in his mind. 
 
 " Now for it ! the f >x is bagged !" shouted the bnch (fir 
 such the grazier was allowed to be) — "Ah, ha! I thought 
 so!" as he drew from the pocket of the prostrate, passive, 
 vanquished hero, the ingot, the fital ingot which was 
 destined to be a still dearer purchase to the buj'er than it 
 had already proved. 
 
 "Is it brass?" exclaimed the latter, half-stifled by the 
 bag in which his head was immersed, and yet anxiously 
 alive to the investigation which was going forward. 
 
 " Indeed, then, it is brass, and yoiCre bras-', and bold 
 brass that asks the question," returned he of the green 
 coat. " No use in your talking, sir," he said in answer to 
 the remonstrances of Segur, who made an effort at the 
 liberation of his companion, not being aware that the fine 
 grazier was one of those blockheads who think it manly 
 an! 'lecommg to b> nb-^tinate, and cling to a mis"onception 
 with the same sort of fa'herly kindness which would induce 
 them to stand by an nglv son in a scrape — " No use in your 
 talking, I have takea the man in flagrante delicto, with 
 t!ia gnods upon hi;n, and my prisoner he shall remain for
 
 THE COINEE. 879 
 
 this niglit at lenst. However, at yonr desire, as jou pro- 
 fess a knowledge of his person, I will remove the blirid 
 from his eyes ; and if you thiak you can be of service to 
 liim, I am going- to spend the night at the house of my 
 niece Miss Lilly Byrne, of Drumscanlon, on the Crag road." 
 
 " We are travelling the same way at all events," said 
 Segnr, " so I will siiy no more on the subject until we ar- 
 rive at the means of convincing you of this man's respecta- 
 bility. How he has chanced upon that ingot, I cannot 
 conceive." 
 
 " \'/e'll explain all at Lilly's table, at supper," said the 
 man of the buckk's, merrily, as they rode off (repaired at 
 all |)uiiits) together. 
 
 " At supper, inigh ? An unaisy supper yc'll have of 
 it, I'm thiukin," said sh;' smith, shaking his head, and slowly 
 re-entering the forge. "That's a bad matter for Suil Dhuv, 
 whoever told the travellers about the shoes, the odds are 
 against him now, any way." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Sec how the pangs of death d) make liim grin. 
 
 if thi)u t'linkest on heavea's grace 
 
 Hold lip thy hand — make sigaal of thy hope — 
 He dies and makes no sign ! 
 
 Kiiifj Henry VI. 
 
 The dinging of hammers, the creaking of stamping-presses, 
 the rasping of file<, and the low murmuring of human 
 voices were the fir-t sounds that assailed the ears of poor 
 Kumba on his recovorv from the stupor in'o which he had 
 bjin casL by the practised hand of Ked RoJy. He opened 
 his tyes, and gazi^d, still in a state of unconsciousness, upon 
 the iijvulutions of the dense culm of smoke tliat floated 
 above him, and which, partially illustr.sted as it w;.» at iu-
 
 380 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 tervals by the flickering bl.i.ze of the furnace, brought to 
 bis reviving imngination a thousand vague and wandering 
 images that abnost unconsciously referred themselves to liis 
 accident, a fatal termination, and an awalvcning in the 
 centre of the new and fearful woild to which his last terrified 
 thoughts had been hurried, even in the agitation of the 
 struggle itself. The illusion was not dissipated by the 
 vision of the white-haired murderer, Rody, who tottered 
 towards him, and remained for a few seconds gazing down 
 upon him with as much steadiness as his palsy would suffer 
 him to assume, and smiling through his chipped and blood- 
 less lips, as the young man, from an instinct of apprehen- 
 sion checked the returning symptoms of animation, and suf- 
 fered tiie half-raised lids once more to close over his eye-balls. 
 
 " What would you do if you had done for him, Rody, 
 eroo ?" asked a soft voice at the farther end of the room, 
 the tones of which brought a pleasing association into 
 Kumba's mind, as they resembled those which hud pleaded 
 for him in the fray with the Coiners. 
 
 " 0, hugh ! Oh, there's many a bit and a sup between 
 him and the undertaker yit," said the old coiner. '* I don't 
 know what I'll do here, watchen. Jerry, I wish you went 
 to the cupboord an brought ns the makens of a jug o' 
 punch. Ah, Jerry, Jerry, ould times, ould times for ever ! 
 Get ns the dhew till we drink Redmond O'Hanlon in 
 a big boomper. I saw him a week before he was shot 
 in the barn, an' lashens o' Iceogh we had together, the two 
 
 of us. As I was hugh ! hugh! hugh! Eyeh! the 
 
 voice is gone wit me now, Jerry, an' yet I used to sing waust 
 of a time only this cough, and my back, ! 
 
 'As I was sitting in my room, 
 All in the merry merry month o' June — 
 I heerd a thrush sing in a bush, 
 An' the song she sung was the Jug o' Pounctl 
 
 Fal law raw li ! 
 
 Till (li rum day 
 Tol fol ti- ridum ! Duni fileum tay !'
 
 THE COINER. SSI 
 
 Hngh ! Imgh ! I'm afeerd o' waken the dacint lad here 
 near me. How nate I could slip the windpipe now just 
 where he lies, so quite an' easy. Aih, Jerry! look ! jest 
 as tliey does the slieep. I'd give you lave to hang me, to 
 that rafter, av he ever gave as inooch as a groan after it. 
 Have you the poonch ready yit ? Give it here! Hould 
 my arm ! this shake ! Isn't it droll I usu't uvur to 
 have this cough and shake whin I was in the Small County, 
 and \N it the lads formerly ?" 
 
 " How long is that ago now, Rody ?" asked Jerry. 
 " Why thin, as good as thirty years, or from that to 
 forty, and better, may be," the other answered mnsingly. 
 " An inch in a man's nose is a graat d;de for all, Rody 1" 
 Jerry returned diily ; "but still, it is a droll thing that a 
 man should have more ;iilnients an' things at sixty-eight 
 than he had forty years before." 
 
 " Noan o' your funnen, you young colleen* you ! — 
 We can't expect to live always, and though I abn't seventy 
 yet, I know I must die soom time or another. 'Tisn't age 
 that always kills people, Jerry — and a man has no more 
 a lase of his life at seventy than he has at a hoondi'cd — 
 'Ye jovial' — Gi' me the poonch, Imgh ! hugh ! 
 'Ye jovial fellows that pass b}", 
 Av ye don't b live it— step in an thry ! 
 Step in an' thry, an' nuvur flinch 
 To dip your nose in the jug o' poonch! 
 Fal law raw IL ! 
 Tol di rum day ! 
 To! fal ti ridum ! Dum fileum tay!' 
 
 " No, Jerry," he continued, after elevating the firry 
 liquid to his lips and swallowing a prodigious draught ; 
 " I know I'm to have my day as Avell as another, and I 
 mane to prepare for it too, and that's more than yon 
 thought, I b'lieve. 
 
 ' When I am dead, an' in mj' grave^ 
 
 No costly monumint will I halve 
 
 * Little girl
 
 S82 SUIL DHL'r, 
 
 But let my grave be short and sweet, 
 
 With a Jug o' PoDiK'h at my head and feet! 
 
 Fal law raw li ! 
 
 Tol di rum day ! 
 Tol fal ti ridiim ! Dum fileum tay !' 
 
 I'll wait, Jerry, till I'm just seventy ; an' thin I'll turn 
 over a new l;ife, and bj quit o' those doens. I'll 1:0 to my 
 Aisfer duty, an' I'll give three tinpennies to the priest, an' 
 a tinpenny to the dark, an' a pair 0' mould c.mdies fur thi> 
 althcr, and I'll have my bottle 0' holy water, and my bades, 
 and I'll make my rounds at Tubbermuirra Well at C.nidlc- 
 mas, and I'll get my ashes ov an Ash Wensday, an' my bit 
 0' pahn ov a Palm Sunday, an' my little coal ov an Aister 
 Saturday, an' my block at Christinass, an' I'll do like the 
 Christhins for the rest 0' my days; seeing would I do 
 soomth( n fur the poor sow! agin she goes, be the dint 0' 
 pinnince; that's what I'll do, an' I'll rise out o'ye, and ye'r 
 coiucn an' murderen, all out, that's Avhat I will." 
 
 " E' (hen, Rody, since that's what you're after, what 
 should ail you that you wouldn't take a short stick in your 
 hand, and be off at once, slap ! like cock-shot agin a barn 
 door ?" 
 
 " Poh ! didn't I say whin I was seventy all out ? 'Tisu't 
 far from me now, and — " 
 
 'llie intcrlocutois were cut short in their conference by a 
 tapping at the little door. The word passed, and was an- 
 swered by a female voice. 
 
 "'Tis the niissiz herself!" said Jerry in amaze, as he 
 opened the door. 
 
 The woman rushed into the room nearly in the same 
 state of agitation as that in whicli she h ft the inn. Her 
 hj'.ir, now jjerfectly dishevelled and dabbled in rain, hung 
 loose upoa her shoulders — her brow was turn by the briars, 
 and stained with blood — her limbs shaking, and her largo 
 eyes wandering in eager scrutiny over every object that was 
 presented to them, as she rapidly hurried fioni place to 
 jjlace.
 
 THK COINER. 38.1 
 
 " Where's — lia ! Jeny — No — not you ! Who's this ? 
 Rocly — ha! bloodsucker! stand aside. Who's this?" 
 
 " Hush ! hush !" both pointed to Kumba, and made 
 signs to the woman to ba sih nt. 
 
 " Wiio ? Mr. Kumba ? What! wliy is he not gone ? Ilal 
 blood too ; 0, I see it ; Up, up, sir, up ; you are betrayed 
 and laughed at. Up, and come with nic." 
 
 " Jeny, darlen, shet the doore, lock it, an' gi' me the 
 kay," coughed out Red Kody. 
 
 " Jerry, leave the door open until Mr. Kumba and I have 
 passed through, if you value yoar neck," said the woman 
 fiercely. 
 
 "'Deed, ma'am, av I'm a bloodsucher I'll do my duty, 
 I have an old knack that way," said Rody, sulkily hob- 
 bling towaids the door. 
 
 " Bloodsucker, that you are (and it is a riddle to me 
 that you should be stung by another giving you a name tliat 
 is your own boast,) stand trora the door. Do you know me i'" 
 
 " I know your husband better," growled the ruffian. 
 
 " Then, mind me — if you fear his anger obey me." 
 
 "I don't know what rilashnn tliey have at al', wan to 
 another, your commands and his anger," muttered the \ya\- 
 sied wretch, placing his back to the door, and examining 
 the lock of a large liorse pistol. 
 
 " If you will not release this gentleman, Suil Dhuv shall 
 never see my face again." 
 
 " thin, who knows whether that's what would bring 
 his anger upon us ?" the old tellow said chuckling. 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed the woman, " I thought it, I knew 
 it," and she slapped lier hands together like one who liad 
 suddenly solved an agonizing doubt. " I'm sold, and his 
 friend is betrayed. Tlumk you husband, I've caught you, 
 sir. Up, up, Mr. Kumba. Right ycars'lf, sir, if jou're 
 a man. There's your enemy," she clapped the startled 
 youth upon the shouklor, and poLmed to Red Rody, who 
 u.aiutained his defensive position.
 
 884 SlUL DHUV, 
 
 Kumba, wlio.^o disgust had been at first strongly escite 1 
 by the approach of his fiilse friend's wife, was not sii.ffi- 
 ciently disabled by the effects of the blow he hsd received 
 to prevent his gathering from the conversation a perfect 
 knowledge of his situation, and of the motives of thf Suil 
 Dhuv. The one fired, the other strengthened him. He looked 
 first at Jerry, who stood irresolute, and apparently disposed 
 to ncutri^lity, in the corner ; and having satisfied himself that 
 there was no detwinined opposition to be apprehended from 
 that quarter, he v.aved his hand to Rody to stand aside : 
 the other, influenced by his natural or acquired habits of 
 viol nee — and stimulated still more highly by the potations 
 in which he had been indidging, refused to obey, and ele- 
 vated the pistol \\ith a menacing look. 
 
 Without bestowing a more serious thought on the chances 
 of a struggle than he would have experienced before whip- 
 ping a cur from his path, Kumba, darted on the old man, 
 caugi't him by the breast, and sent him spinning round 
 against the press. There was a report of a pistol, a sudden 
 hu'.rying together of several figures, a scream, a hoarse 
 curse, a crashing of bolts and stamping of many feet, and 
 the place was clear of all but the fiiir-faced Jerry and the 
 old man, Avhom he upheld apparently with an effort from 
 the fl'ior. 
 
 "'T^vas Heaven did it, and not the gentleman," said 
 Jerry ; " how do you feel yourself, Rody, a gra ?" 
 
 " Aih ? poorly, wisha, poorly enough, Jerry, thanky." 
 
 " It's late for pinnince now I'm afeerd, Rody ?" 
 
 "Wisha, I'm afeerd so, I abu't very well, I abn't me- 
 self at all rightly." 
 
 " No wondher, sure. There's a hole in your neck here 
 as big as a button. How cooni you to handle the pistil so 
 awkward, Rody ?" 
 
 " Wisha, I dun know. It went off betune my fingers 
 someway, very foolish. Hould me np a little. There's a 
 great vvakeness comen upon me all of a hape intirely."
 
 THE COINER. _ o85 
 
 *' Don't fay so, Eody, eroo. AVill I run for the priest?" 
 
 '•'•Aih? . . . piiest? 0! Eh, Jerry eroo, what's that 
 in the dark ?" 
 
 " Whore, eroo ?" 
 
 "Look, ?gra ! Look at Tim Henessy! Look at him 
 shaken his liond at mi' !" 
 
 " Tim Hene-sy, inagh ? Erra, is it the man you murthered 
 that Avould be there ?" said Jerry, in a tone of remonstra- 
 toiy ast< r.islmient. 
 
 " Kot Guilty, my lord and gintlemin, 'twasn't I did it. 
 Was it, Jerry ? Aih, stand betime iiz, Jerry, alaimv ! 
 It's no use, for here's Mickey Keys at ih:; oilier side o' nr.e 
 grinnen' down on nie !" 
 
 " Well, that's the crackedest thing I ever heerd, Rody. 
 Didn't you shoot him stone dead with your own hand, and 
 now to be sayen' he's there grinnen'. He has soonilheu' 
 else to do besides maken' them faces." 
 
 " Would you have a loand o' the whiskey bottle you'd 
 give us, Jerry? Stay! Aisy a while! the pain, the 
 pain, entirely, you see, that's what's kdlen' me. I'm get- 
 ting very could. Jerry. 'Tisn't ficezen' agin I believe ?" 
 
 "Freezen'!" shouted Jerry,' "d'ye bear what he calls 
 the finest, soft, moist evenen' that ? Eh ! why Eody, Rody. 
 I say agin ! what's the matter ? Rody ! Stir up, man. 
 He's dyen', I b'lieve, murther, entirely, he's goen', he's 
 stiff'nen'." 
 
 He paused and gazed on the dying wretch, who re- 
 mained in his arms gasping for breath, while he stared fear- 
 fully on the broad black darkness above him, Avhich his 
 memory, now for the first time startled from her sleep of 
 indifference by the baying of the hell-hound Conscience, 
 liad peOjjled with the shadows of his many victims. He 
 shiunk back, shivered, dropped Lis jaws, Avhich clattered 
 like a pair of castanets, his lips became dragged and livid, 
 his teeth set, and he la}- stark and cold in the arms of the 
 terrified accomplice of his crimes, and witness of his blas- 
 17
 
 386 suiL Dnirv» 
 
 pheraic3, a horrible spectacle of the suJden vengeance of a 
 lon<r-sufl*erhi!r but wakeful Providence. 
 
 The black speck which ttie Coiner's wife bad indicated 
 in the red evening sunlight, was now a broad mass of va- 
 pour, darkening the region of the temp 'sts from one point 
 of the horizon to the other, and presenting, in the swift 
 gradations of its progress from insignificance to grandeur, 
 a magnificent and ter>-ific emblem of the spreading domi- 
 nion of crime in the human soul, from the slight neglect of 
 a wandei'ing thought in devotion to the awful and tumul- 
 tuous blackness of impenitent despair itself. The first thin 
 sheeted flashes of a reddish lightning ha 1 b'^gun to quiver 
 and play on the gloomy expanse, revealing at fitful inter- 
 vals the jags and unevennesses of the otherwise undistin- 
 guishable fragments of vapour in a thousand fiintastical 
 images. Our travellers, who had advanced little more than 
 a mile from the inn before these ch \nges began to make 
 themselves visible, looked upon tiiem with no little anxiety, 
 originating however in very ditfercnt conditions of feeling 
 and situation. Tlie old Palatine, whose determination to 
 proceed appeared to increase in p-oporiion to the obst idea 
 which amassed on his route, and tlie arguments which were 
 employed to dissuade him, observed a profound silence ; and 
 except by an impatient glance or gesture which he used ou 
 every trifling pause made by his comjianions, seemed almost 
 unconscious of their presence. jMr. Shine, whose spirits 
 had not yet recovered the shock which the discovery of 
 Maney's cheat had occasioned him, remained pinioned ou 
 his pony, riding between both the " r .hineen redbreasts,'" 
 as the gentleman of the wig and buckles termed his myr- 
 midons — the little canvas bag, or John Doe, hanging down 
 over his back in the fashion of a hood, and fn'ly prepared, 
 in case of any attempt to recover his liberty, of which the 
 Cork grazier appeared singularly ap[irehcnsive, to be re- 
 stored to its ancient use by a slight check of the string which
 
 THE COINER 387 
 
 was suspended fi'om liisneck. The fine gentleman was (he 
 only talkative |iersou of the party. He rode on— hmg 
 back. — t'otted from side to side — made an unheeded oi)- 
 servation in the ear of the pensive Segur on the state of 
 the weather — intimated to Shine in a menacing way the 
 utterfrnitlcssn^ss of any corporeal resistance against.his cap- 
 tors, whispered his men to be on their guard, for that big 
 fat man was the strongest " warrant," at a hurley, and the 
 best leapcrin all Ireland — then, having exhatis'ed every sub- 
 ject that might be suggested by the circumstances of each 
 of his companions, without eliciting any considerable por- 
 tion of information, he fell back as a last resource upon him- 
 self — arranged his wig — adjusted his sword belt, looked up 
 at the heavens — loosened the string of a tiglitly-p icked 
 loody or great-coat — and trembled for his head-gear — gave 
 a history in detail of the lives, characters, fortunes, and fa- 
 shions of all the master tailors in Cork — struck off by a by- 
 road to the price of i)igs and cattle — convinced the passive 
 Shine by the most unexceptionable syllogisms that twenty 
 geese would consume, to a blade, i>s much grass as any cow 
 — that bony pigs were always the best to buy on a fatten- 
 ing specuLitii.iu — that bog dust was as fine manure as any 
 for a red s jil — that it was the greatest mistake to say the 
 Limerick girls were the handsomest in Ireland — that the 
 lightning was perfectly iuiiocuuus, as long as it maintained 
 its reddish hue — that Catholicism, particul irly as regarded 
 Lent and Advent, was everything but a reasonable creed 
 — [the only point on which he obtained the semblance of 
 an answer from the preacher] — that Dean Swift would be 
 hanged as suie as there was a cottoner in Cork, and there 
 were plenty, sure, and good ones, too — that he himself was 
 the most fashionable personage in the South of Lehind — • 
 and Lord Cartaret, the best Lord-Lieutenant that ever lived 
 before or after the flood — and a thousand other thaU with 
 which the necessities of our tale will uot permit us to en- 
 cumber the reader's mind.
 
 dS8 8UIL DIIUV, 
 
 On a sudden a bl;ie straggling light darted across (lie 
 heavens, and a deep, rending crasii of thunder seemed to 
 tear the region from one extremity to the otlier. The un- 
 checked and absolute Idackness v.hich ens«cd, left the party 
 in so benighted a condition ttiat all stoi)t short, as if by a 
 sympathy of intelligence. Tlie ho;?es, startled by the sud- 
 denness of the trniisition, chafed, demi-voUed, and finally 
 remained stock still under their riders, snorting and champ- 
 ing the bit in the impatience of strong terror. A moment 
 after, as if the windows of heaven had been opened for a 
 fjccond deluge, a torrent of thunder drops was jioured upon 
 the travellers, so dense, so sudden, and so unflinchingly 
 continued, that each particular individual in iiis own square 
 foot of spice received as much as would have served him 
 for a bath. 
 
 The terrors of the storm now commcncod in all their 
 magnitude and grandeur. The thunder bellowrd, howled, 
 and cJattert^d ; the liglitning flared, and darted in wheeling 
 circles and angles of painful lirilliancy, before and about 
 them. Sometimes a strong bolt, launched from the black 
 ■wondj of the vapour in vvhich it was generated, hissed 
 fiercely th^-ough the sparkling rain, and breaking with a 
 rapid violence into a thousand lines of blue and dazzling 
 splendour, lit up the vaulted vast of darkness into a mo- 
 mentary no»n, which was as suddenly changed to a gloom 
 as dense as that which was made palpable in the bands of 
 the Egyptian spoilers. Then there was the silence of a 
 second, deep and terrible, a hush of all nature, unbroken 
 even by the breathing of the pale and anxious wanderers, 
 and immediately afier, a rattling close above their heads, at 
 fii-st quick, harsh, and jarring, like the clatter of a musket 
 volley, and gradually deepening and swelling as it recid d, 
 till its echoes b'lomed in the abyss of distance like the roar 
 of a million park of artillery. 
 
 " Whish ! hoo !" the grazier exclaimed, placing his hand 
 above hiis car, and endeavouring to check the plunging of
 
 THE COINER. 
 
 389 
 
 his steed ; "did any body hear a ' holloo' behind us? Ha, 
 til ere it is again !" 
 
 " Tis the wind that's splitting itself upon the Corrig-ou- 
 Dhiol,"* said one of his retainers. 
 
 Another thundei'chip drowned the respons'e to this con- 
 jf cture, and in the intervals of its expiring peals, the distant 
 and long- protracted cry of a man's voice proved it to be an 
 erroneotis one. 
 
 " 1 have my reasons," said the Palatine Avith a gesture 
 of alarm, laving his hand on the grazier's arm, " for not 
 delaying an instant. Let us dash forward, in the name of 
 lleaven !" 
 
 Again the imploring cry, renewed at a much more audible 
 distatice, seemed to appeal against this selfish counsel to 
 the good feelings of the party. It was not altogether the 
 influence of mere good feeling, however, which induced the 
 objtinate gentleman of the sword and buckles to enter his 
 recusat ag^.iust the old Palatine's proposition. The slighting 
 taciiuriiily with which the latter had treated him during- 
 tlie juurney had predisposed hiui to adopt the contrary 
 course, whatever it might be, to any which should be re- 
 commended by the old man. lie plucked his arm pettishly 
 away from the gia-p of the latter, and instantly reined up 
 his steed. Either unwilling to persevere in what appeared 
 an unldndly procedure, or acting under the guidance of 
 that jiierciag sagacity vviiich enables some men to discover 
 in a glance, a tone, a gesture — nay, in the very manner of 
 an affectation itself, a tolerable indication of the whole nia- 
 chim ry of the characters of those with whom they come in 
 contact — acting, I say, under this influence, and perceiving 
 the absolute hopelessness of any attempt to oversway the 
 digged resolution of the blockhead with whom he travelled, 
 the old Palatine made no further eti'ort to carry his own 
 wishes into eft'ect, but sutiereil their pursue:^ to approach. 
 
 " They're at the top o' tlie hill akeady ! 1 heai" the 
 • Devil's Cras.
 
 390 8UIL DHUV, 
 
 tramping 0* the horse's feet — Whisht! Dash along! Naught 
 was never in danger. Take care how you fall. Never 
 wtlcome the thunder ; will it never have done bellowing, 
 and let ns hear the people ?" 
 
 " Hulloo-ee — hoo — hoo-ee !" 
 
 " Hoo — hoo-ee ! here, lad I Halt ! ho 1 Will you never 
 stop — ha! the fair sex — P'oiigafoil! Where are you — ?" 
 
 The query was cut short by the sudden onset of a lai-ge, 
 stout-limbed horse, which dashed fuiiously thioiigh the 
 group, covering the dandy grazier and his prisoner \^ith a 
 prof ision of the puddle, struck by the concussion of the 
 animal's bioad hoofs from the weltering ruts of the old and 
 broken road. As they swept thus fiercely through the 
 group, the horse chafing, snorting, and furiously contending 
 agninst the restraint of the tightened rein, the rider by 
 voice and action using every possible endeavour to restrain 
 him, the gentleman of the wig and sword execrating both 
 in the purest Gaelic, and the poor discomfited Sliiaa 
 patiently morning within his compressed lips at this new 
 misfortune ; while these relative sounds, we say, proceeded, 
 a sudden rent was made in the c'oud immediately above 
 them, and a volume of electric light was poured upon the 
 spot, so intrnse and brilliant, as for a few seconds to enable 
 each individual of the party to peruse in minute detail 
 every portion of the person and accoutrements of tlie rest. 
 For those few seconds, the Palatine, whose eye was fixed 
 in all the keenness of an acute curiosity upon the new 
 comers, was enabled to discern the figure of a young man, 
 keeping a firm seat on the wild steed, which it seemed to 
 require an exertion ahnost as much of strength as of skill to 
 go\ern, and end( avouring at the same time to uphold from 
 the earth the crouching form of a female \\ho sat before 
 liini, whose low, hunied, and agitated moans, mingling in 
 the pause of the thunder ])eal, produced a Strang*! admix- 
 ture of iavoluutary pity and terror on the mind of the 
 hearer.
 
 THE COIN'EU. 891 
 
 ** Mnrthcr, mnrther alive! only see wnere he has the 
 female !" ejaculated the Cork gcntl-cmaii. 
 
 " ' Tis he ! 'tis they ! Join them and hasten, sir, fo( 
 Heaven's sake," said the woman, clinging to her protector, 
 and gathering her turned-up wrapper ho ,id-wise about hir 
 face for the purpose, as it seemed, of keeping off the heavy 
 rain which poured in torrents upon her, and shading its 
 features at the same time from the strong light. 
 
 " A bad night, gentlemen,'' said the young man, wishing 
 to assure himself of the identity of those whom he addressed. 
 " U you'd tell us news, we'd thank you," returned the 
 huclc. "And pray what was your business with us, or who 
 are you at all ? We have the right of challengers, by all 
 tlie rules of riglit tactics. Witness the catechuuieu's pro- 
 verb — 
 
 ' Who goes there ?" 
 
 ' A grenadier !' 
 *WUat do you want?* 
 
 'A bottle o' beer !' 
 *'\Vlieres ymir muney?' 
 
 ' In my pocket.' 
 •Where's your pocket?* 
 ' I forgot it.' 
 
 Answer speedily, sir, lest you become liable to the appli- 
 cation of the catechist's concluding octo-syllabic— 
 
 ' Gid-a-gone, you foolish blockhead !' " 
 
 "You are the merriest man in a thunder-storm I ever 
 gaw," said the new-comer; "but I think if you are dis- 
 posed to proceed, we may as well dash forward. Your 
 merriment will do little to wring the drenching rain from 
 my poor feilow-tr.iveller's slight dress — " 
 
 "0 — hu-h ! hush!" whis,)erLd the woman, "do not 
 speak of nie. I feel nothing. I am used to tliis. But, 
 for Heaven's sake, spur on your horse. They vill follow." 
 
