me Ne 2 : 3 ce Bek = . i ae : a oS ah ; . ee a a: faa University of Virginia Library ee a Z | PR1283 .I7 1881 ae oe : P : REE a ALD Irish fireside stories : tales a AX OUU &cb 240 | :LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA FROM THE BOOKS OF EMMA HARLANi en EE ANNE LIT et Pra easPurarays ee eetie 4 A a a aia x a | oe oe { hen , 4 A ao ~ J pes Se ee Soe Ie “ent i . x” * - a ae eh han eeeBe S \ N 8 os eR Bar eR EH SF: iN oe Sid = rs AL clad na Hea©) f-~ & ae 2) . A ~\ STORIES, INS & LEG is N NEW YORK: i Jj | / , 4 i a |ty hg ices AR I “ ONS . SES TS ese reset sipiak napapel a lee degther= eeDt oT FIRESIDE STORIES TALES AND LEGENDS. s\CNo S | 4. > _ o . Tt i 7 * . a ) , - . * . « ; . * . ° . a ° t t ; » a . t i a o * ° ( > I hy ° 2 ’ ° . o 2 a > . . . ° e e . | Ds - ~J] I Ne . ® 1% > (Illustrated) Page “I II4 1236 MuRDER WILL OUT, ; ; ; : . . Fox AND CAT HUNTING, : ; ; ; CASE OF ASSAULT AND BATTERY, ; ; ; ; Tur GHOST AND THE Two BLACKSMITHS. (Illustrated), Ture POTEEN STILL, , : 5 ‘ , ‘ THE MowIn’ MATCH, . A ; ‘ FAIRIES, OR NO FAIRIES, ‘ ; : PADDY CORCOKAN, . ; : ; ; ‘ A » MICKEY THE SPORTHEEN. (Illustrated), ‘ ; AN OCULAR DEMONSTRATION, ‘ 7 : A TROUBLESOME CUSTOMER, . ‘ : : THE Wipow’s Curse. (Illustrated), . : ‘ A SECRET WELL KEPT, . : ; . : : ‘ Tur ExcursIoN OF MALACHI O’NEIL, ‘ ; ; THE MIseR OUTWITTED. (illustrated), ; ‘ ; Barmy O’SHEA, AND THE JUSTICE OF KILMACSHOCKERY. First VISIr TO THE -PosT-OFFICE, é ’ 251 e ° e 271 ; 2u0 ° ’ ° 204 . . . 259 e ° 310 , ° 321 c . . » 329 ° © 330 oa 357 . 490 oT SG [1] ¢ »4 ] ( illustrated), » 3Q5PIG-DRIVER. 1 GYatiL PURCEL was a singular character, for he was QX ey never married; but notwithstanding his singularity, cee ~NO man ever poss ‘ssed, for practical purposes, a more plentiful stock of duplicity. Everybody knew that i Phil was a knave of the first water, yet was he de- z cide dly a eeneral favorite. Now, as we hate myst ry ourselv: reveal the secret of this remarkable popular- ity; though, after all, it can scarcely be called so, for Phil was not the first cheat who has been popular in his day. The cause it he never laughed; and > ) : - + ] , j ] 1 1 none of our readers need be told that the appearance ol a grave ‘] t in Ireland 1 n originality which al t runs up into ; cheat in Ireland 1s an originality which almost runs up into a miracle. [his OTay\ ity induced every one to look upon him 48 2 phenomenon. [he assumed simplicity of his manner was aston- . ” gacrci§ i ishing, and the ignorance which he feigned so apparently natura 7 . ) «fs that it was scarcely possible for the most keen-sighted searcher into human motives to detect him. The only way of under- standing the man was to deal with him; if, after t#at, you did . 1.342 4- not comprehend him thoroughly, the fault was not Phil's, but i your own. Although not mirthful himself, he was the cause ot mirth in others; for, without ever smiling at his own gains, he ; contrived to make others laugh at their losses. His disposition, setting aside laughter, was strictly anomalous—the most incom- patible, the most unamalgamatable, and the most uncomeatable 78 IRISH FIRESIDE STOR/ES. qualities that ever refused to unite in the same individual, had no scruple at all to unite in Phil. But we hate metaphysics, which we leave to the mechanical philosophers, and proceed to state that Phil was a miser, which is the best explanation we can give of his gravity. Ireland, owing to the march of intellect, and the superiority of modern refinement, has been for some years, and is at pres- ent, well supplied with an abundant variety of professional men, every one of whom will undertake, for proper considera- tions, to teach us Irish all manner of useful accomplishments. The drawing-master talks of his profession ; the dancing-master speaks of zs profession; the fiddler, tooth-drawer, and corn- cutter (who, by the way, reaps a richer harvest than we do) since the devil has tempted the schoolmaster to go abroad, are all practising, in his absence, as professional men. Now Phil must be included among this class of grandilo- quent gentlemen, for he entered life as a Professor of Pig- driving; and it is but justice towards him to assert that no corn-cutter of them all ever raised his profession so high as Phil did that of pig-driving. In fact, he elevated it to the most exalted pitch of improvement of which it was then sus- ceptible. In Phil’s time, however, pig-driving was not so genera nor had it made was then simply pig-driving, unaccompanied by the in + such rapid advances as in modern times. It >? ; ments of poverty, sickness, and famine. Ihe government those days were not so enlightened as the governments of Political economy had not taught the people how to be poor upon the most scientific principles; free trade had not shown the nation the most improved plan of reducing itself to tl lowest possible state of distress; nor liberalism enabled the working classes to scoff at religion, and wisely to stop very line that lies between outrage and rebellion. Many errors and inconveniences, now happily exploded, were +h n 4n existence. The people, it is true, were somewhat attached to their landlords, but still they were burdened with the ¢ whe « 2 heheh aipins