 *'I don't know what may be the custouis of tlie ladiea
 
 392 SUIL DIIDV, 
 
 of Limei'ick," placidly coiit'miiecl the hiich^ *' hut in the 
 County Cork it would be considered an instance of question- 
 able taste to select such an evening as this for an excursion. 
 Here, sir," tossing his loody to the young man, " the choice 
 is between a female ar.d my new wig, and as I'm an Irish- 
 man, I'd rather have it hanging as lank as a cow's tail 
 down my back in the morning, than that one curl of the 
 humblest creature that ever wore bonnet should receive a 
 section from a single drop of such a torrent as this." 
 
 "The buckeeny has a spark o' the gentleman in him, for 
 all!'' observed +.he taciturn x\bie Switzer, (the first remark, 
 by the way, foi which we have been enabled to afford him 
 space during the entire day). 
 
 " Do you travel on the Crag Koad ?" inquired the 
 stranger, after he had wrapped the coat about his suffering 
 2)rotege€. 
 
 " As far as Drumscanlon, where I caT make as many 
 Melcome as the Vouse can accommodate-— Ay, and more 
 too, for poor old Byrne ur-n't " 
 
 '• We may as well, I think, be riding for-vard as we talk," 
 said old Segur. 
 
 " If we stay this way," added Abie, " there'll one of us 
 be roasted for the rest for supper." 
 
 " Whoever that poor woman is, sir," continued the Pa- 
 ia ine, "it would be as well if she turned, on the other side, 
 fi.r the wind blow^s on thaty 
 
 " The blessiugs of a broken heart fall on you !" murmured 
 thfc warn in, as her protector took the old man's hint. 
 
 "Blajs l.im, does she? Why, she did not so much as 
 sav ■ thanky, kindly,' to me for the loan o' my coat !" mut- 
 tcicd the grazier, as he shrugged up his shoulders, and felt 
 tlie rain already penetrating his green broadcloth. 
 
 The whole party proceeded as rapidly as the starting, 
 reaving, plunging, and shying of their steeds would permit. 
 Th2 lightning flashes, which still continued momently 
 gli'.aciug in va'ious degrees of brilliancy upon their path,
 
 TUfi COINER. 393 
 
 forming a very sufficient apology for the contumacy of the 
 animals. 
 
 " I was saying," said the Cork gentleman, " that poor 
 Byrne usn't to limit his invitations to the dimensions of his 
 house. Many and many a night; you don't hear me, sir?" 
 he continued, pressing close to the young man, " many a 
 pleasant r.ight, after tiring down every girl ia the hall at a 
 slip-jig, I've stretched myself abroad in the hay-Lift as 
 comfortable as could be, and the Blanej'S of the Hill in the 
 cow-house under me, Avith such joking and laugliing. 
 The fowl-house was a great place for us too, I remember. 
 Old Missiz Hasset (that was hardly young Mrs. Hasset 
 then) — and by tlie way, talking of her, she's at Driimscan- 
 lon to-night, moreover, or ought to be — used to have the 
 ticks and quilts bro-ught out o' the cars, and made up snug 
 and cozv among the turkeys, and the rest o' them, for the 
 neighbours ; and sometimes we'd have littltj Ldly herself — 
 Hirrui's, sir! keep your horse ste.idy, if you please ! — we'd 
 have little Lilly Byi-ne her.-elf, a fine little curly-headed 
 rogue, little merry-eyes, as I used to call her, coming out o' 
 the d<Jor, and 1 nigaing. Poor Lilly ! I recollect saying to her, 
 one day, while I was tos-ing lier on my toe, and she l.uigh* 
 ing, and crowing, and her hair flying about hrr, and her 
 cheeks as rosy as a rose itstlf. I remember s.\ying to her, 
 says I, 'the day will come yet, when a lock o' that hair 
 wUl b3 a prouder gift for a young man to wear, thim a coat 
 of Buckmaster* ; the day will come,' says 1, and T looking 
 at her this way, in the face, ' the day will come when that 
 eye will m;ike many a gallant heart ache, and many a young 
 man's che:k giow pale,' says I, and I looking at her, think- 
 ing of it — ' and when that lip that's there, so innocent, will 
 have the word of life or death upon it — isn't that great ?' 
 — and she laughing, not understanding a word o' what I 
 said, and sure 'twas all true for me." 
 
 * The reader may, if he pleases, imagine an ancestor of the pre- 
 sent respectable faikiouist in liuml- street. 
 17*
 
 394 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 The grazier did not know what a sincere and agonized 
 assent Ills uords received in the heart of the poor young 
 man who rode by his side. 
 
 " 1 think," continued the talkative bore, who wished, 
 nideed very pardonably, to divert his attention from the 
 now perfectly piteous condition to which he felt himself re- 
 duced, by the exercise of a tonp;ue 
 
 * As true as truest horsp, 
 Tliat yet would never tire.* 
 
 " I think," said he, " Lilly will ve'ify my pmphecy, if 
 she has not done it yet. Bat poh ! -what's the use of talk- 
 ing ? I saw her when I came this way tiie other day, and 
 'twould puzzle the Danes to tell what was coaie over her. 
 Her cheek, sir — her plump, ripe cheek — that you might 
 play a hand of fives against, so worn down and pale-looking 
 — and her little hand so damp and cold as she put it into 
 mine ; and such a deith-like, religious smile about iier sweet 
 lips ; and then, instciul of meeting me with a jump, and 
 a hop, and a laugh, and that little merry ' hoop !' that used 
 to come from between her lips, as sweet as love itself, sir, 
 and as fine as a gold thread, she met me as her mother 
 might have done — standing upright on both her feet, put- 
 ting one before tlie other when she walked — and having no 
 more of the merry hoyden that I knew, left about her, but 
 only all her sweetness. You'd wonder to look at her. I 
 didn't take my eyes off her for as good ami better than an 
 liour. Her eyts were a little red, too. 'Twould move you, 
 sir, if you were to be looking at her." 
 
 "It di;es ! it does!" replied his companion, in a tone of 
 deep feeling. 
 
 " Sir, I'm sure you're a gentleman," said the grazier 
 warmly, at once attributing to the influence of his own 
 pathos in the nai ration, all the effect whi /h the circum- 
 stances thenisel'.es had produced upon his auditor '"I'm 
 
 sm-e you are, and 1 like } ou. The fact, however, may be
 
 TUE COIKEB. 095 
 
 n.ituially explained, as in honest triitli, her mother dul ric- 
 connt for it to me, in a confileiiti il way. Tilkin^f of imu- 
 fiilence, by the bye, I'll not tell you what she svid, for t icso 
 thing-, however tnflin:^ they may ap;)e ir t » men of sense. 
 are not likely to be service ible, when spoken of to t'le cl is:» 
 of unmarried g'rls. And after all it is but a girlis i f<i icy, 
 which will go off with the next fine weather. In the arf -c- 
 tions, as in grazing, tiie autunn d produce is al-vays the 
 sweetest. A girl's first love is too sudden, too luxuriant, 
 sir — it is parched and dried up in its own fire — there's no 
 health about it — but maw that away with a few months' 
 absence — let the heart be trampled a little — let the soft 
 showers of disapp jintment fall upon it — and then you have 
 it as fresh, and kind, and gentle as a field of upland clover." 
 
 " A thorough grazier's sentiment," said Kumba, al.mist 
 involuntarily, within his own heart. *' When was this, 
 s^ii-?" he asked, aloud. 
 
 " A few days since, I was at Drumscanlon. I made 
 Lilly laugh at last, reminding her of the time when I used 
 to bring her the bareen brae* and tell her the story of the 
 wee-wee woman and her bunch o' black-berries. By the 
 way, they were expecting the priest there at that time ; for 
 you must know, Lilly is grown so pious, that they're begin- 
 ning to think she'll make a fair run for a convent, some fine 
 morning. But we'll talk more o' this by au by. We'll be 
 late for supper, I'm afraid. " 
 
 The party quickened their pace. 
 
 • Spotted cake. Bread made with fl«ur and raisins mingled, 
 is one of the fcdtire delicacies ol' Christiaa^ times ia IreUad. 
 
 L_
 
 396 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 CHAPTER TX. 
 
 Confusion now hath made his master- piece— 
 ^lost sacrilegious murder- hath broke ope 
 The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence 
 The life o' the building ! 
 
 Shahespecav. 
 
 Trere is a proverb current among the Irish peasantry, 
 which, as we liave not been in the habit of obtruding those 
 aphorisms of vulg/ir wisdom upon him hitherto, the reader 
 will excuse our transcribing. It runs, in English, some- 
 thing in this way — " Carry a goat to the chapel, and ho 
 never will stop until he mounts the altar." The truth of 
 the axiom is more treq_riently exemplified in the annals of 
 Irish crime, than, perhaps, in thoie of most other nat!(i?is. 
 The reason of this may be found in the simple fact, that 
 Irish crime, like Irish virtue, is not the creature of the ui.ud 
 but of the heart. They are a people more frequently be- 
 trayed into guilt by the impulses of strong feeling, thin the 
 cold suggestions of convenience ; and in proportion to the 
 violence of the stimulus applied, will be four.-d the depth 
 and atrocity of the outrage that is committed. F'or the 
 same reason also, it appears that instances of acold-hearteil 
 attachment to guilt, having no more immediate motive than 
 habitude, are, proportiona'ily to the extent of crime ex- 
 isting, very rare. The rullian who has been lashed, throug'i 
 Ins course of blood and outrage, by the hand of circum- 
 stance, is liible, when the scourge is withdrawn, and a 
 pause is left him for reflection, to sudden accesses of self- 
 detestation and remorse, which would seldom be experienced 
 by one whose guilt was determined before it vvas acted, and 
 whose career had been the election, in any degree, of deli- 
 berate reason. By following in tl;e steps of the unhappy 
 wretch, whose alias has furnished uswiih a name fur thi.s 
 tale, through the following pages, the reader may find aii 
 
 — 1
 
 THE COINER. 397 
 
 illustration of both the idiosyncrasies we have attempted to 
 account for, the capability of utter abandonment of all 
 moral principle, and liability to a sudden change of feeling 
 ia the very liead and front of the criminal's ofl'endiiig : — a 
 hue of national character, which is only wanting in wretches 
 so completely regenerated in depravity, as the white-haired 
 murderer — Red Rody. 
 
 We should also have called the reader's attention to the 
 fact which is perfectly observable at the present day, as we 
 may suppose it to have been at the period of wliich we 
 write — that when those Irishmen, who live by a misappro- 
 priation of the goods of others, meet together for the pur- 
 pose of agitating an excursion in the way of their vocation, 
 they do not confine themselves to a soii.ary outrage, but 
 calculate upon etfectingall that maybe accomplished within 
 the period tu .vhich they limit their absence ; insomuch, 
 that robberic:^, and perhaps murders, sometimes take place 
 on the same night at places so remote from each other, that 
 it would almost appear sufficient to prove a man's identity as 
 a partner in the one, to enable him to enter an alibi on the 
 other otfence. 
 
 Suil Dhuv and his three companions had more to accom- 
 plish an this evening than the reader has already been mad.; 
 aware of, and one, the first, act of violence which they 
 propoced committing, was of a peculiar and more startling 
 nature than any in which the Coiner had yet been engagid. 
 
 He had accorded an instant and even eager assent when 
 the propositiun was first made by one of the gang, Mun 
 Mah.cr, the fellon' whose insolence he had checked by so 
 ?urara?ry a procedure in the held of the gang. He had 
 then, however, only considered the advantage which was to 
 be derived from it, namely, the acquisiiion of a sufficient 
 (juantity of silver for the purpose of carrying on their 
 illegal toil. Upon the means he had not bestowed a single 
 thought, after he had once satisfied himsell of their practi- 
 cability.
 
 TT^ 
 
 398 SOIL DHOV, 
 
 As he rode, however, along the country with his com- 
 panions, a new train of circumstances conspired to shake liiin 
 liom the indifference in wliich he had furtified his spirit. 
 The veiy agitation of the contemplated enterprise in which 
 his personal wishes were chiefly interested, was calculated 
 to prepare the way in his breast for the admission of a 
 gentler tone of feeling, than he usually carried about him on 
 uich expeditions. The district which they were approach- 
 ing, and wiiich speedily began to spread its well-cultivated 
 and party-coloured surface before their eyes, was the soil in 
 which his childhood had been passed ; and memories of 
 childhood hours — whether those hours have been spent in 
 darkness or light — in showers or sunshine — are the truest 
 key that can be found to diaw forth from their rugged 
 prison thj yet surviving tendernesses of the human heart. 
 
 As they wound along the side of a craggy hill, composed 
 of a brittle, culmy soil, Suil Dhuv dnw up his horse, as if 
 for the purpose of making some observations, but in reality 
 with the view of indulging himself in a musing contempl.i- 
 tion of the quiet evening landscape, which, independently 
 of any associations, presented a picture sufficiently alluring 
 to account for the action, had that been its only motive. 
 Immediately bjneath them, on the right, and extending far 
 into the distance, lay a well-nurtured and fertile champaign, 
 rich ia all the glorious hues of ripening summer — the dark 
 green potato-field — the already russet meadow— the golden 
 i-ijpe — the bearded barley, billowing in the light wind and 
 receiving from the reddish sunlight a variety of light and 
 shade, such as that Avhich charmed the bright ^yes of the 
 Dublin beauties, when first the master of the chain and 
 ^//i'u^ conjured from his loom, in all its shatlowy magniti- 
 cence and cameleonlike insecurity of hue, the now forlorn 
 and neglected i(i!6i«(?< — these, together with the glitter of 
 cottage windows through the boweriug and close mantled 
 hedges of black briar — periwinkle, prittirosi-, hawtliorn, 
 and led-blossomed snuff-weed, the virgin meadow-sweet, 
 
 J
 
 THE COINER. 393 
 
 wild Gtrawberries, wild heart's ease, and dog-roses ; tho 
 wreatbing of the light blue smoke through the humble 
 chimney, which gave an involuntary feeling of comfort to 
 the spectator — the flax garden, with its delicate stems and 
 pale-bhie flower — the ridges (drills v,ere then unknown) of 
 early white-eyes, already deligliting the eye with their white, 
 purp'e, and peach-coloured blossoms — all refre^hiiig the 
 orgiins of smell with a sweetness which (but perhaps, that 
 was the result of association) — we have vainly sought to 
 mate among the exotics of Kensington — these, I say, pre- 
 sented a beautifully variegated and gigantic tablet, over 
 which many a mountain stream unrolled its sparkling scroll, 
 intersecting the sujierfice at a thousand fantastic angles. 
 
 On the ether side lay a bog on which many groups of 
 peasantry were observed at work— -some ^ooiin^, or raising 
 the s ds of turf on end, for the purpose of drying moro 
 rapidly ; some cutting the material fresh from the mass 
 with their slanes* others shaping sods from the soft pulpy 
 soil with their hands — others again tossing the dry turf 
 into a rail, a sort of vehicle fastened in a car (or cart), 
 for the purpose of having it conveyed home, and built up 
 into a snug reek as a provision against the winter — while 
 the driver stood near the horse's head, lazily looking on, 
 liis cord-whip tied sashwise across his shoulder, and whist- 
 ling the keen-the-cawn, in aloud, full, and melodious tone, 
 to the drooping and weary animal, who expressed his plea- 
 sure at the attention, by a gentle oscillating motion of th'3 
 ears, as he mused over a handful of soilf plucked from tlie 
 near. St hedge, a kindness which in all probability he ap- 
 preciaied still more hijihly than the music. 
 
 The casional shiill .'•cream of a nesting snipe, startled 
 frcwn its rushy hiding-place by the too near approach of 
 some hostile Ibotstf p — the merry barking of the curs of tho 
 bamiet, as they gambolled, in feigning warfare, in the sun- 
 
 ' A kind of spade made for the purpose. 
 ^ A kind of long grass.
 
 400 SUIL J>HUTj 
 
 si'.ine — t'ne " thriip, thnip!" of the milk-mnid, as wifh 
 fvancel and can in hand, she summoned t''e cows from 
 their distant pasture, to deposit their evening tribute at the 
 farmer's door — the kindly lowing of the docile anhnals, as 
 they turned from their fodder, and with matronly and gentle 
 pace, obeyed the well-known voice of the summouer — the 
 occasional snatch of a \^ild and merry ballad from some 
 pleasantly disposed individual of the laborious group in the 
 bog — the loud though distant peal of laughter that cheered 
 him in his exertions — the shrill and sohtary cackling of 
 some forlorn goose, that had lagged, like a nitching urchin, 
 behind the flock, and now lost sight of its com])aniuns — 
 the droning sound of tlte little boy's reeds cut from the 
 green corn stems, and slit in the manner of a flageolet — the 
 plaintive and monotonous cry of some wren's-man or yellow- 
 hammer, that, compelled to forsake its nest, tainted by the 
 touch of some prying school-boy, mourned its desolation on 
 some lofty thorn — the occasional shrilly shouting of a gioup 
 of sturdy boys at their game of evening goal or hurly — ihe 
 sweet and murmuring voices of the peasant girls on the side 
 of the distant stream, some washing the skcogli (or boat- 
 basket), full of potatoes fortheir evening meal, and sometimes 
 in a merry mood, shaking the ci'usheen* wiih a gesture of 
 menace at the lads on the other side; others beetling their 
 linen on a smoo.h stone, and others again spreading the 
 ah'eady whitened garments upon the yellow and blooming 
 furze bushes — those formed the principal points of sight and 
 of sound which were scattoied over the face of the landscai)e, 
 while the whole was spanned by a soft blue sky chequered 
 with flakes of white an 1 crimson vapour, and rendered still 
 more lovely by the load'd serenity that was in the air. 
 
 Touched by the tender beauty of the scene which lay 
 before him, and still more by the reciillections which it 
 awakened within his suul, Suil Dhiiv prolonged his pause to 
 
 " A short stick with a flat piece of timber at the end, ussd in 
 washing potatoes.
 
 THE C0IN2R. 401 
 
 a degree which at length excited the impatience of his com- 
 panions. 
 
 " They're not boginncn to light up the fires yit," said one. 
 
 "What fires?" inquired Man Maher. 
 
 " Wliy, the fires upon tlie mountains and places, in re- 
 gard of St. John's Eve. Sure this is the tHinty-tiiirJ — 
 the Eha-na-Shawn. 'Twill be a bad evenen for it, I'm 
 afeerd. Do you see the swallows how low the) 'i-e skiir.mcn? 
 and — -jioch-e-Uiin ! — look there, the dog eating the grass." 
 
 " Coaie, sir ! — Suil Dhuv ! Don't yuu hear uz ? 'Twill 
 be late with us, I'm thinken, sir. The chapel is in the 
 glyn over, a good start from uz yit." 
 
 " Have you the wrench and hammer ?" inquired their 
 leader, in a low tone. 
 
 " Safe enough, I'll be bail — Look at them I" 
 
 " It is a f.iir evening for so foul a deed !" thought Suil 
 Dhuv, but he only thought it, fur he was too well anare of 
 the temper of his men to hazard anything like an indication 
 of di^taste fur the enterprise th'.'y were engaged upon. 
 
 '" There is no use in tiring all the horses," he said, as they 
 descended the hill, and appro iched a cross road. " AIuu, you 
 and I will do this first business together, and, my lads, ye 
 may as well stop here for us, or ride round the road and 
 meet us at the 1:1111 o' Drumscanlon." 
 
 Both the men touched their hats in token of assent. 
 
 " And there's no fear, sir, of the travellers' getten the 
 start of uz ?" 
 
 " Make yourself easy on that head — I drew the charges 
 myself, and saw Maney filing the clenching of the hoof-nails 
 with my own eyes." 
 
 "0 if that's the case, we may count it done — Maney's 
 was the sure finger if he touched them. I see him at work 
 at 'em meself the other day, an' he grinnen like a horse aten 
 thistles — the day of the blind man, you know, sir, in the 
 glyu below." 
 
 i^uil Dhuv started and turned pale. Tae recoilectiou of
 
 40=? 
 
 SUIL DUUV, 
 
 ilie act to which the man alluded had often before no-^ 
 occurred to hun, but never in a similar state of feeling. He 
 put spurs to bis horse, and rode ou with Mun Maher, the 
 iast speaker and his companion remaining on the sjjot, and 
 looking after them with some surprise. 
 
 " He's afraid he'll be late at the chapel," said one to the 
 other — " but let us ride round, fair an aisy, as he says, and, 
 stay, we have time enough, we'll just step into the shebeen 
 house over," pointing to a little wretched cabin, in the ex- 
 terior of which no further indication could be discovered of 
 its claims to the consideration of a caravansery, than the 
 broken bottle which was stuck in the thatch, and a litile 
 piece of turf wrapped in a brown paper, and dangling from 
 one of the scollojjs* over the low doorvviiy. " Tuere'll no- 
 body see uz there, an I'm so dhry I could drink fester thiu 
 a lime-burner's bag." 
 
 When once a certain train of feeling has been laid in the 
 soul, it is ex'.raordiniry to observe what a slight acccsion 
 of circunistau3es are required to stimulate and strengthen 
 it until it has acquired a mastery over the judgment and the 
 will itstir. Every n;;w sight, every now sound, that ar- 
 rested the s 'use of the Coiner as he pursued his route with 
 his co.np.mion, served to confirm him in the disposition to 
 mournful retrospection which the simple accident of a fine 
 suiiny evening, and the revisiting a soil untrod by him for 
 many a year, had occ'.sio*ied within his heart. Tiie corn- 
 fiekis, yet in ear, where he had been stationed, while yet a 
 child, to terrify, by the clattering of two flat stunes, tins 
 dark-plumed plunderers of the neighbouring rookery fr.»m 
 his patron's tillage — the very meadows in which he had 
 assi^^ted at harvest time in filling the load of sweet hay i n 
 the car, for the purpose of stacking in the Aayyari -ilie 
 paddock to which he had been dispatched on many -.■n .ve- 
 ni;ig as fine as this, with an armt :1 of i^rass for the \\ e ming 
 lambs, and a pot of milk and luiy- water tor tae jouiig 
 
 * Or, "sijueeze-loups,'' little osier tvi;^s used in bliuliiig llie tLntib, 
 
 l>:
 
 THE COINER. 403 
 
 cnlves — the very sally-grove where he was accustomed to 
 walk and chat with her whom he had lured from her fa- 
 ther's door (a door that had opened so hospitably to him 
 in his necessities) — and whom h§ was now prepariiis; to 
 desert — all these objects acted like fire upon the remorse 
 thht wrts already beginning to fester within the bosom of 
 the guilty wanderer. 
 
 A crooked and (still) broken-up avenue leading to a 
 farm house near the road side, was the next object tliat 
 caught his eyes — and he again involuntarily slackened his 
 pace, for the purpose of gazing upon the dwelling. The 
 place was as familiar to him as his own home would have 
 been — indeed, it was a house in which a very considerable 
 number of the years of his unsettled boyiiood had been 
 s])ent; Init it was sadly changed in ap]iearance fiom what 
 it liad been when he first beheld it in his young days. It 
 was then a sweet cottage — embowered in foliage and frag- 
 ranc — with all the indications of rural comfort and content 
 about it. It had now a desolate and uninhabited air. The 
 neat jilot before the door was half conveited into ti!I;:^v, 
 and the remainder disfigured and turned up bv thr sinuit- 
 ing burghesses of the adjacent piggery. A muddv pool 
 had settled under the front windows, in which a few meac^re- 
 looking ducks were dabljling and diving in silence. 'J'lie 
 he<lge which encompassed the jilot was broken and torn up, 
 and at one spot, had completely given way, blocking up 
 almost half the avenue with its ruins. 'J'he elder-tree, be- 
 neath which he had constructed a summer-seat vvhicli he 
 often shared with tlie pretty daughter of his host, was now 
 reduced to a stum|). The house itself was stript of its 
 decent garment of rough-casting — the thatch beaten in at 
 several places — and the chimneys dismantled : these em- 
 blems of decay, together with the silence that reigned 
 over the place, struck new feelings of melancholy inty 
 the young man's spirit.
 
 404 SUIL DHUY, 
 
 "All wns still 
 But tho lattice that flapped when the wind was shrill ; 
 Though raves the gust and floods the rain, 
 No hand shall close its clasp again." 
 
 ♦ 
 
 A single poplar which stood erect in its graceful slender- 
 ness of form in the centre of the little plain, like a gnomun 
 on a dial plate, flung its lengthened shadow in a direct line 
 toward the front door. The Coiner started unconsciously 
 as he observed it, for that was the indication of the ex[iii')' 
 of the sixth hour in the afternoon. Breathing a short, 
 quick sigh, he checked the reins of his steed, which was 
 making advantage of the meditative disposition of its rider, 
 to crop a mouthful of herbage from the hedge over which 
 he was gazing, and hurried forward with a spirit still more 
 disabled than it had been before his ai-rival at this sjuA, 
 for the dreadful tas-k to which he had endeavoured to beiid 
 up the energies of his nature. 
 
 lie was doomed, nevertheless, to experience still fartli(^r 
 and more heart-shaking disquietudes. As he approached 
 the spot which was destined to be the scene of the first act 
 of the guilty drama of the night, his attention was din dcd 
 by his companion to a little fort on their right, which 
 Mun pointed out with a grim smile and nod of the head, 
 as much as to say — "'Twas a good job that was done 
 there, sir." The situation of the spot was such as might, 
 without ferther explanation from the speaker, have inti- 
 mated the nature of that "good" deed. As 8uil Dhuv 
 raised his head in obedience to the light tap of his CdUi- 
 j)anion's whip, and looked around him for the first time 
 since he had left the cottage, he was chilled and startled 
 by the sudden alteration, which apiieared to have taken 
 ])lace in tlie face of the country, and the stern and sullen 
 contrast which the scene he now beheld presented to that 
 on which his fancy and his memory had been luxuriating a 
 short time before, 'ihe verdure, the beauty, the sights of 
 promise and of plenty, and the sounds of miith and light-
 
 TIIE COINER. 405 
 
 heartedness, had vanished as completely as if the wand of 
 a malicious wizard had been laid over the face of the pic- 
 ture. Before the traveller's, at a few perches distant, laj 
 a long, deep, stragghng glyn, *covered with heath, 
 bramble, short hazel bushes, sloe trees, wild crab, and 
 other stunted and dark-looking individuals of the family of 
 nnderwood. A brown, boggy stream crept, then bounded, 
 now rippled, then roared, and again murmured at various 
 points of its winding progress through the sullen cleft — 
 its dark waters, in several instances, narrowing and chafing 
 against ihe ledges of ciag, into a snow white foam, little 
 masses of which floated down the black stieam, like so- 
 litary virtues on the gloomy river of a bad world's his- 
 tory. The sun, which had chequered wiih so many sweet 
 varieties of light and shade, the landscape he had left 
 behind, served here only to increase the dreary dulness 
 of the scene. A flat boggy plain or inch (a plot of level 
 ground lying near the marge of a rivulet) — covered with 
 a long tabid grass, which is indigenous to such a soil, aad 
 assumes the appearance of hay already dry, while it is yet 
 in the act of veget iting, spread its dusky tablet on their 
 left, at the fuot of a rocky eminence, while the stream, form- 
 ing a small semicircle around it, cut it sharply away from 
 the base of a steep and bare cliiF, over the summit of which, 
 adornod with a coronal of the red- berried mountain ash, 
 the heavy sunlight darted its sloping rays, which, corrected 
 as they were by the mistiness of the p'ace to a still more 
 hazy faintness, threw an air of slight and softening indis- 
 tinctness over the rugged outlines of the scene. Near the 
 base of this cliff, in a dark angle on which the light had a 
 still more limited influence than on the more exposed 
 features of the picture, stood a thatched chapel, a plain 
 oblong pile with a small iron cross fast.med at the top of tiie 
 gable, into which the door, an unpanneled plane of timber, 
 marked with the same sacred symbol in red paint, was made 
 to open A narrow road, winding down the hill, formed
 
 406 SCIL DHCV, 
 
 the approach to this humble temple— and a straggi'ng p ith, 
 presenting a sliort cut in this road, frum the spot where the 
 Cuiiier stood, ran almost under their horses' feet. This was 
 pointed out by Maher, who dismounted, and flung the stir- 
 rups over tlie lii^h pummelled saddle of his horse, as he ob- 
 served it. Suil Dhuv followed his example, and threw the 
 reins of his steed to his companion : — 
 
 " Remain here until I rturn," said he ; " and if any dan- 
 ger should a[)proach, do not forget, for your lif ■, to give 
 mo the token. Wliere are the tilings ?" 
 
 Mailer handed him a wrenching iron, a bundle of picks, 
 a file, and s -lall hauimer. 
 
 " Il's a droll* thing if they were left there," the Coiner 
 continued. " Wouldn't tiiey be safer in his own ciiest ?" 
 
 " Is it Father O'Regau's ? No, indeed — I heard Watty 
 the clerk say meself, that he was afeerd of 'em there, in re- 
 gard o' the Dd'ons that he denounced from the ahhar o' 
 count o' their iiightwalkeu. There's no h.irm in thryen at 
 any rate ; and besides, tha priest puts great trust in the 
 chapel above all other places — fjr as he said hims.'lf, 
 thoug'.i there's a power o' villyans goen, there's feow o' them 
 that are wauten both in the /ear and love o' God together." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! he did not know you or me, Malier," said 
 Suil Diiuv, striving by a painful exertion to laugh away 
 the dark remorse that made the perspiration stand and 
 glisten upon his brow. " Walk the horses softly here, aud 
 I'll be with you in ten minutes." And bounding over the 
 Stile, he hurried along ihe path towards the roid. 
 
 "That's the qu irest liugii I iiver h.'erd hiai laugh yit," 
 said Mun Mahir, in soliloquy as lie gazed after the ruHi.ui: 
 *' I wonder now, could it be anythen tiuit would be coiiieu 
 over him, aftlier all ? Isn't it greatly he was thiuken all 
 aioiig the road ?"* 
 
 Something, most assuredly, was "coming over" the 
 vouug man in question, simie (to himself) unaccountable 
 • Extraor Hilary
 
 1h.£ COINER, 40? 
 
 State of feeling, a distress, an alarm, ar. uneasiness, w?:cft 
 he could trace to no poss'.blo external influence, and which 
 went ou deepening and fastening upon his spirit in propor< 
 tion to the violence of the exertions which he nade to 
 shake it off. He thouglit of his past crimes with pain and 
 deep remorse ; but it was not of that healthy kind which 
 induces a longing after the peace of pe'.iit<'nce, and casts a 
 stumbling-block in the Avay of a. guilty pir.pose. 
 
 On the contrary, the deeper and the fiercer the pangs 
 were, which every reviving recollection struck ii;to his 
 heart, the moi-e he raged and chafed, the firmer and more 
 daring his resolution became; and even while his limbs 
 shuok Avith fear at thought of the retribution he had 
 already eained, he burned w ith the eagerness of his desire, 
 to cast another yet heavier debt than all into the already 
 fearful account. His soul might be supposed, in this re- 
 spect, in a state of disease analogous to that which in- 
 dnces the patient who is suffering under the affliction of 
 an acute nervous attack, to fling himself on the fire, dash 
 his head against the wall, or use any other violent means 
 of counteracting, by a different though still more terrible 
 excitement, the anguish of that which is already preying 
 upon his frame. 
 
 As he passed the fort which had been pointed out to him 
 by his companion, and which lay close to the path he was 
 jiursuing, he started, shivered with an emotion like fear, 
 and then stamped his foot against the earth, and uttered u 
 furious oath against his own Aveakness. He raised his liand 
 over his eyes, and attempted to hurry forward, with his 
 face turned anotlier way. then suddenly stopping short, and 
 mtditating lor a moment, he set his teeth hard, and said : 
 "It was an ugly deed after all. The old dark man thai 
 coiddn't defend himself, nor know what was coming upon 
 him. It was a coward's blow that drew his blood " This 
 was spoken something like the manner of qtjlf coudemna 
 tion which a sportsmau might be supposed to feel, who had
 
 408 sriL DHU'', 
 
 sluit a liare sIcH'iiing' in its form, ''lie was ]<\u}. to me too 
 wilt n I wanted kindness badly enongli. Bui," (fiercely) — 
 " what Luit? Lie blotted all from my mind, when lie took 
 from me tlie jnly friend I had." Tlien, \\itb a sudden and 
 b 11 rried self- recollection — "Eh? what am I doing liere ? 
 Well, to be sure, see ibis ! and tbe sun going down already, 
 and all I bave to do before I meet him. Tbink o' tbat, 
 wby !" And once more assuming an appearance of steadi- 
 ness and settled energy, he rushed from tbe fort. 
 
 lie did not long, however, retain possession of this ac- 
 cidental firmness. As he placed his foot on the little sti.'e 
 ■which connected tbe foot-path wiib the hill road, an old, 
 jialsied, white-headed woman, her hair gathered uj^ in a 
 roll under her decent white kerchief, a few sods of turf and 
 faggots in her check apron, and a string of large born beads 
 in her hand, met him at the other side. liaising her aged 
 head as if with an etlort, and expanding her sunken eyes 
 MS they fell upon bis figure, she stopt short, and broke in 
 upon the litany she bad been telling, to wish tbe stranger 
 a " good evenen, /afif//^/." Strangely moved l)y the con- 
 trast in the designs aiid occupations of both, the Coiner 
 paused, and gazing fixedly on the old woman, returned her 
 greeting with a degree of tenderness in bis voice that ar- 
 rested her attention, in (ui'ii. Perceiving tbat her route 
 lay over the hedge, which was no slight obstacle i'or old 
 and sapless bones like lurs to surmount, and acting uiuler 
 the intiuence of one of those unaccountable sensations to 
 which bis present state of agitation rendered him liable, he 
 stept liack for tbe pur[)ose of suftering tbe devotee to pass 
 first over tbe stile. 
 
 " Goen to pay your rounds at tbe chapel, over, this 
 evenen, I'll be bound, you are, now — a lanna-ma-chree ?" 
 (child of my heart) — she said, as she placed her withered 
 and bony fingers (from which tbe rosary still depended) on 
 tbe wall.
 
 THE COINER. 409 
 
 " Going to the cliapel, indeed, a-vaneestha,"* replied 
 tlie Coiner, smiling, in an access of fresh and slinging re- 
 rcorse, upon her. 
 
 " E' then, may all that j-ou do there be remembered to 
 you at the day o' judgment, in the last o' the world, an 
 through all ettrnity, for uvur, av you'll only jest gi' me the 
 hand till I'll get over this place it's so cross, entirely, my 
 old bones will be broke in my body within." 
 
 Without paying any attention to, indeed almost without 
 hearing, certainly without considering, her kindly meant 
 benediction, the Coiner raised her in his arms with as much 
 ease as he would have done a child, and placed her gently 
 on the soft path at the other side ; after which he contin- 
 ued his course, along the road. 
 
 " Millia buehus,f thin !" exclaimed the pious old creature, 
 "and the Lord keep his eve upon you this blessed night, 
 and hear the prayers of his holv Saint John, upon his own 
 eve, that you may ever an' always continue in grace, and 
 as well inclined as vou are this moment, for it is a good 
 sign o' you to help the poor old widow, and to be goen to 
 the chapel on the Eha-na-Sha\vn, while many another boy 
 oulder than yourself is at the goal ])layen, or in the publi- 
 can's, this way." 
 
 So much for appearances ! 
 
 The act of gentleness which he had done, once more 
 contributed to throw Suil Dhuv upon the interrupted mood 
 of retrospection which had been growing upon him through- 
 out the evening. The little green spot, also, before tlie 
 chapel brought many an old and peaceful remembrance to 
 jiis mind. He recollected the many summer mornings 
 when the bright Sabbath sun beheld him hastening down 
 the wild path, his neatly frilled white linen shirt lying 
 gracefully on his open bosom ; a small, carefully tendered 
 " Path to Paradise" in his hand ; his black and sh-ining 
 
 ♦ Old Woman. f A thousand thanks. 
 
 18
 
 410 5UIL Dflirv-, 
 
 curls combed into a beautiful and clo-elj clusitcrcd mass ; 
 his shoe-, a luxury only allowed him on occasions, wheu a 
 special decency ot appearance was dct^med requisite, glisJen- 
 iug in the sunshine ; a little bottle thrust into his sida 
 pocket, which was given him by the old woman nhc had 
 dressed him up, tor the purjjose of having it replen'shcci 
 from the can of holy water at the altar's foot — in this Sun- 
 day trim he had often hurried over this very ground, his 
 heart, in its innocence of feeling, trembling wuh anxiety 
 lest he should lose the benefit of the Mass, an evil which 
 is regarded with a peculiar fear, in iiish humble life, even 
 among those whose principles, uidiappily, are lax enough 
 in many other respects. 
 
 He pau.-e I, to gaze upon the little turfeu seat where the 
 pastor of the rural flock was accustomed to sit in the sun- 
 s'iiine, to talk familiarly uith tlie cottagers on their domestic 
 aliairs, or hear tiie C(jnfession of a penitent. He recollected 
 the time when he had knelt on the green sod by tiie side 
 of the h'lly man, his heart sinking within him with tear, as he 
 meditated the humiliating disclosures of some boyish of- 
 fence, an infiaction of the Sabbath, or a word spoken in 
 anger to some playfe low, and the gentle monitory voice of 
 his adviser seemed onee more to luurniur in his ear. 
 
 His thoughts naturally reverted to h !s present condition, 
 and he almost unconsciously put the quisiion to his owa 
 heart, lioiv different and how dark, iu the conparisou, 
 would be the account which he should now have to render 
 to the same minister of peace, if he were to rise from the 
 quiet grave, in which he had long been sleeping the sweet 
 sleep of the blameless, and resume his ancient place on this 
 humble tribunal. Tlie last fancy startled him. As a cele- 
 brated divine,* with that insight into the machinery of the 
 human heart which characterized a great portion of his 
 writmgs, has said, that long habit of self-wilkid contempt 
 
 * Jean Baptiste Massilloc
 
 THE COINER. 41! 
 
 for, antl ohstinate resistance to the trnr!". orreiigion Is often 
 apt to substitute a iriechanical superstition in its place ; so 
 it miglit now be observed of fche stained and hardened soul 
 tliat stood, with the purpose of the last of human offencea, 
 bl:<ck, daring, deadly sacrilege, before the door of the 
 temple, that the fouler and fiercer his resolution became, the 
 more weak and nervous was his frame, and the more fear- 
 fully active his memory and his imaginatif n. The short, 
 quick breathings of the wind through the dry thatch made 
 him start and tremble, while sudden forms, of he knew not 
 what or whom, seemed to flit before and about him, through 
 the evening g'oora. Again his memory conjured up new 
 sig'its and sounds of terror from the familiar spot on which 
 he stood. He belield the buried clergyman, robed in the 
 sacred vestments of his office, lifiing his hands above his 
 head, and pouring forth, as he had once done, the denuncia- 
 tions of the fearftd judgment of the impenitent, from that 
 awful text, the woids of which had made the young blood 
 of the Coiner curdle in its channels, when he had first 
 heard them uttered — " I go my way, and you shall seek me, 
 and you shall not find me, and you shall die in your sin!" 
 The recollection of this occasion completely unhinged tlie 
 courtige of the unhappy Mretch. He trembled violeiitly, 
 flung himself unconsciously on his knees — struck his brea;t 
 rapidly and violently with ins clenched fist — muttered a 
 hurried snatch of the half- forgotten rosary — and yet, by 
 some strange influence, amid all this agitation and remorse, 
 the thought of desisting from the crime, Avhich he medi- 
 tated at that very moment, scarcely once occurred to him. 
 Vague and general notions of an amended life, not in 
 any instance assuming tlie vigour or sincerity of a positive 
 intention, glanced across his spirit at intervals, while lie 
 busied hunself in preparing his instruments, and examined 
 the door and windows of the building. The very security 
 •which s^eiued to attend his undertaking, the absence of all 
 bamon obstacle, the facility which the loneliness of the
 
 412 SUIL DIIUVj 
 
 place itself presented the slight resistance ^^hich the door 
 seemed likely to oppose to his enti'ance, all t'liinislieu hiin 
 with matter for new distrust He paused before the build- 
 ing with that feeling of faanul suspicion which chills the 
 heart of the bravest coldier, when he finds a position 
 totally silent and undefended where he expected to meet 
 with an opposition worthy of its importance. 
 
 The sullen dash of the waters beiuud him began to bonr. 
 upon his hearing, like the sound of distant thunder He 
 struck f ercely at the lock of the door, then started and 
 trtnibli d as the many echoes of the blow came back upon 
 him from the rents and hollows of the cliff and glyn, and 
 again repeated the strokes with double vehemence. At 
 lengih, fiinging the hammer away, he stept a few paces 
 back, then dashing himself furiously against it, he sent it 
 crashing round upon its hinges. 
 
 We dare not follow the sacrilegious wretch through all 
 the detail of his impieties in the interior of the building. 
 The whole proceeding, from this moment, was one of such 
 absolute delirium, that he could hardly be said to have 
 acted it with consciousness. He ru-hed to the recess ia 
 which the object of his search — the silver chalice or cibo- 
 reum was kept, forced it open, flung himself ou his knees 
 once more, clasped his hands, prostrated himself on the 
 earth, started to his feet, snatched the tacred vessel, dashed 
 the contents, the sight of which almost maddcni'd him, upon 
 the altar — and fled in an abandonment of utter fear along 
 the aisle, panting heavily, crossing himself, and stiiking 
 his breast, and muttering prayers and curses blended — 
 while his sight swam and wandered wildly over the place, 
 his ears seemed to ring with the din of mingled thunders, 
 hyu)ns ami laughter; flakes of whitish light darted with 
 throbs of anguish from his eyeballs ; the air about him grew 
 hot and suffocating ; the darkening vault of the night 
 seemed to press with a horrid weight upoa his brain ; 
 and his conscience!, rising like a biiried giant, from
 
 THE COINER. 413 
 
 beneath the raoiint.ain.s of crime he had cast upon it, re- 
 vealtd, and ahii'ist rea'ized the Pamlemonium which his 
 slislited, though unforgotten faith had pointed out to him, 
 with ii warning finger in his days of early innocence. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Goolo. Pray you, sir, stand up, I am sure you are not Lancelot, 
 my 1)1 y. 
 
 Lancelot. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give 
 me your blessing: I am Lancelot, j'our boy that was, your son that 
 is, your child that shall be. — Shakespeare, 
 
 The same red sun whicli had lighted the old Palatine and 
 his party on their ro:\d by the Comg-on-Dhiol, beheld the 
 Coiner's accomplice, j\Iun Maher, pacing impatiently up 
 and down the road near the fort, the sugan collar* of his 
 own, and the bridle of his leader's horse, both resting on 
 his arm, while he busied himself in keeping peace between 
 the animals, a question having arisen as to the right of 
 property in the nutritious succedaneum M-hich encircled the 
 head of Muu JMaher's charger, and which, in the opinion of 
 the bettor-appointed steed, was capable of being appropriated 
 to a more gratifying purpose than that of a mere symbol 
 of subserviency. 
 
 INIun ]\Iaher would have been much the litter person (for 
 the purposes of the gang) to have sent on the enterprise 
 which the Suil Dhuv had undertaken. He was one of those 
 hapiiy characters who are relieved by Nature from the evil 
 of either tliinking or feeling deeply on any subject, a-id 
 whuse vice or virtue is the result altogether of accident and 
 habit ; who take vvhatever little ideas they may possess alto- 
 gether upon trust, and live, as onef of the most independent 
 
 * A rude kind of bridle, or halter, made of hay 
 + Locke.
 
 414 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 of the tribe of independent thinkers bitterly expresses it — 
 " upon the ahn's basket — on scraps of begged opinions." 
 
 Maher's tone of mind or feeling, in consequence, was 
 always formed by the company into which circumstances 
 had thrown hira last. He was ferocious after he had con- 
 versed for an hour with Red Rody — spirited, fiery, and 
 ambitious while in the presence of Suil Dhuv — given to 
 crusheening* when he and Jerry got into a corner together 
 — and he never left the room where Maney O'Neil sat, 
 without a passion for roguery and low clieating. 
 
 Neither was this < ameleon-like quality of imitation con- 
 fined to the moral composition of the man. He generally 
 assumed, with the tone of ndnd imparted by those into 
 whose society he was thrown, the gesture, the voice, and 
 even the veiy air of the featui'es. By a singular flexibility 
 of countenance, similar to that which, even in these days 
 of th;' Drama's disgrace, enables a Ma hews to collect around 
 his green cloth and lamps, a lauglnng circle of her onc3- 
 genL'rous patrons from the world of the Exclusives them- 
 selves — by such a capability was Muu Maher enabled, even 
 without the intention or consciousness of it, to ad.pt his 
 face and manner entirely to those of his companions — 
 changing occasionally from Jerry's soft, open gaze, to the 
 hard-knit brow and fixed stare of Suil Dhuv — the stuiiid, 
 foolish eye of Maney, and even, occasion dly, to adopt the 
 pahied agitation of Rody himself. He was certain, more- 
 over, to remain in the coudiiion of mind in which he had 
 been last placed, until some new archetyjie was presented 
 to him, for (like the bird of the American forest^;, that is 
 sonL;less in itself, yet can become the pupil or even the rival 
 of the nighiingale), he might be said to have no positive 
 or original existence of his own, but to present at all times 
 the double of some neighboiu' or acquaintance, playing the 
 same part in the world which a loser plays at a game of 
 
 • Gossipping
 
 THE COINER. 415 
 
 forfeits, who is coudemnecl to receive and retain an attitude 
 from each of the company in turn. 
 
 Tlie SiUHc fee-linii', moreover, which would render such a 
 one impatient at being !eft for any considerable time in thcj 
 same position, made Mun fret and chafe at a great I'ate 
 whenever he was loft long alone. He remained, for some 
 time after Suil Dhuv left him, with his arms folded and his 
 eyes tixed musingly through his gathered brows upon the 
 gi-onnd, then led liis horses slowly up and dovvn, wondered 
 at the long delay made by his companion (a considerable 
 time before ihe latter had reached his destination), and at 
 last, taking from his coat pocket a bundle of smoke-stained, 
 whited -brown papers stitched together iu the form of a book, 
 in which the print, composed of a strange jumble of t^pes 
 of all shapes and sizes, was o>carcely discernible in the gloom 
 (a spscies of confusion of wiiich our London readers m;iy be 
 enabled to form some idea by walking as far as tiio dead- 
 wall in Oxford-street, or any other dead-wall where those 
 elegant specimens of typogmjthy from " Pitt's and Son, at 
 tlie Seven Dials," flutter on their pack-thread in the dusty 
 street gale, and where, with reverence be it spoken, in the 
 friendless hours of our literary noviciate in the great Babt 1, 
 we were wont to charm away the remembrance of many a 
 cold re|)ul.-e and many a stinging disappointment), taking, 
 we repe;it (craving the reader's indulgence for our long pa- 
 renthesis) taking tuch a book from his coat i)Ocket, and turn- 
 ing over a few of the well- fingered and dog's-eared pages, 
 he selected, frum a number of ballads, one which their habits 
 had rendered very popular among the gang, and which he 
 adapted to that exquisitely passionate air which our tuneful 
 frllow-coun.'rxman. ALore, has since graced with no less ex- 
 quisiiey passionate words. The reader, however, is re- 
 qne-ted to keep those out of ids reC'llcciion while he fo lo^vs 
 !Mun tlwousli Tiie Lamentation of Ellen Moijuarc^ or the 
 Ai!gh?r''s deceit — 
 
 " Plioo ! wh«ae is it at all for otie scni: ? Eh ? — No — ' 
 
 L
 
 41 G suiL j)uuv, 
 
 The Ited-liaired Mans Wife — the ColJeen Rue — the • 
 
 Hah ! you animal, yoix — will you be quiet, tin re — Is it to 
 ait me horse's collar upon her you mr.iie, this e\cmiig? 
 You'ie like your own master, you tyrant, war.ten to have 
 uvnry thing to yourself — John M'Gouhleruk'a trial for 
 the Quaker's daughter — and that's a nioveii song too, and 
 a dale o' tenderness and fine English iu it. How is this it 
 goes ?- -hum ! 
 
 ' jNIy iiamp is John M'Goulderick, 
 I never will deny— 
 They swore I was a Ribhonman 
 
 Coiulemned I was to die — 
 As soon as my dead letter came 
 My sorrows did renew — 
 Sayen, for to die 
 1 do deny — 
 Brave boys, what shall I do i 
 
 There's a hole in the ballad — I'm not able for tnat at all, 
 to-night. — You Avou't let that sugan alone, again ? Shecla- 
 na-Guira — A'then, joy be with you in a bottle o' moss, 
 Mary, ^\herevor you are this eveuen, 'twas you that used 
 to turn that nate : — 
 
 ' I, trembling, approached this beauliful dame — 
 And iu great confusion I aslted her name — 
 Was she Flora ? 
 A iirora ? 
 Or great Queen Demira? 
 Says she, 1 am neither — I'm Sheela-na-Guira.' 
 
 Well, pass to the next — that's too moven ; it puts me in 
 mind of ould times and things, intircly — Oh, here it is at 
 last — 'As I went — ' Yes — oy — that's it — "(and clearing 
 his voice by a "hem" which made the neighbouring valleys 
 ring, he commenced the Lamentaiinn in a truly lamentable 
 key, dwelling with a due degree of tremulous vehemence 
 upon the semibreves, and prolonging the key-note from the 
 ferocious, ear-piercing loudness of a trumpet, to the buzzing 
 indistinctness of the echo of an echo's crhoV
 
 THE COINER. 417 
 
 1. 
 As I went a walken one mornen in June 
 To view those gay fi avers whia spreadsii iti bloom, 
 I spied a young faymale quite handsome and fair, 
 Slie had me enamoured — young Kllen Magaare. 
 
 She far exceeds Phrebus — Luno, the moon- — 
 Her breath is far sweeter than roses in June — 
 I have travelled this nation — I vow and declare, 
 But I never could aicniil young Ellen Maguare 
 
 III. 
 At length I stept to her, and this I did say— 
 Your modest appearance has led me astray^ 
 Both you and blind Cupid has me in a snare, 
 I hope you'll rilase me young Ellen Maguare. 
 
 IV. 
 
 With this modest answer, then, she told her mind 
 ' If I could rilase you, I'd be well inclined — 
 My heart is entangled, af you're in a snare — 
 So tliat is your answer from Ellen Maguare.' 
 
 Gondoutha, wisha ! And he murdered her after all the 
 love — oy, indeed — 
 
 V. 
 
 Kow 111 conclude and let you understand 
 May this be a waruing to every young man . 
 
 To the lapboard of Sligo I straight must repair 
 
 And die for the murder of Ellen -" 
 
 " Maguare," he would have said — or sung — had not the 
 quatrain been cut short in a manner which seemed almost 
 to threaten the vocalist with a fate shnilar to that of the 
 unhappy heroine of his m.onody. This was neither more 
 n"r less than a well-aimed blow, which took him on the 
 middle of the crown and laid him sprawliijg, book and all, 
 upon his face and hands in the very centre of the high road. 
 
 A thousand vague su.-.picions and surmises identitied wi;h 
 the peculiar superstitions of tlie nigiit — the power of the 
 Rftcret ministers of evil — the dark and sudden joooca —the 
 IS*
 
 418 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 wanton Sheevrie — the sowlth (bodiless spirit), or the dhina- 
 viauha — {good people) as mischievously inclined, uotwitli- 
 stuuding the concilidtoiy appellation which is given them, 
 as any among the host of malicious spirits who are supposed 
 to make holi(i«?/on those sacred vigils — and be gifted with 
 a power almost uulimited over all who, unprotected by the 
 shield of a secure conscience, are found wandering at sunset 
 in lonely places — a thousand surmises of this nature flashed 
 in indistinct and hurrying masses upon the mind of the 
 prostrate Maher, and, for a time, prevented him from lilt- 
 ing up his eyes, as he would very speedily have done under 
 any other circuuistances, to ascertain from what cause or 
 with whom the aggression originated. His doubts on this 
 subject, however, were solved by the sound of a shrill voice, 
 the tones of which, though not heard during the lapse of 
 many a long day b 'fore, were most familiar to his ear: — 
 
 " MiUia buehus — agus millia gloria ! you coiitrairy 
 boy! have I iound you at last? get up wit you, an coom 
 along home wit me this minnit, I V\\ you, agin!" 
 
 j\Jun raised his eyes cautiously, and beheld, standing 
 above him, with the fragment of an ashen bougli in her Liand, 
 and the rosary transferred from that hand to h r neck, the 
 old woman to whom Sail Dhuv had been so livil wlien he 
 met her in the g'ya. 
 
 " Aih, mother, is that you that's there ?" 
 
 " D'ye hear him for one rogue ? 'Tis thin, I that's there 
 — get up an coom along wit me, now. Ah, you iaj,rareful 
 rebel — you that I rared and cared for, and that 1 th )ug!it 
 would be spreaden a bed in heaven for yjur old mother, yit 
 — to go after sech coorses as them ! Whose hci'ses are them 
 you're houlden ?" 
 
 "My own, and the Suil Dhuv." 
 
 "The Suil Dhuv!" the old woman esclaimed, dropping 
 the bough, and clasping and wreathing her bony fingi-rs in 
 strong terror. " Oh, Man, a boughleiu dhowu! is that the 
 company you're kccpen now. d.irlca r"
 
 THK co:n£R. 419 
 
 "What else wo'ild I be docn ?" 
 
 " Stayen at hoiiie, to be sure, minden the onld -Hidowed 
 mother, voii thief o' the ^volki — look! look over ! Dv) }0i; 
 see tliat fort beyont, -with the bh?ck hjizels stiirn uj'oii the 
 edges of it ? and do you know Avhat was done thire ? Eh — 
 thcgmtle Heaven preserve us, maybe 'tistoone o' themselves 
 I'd be talken, this way ! Answer me, eroo, wrr you one 
 o' them that did that deed, in that place, that night ?" and 
 the old woman moved back from him with some distrust. 
 
 " Ax me no questions, mother," said Mun, enjoying, 
 for a moment, even the unenviable kind of superioiiiy which 
 the horrible suspicion of his worthy parent gave him — and 
 affecting a degi'ee of gloomy and mystical importance — " ax 
 me no questions — an' I'll tell you no stories. Thireare 
 some people in the world that are obliged, sometimes, to do 
 things that other people arn't to know any then about. Do 
 you think," he added, bending on her one of his leader's 
 dark glances — "do you think you are able to judge thnt 
 deed, whether it was good or bad ? did you ever hear tell 
 of the bunch of loghero ?'" [rushes.] 
 
 *'The bunch o' loghero! eroo — " said the old widow, quite 
 bewildered — 
 
 " Coom, sit down a-near me here on the ditcl — an' I'll 
 tell you it while the Suil Dhuv is away. Siedh sJivs!* 
 lere. The moryi! of it is that you arn't to say anythen is 
 Wrong whin you jedge be yourself, and can't for tiie life o' 
 you see the inward meaning o' wliat's dt ne. Listen to nir.f 
 
 " A lioly and a good man, but too much troubled with 
 doubts, P'ather Dennis, was awoke in the midd'e of a dark 
 December night by a great noite outside his window. He 
 got up, tb^-^w open the shutters, and looking out, he saw 
 
 * Sit down. 
 
 t The moral ol th?s fable b^ars so obvious a resemblance to that 
 •A Faniell's Hermit, that it doe.T not s«m extravaj,'ant to supposi 
 (the poet's acoiiaintance ivith faerj lore taken into cousideratjon) 
 •Jiat it giiggosted tiie il<jiji;;n of thut liue perfonniiULfc. 
 