cated’ inn dechen > 9 ie os : ASS x RAN a ee ee et ee Sos RN SePHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. O “ unnecessary appendages of good coats and stout shoes, were tolerably industrious, and had the mortification of being abl to pay their rents, and feed in comfort. They were not, as th are now, free from new coats and old prejudices, nor improved by the intellectual march of politics and poverty. When either CAiL a man or a nation starves, it is a luxury to starve in an ¢° ghtened manner; and nothing is more consolatory to a per- son acquainted with public rights and constitutional privileges, go than to know the principles upon which he fasts and € naked. From all we have said, the reader sees clearly that pig-driv- ing did not then proceed upon so extensive a scale as it does at present. The people, in fact, killed many of them for their own use; and we know not how it happened, but political ignorance and good bacon kept them in more flesh and comfort than those theories which have succeeded so well in introducing the science of starvation as the basis of national prosperity. Irishmen are frequently taxed with extravagance, in addition to their other taxes; but we should be glad to know what people in Europe reduce economy in the articles of food and clothing to suc close practice as they do. Our governments and our landlord appear to be trying such an experiment upon our great powé of living upon a little food, as the man did who entertained the warm expectation of being able to bring his horse to live with- out it; but who, when he had brought him to one straw p diem, found that the animal was compelled to decline the comforts of such economy, by dying in his own defence. In our ignorant days we had a trade. but no Custom-house; and now, in our enlightened days, we have a Custom-house, but no trade. Anold bachelor uncle of ours in the country, seduced by the plausibility of a tailor’s puff in the metropolis, sent him, in reliance upon what he professed in it, his height and weicht, for a suit of clothes. The clothes came; but as the old gentleman happened to be wry-necked, wore his head in fact upon one of his shoulders, and was a little hump-backed into the bargain—aa IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. points which he either forgot, or declined mentioning—it is un- necessary to say that the clothes did not fit “T ought to have known,” said the old get itleman, “ rom the peculiarity of my make, that no tailor could fit me without taking my measure.” In like manner may we say that England is legislating for us without taking our measure; and that her laws, consequently are a bad fit, considering the unconscionable price we pay for them. There was in Ireland an old breed of swine, which is now nearly extinct, except in some remote parts of the country, where they are still useful in the hunting season, partic J irly if dogs happen to be scarce.* They were a tall, loose species, with legs of an unusual length, with no flesh, short ears, as if they had been cropped for sedition, and with long faces of a highly intellectual cast. They were also of such activity that few greyhounds could clear a ditch or cross a field with more agility or speed. Their backs formed a rainbow arch. capable of being contracted or extended to an inconceivable length; and their usual rate of travelling in droves was at mail-coach speed, or six Irish miles an hour, preceded by an outrider to clear the way, whilst their rear was brought up by another horseman, going at a three-quarter gallop. In the middle of summer, when all nature reposed under the united influence of heat and dust, it was an interesting sight to witness a drove of them sweeping past likea whirlwind. in a cloud of their own rais ing—their sharp and lengthy outlines dimly visible through the shining haze, like a flock of antelopes crossing the deserts of the East. But, alas, for those good old days'!—This breed is now nearly a curiosity—few specimens of it remaining except in the mountain parts of the country, whither these lovers of liberty, like the free natives in the back settlements in America, retired to avoid the encroachments of ci vilization, have and exhibit Pp * We assure John Bull, on the authority of Phil Purcel, that this is a fact.PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. II > =" — f byt 1 antipathy to the slavish comforts of steamboat navi. gation and the relaxing luxuries of English feeding. Indeed, their patriotism, as evinced in an attachment to Ire. land and Irish habits, was scarcely more remarkable than their sagacity. here is not an antiquarian among the members of that learned and useful body, the Irish Academy, who boasts such an intimate knowledge of the Irish language in all its shades of meaning and idiomatic beauty, as did this once flour- ishing class of animals. Nor were they confined to the Irish rongue aione: manv of them unde! stood English, too; and 1T w4 J f +h » that helonoced ¢ ‘convent the ‘mbers of Was Salad OI tnose tnat peion rtO @& COnVENC, THE MEMES oO ‘ . + . ' 1 which, in the intercourse with each other, spoke only in Latin, Lh at ‘a ie oa Woe oten tal cers an C alias ¥5% ig ee eekesc a cl tnat they were