 K:
 
 420 SUIL DHUY, 
 
 two men, one of them strivinc; to kill the other with a hat- 
 chet, and the other endeavouring to save himself as well as> 
 he conld. Just as the Priest was going to cry ont a thou- 
 sand murders, he heard a he ivy crash, and a groan, and 
 then a great fall, and then there was a silence, so he knew 
 all was over, 
 
 " lie held his tongue, and waited to see what would be- 
 come of the murderer. ' I shall now know to a certainty,' 
 said the Priest, ' whether there is a Providence or no.' 
 
 " Opposite to the Priest's house was a sweet cottage ten - 
 anted by a young couple who had been married only a few 
 mouths, and were the admiration of the whole vil'age for 
 their fondness. To this house he saAv the murderei' drag 
 the b.dy — he laid it near the cottage door, and placing tl.e 
 blojdy hacchet on his bre ist, he went his ways. 
 
 '' The Priest never returned to his led that nii^hf, but 
 stood at the windoAv waiting for daylight, to see w-luxt would 
 become of the murdered and the niiirdirer. ' If there be 
 a Providence,' says (he Priest, 'the murderer suiely shall 
 not be suffered to escape.' 
 
 " Day broke — there was very little light — scarce fo m:;c'i 
 as might serve to guide a man upon his road ; for the moon 
 and stars had gone down, and it was long — long before 
 sunrise. He saw the cottage door open — and the maii of 
 the house — a young, hale, handsome man came out. lie 
 stumbled over the dead body, and fell ; — not knowing the 
 cause, 'jie was greatly surprised on rising, to find himself 
 dabbkd with blood. He startled and trembled from head 
 to foot — stocped and touched the corpse, taking the hatchet 
 in his hand, and af.er making certain that the man was 
 dead indeed, he ran to\\ards the hii;h iHjad, scarcely knowing 
 what he was about to do. At tiie gale he was met and 
 hailed by a nei;ihbour. 
 
 "'Ho! you're eaiiy ri.-ing this morning, sir,' said th ■ 
 stracge raau — ' where to, now ?" 
 
 — J
 
 THE COINER. 421 
 
 " ' I'm goinij — I don't know — 1 want help — there's 
 nnuder has been done.' 
 
 "'By whom ? Not by you I hope — what brings the 
 blood upon your vest and face — and what business have 
 you (Lord save us !) witli the bloody hatchet in your 
 hands. Show me the body. What? at your own door 
 too ? In the name of the great Lord, and of the king of 
 the land, I take you a prisoner for this deed.' 
 
 " ' Surely,' says the Priest, ' if there be a Providence 
 this innocent man won't suffer for the deed he never shared 
 in.' The young inan was sent to gaol, and the priest staid 
 all that day praying in his own room, that if there was a 
 Providence, it might be made known to him in that business. 
 
 " The next morning he was roused from his knees by a 
 wild shrieking and clapping of hands in the street. lie 
 went again to the window, and he saw a young wom;m, 
 fair and well formed, standing on the roadside, crying bit- 
 terly, wringing her hands, and now and then looking, lik;^ 
 one that is crazed, along the road, giving a loud cry, and 
 clapping her hands, and shaking her hair over her shoulders. 
 Father Dennis looked along the road in the same direction, 
 and he saw red coats, and horses prancing, and guns anil 
 swords glittering, and a crowd of people pressing round a 
 car,^ in which, after the whole procession came a little. 
 nearer, he saw, sitting, very pale — and looking now and 
 then at the straw that covered the hangman near him — 
 the young man of the cottage — -his neighbour. Then the 
 Priest started — and determined, before matters went far- 
 ther, to put an end to the matter, by telling all he knew. 
 He got np, and was about to leave his room, when he 
 was struck senseless in a fit. 
 
 When he came to himself, he saw one through the 
 curtain of the bed sitting by him, and watching for him 
 to wake. Supposing that it was his clerk, he asked if the 
 execution had jiassed. 
 
 * C;irt.
 
 422 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 " ' It is over,' said the man ; ' I saw the dead man with 
 my own eyes.' 
 
 " *Then,' said the Priest, starting up in the bed. 'J have 
 cast away my life in prayers that were never heird — for 
 t}iere is no Providence /' 
 
 " ' Take care how you say that too speedily,' said the 
 man, drawing back the curtain, and looking hiin straight 
 in the face. It was the murderer himself. 
 
 " Father Dennis felt his heart faint away within him ; 
 but he could not speak, neither was he able to deny the 
 man, when he walked towards the door and bade him fol- 
 low. He got up, put on his old hat, took his stick and his 
 breviary in his iiand, and away with him into the fields, 
 the murderer still going before, and now and then beckon 
 ing him on, until they cam.; to a lonely, quiet pbce, where 
 there was a bunch of loghero growing in the middle of the 
 fields. 
 
 " ' Do you remenib 'r,' says the murderer, ' a young man 
 of your pal•i^h that was spirited away into these wild places 
 and never heard of after ?' 
 
 " ' The man was going to be married,' says Father Den- 
 nis, 'to the same young woman that is now a widow, mour- 
 ning for the innoc; nt man that was hunged yesterday.' 
 
 " ' Did you mark how he started and trembled when lie 
 felt the blood upon his hands, and saw the bloody weapon ? 
 Take this spade and dig there ?' 
 
 " The Priest put the spade into the earth, and turning 
 up so'ue loose sods, there he saw the body of the young 
 nnin they were speaking of, as fresh as ever, with a deep 
 gash on one side of the head. 
 
 " ' Take the hatchet that is on the breast,' said tho 
 murderer. 
 
 " Father Dennis took the rusty hatchet, and there, sure 
 enough, he found cut upon the handle, the name of the 
 man that had been hanired that raoriiing. 
 
 J
 
 THE COINER. 423 
 
 "*Tlicrc is a God then,' said a voice above his head, 
 'ard a just and a good one.' 
 
 " Father Dennis looked around for the murderer, but he 
 was no where to be seen, and there was no bnsh nor place 
 where he could hide himself. At last, looking up, he saw, 
 floating in the air above him, a glorious angel, with bright 
 wings waving, and white garments flying, and a smile on 
 his lips like the dawn of the May morning. 
 
 " ' I am he that brought you here,' said the angel ; 
 * Return to your house and believe. You can see now that 
 yoiu- doubts were daring and guilty, and that it is not what 
 man thinks evil that is evil in tl:e sight of God.' So that's 
 the way wit you, you see, becase you can't see the rason 
 why Segur should be murthered, an' he dark, you think it 
 must be v>rong done, surely. Ha! what's thiit — murther! 
 murtlier ! how he runs ! they're chasen him, surely — • 
 He's pinned, an' we'll be all hung together on a string, like 
 onions. Go along, mother, and hide yourself — Here he is, 
 an' they hunten him." 
 
 " Who is it, Mun, eroo ? Aih, darlr n ?" 
 
 "No matther, mother dear, run for your life sunnher* 
 
 to me, (though that's no great curse) if you won't be kilt 
 av yc'U stop a n.in it " 
 
 " I'll not stir til! you come along wit me now, Mun — " 
 
 '• 0, d'ye henr this ? I'll go to you to-monow, u iw — see ! 
 that I mightn't sin af I wont ! I'll be at your table by 
 the hob with the first light in the mornen, or else, may I 
 never die in sin ! That the two hands may go to the grave 
 wit me av I don't. That the head may stick to me, now — ■ 
 .mm ther ! only see how he flies like a greyhound over the 
 ditclies. He'll be atop o' you in a minnit — " 
 
 " Mun, I won't lave you noAv I have you, for I know it's 
 the last tliat talks to you it's them you'll be said by." 
 
 "0 then, see tlis, why ! What am I to do at all with 
 
 • A good wife.
 
 424 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 you, afiher all the curscii! I tel! you I'll not stop mora 
 than this night wii hiin, and L-n't that eiioogh?" 
 
 The old woman's answer was cut siioit by the arrival of 
 Sui! Dhuv, who bounded clear over the stile behind them, 
 and seemed about to continue his headlong flight yet farther, 
 when Mun laid hold ou his arm. 
 
 "Ha! hold oft"? Who takes my arm?" he cried in a 
 convulsion of fierce terror, while his eyes, staring and di- 
 lated, wandered over the person of his accomplice (scarcely 
 less terrified), his hair stirred upon his forehead, which was 
 pale as marble, although bathed in perspiration. " What 
 — j\Iaher ? Where are the horses ?" 
 
 "Here! sir, what's the matter? Are they after us ?" 
 
 " They are ! they are ! blessed night ! I'm burning !" 
 
 " Who are they ?" 
 
 "All that's evil, I think! Mount and be off" — Don't 
 you see 'em, and hear 'em, and feel 'em? /do, if you 
 don't — There — there!" he added, dashing the chalice at 
 Maher's feet, while th>' latter started back — " there's what 
 they're all of 'em screeching after, and wlsat I brought 
 thruught the midst of 'em all — take it, you, and bring it 
 along." 
 
 'ihe old woman, at sight of the sacred cup, clasped her 
 hands and uttered a scream of horror. Sail Diiuv looked 
 upon, and instantly reco{.niscd her. At the same instant 
 too, the recollection of her intended benediction, to which 
 he had paid no attention at the moment when it was spoken, 
 and which seemed to have been preserved hitherto in the 
 mere avenues of the sense, now forced its way with all its 
 original distinctness into the undei standing, and froze him 
 with horror. " May all that i/ou do there be remembered 
 to you at the day o' judgment, in the last o' the world, 
 and ihroiiyh all eternity for ever /" The .-oleumity of tlie 
 anathema, the more fearfid as it vvas mo.-.t innocently meant 
 by the speaker, and seemed to be altogether the voice if 
 Providence uncun-ciously iransniittcd to !ier, pealed with a
 
 THE COINER. 
 
 425 
 
 stnnning influence upon his heart and brain. That verj' in- 
 nocency of intention, moreover, served only to increase his 
 rage against the poor woman. He rushed furiously upon 
 her, and would, most probably, have shook the unfortunate 
 creature's bones " out of her garments," in spite of the 
 vigorous resistance which was made by Maher, had not a 
 new subject of alarm suddenly struck his sight. He relaxed 
 his hands, which were clenched hard upon the throat of his 
 accomplice, and remained for a moment silent, and staring 
 fixedly over his shoulder, on the distant hills. 
 
 " Light he's getten, surely," said Mun. 
 
 " A judgment from Heaven !"■* exclaimed his mother. 
 
 The Coiner continued gazing on the distance, and 
 muttering, between his teeth — " Ay now — there 'tis — it's 
 really coming now through — Look, look at all the fires 
 breaking through the earth — Look ! — Look — !" 
 
 i\Iun turned, and beheld indeed a sight which showed 
 him there was some ground fur the Avild words of the 
 Cohier. The mountains and the plains on all sides around 
 them were lighted up with numberless fires — the red lustre 
 of which, during the space of time consumed by their con- 
 yersation, had supplanted that of the heavy evening sun. 
 
 " 'Tis the Eha-na-Shawn, sure," says the old woman. 
 
 " Is it St. John's fires you'd be wondheren at, that way ?" 
 asked Maher. 
 
 Suil Dhuv paused a moment, breathed heavily, thvn 
 sprung into the an-, siamped both feet against the ground, 
 and shaking back his hair that was damp with perspiration, 
 he snatched the reins of his horse and was mounted in an 
 instant. 
 
 Maher was about to follow his example, when his mother 
 bent forward and laid her hand entreatingly upon his aim. 
 "Mun, Mun darlen ? Mun, a laniia ma chree!" 
 
 " To-mon-ow, mother — to-morrow morneu I'll be in ray 
 father's house agin, but I must be good to my word to- 
 night. Take care o' the chalice, for I wouldn't touch it "
 
 42 G SUIL UULTV, 
 
 8.i*d ]\raher, as ho rode after Iiis laader, the tramping of 
 wlios^ horse's hoots were already heard in the distance. 
 
 '• Heaven speed that morrow, then !" exclaimed the old 
 woman, chispiiig her hands once more, and tnrniiii; up her 
 old eyes in fervent prayer — " Meiven keep my child outot 
 sin and blood this dreadftd night ! Aih ! see where they 
 left the chalice, the two of Vm." And plucking some 
 dock-leaves, which she reverently wrapped about the sacred 
 vessel, taking care not to pollute the consecrated silver by 
 her touch (an impiety fron which it needed not the re- 
 membrance of the fate of Oza to warn her) — she carried it 
 between her hands, with many a genuflection, and many a 
 sigh, and many an " Allilu ! hone ! mavrone !" to her 
 o«n humble dwelling. 
 
 CHAPTEK X.I. 
 
 Thou hast left me, ever, Jamie — thou hast left me ever. 
 Thou hast left me, ever, Jamie— thou hast lelt me ever. 
 Aften hast thou vowel tliat death only should us sever — 
 Mow tuou'st left tliy lass for aye — I maun see thee never! 
 
 Jamie ! 
 m see thee never! — Bums. 
 
 The reader may po^pibly remember same allusions made in 
 the early part of this narrative to a fair friend of R .bert 
 Ivum'oa, whose name has afterwards frequ nth occurred 
 nnder cii'cumslances which it was intended should be in- 
 teresting, although the original construction of the history 
 has rendeied it difficult for us to introduce the lady jier- 
 sonally to his notice before the present moment. 'I'h'; story 
 ot her love and her disaijpointment is so brief, and at the 
 same time (owing to peculiar circumstances in her dispobili m 
 and education) so untreqnent, that we are sure of obtai tang 
 hi^ indulg. nee if we venture to arrest, even in the zenitli of
 
 THE COINER. 423 
 
 its middle bound, the main action of the story, for the 
 pm-pose. of claiming for one, whose happiness or misery is 
 most closely entiiu;:led in its results, that portion of his 
 attention wiiicli she deserves, and which, we can assure him, 
 she would-be very unwilling to solicit for heiself. 
 
 A clear, cipen furehend, Leautitully ruunded off beneath 
 a cluster of that dark \jiot black] and shining hair, which 
 is so general as to be almost characteristic among Munster 
 maidens, and Avhich parting easily in the centre of the 
 forehead, formed a darkening semicircle on the pure marble 
 of the sU,;:htIy hollowed temples, and fell in waving curls 
 upon tlie siioulders — a fashion which was then very popular 
 among those younger members of the gentle sex, whose 
 years liad not yet entitled them to the womanly honours of 
 a tete — a masque of a full, yet delicate and tapering outHae 
 — and a cliin shurp, sweet, and small as those which the 
 gre.it father of the English school of portrait painting 
 seemed to look upon as the cestus of female, or at least of 
 infantine beau y — dimpling to every smile, and scarcely in- 
 ferior in expressive sweetness to the exqui.-iiely curveel and 
 " Wee bit" lips above it —a che.k which combined the 
 mossy tenderness of thij rose buel, \\ith the delicately 
 vigijrems hue of its expanded petals — a nose (it is an 
 awkward feature to intro.luce into a mere desciiption — but 
 it ever there was a rojc; that looked well in pro.-e or poetry, 
 that nos^i was Lilly Byrne's) a nose then, we say fcirhssly, 
 'which would have safely braved even the critical eye of 
 that renowned Italian magnate* whose perception was 
 so acute that he could observe a fault wliich in reality 
 did not exist, and an improvement where in reality 
 •none iiad taken place, a fine well-opened eye, over 
 which the long quivering lashes played with an influence 
 which at the same time tempered and heightened the fieiy 
 sweetness of the light-blue sparklers beneath them ; teeth, 
 
 • The reader needs not to be remindeil of the well-knowr. 
 anecdote nf angelo and his patron.
 
 428 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 convex, close set, and pearly ; a neck and gorge which, as 
 the curiously fanciful writer of Arcadia might have ex- 
 pressed it, formed the most delightful isthmus that could be 
 wished or, between that lovely peuiiisula, her head, and 
 tliat most fair continent, her person — -and which presented 
 the most exquisite model that even he could desire, of that 
 exquisitely delicate shai-puess of outline which characterises 
 the most lady-like of Laurence's portraits ; which is no less 
 characteristic of real elegance and gentle descent in the sex 
 of Lilly Byrne, than the curling hair and aquiline nose is in 
 the other, and which, moreover, seems to de|)end on such a 
 hair-breadth nicety of touch, that nothing less than absolute 
 instinct or accident in the painter can enable him to accom- 
 plish it — round, yet narrow shoulders, which wore connected 
 by a line conchoid with the slope of the neck, and from 
 which the arms ftll into a position of infinite ease and 
 concord, confined by the closely fitted sleeve of the gown 
 (as Avas the fashion of the time) as low down as the elbow, 
 where the silk was cut out from the hollow of the arm, 
 leaving a graceful lap over the softly rounded flexure, and 
 suffering the remainder of the limb to continue revealed, 
 in all its tapering softness — its elegant diminutiveness of 
 wrist, its daintiness of finger, and polis'ied convexity of 
 nail (there is nothing like being particular), to the admira- 
 tion of the beholder, unless, perhaps, on certain occasions 
 when its beauties were "covered, but not hid," by the 
 mist-like shadowing of a half-handed silk net glove ; a waist 
 squeezed up into a cruelly deliglitful littleness, such as 
 would have satisfied the charming Lady Mary Montague* 
 herself — confined within a peaked body, which was oa state 
 occasions ornamented with a stomacher of small brilliants, 
 and for the most part with the narrow riobon work of the 
 stays, which were left exposed by the opening of the gown 
 in ii'ont, that sloped upward and revealed just so much ol 
 
 Vide one of her letters from Austria.
 
 THE COINER. 429 
 
 the white neck as wns consistent with the feminine modesty 
 of the period — and that wms very little indeed (we don't 
 mean the modesty, but the neck)-^for 
 
 Y que pues Hidali^as son, 
 No solo no nos den pechos, 
 Pero ui pechos, ni espaldas ; 
 
 was a prohibition more in fiivom* with our f^iir Hibernian 
 ancestors than amonGj the heroines of Las Arinas dc la 
 Hcrmosura ; or we will dare to say, the yo in^ and beau- 
 tiful of our own d;iy : a small foot, confined within a sharp- 
 pointed, hii^h-hoeled satin shoe, ornamented with rows of 
 go'd or silver spangles, and f^lancin^ from beneath the riciily 
 quilted green siik petticoat (to use an adiptation of Sir John 
 Suckling's celebrated simile), like little gold-finches, flut- 
 tering among the summer foliage of a sycamore ; an ankle, 
 the glossy wliiteiiess of which was qualified, not concealed, 
 by the thin, faint fl?sh-co!oured checked silk stocking, an J 
 which formed the most perfectly finished termination in the 
 woiid to the classically large and easily fiishioned p3rson : 
 these constituted the claims of Lilly Byrne to the title which 
 was given her of the village beauty, and if, after all the 
 pains we have been at in detailing them, the reader should 
 refuse to have those claims allowed, we can only say that 
 we wish him a better taste. 
 
 But the portrait which we have just presented was that 
 wh'ch a. painter might have taken with advantage, when 
 Lilly Byrne was younger and happier than she was on this 
 day; when the hope of authorised affection lived in her 
 h 'art, and breathed in every movement of her frame ; when 
 she loitered and listened with a cheek alternately flashing 
 and whitening wii.h the gentle tumultuousness of ex- 
 pectation for the approach of her accepted lover, mis- 
 taking the creaking of the iron yard-gate for his pattering 
 summons upon the brazen rapper of the hall-door, nibbling 
 her pretty lip in anger at the disappointment, glancing
 
 430 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 tou'arcis the window, and alotiff the elevated Iwvn bv wluch 
 ho was to approach, liiigetting and qnarreliui^ with hei 
 work, talkhiiT of everythin:jj but the subject, and blushing 
 even to her finsjers' ends, when she found herself detected 
 in the midst of her nian(TRUvres by the experienced eye of 
 her mother, or the sudden, loud laugh of her fitlier, as 
 their glances met — when the day was consumed bet'veon 
 the lovers in those unmeaning words and actions, which, 
 between lovers, have so deep a meaning — in jests which 
 were laughed at, and not worth being laughed at, and tho?e 
 tantalizing annoyances, by which even the most sincere and 
 the fondest among the gentle tyrants of the hours of court- 
 ship delight in manifesting their power over the great awk- 
 ward fool who is lying at their feet* — a power, indeed, which, 
 considering how very short-lived it is in genera!, it would 
 be an act of naughty supererogation to take from them ; 
 when light heart and merry word was the order of the diy, 
 when Lilly Byrne conld do nothing for Robert Kumba, who 
 was hiding her i)al's of cotton and her bobbin, and pulling 
 the thread out of her needle, and Robert protested it, was 
 Lilly herself tiiat was so idle, and mama remonstrated, and 
 A\ished that Mr. Rub rt Kumba would mind his own busi- 
 ness, so she did, and let her daugliter mind hers, anil 
 Robert said Lilly was a spiteful little toll-tale, and the old 
 gentleman said they were all a parcel of fools together, and 
 — but if we say more, we shall come in for a share of the 
 censure. 
 
 Few love-matches commencing under such circumstances, 
 so blameless and so seemingly prosperous, were ever so sud- 
 denly deranged and overclouded as this was. 
 
 The affair proceeded far beyond tiiat limit within which 
 the jyrospects, at least, if not the feelings of a girl may be 
 said to remain secure. Tiiose little privileges of address, 
 which arc not even allowed to the accepted lover, until all 
 is believed to be as certain of accomplishment as if the cere- 
 mony had already passed, and vvdiich periiaps it were well tor
 
 THE COINER. 431 
 
 the [H'nce and happiness of many a forsaken lieart to liave 
 altogether |)rohil)ited, until the very possibility of a di-^ap- 
 pointinent had been removed, had been long accorded t« 
 Kobert Kumba. The envied and (what was more) enviable 
 position by her side on all occasions — the solitary e\enii)g 
 walk — the tete-a tete in crowds — the certainty that he im- 
 parted pleasure while he whispered welcome nonsense in 
 
 " The soft labyrinth of a lady's ear," 
 
 and a thousand other harmless intimacies which the memory 
 of those who have been, the consciousness of those who are. 
 and the imagination of those who wish to be, lovers, will 
 save us the pains of recounting — were, for a long timo. 
 freely granted him ; and tlie consequence was, that he had 
 at length become com))letely wound up and entangled with 
 all the joys, the sorrows, the hopes, and the fears of the 
 young and ardent girl, that it should be as reasonable to 
 look for the survival of her happines after he, its heart, 
 had been snatched from her, as to suppose that her mateiial 
 frame should continue uninjured in any of its functions after 
 the great organ of life had been torn from her bosom. She 
 died this moral death, however ; for her lover was snatched 
 from her — and so suddenly, that the ruin reached her spirit 
 even before a single fear could prepare her for its a|iproacli. 
 The manner of the "break oft" was so strange and rapid 
 —so utterly unlooked for — so startling and dream-like, 
 that all was past and gone before she could even imagine 
 the possibility of her desolation. 
 
 The lovers had been taking their usual evening walk, 
 and were occupying their usual position on the strait-backed 
 strait-armed, chintz-covered sofa (or settee, as it was then 
 called), Lilly com[)laining pettishly of fatigue, while her 
 lover untied the strings of her gypsy-fashioned white chip 
 hat, and laid aside her scarf — while Mrs. Byrne sat knit- 
 ting a grey worsted stocking by the clear turf tire, and a 
 clean, sleek tortoise-shell cat sat on her knee, in that beau-
 
 432 suiL pnuv, 
 
 tiful position for which it is almost proverbially celebrated, 
 piirriuo- its inonotoiious song of ]>leasiire and contentment 
 — and while Mr. l^)yrne, who had manifested a degree of 
 reserve in his manner to Kumba thronghout the evening, 
 which was attribnted by the latter to the accident of some 
 disappointment in his farming affairs, continued walking 
 slowly back and forward fi'om the corner near the cujiboard 
 to the corner near the window, jingling a handful of half- 
 pence beliind his back, and humming the popular air, the 
 burthen of wdiich runs : 
 
 Dliolinshin cna'skecn, lawn, lawn, lawn, 
 Dholinshin cruiskeen, lawn, 
 J)h()!iusliin criiiskecn 
 Slduiilha ^id mn vnnrnecn 
 Bohuinilum a cuulccn dhuv no bawn.* 
 
 On a sudden the old gentlemen stopped short, and said, 
 
 "Robert Kumba, who were those people I saw on the 
 grnmids, over, to-dav ?" 
 
 Kumba let Lilly's hand go, and reddened slightly, with 
 the angry consciousness of one who conceives that a 
 " liberty" is about to be taken with him. 
 
 " They were — poh ! — they were fellows from l\f r. Rose, 
 sir." 
 
 " 1 thought so. Where are the little vavgh of black 
 cattle that you were so proud of, that you had in the ciist 
 mejidow a week ago, Robert ?" 
 
 " O then, sir, I'm sure I don't know — they're gone, Sir," 
 said Kumba, in increased displeasure. 
 
 " Sold r 
 
 " I'oh — yes — " with an impatient laugh. 
 
 * " With this litUo vessel full, full, full,! 
 With this little vessel full, 
 With this little vessel— 
 Here's a vvhit<3 health, my little flear, 
 I don't care whether your hair is black or fair " 
 
 Is not this in the spirit of Sheridan's " Let the toast pass," &o.
 
 TUE COINEE. 433 
 
 "Byvou Robert?" 
 
 " By the driver, sir." 
 
 "I am sorry to heir it — 'tliey vvere a great loss." 
 
 " 0, I'm sure I don't want any body to tell me that. 
 They wouldn't go if I could hslp it." 
 
 '•Don't speak so impatiently, Rjbert, to yoar friends. 
 'Tis in kindness I speak, believe me. Your uncle James 
 says that yo:i c^uld hive halpjd it." 
 
 " My uncle Janes," said Kumbi, veheni?ntly, " never 
 interferes in my business from any kind or generous motive. 
 I wish he would spare his censures, since he can afford 
 nothing else." 
 
 " I don't know but a timely censure may be a very good 
 thing," said Mr. Byrne, in a fair and easy way ; '• and I 
 should like to hear you show that this was undeserved be- 
 foro you get into a passion about it." 
 
 " 0, well, there has been enough about it now," said 
 Kumb.i, turning to Lilly, whose a2;ony during this seme 
 may be well imagined — " Come, Lilly, will you play a game 
 of chess ?" 
 
 " Indeed, sir, there has not been enough about it," re- 
 plied the father ; " and I am determined to have a great 
 deal more about it before Miss Bynxe either plays chess or 
 plays the fool." 
 
 " Miss Byrne!" Kumba could not help echoing uncon- 
 sciously, in a murmur of perfect astonishment. 
 
 " I give myself great blame," continued the old gentle- 
 man, his warmth gradually increasing as the subject became 
 more fully developed, "that I did not take care to ma.ke 
 myself aware much sooner of all the circumstances that I 
 have heard to-day. Lilly, go to your room." 
 
 " Whatever you may have to say to me, sir," said 
 Kumba, taking Lilly's hand, which trembled in his, and 
 smiling, thoagh with a quivering lip, upon her — " may be 
 said in Miss Byrns's presence. Our interests are single." 
 
 '•Not yet, thank heaven! — Do vou hear me, madam?" 
 
 19
 
 d34 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 Lilly, who knew the extremities of anger which liei 
 father was capable of indulging, looked entreatingly to- 
 waids her mother. 
 
 " Perhaps you were misinformed, my dear," interposed 
 Mrs. Byrne, gently. 
 
 " I was misinformed, my dear," said her husband, pas- 
 sionately ; " I was misinformed when I took a spendthrift 
 find a prodigal into my house — a wasteful, extravagant 
 wretch — (don't stop me, woman !) — that is sitting there 
 now with his mouth open looking at me, after having 
 squandered the beautiful property that was left him not 
 four years since, and plunged himself over head and ears in 
 debt, while I thought he was clearing oflf those left by his 
 father." 
 
 Mrs. Byrne uttered an exclamation of surprise and dis- 
 may, and poor Lilly's heart sunk as low as if the whole 
 world were forsaking her. 
 
 " You were much mistaken, sir, if you supposed that it 
 was ever my wish or intention to avail myself of your ig- 
 norance on that head," said Kumba, spirited!}/. 
 
 '" I wish I had known that sooner," letorted the father. 
 
 "0, 'tis never too late for repentance, sir," said Kumba, 
 s] 'ringing quickly from the sofa. " I permit no intermed- 
 dling in my affairs." 
 
 "Young man! " IMr. Byrne exclaimed — his aged 
 
 brow flushing, and his frame tremliling with anger — " but 
 no — pish ! no — " checking his anger by a violent effort — 
 " this is not altogether my affair. Hear me, sir. Yon 
 shall not enter these doors again for six months. If dur- 
 ing that time you " 
 
 " 0, my good sir, you deceive yourself very egregiously," 
 said Kumba, with all the pride of voice and manner which 
 he was capable of assuming — " my course, my conduct, my 
 fortunes, and my mij^fortunes are my own. You cannot 
 point my way, sir Undeceive your.^elf, if you please." 
 
 " Very well said sir," replied the old gentleman, smiling
 
 THE COINER. 
 
 435 
 
 and bowinjii: — " yon are your own master, atid a fine scholar 
 you have, sh*. But suppose I said your way lay there, 
 sir ?" pointing to the door. 
 
 " I could find it without giving you the trouble, sir,'' 
 said Kumba. 
 
 " The sooner the better then, sir," the father continued, 
 smiling and bowing him out affectedly. 
 
 " As soon as I get my hat," siiid the other, snatching it 
 at the same moment, with a degree of levity which, though 
 in accordance with all his character, the poor stupified 
 Lilly could not help feeling was unkind almost to hearthss- 
 ness, and muttering, as he returned her fathers ironic d 
 smiles, something about " the old man's j^rudence" and 
 his own " niist'urlunes." 
 
 " Quit my house, ruffian 1" and the old man now broka 
 forth in a paroxysm of fury, while his wile and daughter 
 flung themseives with cries of terror about his neck — 
 " quit my house, ungrateful scoundrel that you are, or I'd 
 flin;!,- you out of the window." 
 
 Kumba, perceiving at once all the impropriety of his con- 
 duct, used an actiuu which seemed as though he wished to 
 say something in extenuation, when he was prevented by 
 Lilly, whose displeasure (for she could be displeased on 
 occ.ision as Avell as another) had been strongly roused by 
 the last insult to her p^irent. 
 
 " Begone, sir 1" she exclaimed, drawing up her head, 
 with a tone and look of virtuous anger, before which 
 Kumba's own pride crumbled into dust — " I did not know 
 you unlil now. We want neither you presence nor 3 our 
 apology. Yoic have deceived yourself, sir, if you suppose 
 that i>ny intere-t you may possess in my affeciious can 
 make me in-ensible to the duly I owe my father. How 
 dared you, six'," she continued, panting with agitation — 
 "how could you use such coaise terms to my father — ind 
 in my presence? Go, sir, your apology can do little !" 
 
 Li a few seconds the hall-door had closed on the rejected
 
 43G suiL Dnuv, 
 
 Kumba, while tho old man gathered his daughter to lila 
 bosom with murmured praises and kisses of afiectionate ad- 
 miration. This access of renderni'ss, however, was the most 
 injudicious course that could have been used in the present 
 condition of our little herdine's feelings. It softened and 
 let down the strini^s of her generous nature, and unhinged 
 the proud consciousness of injuiy by \\hich she had been 
 sustained. She sunk from between his arms in a tit of con- 
 vulsive giief, succeeded by fainting and renewed hysterics, 
 which it required all the usual expedients of ether, burnt 
 feathers, and cold affusions to subdue. 
 
 For many days after this occurrence had taken place, 
 Lilly could not peisuade herself that all was in reality at an 
 end between her and her lover, and that the scene which 
 she had witnessed was other than a dream. All passed so 
 suddenly, so s\\ iftly, so unexpectedly ! she could not believe 
 that the beautiful and glittering fabric which her young and 
 sanguine heart had constructed with so much pains and self- 
 gratulation, should thus, at the very point of its completion, 
 be utterly hurried from her view, passing as rapidly as the 
 rushing of a summer Avind, and leaving no trace of its ex- 
 istence more evident than the dreary sound of its departing 
 glory. She still listened while at her work for the knock 
 of her lover — suffering under an agony, in which all the 
 fever of protracted expectation was combined with the sullen 
 and barren stillness of despair. Every approaching foot- 
 step startled her with a sudden hope, which was awakened 
 only to be again struck lileless by the p:'ng of a disappi int- 
 ment quite as sudden. Her parenis no longer riceived 
 from her that devoted attention which in the security of her 
 youthful affection she had been accustomed to pay them. 
 When she knelt before them and bent her head to receive 
 the parental benediction at morning and evening, the once 
 sweetly murmured " Blessing, father ; mother, blessing!" 
 was hurried over almost uucon.H•iou^ly ; and the afiectionato 
 prayer of the old couple, that " God would bless her, and
 
 THE COINER. 437 
 
 TnarK her to grace !" full with the influence of an unmean- 
 ing sound upon her e;\r. Her more secret devotions, too, 
 ■were distr:icted and uni^atisfiictor}'. When she detected 
 heiself in the midst of a train of Avandering r flections, it 
 was in vain that she reproached herself, knelt more erect, 
 clasped lier hands more firmly, and attempted by gazing 
 steadily upward to raise her thouglits ahove her own \\orldly 
 interests, and still the unsettled tiirobbing of her heart, by 
 striving to lay al! its feelings at repose in the lap of a pious 
 confidence. The form of Hubert Kumba, with iiis angry, 
 rude, and selfishly passionate look, would come floating on 
 the eye of her memory, through the upper air, and tlieu 
 every word and ;!Ction, no sound or ges;ure omitted, of the 
 scene which had t;dien place would steal silently through 
 her brain, her heart would swell and tlirob with a new 
 tumult, to be followed by a new self-recollection, a new 
 etlort at r; siL;natien. and again a new distraction and a 
 new distress. Her Kttle domestic arranijements, also, were 
 conducted with less care and diligence than formerly. 
 The tortoise cat (before mentioned) had holiday times in 
 the pantry, the door of which, notwihstanding all Mrs. 
 Byrne's ag< nized remonstriinces, was re; eatedly left aj ir, 
 and the good lady was once heard solemnly to afiiim, that 
 sh- had found the animal actually lapping tlie milk at one 
 sid.' of the j}eck or heeler* while Lilly wasekimming at the 
 other. The full-bound [firkiii] of bntt"r, home-made, 
 which formed one of Lilly's own housekeeping perqui:?ites, 
 remained unhlled, although the fair of Cork was fast 
 approaching, and uncle Cuthbert, the grazier, had repeat- 
 edly ofltred to dispose of it along Avith las own, which was 
 alw.iys first quality, because the butter taster was a parti- 
 Ciilar fiiend of his ; a series of advantages, the possibility ot 
 
 * Probably derived from the old English Keel, to cool— as Lq 
 SLakspeaie: — 
 
 " While greasy John doth keel the pot."
 
 438 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 losing which made poor Mrs. Byrne's heart ache "witi 
 apprehension. 
 
 Her (lan.::hter, hou'ever, continued to neglect the fair of 
 Cork — her fine uncle — the full-bound — the tortoise-cat and 
 the pantry-door, in spite of all her lectures. Her fits of ab- 
 straction and absent acts and words continued to grow and 
 fasten the more upon her manner in proportion as they were 
 observed, and her melancholy, which at no time presented 
 violent symptoms, was silently wearing a channel in her 
 heart, which deepened so rapidly, as, at length, to endanger 
 the foundation of her health itself. " Dry sorrow baked 
 her blood." She would frequently gaze for a long hour 
 together upon the sunny lawn befure the windows of the 
 house, with a fixed and teirlesseye, absorbed in a fit of in- 
 tense abstraction — from which, if nnisi'd by her mother after 
 many unheeded calls, she would start (like one who had been 
 surprised into slumber,) with a tiioiisand hurried apologies; 
 if hy her father, with a sharp and peevish shortness of reply, 
 Avliich was most foreign to her character, and v/hich made tha 
 old man's heart bleed. 
 
 She never wept ; but very frequently, when passing to 
 lier room at night, she wo;dd pause in the middle of the long 
 and narrow flagged hall — the caudle elevated in one hand, 
 M'liile the other gathered her thin night-dress about her bosom 
 — and remain motionless as a statue, her eyes rivetted oa 
 the ground, her lips parted as if in astmiishnient, and her 
 whole being apparently suspended, for several minutes, until 
 at length the conviction of her desolation cami back upon 
 her, and biting her nether lip, while s'le uttered a low, tre- 
 mulous, and murmuring scream of anginsli, slie would rush 
 along the passage to her own apartment, and fling herself 
 on tlie bed in a passion of tearless grief, which wasted it- 
 self in short sobs, shiverings, and nuiliercd sounds of suf- 
 fering. 
 
 Mrs. Byrne could not " tell what to make" of ad tills. 
 She could not fjrni a Conception of any ill affection of the
 
 THE COINER, 439 
 
 frame -wliich was uticoDnoctetl with a positive disease — find 
 though grief might [lossibly affect a young girl a little in the 
 manner of Lilly's complaint, it conkl not possibly be grief, 
 lor Lilly cried a great deal less than she did herself. Her 
 father seemed by his silence to understand the matter better 
 — but, as he saw no remedy, he did not think there was any 
 use in contesting the point — and held his peace thi^refore, 
 when Mrs. Byrne, arguing from the hot and dry skin of tho 
 patient, pronounced a sentence of typhas fever (;he pi ii:ue 
 of Ireland). Sirange to say, ne\ertheless, although Mrs. 
 liyrne was wrong in her premises, she was right in her con- 
 clusion, and her diagnostic was confirmed b-y the physician 
 of tlie neighbouring village. 
 
 The old man was now really terrified. He loved — he 
 doated on his dau-httr, and tlie actual conviclion of her 
 danger burst upon him with the influence of a sudden and 
 deep mis'oituiie. He would have given the whole farm, 
 live stock and all, to hear that the doctor was wrong (and 
 *' sure" that would be no such miracle Heither) ; but the 
 doctor in thio instance was right — a typhus fever he pro- 
 nounced the complaint, and a typlius fever poor Lilly had 
 — a fcvcr that wasted and sapped her brain, and bi ought 
 her to the very gates of freedom. As the illness proceeded, 
 and the doctor's face lengthened in sympatiiy \\\i\\ his bil!, 
 the old man's agony b came absolutc-ly phrenetic — Le 
 usurped the mother's place and the moihir's offices by the 
 bedside of the sufferer — mixed the saline draughts, admin- 
 istered the medicine with his own hands, and spent long 
 nights in sleepless anxiety by her couch. 
 
 '• I'll tell you what 'II come of it," the servants said to 
 one another in the kitchen, " the poor darlen '11 die — Lord 
 save her — an' himself '11 be fit to be tied, with lightness, 
 afther — :hit 'il be the way of it." 
 
 But, like the good people of Islingt n, the rogues wera 
 out in their prognosiic, for Lilly recovered of the fever — her 
 robust father it was that died. We might be censured in
 
 440 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 tliese enliglitened tlmos if we asserted that he took the fever 
 from his mirsehng; but it male little matter to poor Byrne 
 whether the disease was contagions or no — for the fever he 
 look, wherever he got it — and he died of it too — died after 
 extorting — no — we do him and his dangliter grievous wrong 
 by using the Avord — after obtaining from Lilly a readily 
 accorded promise that she wonld never receive Knmba again 
 into her presence until he had gained a place for liimself in 
 the estimation of those whose esteem was worth his seeking, 
 and until her mother should withdraw the interdict which 
 he left upon his visits. 
 
 Tiie reader may imagine Avhat he pleases of the force of 
 passion, and of female fickleness, and feebleness, and a 
 great mnny other easily- mouthed phrases, which ai-e more 
 fashionable, we suspect, in certain romances, than in human 
 nature ; but we can assure him that there are girls in the 
 world upon whose perseverance and resolution a reliance 
 might be placed as secure as that which one would repose 
 on the iinimess of a Min.i or a Bolivar — in situations far 
 more trying th.in any which those rude, rocky- hearted fel- 
 lows could be tempted with — a resolution, too, a great deal 
 more noble in its motive than theirs ; for those gentle crea- 
 tures do from duty, and even in violence to their natures, 
 what a great rough man will do from pride, and the im- 
 pulse of a ferocious and passionate temperament. While 
 tlie one breasts the shock as sulkily as a rocky headland in 
 a tempest, the other yields and recoils alternately, blending 
 the grace of submission with the dignity of self-assertion, 
 like a willow in a swiftly gliding stream, seeming to droop 
 and suffer itself to be hurried away by the torrent that has 
 entrapped its boughs, while it clings whh an easy determina- 
 tion to the bank where it has taken root. Lilly Byrne was 
 just such a giil as we have described. Feeble in heart and 
 frame as the feeblest of her sex, her conduct showed as if 
 the energy which had bien stolen by long suffering from 
 the latter liad been all transferred to her mind, and erected
 
 THE COINEK. 441 
 
 there into a tower of strength, against wliich all the as- 
 saults of feeling and still surviving at^ectlon (for love like hers 
 could not b' exiingui-hod) were univaillngly though power- 
 fully directed. Religion was her grand stay in those days 
 of pining and of solitude. 
 
 Startled by the dangerous illness with which she had 
 been visited, and touched by the restoration of her healt 1, 
 she had looked earnestly from the interests of her heart to 
 those of her soul, and had at length, after much self-ex- 
 amination, and prayer, and self-restraint, succeeded in ob- 
 taining the object of her exertions, that true religion which, 
 by making all earthly affections subservient to the one 
 eternal and divine, frees its votary from all possibility of 
 an entanglement in the latter which could be dangerous to 
 his peace of mind (at least). That true religion we mean, 
 which, notwithstanding all the efforts of wit, and genius 
 ill-directed, and learning ill-applied, has lain, and still con- 
 tinues to lie bedded amongst the instincts of the mighty heart 
 of mankind, governing the tumultuous action of its pas- 
 sions, and sweetening all its impulses, inspiring it with thit 
 finely ambitious love which, scorning to iix it^elt upon any 
 of tlie residls of nature, mounts at once to the First Cause 
 as well as the centre of all beauty, as the obji'Ct most worthy 
 of it, and there lies sheltered with all its h.opes, its pains, 
 its sorrows, and its fears, while riie tempes-s of human 
 evil roll in harm"e-s murmurs to its fee^, and the sunlight of 
 human happiness is made more calm and suimv by th ■ re- 
 flection of its smi'es. That true rdigion wliich, far from 
 steeling the tone of the heart to a philosophical inditreicce 
 (as its calumniators say, while they mistake it for its ape, 
 fanaueism), give* a keener ed^e to sympathy, a warmer 
 pulse to moral feeling and affection, which bids the heart 
 be hard to nuthing but crime, cold to no hing but the sug- 
 ges;ions of evil, and de.if to notliing but tie call of selfish- 
 ness, which presents the only and periectly sausfacio'-y 
 soluUoa that can be ofilred to that miglity enigma, the 
 19*
 
 442 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 creation, aixl ■v\lii(.h can make a grander .spectacle sfilj 
 than all the rnaterial Avonders of that creation — a man, at 
 least equal to the philosopher in moral goodness and in 
 dignity of endurance, and superior to the philosopher in 
 sublimity of motive. 
 
 S ;rrow, however, had been beforeliand with piety in the 
 heart of our little heroine ; and though the latter re-con- 
 quered, or, at all events, contested the possession of the 
 region with the spoilei", it could not repair the ravages 
 wliich had been already made. The acuteness of the pang 
 was blunted and made dull, and a sweetness was breathed 
 npon the festering wound that tempered and allayed its 
 anguish ; but neither the danger nor the suffering were re- 
 moved — for religion, even sucli as hers, is a soother and 
 par:iclete, not a liberator; and the world would be no longer 
 a place of probation if it were otherwise. The last struggle 
 wliich Lilly had to maintain j-gainst her own heart was on 
 the day on which Kumba, after suft'ering many monihs to 
 jiass away without daring to intrude upon the grief of the 
 family, requested (by a letter, addressed, with a delicacy 
 of which he was very capable, and which Lilly appreciated 
 at its full worth, to Mrs. Byrne) to be permitted to visit them. 
 
 Lilly and her mother were both seated at tiie breakfast- 
 table when the messenger entered with the 'note. 
 
 " A letter that one left for you, ma'am." 
 
 " From whom, James ? — yive it me," said j\rrs. Byrne. 
 
 The servant approached, watching the eyes of '' the 
 young missiz," and availing himself of every moment 
 \>hen they were turned from him, to communicate, by a 
 hundrei cautionary grimaces, gestures, winks, jerks of the 
 head, dilations of the eyes and mouth, and other strange 
 conturt'ons, some indication of the nature of its contents. 
 Mrs. Byrne, however, was not sufficiently quick of ap- 
 prehension. 
 
 "What do you moan, James ^ Why c/o?i'f you give 
 n;c the loiti r ?"
 
 THE COINER. 4-13 
 
 "B'kiys he toitlt me — to — you know" — (t-n ning his 
 back to\v;ird-< Li'iy, and pointing liis thumb slily over his 
 shoulder, while his eyes seemed to reverse theu:8;lves in 
 their sockets) — "he did, indeed." 
 
 " Well, you are the qneercst man that ever lived. He 
 did what 7 Who did ?" 
 
 " j\ir. Kuuiba did !" thundered the man, exasperated 
 beyond all paiience. " Koberth Kuniba, sense I can't 
 make yoii see it — that's what he did. There's no use in 
 talking!" he added, grumbling, as he tossed the letter 
 carelessly on the breakfast-table, and turned to depart. 
 
 Lilly did not stai t — nor break a tea-cup — nor scream — 
 nor perform any other of those antics of astonishment 
 which, perhaps, those of my fair readers who are veised in 
 the stage-business of romance might have expecied fiom her. 
 More quick of eye and apprehension than her mother, 
 she had formed a just conjecture on the subject, fi-om the 
 moment she beheld the servant's caution, on entering the 
 room, and Mrs. Byrne, had she looked towards her daughter, 
 might have seen in her flushed and whitening forehead, 
 her irenibling Up, and straining bosom, that which woukl 
 have saved her the trouble of asking so many questions, 
 and the ^in of putting James in a passion. 
 
 '• It is from Robert, indeed," said Mrs. Byrne, looking for 
 her spectacles — " who brought it, James ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you that, thin, ma'am," said James, turning 
 suddenly round, and forgetting all his anger in the intere>t 
 of the new question. " I'll tell you all about that," he re- 
 peated in a soft tone, as if fearful of being overheard ; then 
 bending his person, and stretching his head to the furthest 
 limit that his neck (as coarse, and almost as long, as a 
 cable) would permit, while he still held the handle of the 
 door behind his back, "I'll tell you that," he once more 
 repeated, huildng the tone of his voice into a whisper that 
 was all but inaudible, — '■^himse/f do less !" — and then, con- 
 firming by a nod the truth of what he alleged, he sud-
 
 444 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 d v.]y flren- hi'vsplf np to 1 is fall 1 ei.!.:ht. nml stared as if in 
 SV111) afliy with the nstonisl ment \p had excited. 
 
 " My gordnrss !" exclaimed both the ladies. 
 
 " Iss, indeed," James coniinued, gatheriiiir h's hands to. 
 gether under the pkirt cf his coat, and renewing his nod of 
 eniiihatic a-sertion, 
 
 '■' And is he below, James ?" inquired Mrs. Byrne. 
 
 " Oh, below ! what beloAv, ma'am ?" said James, his 
 head recoiling with a tone and action of remon^^tr.mce and 
 astonishment — " Ts it into the house he'd come? No, in- 
 deed. But I'll tell you what," he added, walking a fjw 
 paces fin ther into the centre of the room, plncing his cauhoge 
 (old hat) upon a chair, looking fixedly in the eyes of his 
 auditors, and throwing his disencumbered arms out from 
 his shoulders, a'* if preparing for a regular oration. " Here's 
 the way it was. Goen to the ford, over, I was, thismornrn. 
 to water the little filly-foal, the same that Miss Lilly t'leie 
 used to be riden, wliin she'd be along with him (and a 
 good warrant you had at it, too, miss," lie interpolated by 
 way of parenthesis, while he grinned at Lilly), an' I 
 trotten along, thinken o' nothen, along the road, whin all 
 of a suddent, I felt a great change conicn in the basfe 
 under me. Oh, sarrow word of a lie I'm tellen. Lord 
 save us! says I, is it any tlien bad that's there? and 
 hardly the ^vord was out o' me mouth, whin 'James!' sa^s 
 he, above upi^n the hedge. Oh, it's fact ' James !' says he, 
 on the hedge. Lnrd between us and harm, says I, 
 •who is it that's callen me? s-ys I. 'Don't you know me, 
 James?' s;iys he auain ; Mr. Kumba, indeed, he did. Aw 
 tliin, sar, says I, is that y<'.u? ' 'Ti-^, indeed, James,' says 
 he. So Me stopped a miiiUte, looken at one another. Why 
 thin, it's a long while ^ince I seen you. iiow, sir, s:iys I. 
 He made me no answer to that, bat after a while, 'James, 
 says he, ' I'm sorry for your trouble* westwards.' Hea- 
 ven's will be done, sir, says 1, you needn't tell me that, 
 
 •A favourite phrape of ccrddcr.ce ar.ong ilie leasa/itn, tbe 
 loss of any Oiembtr of a family.
 
 THE COINER. 445 
 
 an' sure 'hras true for me, ma'am — for« — "looking all 
 round the room for an illustration — " see, 'twas as pale a^ 
 this table cloth, his face was — and his eyes sniik in his 
 head, within, an' his cheeks all gone, inlirely. He looked, 
 you'd think, as if he wasn't there at all, you'd think, a'mort. 
 Not but," he added, on meeting Lilly's eye — " he's greatly 
 improved from what he was, I'm told, and thriving again 
 very fast, but still an' all 'twould make the stones weep to 
 look at him. ' Well, James, isn't it greatly they wouldn't 
 let me come a near 'em, at all,' says he, ' an' my heart 
 bleeden to hear about it.' He did, indeed, miss. Sir, 
 says I, sarious, this way, I never spake o' the famaly, says 
 I, but there never was a smoke without a fire yet, an' beg- 
 ging your pardon, says I, may be, if you behaved honester 
 (i.e. more miklly) wliin you were there, you'd have the 
 liberty o' the place to-day, says I, the same as ever. ' Why, 
 then, I believe it's true /o?- you, James,' says he, and then 
 he continued moven unaisy about tor a feow minutes, like 
 une that would have sometheu on his mind, you'd think ; 
 an' at last, ' James,' says he, 'would you do me a favour 
 now, an' I'll do as much for you another time,' says lie. 
 If you never did anything fur nx, sir, says I, I'll do 
 it and welcome, and I would too, ma'am. With that, 
 he put it into my hand — the letter — he did, and says he, 
 ' don't let your young missiz see you given of it, James, 
 says he — 'an' I'll wait here,' says he, ' until such lime as 
 you bring me an answer, and don't delay it, James, if you 
 can, for my heart is witliin it,' says he. He did indeed. 
 Signs on, see the state I'm in, racen hether wit it," he c^-'i- 
 tlnued, pressing his open hand upon his bi'ow, and wipmg 
 away some drops of perspiration, " an' there he is, waiting 
 this way, over, in the sally-grove, seeing woidd i.e get a 
 favourable answer to ti)e petition." And having graced 
 his peroration «ith a suitable ges-ture, James took up his 
 hat again, and remained jilent, hoking alternately into the 
 eyes of both his auditors, as if to observe the effect of his 
 narrative.
 
 446 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 "He has talcen the proper course, at all events," said 
 the old lady, showing the superscription. To Mrs. Byrne, 
 Druniscanion, to her daughter. 
 
 Lilly di'd not answer, but her glowing cheek and bright- 
 ening eye showed that her mother's observation was not 
 lost upon her. 
 
 " Am I to wait for the commands below, ma'am ?" said 
 James — an innate sense of delicacy (a quality which even 
 the humblest of the Irish possesses to a great degree, in 
 common with the people of strong feelings) informing him 
 that, although they had forgotten his presence, it could not 
 but be an incumbrance at the |)resent moment. 
 
 "You may, James," said Mrs. Byrne, "but don't be 
 out o' the way." 
 
 " Is it / be out o' the wa}', ma'am !" James murmured 
 in surprise as he left the room. 
 
 They proceeded to examine the contents of the letter. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Pisano. — Madam, here is a letter from my lord. 
 
 Imogen. — Who '\ Thy lord 1 that is my lord — 
 O learned indeed were that astronomer 
 Tfiat knew the stars as I his character, 
 He'd lay the future open. 
 
 Cymbclinc. 
 
 It is most extraordinary to observe how completely, how 
 ntterlv, as age grows upon us, we lose sight of all the les- 
 ser feelings and sympathies of our youth — how perfectly 
 incapable we become of entering into all the fineries of our 
 early condition of mind and heart, when re-acted in our 
 presence by those to wliom they have descended. With all 
 Lilly's patience, she could not help wondering at thecom- 
 jiaratively uninterested way in which her mother proceeded 
 
 J
 
 THE COINER. 447 
 
 to wipe her spectacles, drive Ler old friend the tortoife-sliell 
 cat fioni her knee, exaniine the seal, and smile at the de- 
 vice and motto, a crucihle, with "swift yet sure" beneath, 
 the popular allnsion of which she readilj- understood, before 
 she gratified the longing ears and evfs of Lilly with a dis- 
 closure of the contents. Kuniba sjioke truly when he told 
 James that his heart was in it — and certainly, if mere 
 words o^ight to have made way with the widow and her 
 child, the appejU which it contained would not have been 
 unsuccessful. 
 
 "I only wish, my dear Mrs. Byrne," he continued, 
 after having made his object known in a very s^-nsible and 
 yet feeling manner, " I only wish that you vvoKld give me 
 an o]iportunity of showing you that the great impropriety 
 of conduct (to say the least of it) of wliich I vvas guilty in 
 your presence, was not the eflect of habitual but acciden- 
 tal ill-temper. It was an occasion which I cannot think 
 on without grief and humiliation ; but when you agrf^e 
 with me in repreliending it, do not forget, my dear mad- 
 am, I beseech you, the sutleiings which it has already 
 brought upon me. 
 
 " To your feelings, as a mother, I appeal for some indi- 
 cation of wha.t those suflerings must have been. Consider 
 how you would have felt, if any circumstances had excluded 
 you from the sick chamber and the bedsidp of vour daughter, 
 your only child, whom vou loved so tenderly, when she lay 
 in a dangerous illness — and think whether in the absolute 
 necessity of those circumstances, and their being unmerited 
 by any act of yours, would be sufficient to reconcile you to 
 the privation. If not, my dear madam, what must have 
 been the torture of my heart, when I had to endure a simi- 
 lar banishment, and had not even that ineffectual resource 
 of a secure conscience to comfort my heart — when I heard, 
 hour after hour, of some new grief some new calamity be- 
 falling her in whose happiness all mine was centered ; and 
 yet could not but acknowledge that you were all acting
 
 448 SCIL DHUV, 
 
 right in shutting me out from hor presence, and that the suf 
 fering which I deplored, and the agony which I felt, was 
 all the work of my own hands — that I had been the cause 
 of ray own rejection from the paradise I sought — the cause 
 of my poor, gentle, but justly indignant Lilly's illness — of 
 
 your disf)levasure — of Oh, madam, even while I write, 
 
 the stinging of my own heart tells me that I have done toe 
 much, and that I ought not to be heard. 
 