tolerable masters of that lan: uace, and retused $ . a - 1 pe c oe weet <1tl oe ele -d LO ICaVC a VOCTALO-NELG OF DIOtT OF CaDdDagces ¢« XCCpt When aadaressec i i <> ] | eae Ta kt ] if Lo th mn 31) 1) l ov \ they hada qaeep-roored antipathv: whether it pro led fr m the national feeling or antipat ny: Whetn It Dros C i POM tiie national CCune, hy + ; f 4 rT) - } “ language. In Munster, too, such of them as belonged to the hedge-schoolmasters, were good proficients in Latin; but it ts on acritical knowledge of their native tongue that I take my stand. On this point they were unrivalled by the most learned ‘ oe ee area CE eh ace Anas: GAY it na el 1H Lec pigs or antiquarians Of their day; none of either Class possess- ing, at that period, such a knowledge of Irish manners, nor so founded upon a sense of equality, mutual interest, and good- will, than the Irishman and his pig. The Arabian and his horse are proverbial; but had our English neighbors known as much of Ireland as they did of Arabia, they would have found as sienal instances of attachment subsisting between the former as between the latter, and, perhaps, when the superior comforts12 TRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. of an Arabian hut are contrasted with the squalid poverty of an Irish cabin, they would have perceived a heroism and a dis- interestedness on the side of the Irish parties that would have struck them with greater admiration. The pigs, however, of the present day are a fat, gross, and de- generate breed; and more like well-fed aldermen than Irish pigs of the old school. They are, in fact, a proud, lazy, carnal race, entirely of the earth, earthy. It is one comfort, however, that we do not eat, but ship them out of the country; yet, after all, it is not surprising that we should repine a little on thinking of the good old times of sixty years since, when every Irishman could kill his own pig, and eat it when he pleased. The education of an Irish pig, at the time of which we write, Was an important consideration to an Irishman. He and his family, and his pig, like the Arabian and his horse, all slept in the same bed; the pig, generally, for the sake of convenience, next the stock. At meals the pig usually was stationed at the scrahag, or potato-basket, where the only instances of bad tem- per he ever displayed broke out in petty and unbecoming squab- bles with the younger branches of the family. Indeed, if he ever descended from his high station as a member of the domes- tic circle, it was upon these occasions, when, with a want of dignity accounted for only by the grovelling motive of self-in- terest, he embroiled himself in a series of miserable feuds and contentions about scraping the pot, or carrying off from jealous urchins about him more than came to his share these heart-burnings about the good things of this world, | was treated with uncommon forbearance; in his master he a] ae In AX ways had a friend, from whom, when he whined out his appeal to him, he was certain of receiving redress: ‘‘ Barney, behave, avick; lay down the potstick, an’ don’t be batin’ the pig, the g, crathur.”’ In fact, the pig was never mentioned but with this endear. ing epithet of “crathur’ annexed. “ Barney, go an’ call home the Pig, the crathur, to his dinner, before it sets cowld on is ; him. Barney, go an’ see if you can see the pig, the crathur, Yo ‘ oN aR Fas , hittin Steere Sa ee TER SES. nsPHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. I his buckwhist will soon be ready.” “Barney, run an’ dhrive the pig, the crathur, out of Larry Neil’s phatie-field; an’, Barney, whisper, a bouchal bane, don’t run Zoo hard, Barney, for fraid you'd lose your breath. What if the crathur does get 7 taste o' the new phaties—small blame to him for the same !” In short, whatever might have been the habits of the family, such were those of the pig. The latter was usually out early in the morning to take exercise, and the unerring regularity with which he returned at meal-time, gave sufficient proof that procuring an appetite was a work of supererogation on his part. If he came before the meal was prepared, his station was at the door, which they usually shut to keep him out of the way until it should be ready. In the mean time, so far as a forenoon serenade and an indifferent voice could go, his powers of melody were freely exercised on the outside. But he did not stop here; every stretch of ingenuity was tried, by which a possibility of ining an admittance could be established. The hat and ra: were repeatedly driven in from the windows, which from prac tice and habit he was enabled to approach on his hind legs; 1 cavity was also worn by the frequent grubbings of his snou ie door, the lower part of which was broken away b the sheer strength of his tusks, so that he was often enabled, by thrusting himself between the bottom of it and the ground, t: make a most unexpected appearance at the hearth, before his presence was at all convenient or acceptable. But, independently of these two modes of entrance, z. ¢., t! door and window, there was also a third by which he some- times scrupled not to make descent upon the family. This wa by the chimney. There are many of the Irish cabins built ¢ economy’s sake against slopes in the ground, so that the lib of erecting either a gable or side-wall is saved by the perpen- dicular bank that remains after the site of the house is scooped away. Of the facilities presented by this peculiar structure the pig never failed to avail himself. He immedia ely mounted the roof (through which, however, he sometimes too! ht), and traversing it with caution, reacne\ 1cy a an unexpected fl nites 52 Sia EE EA CTI OR a EE EileWEEE: 14 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. the chimney, into which he deliberately backed himself, and, with no small share of courage, went down precisely as the northern bears are said to descend the trunks of trees during the winter, but with far different motives. In this manner he cautiously retrograded downwards with a hardihood which set furze-bushes, brooms, tongs, and all other available weapons of the cabin at defiance. We are bound, however, to declare that this mode of entrance, which was only resorted to when every other failed, was usually received by the cottager and his family with a degree cf mirth and good humor that were not lost upon the sagacity of the pig. In order to save him from being scorched, which he deserved for his temerity, they usually received him in a creel, often in a quilt,and sometimes inthe tattered blanket, or large pot out of which he looked with a humorous conception of his own enterprise that was highly diverting. Wemust admit, however, that he was sometimes received with the comforts of a hot poker, which Paddy pleasantly called, “ givin’ him a warm wel. come.” Another trait in the character of these animals was the utter scorn with which they treated all attempts to fatten them. In fact, the usual consequences of good feeding were almost inverted in their case; and although I might assert that they became leaner in proportion to their good feeding, yet I must confine myself to truth, by stating candidly that this was not the fact, that there was a certain state of fleshlessness to which they arrived, but from which they neither advanced nor receded by good feeding or bad. At that point, despite of all human ingenuity, they remained stationary for life, received the bounty afforded them with a greatness of appetite resembling the fortitude of a brave man. which rises in energy according to the magnitude of that which it has to encounter. The truth is, they were scandalou po- crites; for with the most prodigious capacity for food, they were spare as philosophers, and fitted evidently more for the cha than the sty—rather to run down a buck or a hare fot e thea Lilt es DADA ee ech cen niga negated h Leategteg palliesal 15 etek Sinn tr have a alae te” . - larder, than to have a place in it themselves. _ If you starved them, they de 1 you to diminish their flesh ; and if you stuffed then 11] ldery sy thew 1-] 1] hev ; crnem Ke aicermen, they took all they got, but disdained “ to carry a single ounce more than if you gave them whey tien) sate Gale : eee ae ee. : thickened with water. In short, they gloried in maceration and liberty ; were good Irish scholars, sometimes acquainted with cen « inn it ce fant aftaer tha : Wahl ; Latin: and their fle nh, arter the trouble of separating it trom ‘ os - OU LILY tou rT SKIN, WaS ¢ CMCNE UVeERISOH SO Tat AL VW t i , . Peseral — ¢ . » ‘wnrell ; , } ‘ : . Now Phil Purcel, whom we will introduce more intimately , ¢-] r lae Whe 414 a4 y 11 +1, _ ¢ — | ] to tn reacdecl DY- ind- V, Was Lie SUL ©} a Hidli WiOo alwavs 17 ' j kept a pig. His father’s house had a small loft, to which the 7 1 ae 7 7 7 . . . ascent Was DY a step-laaqder througn a door in the Inside ga : : i rst oy od TN! : vy Cc] Phil WaS noticed {Ol Was Sdalc¢ upon th wing occasion. His father happened to be ] : { ] . 1 17 ( | on no 4 D O} b €aktiast by h 5 landlord, 3 ‘ Les Bas who ision sited nis tenantry to encourage d / DoD ? : ; . } } ‘ a t } O1 rovt rnem is tal Casi MAISNE re. : ,% } } 5 » ] + a q vas a boy then, and sat on the hob in the cor. ner eyeing the landlord and his father during their conver- sation. In the mean time the pig came in, and deliberately 1ority that marked him as one in the exercise of an established right. [he landlord was astonished at seeing the animal enter the best room in the house, and could -not help expressing his 7 ~ +s to 1 { )TT) rt ot Vou! be { room fF id 4 o * 9 ) - Che 1 is it, the crathur? Why, yourhaner,” said Purcel, eee 3 scat. 1 “putt = ee a tb Se hes ars ‘nin’ rc aiter a littie nesitation, it sometim«: zoes up OL a MOTHIN 10 wa 4 ch hi particularly when the buckwhist happens to be late. It doesn’t like to be waitin’, the crathur; and pt from the male's mate, your : : 7 ‘ e a . 