 " Nevertheless, I send the letter as I have written it. 
 If I should be still doomed to sutler for that unhappy mor- 
 ning, however dreadful my life may become to me, be as- 
 sured that never even in thought will I entertain the suspi- 
 cion that I have any thing to blame but my own unprovoked 
 and wanton rudeness for my misery. 
 
 » " Robert Kumba." 
 
 Mrs. Bvrne slowly folded the letter, and remained, 
 meditating for a moment, while she endeavoured to make 
 the bowl of a tea-spoon tioat in her cup. 
 
 Lilly, whose countenance had changed almost as many 
 times as there were sentences in the letter, during its peru- 
 sal, remained anxiously expecting the speech of her mother. 
 She had, during the earlv part, manifested a degree of 
 warmth and approbation (in her look and manner only,) 
 which, had Kumba beheld her at the moment, would have 
 put him in tine spirits, but before her mother stopped read- 
 ing, the expression of her face bad altered. Tlie tears, 
 which his allusion to her own illness had brought into 
 her eyes, were checked ujton the lids, the glow on her cheek 
 became fainter, the panting hope that struggled in her bo- 
 som appeared to subside, and a slight degree of chagrin and 
 of disappointment was manifest upon her brow and lip. 
 
 " It is a very nice letter, my dear," said Mrs. Byrne, " but 
 it does not contain all that we want to know. I believe 
 we always gave him cn^dit fur feeling — but why does he 
 not mention anything of the farm all this wiiiie V
 
 - ] 
 
 TTIE COINER. 449 
 
 " The rpason apppars to bo, mother, that he has mis- 
 Uikm nvr motives altogether. Surely neither yon r.or I. 
 nor any body else, eve rcoulcl have intended to make that 
 unfortunate fit of passion a cause for utter hanishvient, as 
 he calls it. My poor dead father Mas rot so inveterate. 
 He even attributed a great portion of the blame on that 
 morning to himself." 
 
 "Ah, my dear, your poor father was a great deal too 
 forgiving. Heaven forgive me for saying so — I mean for 
 his own worldly interest? ; but I thank Heaven he was so, 
 for if it were otherwise he could not have hoped for the re- 
 ward that, I trust, he is now enjoying." 
 
 " Neither ong' t Robert to suppose that he has had all 
 the sviflf" rino- to himself," said Lilly, while she strove to 
 keep herself from crying. 
 
 "You are very ri,i;ht, my love," replied Mrs. Byrne, 
 turning emphaficaiiy towanls her, " and that is very selfish 
 of him, to say so, certainly." 
 
 Lilly meant only the internal suffering to both, conse- 
 puent on their separation ; but the matter-of-fact old lady 
 took it fur granted that so strong a word would only be 
 used with application to the physical calamities of all parties, 
 and Lilly was too timid and delicate to explain — so that 
 the undeserved censure was suffered to remain upon poor 
 Kuiv.ba's shoulders. 
 
 These are the mistakes that set the world by the ears. 
 
 After some farther conversation, it was ajrreed that Mrs. 
 Byrne should answer Robert's letter, or j^etition, as James 
 called it — by undeceiving him with respect to the cause of 
 his exile — laying down the condition of his recall, which 
 was to be such an improvement in the circumstances of his 
 property and his conduct as would suffice to justify a rea- 
 sonable hope of his perseverence ; and, finally, a friendly 
 exhortation to him, that he would make an exertion to re- 
 store to all as much as yet remained on earth of the peace 
 which tuey had lost."
 
 450 suiL t>aiTv, 
 
 " j\fofLcr !" said Mi.^s Byrnf^, as she wa-s about to leave 
 the room — " jou will tell him I had not furgottea him/' 
 And liaving with diihculty restrained herself while she 
 uttered tlie sentence, she hurried away to reheve her heart 
 in the solitude of her OAvn apurtinent. 
 
 By another of those contre-tems, which, however slight 
 in titemselves, yet involve so deep and very often tragical 
 consequences in the histoiy of the human heart, it un- 
 fortunately happened, that Mrs. Byrne (who, as my readers 
 may before now have conjectured, was not one of those 
 persons who can think of one thing and attend to another 
 at the same time) was, at the very moment when Lilly 
 spoke, absorbed in tlie consideration whether she should 
 address thy letter "My Dear Sir," or " My Dear Robert," 
 and never heard, and, consequently, never gave Lilly's re- 
 membrance. Tiie letter wanted it too — (which was worse 
 and worse) — for the precise, g-ood-natured lady took so 
 much pains to communicate every thing in so very proper 
 terms, in so neat a hand, and with so many ahnost invisible 
 era'^nres — nicely polished over with the finger nail (so as 
 that the ink should not sink) — and other pretty precautions, 
 that poor Kumha, when he got it, felt as if he had walked 
 nnawares under a waterfall. 
 
 He might, perhaps, have yet received enough of encou- 
 ragement to stimulate him to some exertion, if he had 
 known how often Lilly Avcpt upon her mother's neck in the 
 course of that and the following day. But there was 
 nothing to alleviate the coldness of the letter which indeed 
 would have been perceptible to a person composed of mudi 
 less combustible and enthusiastic materials than himself. 
 The effect which it did produce on him we have al;-eady 
 seen, and the accounts which reached the inmates of Drum- 
 scanlon of his excesses, contributed more effectually than 
 all she had before endured, to shatter the feeble remains 
 of Lilly's constitution, render her more assiduous In &11 
 her duties, more silent, more resigned, more woe-worn
 
 THE COINER, 451 
 
 more gentle and timid, more smiling, more cheerful, and 
 broken-hearted.* 
 
 One of the pi'incipal of these hist was a cerem^Dny wliich 
 the innovations of modern custom has restiicted altogether 
 to the humble classes of Irish life. Every mornino-, before 
 ai-y part of her household afiairs were permitted to obtrude 
 themselves upon her attention, she walked to an old church, 
 about a " small mile" from her own residence, for the pur- 
 pose of " paying a round" that is to saj', offering up, on 
 her knees, a few prayers for the rei)ose of the spirit of him 
 who was sleeping beneath the mound, of soliciting an in- 
 crease of strength to abide by the resolution she hadlbrmed, 
 and commemorating the sacrilice she had made of her own 
 feelings and hai^piness to his dying wishes. An accident, 
 which occurred during one of those mornino- excursions 
 occasioned the conversation which took place between 
 Kiiinba and the Suil JJhuv on their first introduction to 
 tlie reader. 
 
 Lilly had been, a few mornings previous to the day on 
 which the old Palatine arrived at the inn upon the moun- 
 tains, kneeling, as usual, in the morning sunshine at the 
 foot of her father's grave, her hands clasped, and her head 
 bowed down in pious reverence, when she was startled by 
 hearing the ivy rustle upon the low and ruined wall 
 beside her. Raising her eyes quickly, and in some alarm, 
 she beheld the face of a man, whom she recoo-nised as an 
 occasional labourer of her father's, staring in upon her 
 devotions with some expression of surprise and compas- 
 sion. 
 
 " Whisht ! whisht, Miss !" he exclaimed, waving his 
 
 * The last word may startle many of those readers who (in the 
 lashi.Hi at present) look for good sense and truth in novels— more 
 especially us one ot tlie most popular modern writers of this class has 
 piOiiou eed the phrase a vulgar error. He is mistaken, hoAvever. 
 Dr. J^iine, among the many discoveries relative to this delicate organ 
 with which he has enlightened the world, has proved that a broken 
 lieart may be, and has been, a mechauical effect' of grief.
 
 452 SUIL DHCV, 
 
 hand to her, as if to signify that she snould not regard his 
 Dresence. 
 
 " How did you know that I was here, Jerry ? Were 
 you sent for me ?" said Lilly, rising from her knees. 
 
 " O no. Miss — not I — but — " observing her eyes red 
 from wee|)ing — " you oughtn't to do that at all, Miss. He 
 wouldn't like it." 
 
 " Why so ?" 
 
 " Tisn't good, Miss. I knew meself of a time, a lone 
 woman, a widow, that used to be goen that way every day 
 to cry over her son that was buried in the church-yard — 
 an' at last, you see, one day as she was kneeling that way, 
 an' claspen her hands, and ochoimng over the grave, slie 
 bard somethen above her, upon the wall, as it might be this 
 way as I am now — and sure, what should be there but 
 himself. 'Ah then, darlen V says she, 'is tliat you Mike? 
 Lord save us!' 'E'then it is so, mother,' says lie, 'and 
 don't do that any more,' says he. ' Oh then, what ibr, 
 shouldn't I cry over you, Mike, darlen ?' says she, luokcn 
 at him. ' No, don't, mother,' says he, ' for its well I suf- 
 fered to you for all you cried ahvady. Look liere !' sajs 
 he, liften up the winden-sheet that was upon him, and 
 showen her his side all full of holes.* ' I'here's one of 
 them,' says he, ' for every tear you shed for me,' says he, 
 ' and don't do it any more ujjon me, mother,' says he. ' No, 
 I won't indeed, Mike,' says the poor woman, dryen lier 
 eyes at once. 'Don't thin,' says he agen, an' he vanished. 
 An' she didn't either." 
 
 " Well, I thank you for the advice, Jerry, but I will 
 thank you still more, if you will not say a word of your 
 having seen me liere, to any body." 
 
 " Is it I say a word of it ?" said Jerry O'Gilvy, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 He did say a word of it however, and two words ; and 
 
 * Tbis is a common superstition ficrjucntly used in the hours oi 
 condolence.
 
 THE COIXER. 453 
 
 this circumstance it was that iinlucod Suil Dnuv to sugo-est 
 to his du)ie, Kiiniba, tlie ick^a of meeting Lilly at the jilace 
 to which Jerry would conduct him, a grove lying on ht-r 
 road home from the church-yard ; t!ie latter being strictly 
 cautioned by the Coiner not to make tlie young man aware 
 of the object of her morning walk, for lie liad jienetration 
 enough to know that Kumba's feeling, if not his [irinciple, 
 would never permit him to disturb her on such a mis.-iun^ 
 — indeed we might say his common sense, for, however 
 much he tiusted to the effect which he might be enabled 
 to produce on Lilly's resolution in a personal interview, he 
 could expect, nothing less, than an indignant and final le- 
 pulse to such an attempt as the present. Neither would 
 it have answered the views of Suil Dhuv that they should 
 meet, or that Kumba should in any way succeed in his 
 wishes. It was enough fur him to have acquired an ad- 
 ditional influence over the mind of the latter, by niaking 
 the ]iroposition — he was not by any means so anxious 
 as his friend imagined, that it should proceed to a satis- 
 factory accomplishment. This, however, was sutficiently 
 provided against, by a slight circumstance which took 
 jilace the very evening before. An anonymus note di- 
 rected to Miss. Byrne, and informing her in two lines of 
 Kumba's design, which was left at iJrumscanlon, not only 
 tilled her with indignation but effectually confined her 
 to the house, while Kumba and his chajseron Jerry heat 
 about the grove until noon, in vain. 'J'he note was left 
 at the kitchen dc)or, by a thin, sharp faced, and bare 
 footed lad, who neither made nor answered inquiries, and 
 of wliose mission James could collect no farther indication 
 than that he spoke in a \ii\\i-Eiiglified way about " dis, an 
 dat, and de oder ting." 
 
 Thus circumstances stood at Drumscanlon, on the day 
 preceding that which was destined to involve, in so singu- 
 lar a corijecture, the fortunes of so many characters in out 
 history.
 
 454 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 CHAPTER XJII. 
 
 BraianHc 'My daughter, my daa;;h*er 
 
 Spva!o9S. — Dead ? 
 Brabati'.io. — To me. 
 She is stolen from me ! — 
 
 Othello. 
 
 The day following was (as the readpr has already been made 
 awaiYy the Elia-na-Shaun, or the Eve of St. John's-day. a 
 festival which is celebrated iu Ireland with peculiar devotion. 
 The people have a mimber of traditions ciinvnt among them, 
 relative to t!ie origin of many of the ceremonies peculiar to 
 this vigil (one of the most remarkable of vvhicli latter is, the 
 lightiug up of fires on the mountains, and indeed ia all parts 
 of the countiy about even-fall — tiie appearance of which on 
 this night occasioned so much terror to the Coiner). It is 
 believed by some that the ceremony is riothiug more than a 
 reiic of the idolatrous worship of the aboiigines of the s mII 
 — while a greater number of the peasantry suppose that they 
 commemorate by those nocturnal illuminations, a general 
 massacre of the ancient enemies of the land, the unfortunate 
 Danes, wiio were (as the cottage hi>torians assert) all slaagh- 
 tered one tine summer evening (the signal for the general up- 
 rising of the ojjpressed natives being a ninnber of b 'aeon 
 fires, lighted on every hill, hillock, mount and mountain 
 thionnhotit the coun ry) — -and who have 1 ft no other in ■- 
 morial of their deaily purchased conipiot in this still un- 
 subdued, though often conquered island — than the ruined 
 Z/s/i, or fort, through whose woody covering the night wind 
 sighs above their bones — or the moulder.d and almost rust- 
 eaten coin that is thrown up by the bidder or (juarrier in 
 the lonely regions of the inland — to furnish matter of spe- 
 3niaiion to some pantalooned and spectacled antiquarian ot 
 the P». I. A, — or Dublin Society. 
 
 The fires had already beca lighted on the fields adjacent
 
 TnE coixEK. 455 
 
 to Dmmppanlon, when Lilly Byrne, hnvin,^ dlscbargcil, as 
 •was her never-failing custom, all her hnusehokl duties to 
 the very letter — given the servants their diuner — cut out 
 tJie slim-cake for the evening — set some milk in a saucer 
 for the cat — counted all the linen into the press — seen the 
 ducks, hens, and chickens fed — the cows milked — the dairy 
 set in order — the garden-gate locked — the cutter printed — 
 the mouse-traps baited — and the dough set by the tire — 
 ■when Lilly Byrne, having discliarged, we say, all those 
 duties, sat in her chamber making her little preparations with 
 an aching heart, at her toilet, to perform a clieerl'ul part 
 among a small family tea-party, who were invited to spend 
 the evening at Drumscanlon. 
 
 Poor Lilly's toilet was not now a matter of very exces- 
 sive labour or concern to her. She was careful to omit no- 
 thing in the adjustment of her dress (a simple suit of mourn- 
 ing) which the general custom of the time rendered a-bso- 
 lutely necessary to prevent the appearance of affectation or 
 a disrespectful singularity ; but no adornment that a posi- 
 tive feeling of duty did not point out to her, was any longer 
 used. Human motive Avas now fatally quelled within her 
 besom, and she no longer felt those l.ttle struggles between 
 her love for things " lawful though dangerous," and her fears 
 of secret vanity, which had given rise to nearly all the trials 
 ot her giilish virtue, when there was a reasin why she 
 shordd look to pood advantage in other eyes than her own. 
 She rejected, therefore, the fine jet necklace whicii her 
 mother had left upon her table, and contented herself with 
 the plain silk libbon and black cross which lay near it, iu 
 one of the little recesses of her dressing-box. 
 
 In loitering among the now neglected trinkets which 
 ■were thrown together in the casket, she removed a piece ot 
 paper, folded, and marked on the outside in her own hand- 
 writing (as if by the way of index to the contents), with 
 the initials B. K. Those contents were a song adapted by 
 her lover to one of the old ballad airs of the counti-y, which
 
 45G SUIL DHITV, 
 
 Lilly had often sung to her harpsichord (when the young 
 gentleman was not present, for she was far too scrupulous 
 to flatter his vanity at any time by lettini;' him hear how 
 she honoured it) — and which, as Lilly did thiuk it worth 
 singing, we shall venture to trauscribe : — 
 
 THE WiiNDEKER'S RETURN. 
 
 I. 
 
 I've come unto my home again and fiad myseif alone 
 
 Til- friends I left in quiet tliere are perislied all and gone. 
 My father's house is teuantless— my early loves lie low! 
 But one remains of all that made my youthful spirit glow! 
 Wy love lies by the l;lushiug VVest. drest in a robe of green, 
 And pleasant waters sing to her and know her for their qiice:i : 
 The wild winds fan her lace, that o'er the distant billows coaid — 
 She is my last remaining love — my own — my island home. 
 
 II. 
 I know I've not the cunning got to tell the love I feel, 
 And few give timid truth the faith they yield to seeming zeal. 
 1 he friends who loved me, thouglit me cold, and fell off one by one 
 And leit me in my solitude to live and love alone. 
 But each pleasant grove of thine, my love, and stream, my fervjiil 
 
 know — • • 
 For there is no distrusting glance to meet and check its flow — 
 To every dell I freely tell my thoughts, where'er I roam, 
 How dear tliou art to tliis lorn heart, my own — my island homei 
 
 iir. 
 And when I lift my vnice and sing unto thy silent shades, 
 And echo wakens merrily in all thy drowsy glades, 
 There's not a rill — a vale — a hill — a wild wood or still grove, 
 But gives again the burning strain, and j'iekls me love for love. 
 Oh, 1 have seen the maiden of my bosom pine and die — 
 And I have seen my bosom friend look on me doubtingly — 
 And long — U long— have all my young atlections found a tomb — 
 Yet thou art all in all to me, my own — my island home 1 
 
 And now I bring a wearj' thing — a withered heart to thee-.- 
 To lay me down upon thj' breast and die there quietly. 
 I've wandered o'er — O, many a shore, to die this death at last — 
 Aad uiy soul is glad — its wish is gained, and all my toils are past.
 
 THE COINEB. "^^i 
 
 Oh, talvC me to thy bosom then, and let the spot of earth 
 Receive the wanderer to his rest, that gave the wanderer birth — 
 And tlie stream, beside whose gentle tide a child I loved to roam — 
 Now pour its wave along my grave, my narrow island home ! 
 
 The recollection of the circumstances under which Kumba 
 had placed these verses in her hand, threw Lilly into a 
 train of feeling which would have been dangerous to her re- 
 solution of meeting her mother's friends with a gay spirit 
 becoming the occasion — had not her meditations been in- 
 terrupted b}' the slight pressure of that mother's hand upon 
 her neck, as she leaned forward in her chair. 
 
 " Well, Lilly, my love, will you not come down ? The 
 company are waiting, and Mrs. Hasset has been askiiig for 
 you no less than three times. What ! you have been cry- 
 ing again, I declare ! Well, then ! then, to be sure, 
 now, Lilly !" 
 
 "Ah, mother, do not blame me. It is not for the Robert 
 Kumba that is now wholly abandoned to low courses, I 
 Aveep, but for liim who was so kind, so generous, so amia- 
 ble, so feeling ! Do not think that any degree either of 
 hope or of discontent mingles with my regret. I look upon 
 myself, on the contrary, as one who has been providen- 
 tially delivered from a veiled and certain danger. Neither," 
 she added, as she observed her mother's eyes glisten and 
 fill, " neither have I given up all hope even of this world's 
 happiness. Can it be criniinil, mother, in me to suffer 
 such a hope to mingle with those which are fixed where 
 they cannot change or darken ? Was it criminal in me, 
 just now, when I knelt bi;fore the Almighty, to offer up a 
 tear and a prayer tor hivi ; and to indulge the belief (illu- 
 sive perhaps) that even at that moment my sorrow might 
 have found its way to the throne of Heaven, and that some 
 single pang, some misfortune, some threatened danger, might 
 have been spared to my once-loved friend in mercy to my 
 agony ?" 
 
 The reader, who has accompanied Kumba through the 
 20
 
 458 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 ev( iits of tliis day, might perhaps have tolj Lilly a secret 
 oil this subject. 
 
 " i will own, mother," she continuecl, after a pause, 
 while the afflicted old lady endeavoured by caresses and 
 entreaties to console her, "that it cost me some siruggles, 
 and was a long wliile before I brought myself to make tlie 
 sacrifice of myself entirely thus — and if I do not deceive 
 my own heart — if indeed it is made, I have no merit iu 
 it — for it seems to me to be only the pressure of repeated 
 disaiipuintments iu my fondest Avishcs, that has at last con- 
 quered my obstinate will. You think me melancholy, now, 
 mother," she added, smiling with leal clieerfuluess, as she 
 looked into tiie eyes of her jjaient, "but indeed I am not. 
 I do not," i-he continued, smihng yet mure gaily, and he- 
 siiating a little, while she laid her finger un a boi rowed 
 volume of the letters of a cdebiated and titled authoress, 
 which were then creating a general sensa ion in EiigLnd, 
 (a sensation that time has little diminished) — " I do not, 
 at present at least, f el that mortilication which ihis lady 
 expresses at growing wiier every day and seein;;, like Solo- 
 mon, the vanity of all temporal concerns. And is not that 
 a great deal ? Come, moiher, you shall see that I can be 
 happy in spite ot my own peevish wishe.-^," and passing 
 her handki rchief over iier thin, white, and wasted, but light 
 andphasant countenanee, she paused one moment with 
 cla>ped hands 0:1 the tinv-hold ot the door, and niuved her 
 li|S as if to solicit ari increase of contentment and resigna- 
 tion ; after which she breathed one sliort sigh as a last tri- 
 bute to the dominion of melancholy for the evening, and 
 quietly followed her motiier. 
 
 Oue very brief but painful struggle only she had to en- 
 dure, when first the sounds of meniraent broke upon her 
 now unaccustomed car. It was the first time that any 
 number of frierids (lor relatives only, and those a few, were 
 invited) had met in that apartment since those two dear 
 ones had been lost to tnc cii^cle. Anotlier vigorous exer- 
 
 iJ
 
 THE COIXER. 459 
 
 tion, however, enabled our little heroine to recover her self 
 possession. 
 
 Tliere are few trials which the resiajned spirit has to en- 
 counter, more distressing than to find its fortitude mistaken 
 for real, positive happiness. Those who feel their consti- 
 tution sapped and shakon by some chronic disease, know 
 how dreary a thing it is to be congratulated by a friend on 
 their good looks — clapped on the shoulder — and told that 
 they are better than ever they were in their life ; while the 
 secret malady is silently eating away the foundation of their 
 existence within, and reminding them perhaps, at the veiy 
 instant that they make a ghastly effort to correspond wit!i 
 the gay and smiling countenance of their well-wisher — re- 
 minding tliem, by a new pang, of the deadly certainty of 
 their doom. Although Lilly Byrne had long since com- 
 pelled hei-self to refrain in all instances from a\iy act, word, 
 or look, which had no other oliject than that of attracting 
 pity to her sufferings (contenting herself according to the 
 precept of her religion, with having the Bi'lng that visited 
 her with these for their only witness) — still she could not 
 help feeling a certain blank and dismal solitariness of spirit 
 when her friends all rose and crowded round her as shj 
 entered, smiling, pressing her hand, and congratulating her 
 on her merry looks — when Mi-s. Hasset, a rather* subordi- 
 uite relative of the family, took her seat in Robert Kuniba's 
 o'd place, on the chintz-covered settee, and laughed, and 
 ^hook her head, and "knew it avouIJ not last, so she did!" 
 '• Time did wonders," the old lady slily insinuated ; and 
 though it was very true that — 
 
 " Love is longer than the way. 
 Love is deeper than the sea ;" 
 
 yet even the sea itself would run dry at last if the nvers 
 w ere cut off — and it Avould be a ver}' long way indeeii, that 
 did not come to an end or a turning, at any rate [this word 
 was prouounced with a very roguish emphasisj at some
 
 4G0 SUIL DHDV, 
 
 time or another. Lilly would forgot it all boforesheMas 
 twice marrie'd. Thare was Mrs. Blancy, mother to th« 
 lilaiieys of the Hill, some of wliom were there, silting op- 
 p'>site her — who went on jud in the same ivay as Lil/t/, 
 \,l:eia she was slicjhted by her first lover; nobody thought 
 she'd ever recover again, and see there slie was now, the 
 mother of a s-ct of fine young men as any in the three coun- 
 ties ; and the gran Imother of that little fat girl that sat, 
 looking shily round upon the couipany^ So let Lilly not 
 be down about it — for she had only to set her cap at the 
 right side of her head, to win a better offer than she had 
 lost tJie last trick. 
 
 Although Lilly endured all this martyrdom without a 
 singh' look or even wil'ul thought of impatience, we should 
 accad lier a degree of fortitude, perhaps beyond the reach 
 of sympathy' or truth, if we said that slie did not feel inex- 
 pressibly relieved when tlie entrance of the tea diverted liie 
 worthy JMrs. Hassett's attention from her and her sonows. 
 While the good lady was occupied in bestowing her ad- 
 miration on the transparency of the immerse china bowl — 
 the delicacy and shortness of the slim-cake — discussing the 
 respective meritsof the Cork and Limerick groceries — (Uncle 
 Cutlibcrtand herself having always a dispute on thissubjtict 
 whenever they met) — and deploring the economy of some 
 neighbouring family who never brought out tea to their 
 visiters at luncheon, a practice which the novelty of the 
 beverage in those days mule fashionable in the country 
 parts of Ireland — Lilly stole on to a group of grown girls 
 who were gulrrcd around little Blaney above mentioned, 
 some on their knees before her — others leaning on the back 
 of her cliair, and all joining in a request that she would 
 give them a song. 
 
 "VVheu Lilly Byrne approached her she looked with a 
 timid smile from beneath her brow, and said — " I'll sing il 
 you bid me, I will." 
 
 " I do, then, my little darling," said Lilly, kijsing her.
 
 THE COINR. 
 
 4G1 
 
 Tlie girl then plucked up coura<ie, arid chanted wltli a 
 trenmious litilo pipe, a piece of uiusery uamb\ -piunby, 
 Nvliich raij as follows ; — 
 
 I. 
 What are little boys made of — n:adt v/i 
 What are little bjys n;aJc! of? 
 Of snips ar.d snails 
 And pupi'.y-dog's tails — 
 That's what little boys are made of. 
 
 II. 
 What are little girls made of — made of? 
 What are little girls made of? 
 Of sugar and spice, 
 And all that s nice — 
 That's vvtiat little girls are made of. 
 
 Before the munnurs of approbation and encouragement 
 had subsided — and wiiile Mrs. Hassett was declaring that 
 the wef sonii>;tre.=s had a fine clear voice and a very good 
 ear, anu o'.igiit not to be neglected, the bttter ran over to 
 Lilly, and throwing herself into her lap, looked up in her 
 eyes and sayed, in her little brogue, "If you plase, I call 
 on 00 for a song, now." 
 
 " What C3i;g, my love ?" 
 
 "The songyou know yourself about 'Old time,'youknow," 
 
 Lilly had as lief, for certain reasons, that her young friend 
 had spoken of some other song — but seating herself im- 
 modiatelv at her harpsicliorJ, she complied with great sweet* 
 ness. We Happen to have a copy of the stanzas in our 
 possession ; — 
 
 Old times! old times! the gay old times 
 
 When 1 was young and free, 
 And heard the merry liaster chimes 
 
 Under the sally tree. 
 My Siiiidiiy palm beside ms placed^ 
 
 My cross apon my hand — 
 A heart at i .':,t withia ni}' breast, 
 
 liiid aiaishiue on the land ! 
 
 Old times ; old times !
 
 462 STJIL DQOT, 
 
 n 
 
 Jt is not that my fortunes tiee, 
 
 Nor that my cheek is pale — • 
 I mourn whene'er I think of thee, 
 
 Jly iarlinir native vale ! — 
 A wiser head 1 have, I know, 
 
 Than A\hen 1 loitered there-— 
 But in my wisdom there is woe, 
 
 And in my knowledge, care. 
 