7 : tele | 2-0 haner, when we want it. no more than it, the crathur. access to her rooms in this manner.”’IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. “Filthy ! replied Mrs. Purcel, who felt herself called upon to defend the character of the pig, as well as her own, “ why one would think, Sir, that any crathur that’s among Christyeen childhre, like one o’ themselves, couldn't be filthy. I would take it to my dyin’ day, that there’s not a claner or dacenter pig in the kingdom than the same pig. It never misbehaves, the crathur, but goes out, as wise an’ riglar, jist by a look, an that’s enough for it, any day—a single look, your haner, the poor crathur!” “T think,” observed Phil, from the hob, “ that nobody has a betther right to the run of the house, wheder up-stairs or down- stairs, than him that pays the rint.” “ Well said, my lad!” observed the landlord, laughing at the quaint ingenuity of Phil’s defence. ‘His payment of the rent is the best defence possible, and no doubt should cover a mul- titude of his errors.” “A multitude of his shins you mane, Sir,” said Phil, “ for thrath, he’s all shin.” In fact, Phil from his infancy had an uncommon attach- ment to these animals, and by a mind naturally shrewd and ob- serving made himself as intimately acquainted with their habits and instincts, and the best modes of managing them, as ever the celebrated Cahir na cappul did with those of the horse Before he was fifteen he could drive the most vicious and ob- stinate pig as quietly before him asa lamb; yetno one knew how, nor by what means he had gained the secret that enabled him to do it. Whenever he attended a fair, his time was princi- pally spent among the pigs, where he stood handling, and ex amining, and pretending to buy them, although he seldom had half-a-crown in his pocket. At length, by hoarding up such small sums as he could possibly lay his hands on, he got to- gether the price of a “slip,” which he bought, reared, and edu- cated in a manner that did his ingenuity great credit. When this was brought to its me plus ultra of fatness, he sold it, and purchased two more, which he fed in the same way. On dis- posing of these, he made a fresh purchase, and thus pro- . a . S ee Ra a Ee el asTHE PIG-DRIVER. 17 ceeded, until, in the course of a few years, he was a well-known ‘His journeys as a pig-driver to the leading seaport towns nearest him were always particularly profitable. In Ireland Swine are not k pt in sties, as they dre among Enelish feeders, rough pastures-field, commons, —_~ ~ e wt ~~ gu “ =—> —" — and along roadsides, where they make up as well as they can for the scanty pittance allowed them at home during meal-times. We do not,however, impeach Phil’s hon: ty ; but simply content e : ‘ os ‘ Ourselves with saying that when his journey was accomplished, he mostly found the original number wit] 1 which he had set out increased by three or four, and sometimes: half-a-dozen. Pigs in general resemble each other, and it surely was not Phil’s fault if a stray one, feeding on the roadside or common, thought proper to join his flock and see the world. Phil’s ob. ject, we presume, was only to take care that his original num- ber was not diminished, its increase being a matter in which he He now determined to take a professional trip to England, that this might be the more productive, he resolved to purchase a drove of the animals we have been describing. No ime was lost in this speculation. The pigs were bought up as cheap as possible, and Phil set out, for the first time in his life, to try with what success he could measure his skill against that ‘ ] of a Yorkshireman. ()n this occasion, he brought with him a pet, which he had with considerable pains trained up for pur- There was nothing remarkable in the passage, unless that every creature on board was sea-sick, exc: pt the pigs ; even to them, however, the ch inge was a disa 1c able one, for to be pent up in the hold of a ship was a deprivation of liberty which, fresh as they were from their native hills, they could not rel- ish. They felt, therefore, as patriots, a loss of freedom, but not a whit of appetite; for, in truth, of the latter no possible nplicity absolutely[IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. 18 stupid, disposed of them to a Yorkshire dealer, at about twice the value they would have brought in Ireland, though as pigs went in England it was low enough. He declared that they had been fed on ¢if-top feeding: which was liter: lly true, as he afterwards admitted that the tops of nettles and potato-stalks constituted the only nourishment they had got for three weeks before. d The Yorkshireman looked with great contempt upon what 7 he considered a miserable essay to take him in: “What afule this Hirishman mun bea,” said he, “to think to teake me in! Had he said that them there Hirish swoine were badly fed, I'd ha’ thought it fairish enough on um; but to seay that they was oll weal fead on /zf-top feeaden! Nea, nea! |] | knaws weal enough that they was noat feade on nothin at oll, which meakes them looak so poorish! Howsomever, I shall fatten them, I’se warrant—I’se warrant I shall !”’ When driven home to sties somewhat more comfortable than the cabins of unfortunate Irishmen, they were well sup- ‘ plied with food which would have been very often considered a luxury by poor Paddy himself, much less by his pigs. ‘“ Measter,” said the boor who had seen them fed, “ them there Hirish pigs ha’ not teasted nothin fora moonth yet; they feed like nothin’ I never seed o' my laife !” “Ay! ay!” replied the master, “I'll warrant they’ll soon fat- ten—I’se warrant they shall, Hodge—they be praime feeders I’se warrant they shall; and then, Hodge, we've bit the soft Hirishmun.”’ Hodge gave a knowing look at his master, and grinned at thi observation. The next morning Hodge repaired to the sties to see how they were thriving; when, to his utter astonishment. he found L4ik the feeding troughs clean as if they had been washed, but not ut a single Irish pig to be seen or heard about the premises: but 1ses* Du to what retreat their inmates could have betaken themselves He scratched his head, and looked about him in much perplexity. was completely beyond his comprehension. ‘ & SS is . . SS 4 ‘ . - SS LenS ee a ee «eee, ,he exclaimed, : ] never seed nought like this.” strain of cogitation equally ing, alarm, and confusion attention He looked », and the he country was up, shouted, and wheeled at lis first object was to join ossible, and found that the night in sties whose en- L } ] ‘ ] he a rots. . naa cleared them like so ; pursued DY the neighbors, 1 ic 1 cure such dreadful depre- o . Be 7 itchen-gardens, corn-fields, up and destroyed with an } { i ne credit to Terry -of battle. Whenever there in advance was then the plan in the pursuit, by slipping hey shot off at a tangent the dogs until the latter finding one in advance of ing bristles and burning in his full career. Torao sob? aopzeath A AA is Be Roca picts es domey-AG- aes ada 20 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. of fight; but, in fact, the conflict was conducted on the part of the Irish pigs with a fertility of expediency that did credit to the country, and established for those who displayed it the possession of intellect far superior to that of their opponents. The pigs now began to direct their course towards the sties in which they had been so well fed the night before. This being their last flight, they radiated towards one common centre, with a fierceness and celerity that occasioned the women and children to take shelter within doors. On arriy ing at the sties, the ease with which they shot themselves over feet walls was incredible. The farmer had caught the alarm, and just came out in time to witness their return: he stood with his hands driven down into the pockets of his red, capacious waistcoat, and uttered not a word. When the last the four- came bounding into the sty, Hodge approached, quite breath- less and exhausted. “Oh, measter,” he exclaimed, “these be not Hirish pigs at all, they be Hirish deevils: and yau mun ha’ bought ’em fr cunning mon!” “ Hodge,” replied his master, “ I’ se be bit—I’se heard f. at] talk about un. That breed’s ¢rue Hirish: but I’se try and sell ‘em to Squire Jolly to hunt wi’ as beagles, for he wants a pacl Wak, 4 : been drawned, but for my peart, I’se sure that some must ha’ escaped to Hireland.”’ Phil, during the commotion excited by his knavery in Yor] They do say all the swoine that the deevils were put into ha OTl un i i i Ke shire, was traversing England, in order to dispose of his remain- ing pig; and the manner in which he effected his first sale of it was as follows: A gentleman was one evening standing with some laborers by the wayside, when a tattered Irishman came along, equipped in a pair of white dusty brocues, stockings without feet, old patched breeches, a bag slung across his shoulder, his coarse shirt lying open about a neck tanned by the sun ji hat nearly the color of the shoes. an fort about his waist - in one hand ] nto a reddish yellow, a d a hay rope tied for com. 1e also helda straw rope, that Sees wt Sosa AS Oa E va Sanyo banked Tes howmerns aem7 Poise: £ORGCEG. THE PIG-DAIV ER: a1 : depended from the hind leg of a pig, which he drove before him; in the other was a cudgel, by the assistance of which he contrived to limp on after it, his two shoulder-blades rising and falling alternately with a shrugging motion that indicated great nd ie ‘ ] : a4 + ae ] When he came opposite where the gentleman stood he checked the pig, which instinctively commenced regaling itself 1,’ said he, wiping his brow with the cuff of his coat, “ mavrone orth a amuck,* but I'm kilt with youu—Musha, God bless your haner, an’ maybe ye'd buy aslip of a pig fwhrom me, that has my heart bruck, so she has, if ever anybody's heart was bruck wit the likes of her: an’ sure so there was, no doubt, or I wouldn’t be as Iam wit her. I'll give her a dead bargain, Sir; for it’s only to get her aff av my hands I’m wantin, plase yer haner—/usht, amuck—husit, a vethonee ! + Be asy, an’ me in conwersation wit his haner here!’ ‘You are an Irishman?” the gentleman inquired. I am, Sir, from Cannaught, yer haner, an’ I’ll sell the crathur I don’t want the pig, my good fellow,” replied the English- man, without evincing curiosity enough to inquire how he came to have such a commodity for sal ‘‘She’d be the darlint inno time wit you, Sir; the runo’ your kitchen ‘ud make her up a beauty, your haner, along wit no throuble to the sarwints about sweepin’ it, or anything. You'd only have to lay down the scra/ iz On the flure, or the mish- thress, Gad bliss her, could do it, an’ not lave a crumblin’ be- hind her, besides sleepin’, your haner, in the carner beyant, if The sluggish phlegm of the Englishman was stirred up a lit- tle by the twisted and somewhat incomprehensible nature of these instructions. a “ How far do you intend to proceed to-night, Paddy?” said * My sorrow on you for a pig ! + Silence, you vagabond !IRISH. FIRESIDE STORIES. “The sarra one o’ myself knows, plase yer haner: sure we’ve an ould sayin’ of our own in Ireland beyant—that he’s a wise man can tell how far he'll go, Sir, till he comes to his journey’s ind. Ill give this crathur to you at more nor her value, yer haner.” ‘“ More !