 Uld times! old times t 
 
 ni. 
 
 IVe lived to know my share of joy, 
 
 To feel my share of pain — 
 To learn that friendship's self can c1oy« 
 
 To love and love in vain — 
 To feel a pang and wear a smile 
 
 To tire of other climes — 
 To like my own unhappy isle, 
 
 And sing the gay old times! 
 
 Old times ! old times I 
 
 IV. 
 
 And sure the land is nothing changed, 
 
 'the birds are siiiying still ; 
 The flowers are springing where we ranged, 
 
 '1 here's sunshine on the hill ! 
 The sally, waving o'er my head, 
 
 Stdl sweeth' shadf s my frame — 
 But ah, those happy days are tied, 
 
 And I am not tlie same ! 
 
 Old times! old times I 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh, come again, j-e merry times! 
 
 Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm — 
 And let me hear those Kaster chimes. 
 
 And wear my Sunday palm. 
 If I couhl cry away mine eyes 
 
 ISIy tenrs would flow in vain — 
 If 1 could waste my heart in sighs, 
 
 They'd never come again ! 
 
 Old times' dd times.
 
 THE COINER. 463 
 
 " Very well ! Sweetly sung indeed, Lilly," snid Mrs. Hns- 
 sett — "but I t'i'ink you used to sing it with more spirit long 
 ago. Tbcjast ti'nc I heard you I believe was when — " 
 
 " 0, no matter when, .Ma'am," said Lilly, laughing off 
 the frightful reminiscence, that the worthy old lady was 
 about to bhmder upon in her honest, plain way — " but I 
 must use my privilege." And wishing to stop the good 
 woman's tongue in one way, by employing it another, a 
 stratagem which she was the more induced to adopt, as she 
 knew that the very shortest of Mrs. Hassett's songs would 
 consume a considerable portion of the evening, shi; flung her 
 mantle in turn to that lady, 
 
 Mrs. Hassett's little melody completely disinclined the 
 company from any f irther amusement in the vocal way, the 
 more e?p cialiy as the night had fallen, in the meanwhile, 
 and the darkness was so great by the time she had wound 
 up the history of '• The lady of skin and bone," that tiie 
 company could no longer discern each other's faces. 
 
 " Lilly, my love, I think it would be almost time to get 
 the candies," said Mrs. Byrne. 
 
 " How suddenly the night fell !" said Mrs. Hassett. " It 
 looks as if we were to have a storm, and I brought nothing 
 but my pattens and cloak." 
 
 "Oh, we can manage that very well," said Mrs. Byrne. 
 " Well, Lilly, what about the candles ?" 
 
 " I told James to gi't them ready an hour since, mother." 
 
 " Ring the bL-ll for him, my dear." 
 
 Lilly did so. 
 
 " I don't know what keeps our uncle Cuthbert so late," 
 said Mrs. Byrne ; '' he was to have been here before now, 
 "We had all such laugliing at him the other morning, about 
 a bar'ain he made; with whom, gu/ss ?" 
 
 '• Oh, indeed, I heard of it — Man-y Mac 0' Neil, th? 
 gv.ld-H'ider. That was a prttv biisiii"ss." 
 
 *• He went oil' with two of the sub-s.-eriif's men this mor«
 
 464 suiL DHur, 
 
 nin;^ to look for the fellow. Eh ? Heaven preseiTe us ! 
 Was not that lifrhtning- ?" 
 
 " Oh, no — it was but the flashing of the candle-light 
 from the hall upon the tea-things." 
 
 " But there's no catulie-light in the hall, mother," said 
 Lilly, " or 'twould be here before now. I wonder why 
 James doesn't answer the bell." 
 
 " I'll be bou'.id," said Mrs. Byrne, " he's gone out to look 
 at the bonfires on the fiirzhill. Will you run down, and 
 see what keeps him, Lilly ? and take care now, not to hart 
 yoursi'lf with the bad step at the foot of the stairs, as you're 
 in the dark." 
 
 Lilly left the room, closing the door behind her. 
 
 Lnmediately after, the distant niutteriug of the thunder 
 placed Mrs. Byrne's conjecture out of the reach of all doubt. 
 The conversation of the company became hushed and bro- 
 ken — and confined altogether to cbservatious on the eflect 
 of the chang '. 
 
 The door again opened and shut. 
 
 " Well, Lilly, where are the candles ?" said Mrs. Byrne, 
 " Is JmiQs below ?" 
 
 There was no answer. " Who was it came in ?" said 
 Mrs. Byrne. " Ah, come now, Lilly — no tricks, if you please. 
 This is no time for joking. Why don't you answer girl?" 
 
 Tlie handle of the door again turned — and again it was 
 shut fast. 
 
 " Bless me !" exclaimed one of the young ladies, starting 
 from hi'v cliair, and clasping Mrs. Hassett's shoulder, 
 
 " What's the matter, you foolish child?" 
 
 " O'l, M I'am," the girl replied, panting with fear, " I 
 — I do I't kno.v — but som.-thing brushed close by me." 
 
 " Pooh ! — nonsense !" said Mrs. Byrne, picvishly. 
 "Well, Lilly, my la !y," she added gaily, while lier heart 
 fallid ht-r, " I'll pay you for this. You're a pretty girl, to 
 oblige me to leave my guests."
 
 THE COINER. 465 
 
 So snylng, Mrs. Bjrne left the room, the gnests remain- 
 ing hushed in an anxiety which their hostess's aflected levity 
 did r.otat all tend to alleviiite. 
 
 In a few minutes, Mrs. Byrne re-entered with a light — 
 her countenance being moved with an expression between 
 vexution and real terror. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she snid hurriedly, " but I see 
 this girl is determined to play the fool to-night. She has 
 hid herself somewhere or other," she added, farcing herself 
 to believe what her heart and her knowledge of Lilly's cha- 
 racter ought to have prevented her admitting for an instant. 
 
 Tiiey all proceeded to search the louse. The hall door 
 was found open — the wind and rain driving in, and wetting 
 the large arm chairs that were placed beneath the hat-racks. 
 But Lilly ^^as no v,-here to be seen. 
 
 The silence, the suddenness of this disappearance, had 
 something supernatuml in it. It was a long time before 
 tiie wretclicd mother would admit the reality of her mis- 
 fortune ? but when, at last, it burst upon her mind so for- 
 cibly as to break down all tie o] po.-ition which her fears 
 h;id raised against the conviction, the scene which Drum- 
 scanlon presented was such as no one, who had witnessed 
 the quiet, social e;ijoyinent of the family party an hour be- 
 fore, could possibly have anticipated — the guests hurrying 
 10 and fro, or standing still and staring on one anoiher in 
 silent astouisliment, while the poor distracted hostess, for- 
 going ali the ceremonies of her station, has. sued from room 
 to room, mingling her heavy sci earns of terror with the 
 pealing of the thunder, and clasping her hands, witli the 
 action expressive of deep afllicliou which is so peculiar to 
 Iter couiitrj. 
 
 20*
 
 466 suiL Diitrv', 
 
 ClIAITEil XIV. 
 
 " O smite softe, sire miue," quod she. — Chaucer. 
 
 The reader, however, can learn but little of the causes of 
 tbis cl)an<;-e by remaining to witness the affliction of the 
 good old lady. We shall, therefore, once more, venture to 
 j)inion the wings of old Time, while we relate an incident 
 that may assist in exjilaining them. 
 
 Mrs. Byrne evinced nothing more than an acquaintance 
 with the character of her servant, James Miliil, when she 
 supposed that he had been seduced into a neglect of his do- 
 mestic duties on this evening, by a curiosity to witness 
 and participate in the festivities of the Eha-na-Shaun. 
 Having, as he imagined, comj)leted all the offices which 
 fell to his share, on the occasion, seen the party fairly es- 
 tablished at tea — the griddle laid aside to cool — the turf- 
 basket outside the parlour-door, replenished with good hard 
 sods, broken small so as to take the fire kindly — the silver- 
 plated candlesticks nicely polished, and set in order on the 
 kitchen-table — so that if any unforeseen misfortune should 
 detain him, Miss Lilly should have nothing more to do than 
 to light them with the twisted touch paper he had placed 
 near them : having taken all these precautions, and, more- 
 over, unlooped from the wall above his own settle-bed a 
 small bottle of last Easter Sunday's holy water, which he 
 preserved with an economical reverence, s]>rinkliiig his 
 fore-head with the consecrated li(iuid, and left the house, 
 not without keeping a wary eye about him as he jiroceed- 
 ed, lest some evil disposed spirit of the night should take 
 him at an advantage. 
 
 Within a few hundred yards of the house, lay a large field 
 which was allotted to a few ccllcp of cattle, as gi'azing 
 ground, in extent being greauly disproportionate to the quan- 
 tity of its herbage ; a circumstance which was in some mea- 
 sure accounted for by the number of furze bushes which
 
 THE COINER. 467 
 
 were sc-itterad over it. The nipht was alrc:uly dark, before 
 Jair.es descendel the e;irilieni slild wiiich led inro ihe tielJ 
 — and the brilliancy of tills iiitle district in itself, made 
 tiie gloom of the surrounding lieavens stdl more dense and 
 impenetrable. The bushes had ije^n set on fire, at various 
 cornel's of the field, and were noiv crackling and blazing 
 away witii gi-eat fury. The herdsman of the farm and s-onie 
 cf his retainers, with lighted fci;j;gots in their hands, wera 
 chasini;- the cows back and forward making them some- 
 times leap in theii desp 'ration over the flames, and burning 
 the hair on their sides with their faggots — a iractice which 
 is supi'O^ed to avert thi cu'-se of barrenness in the herd. 
 After exchanging a ?alij*^atiov and a few ready joke-i with 
 the men, James proceeded slowly, his hands behind his back 
 and a broad grin of admiration on liis tl-atures, towards the 
 central bonfiie of the field. 
 
 Wiiile he stood gazing on the blackened trunk and boughs 
 of the burning shrub, the flame, as it were, iiollowing out 
 a duelling for itself in the centre, while ic left the green 
 and b'.ossomy texture overhead yet un'njured, his attention 
 was attracted by the approach of two strange men, who 
 seemed as if they had been exhausted by a long and rapid 
 j jurney on foot. One of them was a tall, awkwardly built 
 fellow, to whom James did not pay any particular attention! 
 but no the other — a low, tliin-taced lad, with the p.itclicd 
 and curduroy trowsers turned up on his bare le^s, he couM 
 not avoid fixing his eyes, wiih a certain misgiving that ho 
 had seen the face under suspicions circumstances, some- 
 wlieie or another, before. The usual gr^e ing having p..s- 
 BeJ between both parties — 
 
 " A smart evei;en, S'r," said the leaser of the two. 
 James accorded an assent. 
 
 " We made so bold, Sir," ha con:inued, very respect- 
 fiilly, "to step out of the high road — a bad night coniea 
 on — an' to ask lave, Sir, to stand iiere. Sir, be the hve, to 
 tnke a haic o' de blaze agen thi; road, Sir."
 
 4rfi8 SO I. Duvr, 
 
 " You're liindly wflcomo," s;ntl J.-iiucs, " v.itliuut sirring 
 tlie likes o' me at nil so niiicli abinit, iC 
 
 " Thank V, Sir, Mac !" 
 
 "Aih?"' 
 
 " Where's de dram-bottle ? De joutleman '11 give us de 
 liberty o' de fire a while." 
 
 " Here's the bottle. Will you take a taste ?'' 
 
 " Why den dat I will so, you may take your bihle oat 
 of it. But stay, aisy a miiiit," [uncorkiiiir the flask, wiping 
 the jole with the sleeve of his coat, and handing it most 
 politely towards James, who continued eyeing him with 
 great suspicion] — " may be you'd like to try what's inside 
 of it. Sir?" 
 
 " No, no, we're obleest to you !" said James, waving him 
 off, with a degree of sullenness which lie thought tlie free- 
 dom wari'anted. 
 
 The refusal did not a]ipear to break the heart any more 
 than it lessened the spirits of the stranger, who immedi- 
 ately took upon himself the task which James had declined, 
 and pel formed it with evident satisfaction. 
 
 " I don't blame any man for liken his own best," said he, 
 fixing his eyes with a knowing leer upon James's bottle. 
 
 "O then indeed you're out there, for all!" returned 
 James, " I wasn't so fond o' meself, that way. Its only a 
 drop o' somethen I brought with me, in case any thin bail 
 would be there before me." 
 
 " Poh ! sure 'tisn't to night dey have any power at all, 
 ^only ilolland-tiye, and the Inhiad low-onthina?" 
 
 " C) iss, beggen your pardon, and to night also" — said 
 James, who piqued himself on being a kind of authority in 
 all su[)erstitious matters — "as I," he added with a myste- 
 rious nod, and compression of the lips and eye brows, " have 
 good reason to know. To-night isn't so bad as UoUand-tide 
 for 'em, but still they do be there for all." 
 
 "I wonder who dt^y are dat do l)e dere at all." 
 
 " Vaarious sorts, they say. The d/iina mauAa, or good
 
 THE COINER. 4G9 
 
 pro|,K% tlmt is tlie fallen ano^els that was almost lost, for- 
 merly, and ninst roinain that way, Heaven save the mark, 
 'till the day o' jiidj^'niint, and more o' them the souls o' 
 those that arn't bad enough for the great purgatory, and 
 must be doen pinence that way upon the earth — wanderen 
 over and hether, some without air a head on 'em, and more 
 this way an' that, until their time is expired, and others of 
 'em tliat arn't buried in consecrated ground, and more that 
 has debts upon their souls, an' things that way." 
 
 " I wonder now," said the little stanger, " would purga- 
 tory be as hot as that fire ?" 
 
 " It's not a point o' faith with iiz Catholics to say what 
 sort purgatory is, whether 'tis hot or cold — or what is ttie 
 nature o' the punishment that's there — but it's great, surely. 
 I hear of a man that was lying once u}ion a sick bed, pray- 
 ing, and an angel coom an axed him would he rather have 
 seven years' sickness o' that nature, or three minutes in pur- 
 gatory. 'The three minutes then, to be sure,' says he. 
 Well and good ! he wasn't one minit o' that in purgatory 
 when he cried out, ' murther,' says ho, ' I was only to 
 be left three minits, an here I am three hundred years al- 
 ready." — See what it is ! — 
 
 " See what it is, why !" replied the other, who had sid- 
 led closer up to the speaker, and before James had power 
 to enforce the moral of his anecdote, he found himself on 
 the flat of his back — a great bundle of hay stuffed into his 
 mouth, so as nearly to smother him, while the foolish-louk- 
 ing fellow whipt out of his pocket the key of the hall-door. 
 He could neither stir nor groan. 
 
 "Drag him o' one side out of the light," said the latter 
 — " the boys are laving the field. Let us get into the dark 
 until they pass. Cry out, Sir, if you like. Pigs may 
 whistle, but they have very ugly mouths for it." 
 
 They moved on, and James had the cruel mortification to 
 see the herdsman and his companions saunter slow ly along 
 within fiftv yards of them, towards their own homes — ma- 
 
 L:
 
 470 SUIL DHUV. 
 
 hinii some observations on th^! chan^P which was just bo • 
 eiunin;; to take place hi tho mtrnl. They loitered an in- 
 stant abont the tire, uhere James and his unwelcome visiters 
 bad been standing — held out their hands as a hi-sing sound 
 111 the circle of flame led ttiem to suppose that the rain had 
 already commenced — and then walked off and disnppeared 
 in the darkness, to seek a remedy in the luxury of slumber, 
 lor the weariness of the evening's pastime. James felt his 
 heart die away within liim, as their voices grew faint in the 
 distance, for, always disposed to overrate any peril in which 
 he happened to be placed, he thought he had no further 
 chance of deliverance from the blood-hoauds into whose 
 hands he had fallen. 
 
 " Here is the key, Awney," said the taller of the men ; 
 "now where are you to meet Suil Dhuv?" 
 
 " Here, dis way — near to the path, down the field — so 
 that the horses won't miss us. Drag this gomeril after us." 
 
 While they were hauling the poor unresisting James 
 along the ground, in that fashion which Teague, in the Com- 
 mittee, calls an Irish sedan, the thunder-storm coaimenced 
 in good earnest — and the sound of iiorses' hoofs ringing 
 against the hard field, was heard plainly, at a distance 
 which rapidly dimini-^hed. 
 
 " Here dey come !" said Awney ; '' he told me to be 
 before him an' try a trick o' dis kind. Little he thought 
 we'd have it doon so aisy." 
 
 At the same instant the f(mr horsemen whom they ex- 
 pected, came on at full speed, and bolted upon the footman 
 at so perilous a proximity before they reined up, that the 
 foremost animal sunk his houf deep into the soil within an 
 inch of the head of the prostrate domestic, who was unable, 
 even by a groan, to make them aware of his danger. 
 
 '* AVho's there ? Maney ? Fanel? Well? what have 
 you done ?" 
 
 ''Wliist? Coom down o' your iiorse, and seel" 
 
 oail Dhuv dismounted. 
 
 J
 
 THE COINEB. 471 
 
 " Ay, well (lojie ! Awne}-," said he, when the latter haj 
 pnt him in possession of the wii ole of their proceedings— 
 " Now, let rae see ! My lads, wliich of you knows Driim- 
 scanlou house ?" 
 
 " I remeiviber every twist and turn of it," said Awney, 
 " since I gev deletter dat night to this nat'rel on de ground." 
 James groaned in heart at the reculleciion. 
 
 " Very well, Awney — since I have got the key, I will 
 require little assistance. So do you, lads, ride hard and 
 fast over the commons, to the Corig-on-dliiol, for fear we 
 miss the other prize. They must have foundered by this 
 time." 
 
 Mun Malier and his two companions rode off, seemingly 
 well Content, d. 
 
 " Jlaney," continued the Coiner, " take the reins of my 
 horse, and stand close, to your prisonei*. And now Awney, 
 the key, and follow me ! It anything should happen, Maney, 
 you know our signal," 
 
 They went off together towards the hou?e, leaving James 
 in a state of mind which may pjssibly be guessed at, when 
 we say that the very gentlest idea he had of their inten- 
 tions wa^, that they were about to set fire to the dwelling, 
 and rob and murder every individual they Ibund undei' its 
 roof. 
 
 A quarter of an liour elapsed, during which James suffered 
 a degie; of the torture of the poor man, the story of whose 
 fortunes had betrayed him into a forgetfulness of liis own 
 persuual safety, and whom, for his innocent agency in his 
 nii.«funune, James was once or twice inclined, notwiths:an l- 
 ing his Catiio ic principles, to wish in a wor.-e place. His 
 aguny of suspense, however, was only changed for that of de- 
 spair, when he beheld Sail Dhuv returning in haste with the 
 form of a female in mouruiug, which he was not long in re- 
 cognising, hanging on his shoulder, stretching her hands back 
 in silence towards the house, and struggling violently, but 
 veiy vainly. When they came near, he perceived tue oc-
 
 472 SUiL DKUV, 
 
 casion of her silence. A heavy cotton handkerchief was 
 tied over her mouth. 
 
 " Loose the gag, uow, Awn^j," exclaimed Suil Dhuv — 
 "nobody will hear her squalls now. Stay, I'll do it my- 
 self." And setting down his wretched prey, he slipped the 
 knot of the handkerchief, as the turgid and blackening face 
 and staring eye of the prisoner advertised him of the necessity 
 of using some expadition. The instant the obstruction was 
 removed, a shriek, as wild and piercing as female terror 
 ever uttered, burst from the disf anchised throat, and died 
 away in the horrid gurglings of suffocation, as the rudian, 
 startled by the sound, griped the poor girl's throat hard, 
 cursed, swore at her, and even had the brutality to clench 
 his rough fist, and raise it as if to strike her on the flice. 
 
 " Come, gi' me the horse here, Mauey. Be silent, I 
 warn you, if you value your life !" 
 
 '• I do not value it, rutiian!" she exclaimed, renewing 
 her cries for at^sistance — " I will not stir ! Stand back, 
 coward and villain that you are ! 0, have I no friend in 
 hearing ? Am I quite deserted ? IK-aven, hear me !" 
 
 " Here, put this loody about you, miss, an I be quiet, 
 that's what you'll do," said Suil Dhuv, attempting again 
 to force her ou the horse, while the animal becoming res- 
 tive at the fearful sounds \\i;h which his ears were assailed, 
 increased his difficulty and his impatience. 
 
 " Lilly Byrne !" exclaimed t:.e exasperated Coiner, 
 " do you remember the nooe that warned you from the 
 sally grove. It is the same friend that wishes to save 
 you now." 
 
 '' 1 want no friends'iip like this. If danger threatens 
 me, let me meet it by my mother's side. If I am to die, 
 let me perish under my own roof. I will not stir from 
 this ! I will not go with you !" 
 
 "You shall, by \" 
 
 " I will not stir ! Help, Heaven ! Heaven, do not 
 forsake me now ! my L )rd, whom I have served, must
 
 THE COINES. 479 
 
 this happen while yoTir lightnings are about hs ? hear 
 Lie, my last ami first frieiid! Do not tors ike me; strike 
 the rutlian — or strike vie from his horrid grasp. Ha ] 
 help — I am heaid. Tiiey are coming — help — help !" 
 
 Heaven did hear her. A horseman dashing furiously 
 to vard them through the heavy rain, intercepted the flight 
 of the Coiner. It was Robert Kumba. He sprung from 
 his horse, and called in a hoarse voice on his enemy to 
 stand. Lilly, recognising him, with a cry of joy, ran 
 towards him with outstretched arms. 
 
 A bullet from the holster pistol of the Suil Dhuv was 
 swifter in its course than she. The space was empty where 
 she should have found her lover, and before she could dis- 
 tinctly comprehend the accident which had occurred, the 
 arm of the ruffian had again encircled her waist. 
 
 Again slie renewed her cries of fear and agony, and 
 agnin they were heard and ansAvercd. The thick and 
 l.usky voice of a man was heard at the upper end of the 
 field, fulminating a volume of threats at some person mIio 
 obstructed his pass :.ge, and who, by t'le fierceness and 
 loudness of her shrieks and entreaties, showed that Lilly 
 Byrne was not the only female sufferer in the affray. At 
 the same instant James succeeded in liberating himself 
 from the trammels in which JIaney had bound him. He 
 started to his feet — threw his arms out from his shouldert 
 as if to assure himself of his recovered freedimi, tlien, by 
 Avay of an introductoi-y feat to the exploits which he medi- 
 tated, he clenched his fist, capered into the air with a 
 " Hoop ! whishk !" and descending \\\t\\ the whole weight 
 of his jierson upon the gaping and astonished gold-finder, 
 bettoAved him a blow on the timple that speedily rendered 
 him indifferent to the whole ati'air. 
 
 While he paused, a little aw-e-strnck by the elevated 
 jnstol of the Suil Dhuv, the strugglers in the dark :;p- 
 proached more near. The Coiner grew pale and red by 
 uirus as he recognised the voices.
 
 454 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 " Hie very graves Avill give up their dead to save you 
 nizvr lliis," he exclaimed. " I believe you're charmed 
 No matter. It was well I took enre of the pistols and 
 animunitioii. Up ! iu spite of " 
 
 " Drag — tear her from nie 1" roared the Pahitiue, call- 
 ing to James, who was hurrying towards them, "she 
 would abet the murder ! Let free my arms ! Look ! He 
 is on horseback — he's gone — escaped !" 
 
 " Do not go ! — mercy ! — husband ! fly ! — have mercy 
 on me ! I will not quit liim ruflian !" The woman conti- 
 nued, struggling wildly, as James tore her from the old man 
 and hurried her away to a distance from the place — " my 
 good man, Heaven will bless you, and let me go and sepa- 
 rate them ? They are my husband and my father ! Hea- 
 ven bless you and do ! Heaven bless you and — You villain 
 let me go ! They will murder each other ! — Father ! My 
 father ! Have mercy on me, father ! Hun ! run for your 
 life, Denny, honey, run !" 
 
 Before the first sentence of this speech was uttered, the 
 two enemies had confronted each other in silence. A p;de 
 grim smile, which showed more ghastly in the reddish light 
 of the now subsiding fires and the momentary flashes of ti.e 
 lightning, showed the deadly satisfiiction which the old man 
 felt in the encounter. The hatred of his qniagonist was 
 not less apparent, but tliere was a degree of quiviring in- 
 secuiity about the muscles of his face, Mhich signified ti'at 
 the encounter perplexed at least as much as it gratified 
 him. 
 
 " I thank Heaven, ]\Iacnamara — we are met, at last," said 
 the o'd man. "Give up that lady — and come with me — 
 quietly." 
 
 Sail Dhuv eleva'ed his pistol, sheltering the lock cautiously 
 v,iili liis hand, but having only one shot remaining, he felt 
 that it would be more prudent to husband it. " 1 do not 
 w ant your life," said he, " stand o' one side, and let me 
 pass."
 
 THE COINEB. 475 
 
 *' I warn yon to stand back," said the old man. *' In the 
 name of the king, whose laws you have broken — I arrest 
 you for a prisoner." 
 
 " You h;id better not mind it," said his enemy. 
 
 "Villain," continued the Palatine, "your hour is come. 
 I took you into my house and into the bosom of my family, 
 when the whole world besides had cast yon off, and the 
 gratitude you showed me was to render my condition as 
 desolate as your own. I have hunted you out to bring your 
 deeds home to your door — and the Almighty has delivered 
 you into my hands at length." 
 
 " Yes," replied the ruffian, warmly — " you took me into 
 your hoiise, to thrust me out again more destitute than ever. 
 You threw temptations in my way that man could not re- 
 sist, anJ beggaieil me for yielding to them. When 1 left 
 your house, 1 had done you no injury — your benefits I had 
 paid witii my labour — I sought to do you none — I lived an 
 easy life with my brother, and might be living with him 
 stid, if you anil yours had not risen up against us to divide 
 and persecute us. Ye murdered him among ye — and ye 
 left me without a friend in the world. Take the fruits of 
 your labour ! You ruined me — I hated you — and I hate 
 you still — but I am satisfied with the revenge I had — I tell 
 you again I do not want your blood. You have but a little 
 to spare, and if you'd keep that little, you'll stand aside and 
 let n>e go my ways." 
 
 '• Daring and hardened wretch," exclaimed the Palatine 
 — "you may well say that you have been satisfied. If 
 blood was wanted to content you, you have had enough." 
 
 " Come — come," said Macnamara inipaiiently — '• I don't 
 understand you, but 1 have no time to bid you explain your 
 meaning." 
 
 " Advance at your peril ?" 
 
 "What rasin iiave you to me, Mr. Segur ? I tell you 
 'tis better to let me go." 
 
 "jSu reason, certainly," exclaimed the old man — " give
 
 476 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 me back the old blind man you murdered first — and then 
 give me my daughter — aad you m.iy go your ways in 
 peace." 
 
 " — poh ! how do you know I had any call to the dark 
 man — and as for Sally — sure there she's v/estwards in the 
 fields ; take her — and welcome. Keep out o' my way now, 
 I'd advise you. Ha 1 ha ! — if you think it's that I mind !" 
 checking his horse, as the Palatine presented a pistol, and 
 gathering the now insensible Lilly closer to him, as he pre- 
 pared to set h-is foot in the stirrup. 
 
 "Poor duped, deceived wretch!" cried the Palatine — 
 " once more I bid you stand — Advance, and you are a dead 
 man !" 
 