—the man doesn’t know what he’s saying,” observed the gentleman: “ess you mean, I suppose, Paddy ?” ‘More or less, Sir, you'll get her a baz you, sir!” “I don’t want her, Paddy. I tell you I have pigs enough; try elsewhere ain: an Gad bliss ‘She'd flog the counthry-side, Sir; an’ if the misthress herself, Sir, ud shake the wishp o’ sthraw fwor her in the kitchen, Sir, near the whoire. Yer haner could spake to her about it; an’ in no time put a knife in her whin you plas In regard o’ the other thing, Sir—she’s like a Chi tveen, yer haner, an’ no throuble, Sir, if you’d be seein’ company or anything.” “It's an extraordinary pig, Paddy.” “It'sno lie whor vou, Sir; she’s as clane an’ dacent thur, Sir; och, if the same pig ’ud come into the misthress, Gad bliss her! an’ I’m sure if she has as ness in her face as the hanerable dinnha ousiel—the handso gintleman she’s marrid upon | youll have her thrivin’ ] sir, shortly, plase Gad, if you'll take courage. Will ] ve her up the aveny whor you, Sir? A good gintlewoman I’; sure is the same mishthriss! Will I dhrive her up whor you, Sir? Shadh, amuck—shadh, dherim !’ “Paddy, I have no further time to lose: you may go for- ward.” “Thank yer haner ; is id whord toarst the house above, Sir? I wouldn’t be standin’ up, Sir, wit you about a thrifle: an’ you'll have her, Sir, whor anything you plase beyant a pound, yer haner: an’ ’tis throwin’ her away it is: but one can’t b hard with a rale gintleman, any way.” ———_____ * Behave yourself, pig—behave, I Say.PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 2 =] “Paddy, I don’t want the pig; vou only lose time; I don’t want to buy it. “ Gad bliss you, Sir—Gad bliss you. Maybe, if I'd make up tc the mishthress, yer haner, throth, she wouldn't turn the cra- the place, in regard that the tindherness ow the feel- thur fr in would come ower her—the rale gintlewoman, any way. ~ chape you have her, at what I said, Sir: an’ Gad bliss “P.ddy do you want to compel me to purchase it, whether I will or no?” Throth, it’s whor nixt to nothin’ I’m givin’ her to you, Sir; but sure you can make your own price at anything beyant a pound. Hurrish, amuck stadh anitsh !/—be asy, you crathur; sure you're gettin’ into good quarthers, any how—goin’ to the hanerable English gintleman’s kitchen; an’ Gad knows it’s a pleasure to dale with ’em. Och, the world’s differ there is be- tuxt thim an’ our own dirty Irish buckeens, that ’ud shkin a bad skilleen, an’ pay their debts wit the remaindher. The gateman ‘ud let me in, yer haner, an’ I'll meet you at the big house “Paddy,” said the gentleman, absolutely teased into com- pliance, “you are forcing me to buy what I don’t want.” “Sure you will, Sir; you'll want more nor that yit, plase Gad. if vou be spared. Come, amuck—come, you crathur ; ace with ’ mae. 6 WOU TE 1 iUuCcK, SO YOU aic S ‘TLIn so sood a p { his haner here, that you won't know yourself shortly, plase ( He immediately commenced driving his pig towards the gen- tleman’s residence with such an air of utter simplicity as would al have imposed upon any man not guided by direct inspiration. Whilst he approached the house, its proprietor arrived there by another path afew minutes before him, and addressing his lady, said, “ My dear, will you come and look at a purchase which an Irishman has absolutely compelled me to make. He’s a real one. I’m sure; come and see him.Lalande Shad Stk iin Ss 9, aw Pic pitiless pase eshte ie Pk. Lala. erga roth Tit LET GR ITE ee. oy, tee 2 . oy Sa aceeateme oeee cee eee LRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. The lady’s curiosity was more easily excited than that of her husband. She not only came out, but brought some ladies of her acquaintance along with her, in order to hear the Irish- man’s brogue, and to amuse themselves at his expense. Of the pig, too, she was determined to know something. “George, my love, is the pig also from Ireland ?” “Tt cont know, my dear; but I should think so from its fleshless appearance. I have never seen so spare an animal of that class in this country.” “Juliana,” said one of the ladies to her companion, “don’t go too near him. Gracious! look at the bludgeon, or beam, or something he carries in his hand, to fight and beat the people, I suppose: yet,” she added, putting up her glass, “t] , “the man is actually not ill-looking; and, though not so tall as the Irishman in Sheridan’s Riv: > ils, he is well made.” ‘ His eyes are good,” said her companion- keen ; and were it not that his nose is rat] up, he would be human.” “a bright gray and 1er short and turned “George, my love,” exclaimed the lady of the mansion, “he is like most Irishmen of his class that I have seen; indeed, scarcely so intelligent, for he appears quite a simpleton, except, perhaps, a lurking kind of expression, which is a sign i humor, I suppose. Don’t you think so, my love?” 4 lL, , - Of