 " Poh— fire and " 
 
 The oath was never finished. The old man discharged 
 his weapon, and darted forward to preven a return of the 
 fire. The horse at the same instant reared back on its 
 haunches so as to entangle the foot of the rider in tlie stir- 
 rup, and then plunging furiously forward, dragged him a'ong 
 the groand until both were oat of sight. The young lady 
 was snatched from beneath the very feet of the terrified 
 animal, as they were about to descend upon her, by James ; 
 while the Palatine and the remainder of liis party, who only 
 now rode up, hastened in the track of the flying animal, 
 with lighted faggots in tlieir hands. They found the 
 wretched man lying on his back on a heap of stones (some 
 of which were smeared with blood and battered flesh), gasp- 
 ing in the agonies of death. He waved his bauds and 
 outstretched fingers before his face as the dazzhng red- 
 light of the crowed torches flashed upon his eye-balis. A 
 frightful convulsion, first of terror, and then of hate, passed 
 over his countenance, as the Palatine passed throug.i tlie 
 strong light and gazed down upon hi.n, after wliich 
 thj working of his jaws grew more painfully stiti' aril dif- 
 ficult — his person writhed in agony — a sui\ering passed 
 throu^ih liis linibs — the death foam oozed over bis teeth 
 
 .J
 
 THE COINER. 477 
 
 and lipp — th" F-oin*-, that seemed to cling with a (lefpcrnt'? 
 coiit^c'K'U.^ness to its claj-, as its last liold, was forced abroitii 
 to enci iinier tl e ruin it Lad ejivncd for ifjelf^ — and tiie book 
 of its niortal ciin.es and sufa-iiu^s was closed and sealed lor 
 the judgment. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 «' Where is the life that I led?" 
 
 The silence, which the fearful dentli of the mnrclerer had 
 imposed on the party who accompanied the Palatine, was 
 nnlrokcn for many seconds. They gazed on the shattered 
 body and on one another, as if the extreme horror of tlie 
 occasion had lift them unable to form an unassisted conjec- 
 ture on the course which should be puisned. The old muii 
 was the first who spoke. 
 
 "My ))nrt in this deed," he said, han(''ing tliedischnrgcd 
 pist'il to Mr. Cut! ber(, Avho had just tlien ridden up, "may 
 be called in question. I am your prisoner, and ready to 
 answer for what I have done. Cover him ! cover him ! 
 in meny," he added, as one of the men stooped down ap- 
 parently with the intention of removing the body — then 
 flinging his own great coat over it, while he averted his eyes 
 in strong dislike and compassion blended — a feeling which 
 the pitiable appearance of the unhappy wretch, who had, 
 but a few moments before, stood erect in the daring and 
 dreadful defiance of desperate guilt, could not but excite 
 even in the bosom of those whom he had most deeply in- 
 jured — "I never, before this hour," the old man continued, 
 " drew one drop of b'o d, knowingly, fiom the smallest crea- 
 ture the Almighty ever endowed Avith life — and I like not 
 the look of this well enotigh to believe that I can be 
 tempted to a second trial. If my human passion," he
 
 478 SUIL DHU\', 
 
 adclc.l, Tmcovcrirg lils hrad in the rain, and lookincr od* 
 ^val•d, '* has h;id too large a part in the action which 1 have 
 done — may He forgive <iiid pity me." 
 
 '' Why should you be uneasy ?'' sp.id Mr. Cuthbert, 
 " there was no other course left, audyou only made justice 
 certain." 
 
 The old Pahitine shook Ids head, and replaced his hat 
 upon his brow, while tlie remainder of the spectators raised 
 the body for the purpose of removing it to the house of the 
 nearest cottager. 
 
 Slowly, and in silence, they took their way toward Drum- 
 Rcaiilon. They could perceive, by the rapid manner in 
 which the lights passed from window to window, that 
 the confusion, occaMoaed by the occur.inces of the last hour, 
 hvn\ no^ yet subsitled. The fla:;;>;ed floor of the h.all was 
 Wet with the dripping of liats U'.id great-coats, and two or 
 three of the guests, heedless of the pelting rain which sfiil 
 'cjcended, were engaged in whimpering consultation on the 
 gravel plot outside. As they passed the kitchen door, 
 they heard the voice of James Mihil, who, in the attitude 
 of a Demosthenes, was emplo\ed with all his might in 
 harangue'ng one of the Coiner's accomi)lices, the only one 
 whom they had succeeded in appiehending. 
 
 " Indeed you never '11 jjass the next assizes, so you may 
 make yoiu- mind aisy. Imleed, the hanguian '11 make his 
 pcrqniges* o' you, so he will." 
 
 " Don't be botherin me, I tell you again, you fool." 
 
 " Botherin you, indeed ! I wondther is it I or the hang- 
 man that '11 bother you most, you daaran villyan, to lay 
 hands on the young missiz. An that intricket little sjiris- 
 sawneen f tliat P^t the gag upon my mouth, wliat luck 
 we had not to lay hold of him ! — Fool, inah ? I won Ither 
 is it yourself '11 look most like a fool, when I'm readen your 
 last speech on a bit o' whitey-brown paper, iu the Irish- 
 
 • Perquisites. t Small fellow. 
 
 ,_J
 
 THE COINER. 479 
 
 town, an yon cntten cnpoars above on Gallows-green, wi;h 
 a henipen cravat about your neck, as proud as a paycock 
 spaken to nobody." 
 
 " 1 wisht," said the prisoner, " I did my mother's bidden 
 this evenen. I Avouldn't be where I am now. He's a fuol 
 that refuses the mercy of Heaven when it is offered him — 
 but it's too late to sp.'ak about it now." 
 
 Mr. Cuthbert here broke in upon t!ie dialogue to inquire 
 after the wounded Kuuiba and Miss Byi-ne, who were both 
 attended in separate apartments — and neitlierof whom had 
 yet fully recovered from the insensibility into which tliL-ir 
 sufferings had cast thein. — During the few weeks that wore 
 suffered to pass away, before the former was suflicieutly 
 restored to bear a removal to his own house, no communi- 
 cation more direct than an enquiry at second hand, pasted 
 between the friends — and Kumba left t'le home of his 
 mistress, without even the ceremoiiy of a formal jjartiiig. 
 
 This heroic forbearance was prolonged for many years, 
 during which, the character of the y<iung " midiile-m in " 
 appeared to have undergone a perfect change — a change 
 which communicated itself to his circumstances, and to the 
 property which he held. The dwelling-house gradually 
 put on a more civilized appearance, the stones w hicli covered 
 the grazing bind were removed and appropiiated to the 
 moie advantageous use of fences and boundaries. The 
 cattle began to look more sleek and c jmely, better pleased 
 with themselves and with the world around tiieni. The 
 barn and granary groaned beneath their burthens, the stroke 
 of the flail was heard incessantly throughout the autumti, 
 and the grating of cart-wheels over the we!l-grave!led avenue 
 scarce ever left the ear at rest throughout the day. Not- 
 withstanding all the hints that were dropped in his hearing, 
 of the satisfaction which these improvements had given in 
 a certain quan'er, Kumba was careful to aiistain from any- 
 thing that could indicate a premature anxiety to revive tlie 
 memory of departed hours, and he even chose, on Sundays,
 
 450 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 to attend a dinpcl which was near three miles from his 
 resilience, rather than hazard a renewal of the distractions, 
 which his prescnse at the parish place of wo -ship hid iu 
 old times, so frequently occasioned to another as well as to 
 himself. 
 
 Lilly, who?e pure and gentle h?avt would have been con- 
 tent to find its sole worldly enjoyment in hearing of the 
 happiness of one whom she loved with so disinterrested an 
 affiHtiiin, was more pl3as:'d than gri3ved at this privation, 
 and felt herself repaid for a'l the self-denial by the accounts 
 wiiich daily reached her (under the form of sly jokes and 
 hints frotii witty visitors) of Kumba's welfare — and by 
 an occasional exclam ition from James, thrown out iu au 
 accidental way, of "what a fiue man Master llobert was 
 riden into a fair in a morneu !" 
 
 Alas, for human nature ! alas, for f^end^hip ! alas, for 
 all that is sincere, and honest, and benevolent ! — it would 
 be we fear, a mourn!ul and huiuiliatiiig ta^k for the philan- 
 trophist, to analyze the motives even of the most seeming 
 amiable actions that pass around him, and discover how 
 few are affectionate, hu'v few generous, how few are com- 
 passionate, how few are humble, even of those who act 
 the parts, and imagine themselves to be what they ap- 
 pear. Our best friends, says a modern aphorist,* have a 
 jealousy even in their fneudship, ami if they hear us 
 praised, will ascribe the commeiidatiun, if tluy can, to 
 some interested motive. We app al to the reader, whether 
 he has noL frcquiuiily found thraugh life, that the mo>t 
 disagreeable intelligence has often reached him through tlu 
 medium of his kindest and most sympaihyzing acquain- 
 tance — and whether, in the fulness of an extatic heart, wlicr. 
 he sought that same kind friend, for the purpose of com- 
 municating to him a piece of sudden good foriune which 
 he had experienced, he has not often been met by somo 
 
 * The author of Lacon.
 
 THECOIKEP.. 4 SI 
 
 clilirn;; doubf, some frlontlly caulioas hint, which has hum- 
 bled his vain heart, aud 
 
 " _ though that his joy were joy, 
 Yet threw such changes of vexation oa it, 
 As it might lose some colour — " 
 
 and showed him at the same time, that the friends whose 
 sorrow went before his OAvn in tlie hours of despondency 
 and disnppointment, yet Hngered far behind him in the 
 sympathy of gratulation. We shall not stop to calculate 
 the number of those whose generosity mi^ht safely undergo 
 a test so severe, and peihap?, so uncliaritable. 
 
 Neither shall we examine whetlier the ^vortliy Mrs. Has- 
 set was one of the many vhose benevolence passes current 
 and unsuspected even by themselves ; or wlicther she were 
 influenced by any other impnlte than that which she her- 
 self believed to be the sole motive of her conduct--- a feel- 
 in;^ of unal'oycd good-nature and neiglibourly kindness — 
 when, arminjf herself against the inclemency of a misling 
 April morn, in cloak, pattens, and hood, she took her early 
 waj to Drumscanlon, to communicate and condole with the 
 o!d lady and her danghier, on what she conceived to be 
 a very hearl:-renning piece of news. 
 
 "A mo'st, sijft, morncn, it is. Ma'am," exclaimed a voice 
 that was familiar to her, as she slipped oft" her pattens oa 
 the steps of the hall door. '• Herself is in the kitchen gar- 
 den, westwards, walken ^^ith Mits Ldly — but I'll run an 
 call her to you, Ma'am." 
 
 "Do so, James. How is she ?" 
 
 "Ah, then, only poorly," James replied, leaning on the 
 end of the hoe with which he had been clearing away the 
 grass tufts fiom the gravel plot, and tossing his head Avith 
 a mournful significance. " The deafness is growing worse 
 with her — an she can't knit, nor do a hai'porth, the eye- 
 Eight is so bad. They got a sort of a little pochay for her, 
 a thing like a chair lor all the world, only wheels — with 
 21
 
 482 SUIL DHOV, 
 
 wnecls to it — so as that I draw lier about a piece every 
 nionipn — but I fear it's al no UfC. They got new spec- 
 tacles too, iu place o' the eyes — but when our legs, an' our 
 ears, an' our eyes are going fiom us in course o' natiue, 
 the art o' man wouldn't make us new ones." 
 
 Having pronounced this profound apostrophe, James 
 hurried towards the garden, while Mrs. Hasset adjourned 
 to the parlour, whei^e she occupied herself, until James's re- 
 turn, in regulating the furniture, whisking the dust from 
 the chimney ornaments, and lecturing the housemaid for 
 her negligence. 
 
 The indy of the mansion was, in the meantime seated 
 with her daughter in a small thatched sumpjer-house in the 
 garden. Age and sorrow had laid a heavy and visible hand 
 upon her frame; f.ud it was ^^ith some difficulty that even 
 Lilly Byrne could at all times succeed in awakening her at- 
 tention, so as to arouse her from the lethargic state into 
 which the wasting of nature's resources had reduced her. 
 
 "Come, now, you must walk, mother," said Lilly, pass- 
 ing her arm beneath that of the drooping lady, and lifting 
 her from the rustic ?eat ; "the raiii is over, and the sun- 
 shine will do you good. Only as far as the suu-dial anc' 
 back a gain " 
 
 They proceeded along the walk, the old lady leaning on 
 her daugiiter, and supporting herself on the other side with 
 the gold-headed oak stick, which had fur many years been 
 the companion of her husband's w alks. The change which 
 had taken place in the person of her daughter was also con- 
 siderable. Her shape, though less pliant and sylph-like, 
 had more of the majesty of womanhood about it, her step 
 was firmer and more easy, and her features, less delicate of 
 tint than in her early days, were covered with a peaceful 
 serenity that told of conquered sorrow, and the unrufileJ 
 calmness of a resigned spirit — like a bittle field over which 
 reiurning peace had thrown her miintle of rustic quiet and 
 abundance, without coijcealiug the graves of buried hopes,
 
 THE COIKEa. 483 
 
 aivd v&^jq«isfio(l pas?*onr,, that gave a sombre interest and 
 soie<ii!iity to its iovelincss. 
 
 " AVliat was it tlie visiters said yesterday," Mrs. Byrne 
 jnoiiired, in a taint tone, "that made yoJi all langh, Lilly? 
 \cu have not told me that yet, though I asked you three 
 time;'." 
 
 Lilly looked confused and hesitated, and her mother, by 
 a feeble, melancholy smile, showed that she understood the 
 cause of her embarrassment. 
 
 *' ril not ask you, Lilly," she continued, speaking with 
 difficulty. " I understand he is groatly changed. I wish 
 I could see you hap-y with him, Lilly, before I died." 
 
 J'efMe her daughter could reply, James had entered the 
 guden. The talent of this domestic did not lie in a very 
 ]i('rftcl dlscrimiiiaiion, and it was a fault which involved 
 liim in many a gen ile//'«cas with his "young mistress," that 
 he C'Uild ;it no time govern his voice to the proper tone Avhile 
 addressing Mrs. Byrne. He knew she was deaf, and, once 
 convinced of the necessity of speaking aloud, and being 
 wholly unacquainted with the effect of his own voice above 
 a certain familiar key, his gentlest communications frecpiently 
 operated on the nerves of the old lady with the influence of 
 a ga!v<-,n'c sh.ck. At the present moment, while she was 
 looking with some faint slyness of eye on the changing 
 countinnnce of her daughter, he approached her, unper- 
 ccived by either, ami, placing his lips close to her ear, thun- 
 dered into it, " Misthris liassit, ma'am, that's wantenyou, 
 av you plase." 
 
 But!) ladies turned suddenly, and beheld James standing 
 with his usual earnest gaze fixed upon tliem. 
 
 " 1 often spoke to you about that, James," said Lilly — • 
 " One would think you took a pleasure in startling my 
 mother. Tell Mrs. Hasset, your mistress will feel obliged 
 by her walkiiic; into the garden for a few minutes. 
 
 " 1 will, i\irris." 
 
 "Take a pleasure ! — Ah, fie ! Miss Lilly, I didn't thinkyou'd
 
 484 . SUIL DHUV, 
 
 eay that at all. I'm heavtbroAen with it for a stoiy ; what 
 am I to do at ailr If { speak ymili, I'm toalt to .'•po>k lip, 
 an' if I si)8ak up, I get crossness. V/oll, I'm soii);j. Miss 
 — 'twas uiikuounst I doiio it. To the gn-.len, I'll t^jll he-?"' 
 and away he strode, hunimiag to himself the populai- disticii. 
 
 "The finest cHvarsion that's under the sun, 
 Is to sit be the fire till the praties are done." 
 
 In a few minutes the ladies were joined by their good- 
 natured visiter, who, after the usual ceremonies of greeting 
 had passed, proceeded, witli a face of deep condolence and 
 satisfaction, strangely yet visibly blended, to unburden her 
 heart of its freig'itage of bad tidings. 
 
 " You have not heard the news ?'' she said, glan:ing at 
 *;')e ovos of both iicr auditors in turn. 
 ' What news ?" 
 
 " Well, I'm gl.id you have not yet Irard it, f )r I wis on 
 ■.feJnis for fear some thougiiile-s p.T^on would have blun- 
 dered upon it before you, without any preparation. You, 
 I am sure, Lilly," she continued, " liave too much good 
 sense to let it take hold of your mind." 
 
 Lilly paused fur a fe^' seconds while slie looki^l upon the 
 now serene and cloudless heavens, and then turning upon 
 the communicative lady an eye as liglitsome and as s niling 
 as the blue expanse itself, she repeated her interrogatory. 
 
 " Robeit Kuniba," said Mrs. h asset, dwelling on every 
 ^ord «ith the distinctness which the iinp:)rtance of the oc- 
 casion warranted — ''Uobert Kumba is going to be married!" 
 
 "Wiiat is it Mrs. Hasset says, my dear?" said Mrs. 
 Byrne to her daughter. 
 
 "Site says that Mv. Kumba is going to be married, 
 ina'ani," repliid the latter, smiling, and adapting lier voice 
 more judiciously than James had done to the con.lition of 
 the aged widow's auricular powei^s. 
 
 " Yes," Mrs. Ilasset couiiuued, a little annoyed by the 
 perfect equauiailiy wiili which her dislracdug iuleliigencd
 
 THE COINER. 485 
 
 was rccelvel bj tne party sTio consklcrcc? most interested, 
 '• I {>i\va_v3 suspected that it was not for nothing ail tliose 
 fine aiceradons vere taking place about his t'avin. It was 
 only yestenlny evening I learned that he had proposed for 
 Miss Jemima Blaney. She is a pretty girl, indeed, and has 
 a nice ready-money fortune, but I know where Mr. Kumba 
 might have a better clioice. However, that's past and gone, 
 now. If not a better, at least a fairer and more honour- 
 able one — that I will say. But youth — money and youth 
 are everything with tiie men in these days — g'rls begin to 
 be looked upon as old maids now, at an age when they 
 would be hardly suffered to go into company in my time." 
 
 The conversation was again interrupted by the entrance 
 of .James, wlio now approaclicd them with a double pro- 
 portion of importance and astonishment in his look and 
 manner. Not forgetful of his former error, he now com- 
 numicated his intelligence to Lilly, in a whisper which was 
 noi lost on the (juick ear of Mrs. Hasset. 
 
 " Ts it possible ?" she exclaimed. " How sudden. !" 
 
 " Not altogether so," said Lilly, endeavouring to com- 
 mand the agitation which made her frame tremble ; "he 
 wrote to my mother a few days since, and we appointec 
 this morning to receive him." 
 
 " Well, I rejoice most sincerely at it, indeed — and I wiL 
 not stay to encumber you \\ith my presence — for I know 
 how I felt on these occasions myself in my young days — 
 when poor Hasset — ah ! — well, good morning, Lilly, I'll 
 not detain yon" — then turning back as if struck by a sud- 
 den tliouiiht — "it would be as \\ell, perhaps, if you said 
 nothing of that report, as it happens to bo faL-e — and it 
 would only annoy the poor young man. Some malicious 
 person that set it afloat, I dare say, to make us uneasy." 
 
 As the good lady left the garden, she was met by a 
 gentleman in black, wi.h a long skirted coat and slashed 
 sleeves, acravat neatly edged with the finest Flanders lace, 
 a periw ig of reasonable conipais, surmounted by- a smal'
 
 486 sUiL 2nuv, 
 
 glo?sy hat, clorked silk stockings!, and sqnare-toed f^ljoes, 
 with neat siniill buckles — ail, in iact, tliat could be esteemed 
 characteiistic of gravity and respectabiiity united. He 
 bowed to Mrs, Hasset as he passed, and entered the gar- 
 den in some trepidation and anxiety. 
 
 " It is a bad sign to go a wooing in mourning," said the 
 hidy, shaking her wise head as she gazed after him. " I 
 hope no harm will come of it." 
 
 •' The stranger, in the meantime, pissed from the gar- 
 den to the summer-house, in Avhich Lilly Byrne ami her 
 mother were expec iiig him. Even his nv.uily iieart began 
 to f;iil him when he cauglit the tir^t glimpse of thfir mourn- 
 ing drapery through the scanty foliage of the sj ring lioughs. 
 Tue sorrows of the past — the afflictions which ids o.vn 
 «rantonness hid occasioned, rushed back upon his memory 
 in a daik and overpowering torrent, and uuns'rved his ro- 
 sokition. Some slight motion in tiie arbour, however, ro- 
 called !um, presently, to a sense of the necessity of self- 
 po.^session; j'.nd quickly arousing Idmselftrom hisde[tressioii, 
 he w;dked forward, without risking the return lA' his evil 
 recollections by a second pause. 
 
 It was an embirrassing meeting to all par'ies — tor the 
 will must always remain in a state of embarrassment where 
 the judgment and the aftections are at war, and neiilier can 
 :nd!cite the extent to which the otiier on;;ht to be indnl;.ed. 
 Natui'e, howevei', geueraliy asserts her own right to dictate 
 on such occasions. 
 
 Kumb;), with his eyes cast down, had commenced a con- 
 fused and hesitating speech abou;his "gratitude for the In- 
 dulgence which — " when sud' enly abandoning Idnisell'to 
 his natural feelings, he flung Inmseif with a burst of gilef 
 at the feet of ihe young laiiy, and exclaimed — " I cannot 
 do it I — Oh, Liih — Mis. Bvrne, say that von will forgive 
 me?" 
 
 The tears of the penitent did not fall done. MissByrna
 
 THJB COINER. 4S7 
 
 was ccmpolTcd in 'oer asif ntion to peek from lici- mot'icr tha 
 support which it was her wont to afford to trie old l.uiv, 
 while she ezerted herself to recover some degrees of calm- 
 Des?. 
 
 " Lot ns not distress my motlier," she said at length — 
 " onr answer to your letter must have shown you that our 
 hatred w-as not inveterate. Ah, Robert," !^he continued 
 with a smile — " we have both had cause enough to learn the 
 wisdom ot forgetfulness. Here is my hiind. Let us talk 
 no more cf the past, I am glad to see you." 
 
 In this position of af^'.iirs, we may be pardoned for suf- 
 fering a veil to fall over the group, -as \\e fear, with all his 
 benevolence, tlie reader would feel iiitle interest in fo io.v- 
 ing the parties through tiie pisaceful and unruffled history of 
 the fortunes of their latter tiavs. 
 
 lu less than ayear jifrcr this orcurrence,onr little heroine, 
 Lilly r.yrne, was rewarded for her constancy and her en- 
 durance, lltibi.'rt Kumba, was once more received as a 
 welojme guest at Dmmi-eanlon, and once more took iiis 
 place iit Lilly's woik-table. Again Lill}^ resumed her stout 
 fliiwer. d-i^ilk?, her checks recovered their bloom, and veri- 
 fied Mrs. Has-set's prediction that she would ''forget all be- 
 fore she was twice mariied." 
 
 I»Ir. Ciithbv'rr, nnhappily, never recovered his money, but 
 he had the satisfa tion ot lodging Maney in j til for the 
 swindiing, Mr. Shine (though at the evident risk of his own 
 lojjuta ion) undertaking to appear in corroboration — and 
 also of razing to the ground the hold of the gang, and tell- 
 ing the whole story (with no other variation than tint he 
 toitk care to make himself the hero of the nigiit) (mcii a 
 year at Drumscanlon, when he came for Lilly Kumba's tull- 
 boinids a'/aiii the fair of Cork. 
 
 " I declare, miss ma'am I mane, and I ax p:irdon 
 
 for the mistake," said James, as he wished the brido 
 joy after the ceremony had passed, " I declare I hid soo.u-
 
 488 SUIL DHUV, 
 
 tlien inwardlv, you see, that always told me tliis would be 
 
 the wav of it in the end " and here he pized at arnra 
 
 JLiigth upon the gorgeous favour which envtluped his own 
 hat. "To be sure 1 was, greatly frightened that niglit — 
 but, says I, taken lieart, what liurt? Av they don't burn 
 the house, we'll get help in time, please Heaven ; and I 
 took care they shouTnt do that, for I made the thatcher 
 put a big bit o' the luserathocaun (house-leek) in the 
 thalch, so as av they were setting tire to it from this until 
 to-morrow morning 'twould never light, any more than 
 the stone wall itself." 
 
 A shoit space may suffice to tell the fortunes of the re- 
 maining characters of our history. The unhappy father, 
 disappointed in all the expectations with which he returned 
 to his native land, and unwilling to live in the ruined cot- 
 tage where every object reminded him of some perished 
 friend or vani>hed hapjiiness of his youth, returned with his 
 widowed daughter to Germany, regretting from the very 
 core of his heart, the thirst of gain which had induced him 
 to commit to the uncertain keeping of a stranger the charge 
 of his domestic affections — ati'ections which he knew not, 
 until they were thus blasted, to have been so necessary to 
 his peace of mind. 
 
 His daughter followed him willingly. From the moment 
 of her husband's death, she never once uttered a complaint, 
 never once upraidi^d her father with the part he had acted 
 in the scene which we have just detailed, but seemed anx- 
 ious by her resignation and her affectionate devotion to all 
 his wishes, to blot away from his remembrance the record 
 of her early disobedience and ingratitude. 
 
 In this she was very successful, and both lingered out 
 the remainder of their days with as much quietude of spiiit, 
 as those who have nothing left on earth to wish or hope, 
 can experience. They never spoke of home or past times — 
 but their hearts had been too sorely smitten to permit them
 
 THE COIXF.R. 489 
 
 to seek refn2;e in tlie formjitioti of new attndiments from 
 the iiii-inorv of the old, Jiiul lost. Their hfo was lonely, 
 therefore, ihoiigh jieaceful. 
 
 The taleof SriL Dftuv owes its origin to an incident re- 
 lated in an old Magazine, wliieh ft'll into the hands of the 
 writer, at an early age. A traveller in a lonely part of 
 some conntry or another, stopped to dine at an iim on the 
 I'oad side, and afterward resumed his journey. 'Jbwards 
 midnight his horse having lost a shoe, lie knocked at a 
 biacksmith's forge, to have the evil remedied, 'i'he latter 
 giuiiilili-d miK-h at being disturbed, at such an hdur, but 
 was silent when the traveller handed him a guinea fi)r his 
 truuljle. Touelied liv this liberality, the blacksmith bade 
 the former turn back as there was danger on the road. 
 The traveller replied that he was well aimed and had no 
 fear. 'Jhe blacksmiih became urgent, and finding he 
 oould not prevail, bade the tiavelkr look to his pis- 
 tols. The latter to his astonishment found the charges 
 of both were drawn ! 'J"he blacksmith then showed him 
 the horse's hoofs, and let him see that the clenching of the 
 nails had been filed away, evidently, with the intent of 
 disabling the animal from continning the journey, beyond 
 a certain point. At the request of the traveller, botli 
 defects were remedied, and the hitter, in opjiosition to the 
 urgent entreaties of the blacksmith, continued his jour- 
 ney. Alx)Ut a mile from the forge he was encountered 
 by a Iiighwayman, who seized his horse's bridle, and bade 
 him deliver up his money. 'J"he traveller rapidly desired 
 the robber on ])enl of his life to let go the rein. 'J'he 
 latter laughed at his threats. 'j"he traveller presented a 
 jjistol, — the robber still mocked at him. The way-farer
 
 490 SUIL DIIUV, THE COINER. 
 
 at leno'th fired, nnd shot liis assailant lliroiigh (lie lioart. 
 He then alighted, ]ilaced the body across tlic saddle-bow, 
 and rode back to the forge, where by a light lie discovered 
 that the wretched highwayman was no other than the 
 landlord of the Inn, who had been long in concert with 
 the blacksmith, and made an easy prey of his guests by 
 the practice of rendering their jiistols useless. He fell a 
 victim in this instance, to his confidence in the infallibil- 
 ity of his own precautions, while the- traveller owed his 
 safety, to the liberality he manifested at the blacksmith's 
 forge. 
 
 THS EHD.
 
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