toeill “No, my dear; I think him a bad specimen of the Irishman. Whether it is that he talks our language but imperfectly, or that he is a stupid creature, I can’t say; but in selling the pig Just now, he actually told me that he would let me have it for more than it was worth.” ‘Oh, that was so laughable! Weill speak to him, though.” The degree of estimation in which these civilized Enelish held Phil was so low that this conversation took place within a few yards of him, precisely as if he had been an animal of an in- ferior species, or one of the Aborigines of New Zealand. “Pray what is your name?” inquired the matron. “Phadrumshagh Corfuffle, plase yer haner: my fadher car- rid the same name upon him. We’re av the Corfuffles avPURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER rc 25 Leatherum Laghy, my lady; but my granmudher was a Dorn. yeen, an my own mudher, plase yer haner, was o’ the Shud . “cy ’ Da A Bae ee i : . ‘ : hurthaghans o’ Ballymadoghy, my ladyship.—Stadh antsh, a , » Be I 4 / wi ies te ad “<> ~ry 4 , - , ‘ ; muck brudagh—be asy, can't you, an’ me in conwershation wit the beauty o’ the world that I’m spakin’ to.” “That's the Negu’s language, ' observed one of the young . 7 ° 3 4 - ladies, who was a wit and a blue-stocking ; “it’s Irish and Eng. . . * . lish mixed. “‘Thrath, an’ but that the handsome young lady’s s ‘; ath, a! at the hand: € young ladys so purty, observed Phil, “I'd be sayin’ myself that that’s a quare remark upon a poor unlarned man; but, Gad bless her, she zs so purty what can one say for lookin’ at her! > 9 4 L ‘The poor man, Adelaide, speaks as well as he can,” replied lay o } . . emxurancritz: $64 1c ' the sai, rather reprovingly: “he is by no means so wild as “Candidly speaking, much famer than J expected,” rejoined the wit. “ Really, I meant the poor Irishman no offence.” “Where did you get the iti frien 1? and how come you to ] L . oy ‘ Ll v, replied Phil, evading the former question; ‘the mashther here, Gad bless him an’ spare him to you, ma’am—throth an’ it’s his four quarthers that knew how to pick out a wife, any how, whor beauty an’ all hanerable whormations o’ grandheur—so he did; an’ well he desarves you, my lady: faix, it’s a fine houseful o’ thim you'll have, plase Gad—an’ fwhy not? whin it’s all in the coorse o’ Providence, bein’ both so handsome ;—he gev me a pound note whor her, my ladyship, an’ his own plisure afterwards; an’ I’m now watin’ to be al “ What kind of a country is Ireland, as I understand you are an ia “ Thrath, my lady, it’s like fwhat maybe you never seen—a fool’s purse, ten guineas goin’ out whor one that goes in.” “Upon my word, that’s wit,” observed the young blue-stock- ing. “What think you of Irish women?” the lady continued: “are ’ ” they handsomer than the English ladies:nasa ina Pad ale IRISH FIRE SIDE STORIZS, ‘“Murdher, my lady,’ says Phil, raising his caubeen, and scratching his head in pretended perplexity with his finger and thumb, “fwhat am I to say to that, ma’am, and all of yees to the fwhorer But the sarra one av me will give it agin the dar- lins beyant,”’ “But which do you think the handsomer?” “Thrath, I do, my lady; the Irish and English women would flog the world, an’ sure’it would be a burnin’ shame to go to set them agin one another for beauty.”’ “Whom did you mean by the ‘darlins beyant’?” inquired the blue-stocking: ‘“Faix, Miss, who but the crathurs ower the wather, that kills us entirely, so they do.” “I cannot comprehend him,” she added, to the lady of the mansion. “Arrah, maybe I’d make bould to take up the manners from you fwhor a while, my lady, plase yer haner?” said Phil. dressing the latter. “JT do not properly understand you,” she replied, “speak plainer.” | hroth, that’s fwhat they do, yer haner: they nev about the bush wit yees-the gintlemen, ma’am. of our cA ch © gO coun- thry, fwhin they do be coortin’ yees; an’ I want to ax, ma’an iv you plase, fwhat you think of them, that is. if ever any of them had the loock to come acrass you, my lady ?” ‘““T have not been acquainted with many Irish gent she replied: “ but I hear they are men of a remarkable charac- ter. “Paix, ‘tis you may say that,” replied Phil: « sowl, my lady, ‘tis well for the masther here, plase yer haner, Sir, that none Q’ them met wit the mishthress before you war both wit reverence be it spoken, ’tis the sweet side they’d be layin’ upon you, ma’am, an’ ¢] marrid, or, o the tongue le rough side to the masther himself, along wit a few scrapes of a pen ona slip of paper, jist to appoint the time and place, in regard of | : yar | I<, LC] laady- ship’s purty complexion—an’ who can deny that, ny way? . . . ah . eS 2 . : a me SS P 5 Seen ca ana SSNS Cots Seon SRE Ce eaPHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 27 Faix, ma’am, they’ve a way wit them, my counthrymen, that the ladies like well enough to thravel by. Asy, you deludher! an’ me in conwersation wit the quality.” “T am quite anxious to know how you came by the pig, Paddy?” said the wit. “ Arrah, Miss, sure ‘tisn’t pigs you’re thinkin’ on, an’ us dis- coorsin’ about the gintlemen from Ireland, that you're all so fond ow here, faix, Miss, they’re the boys that can fwhoight for yees, an’ ‘ud rather be bringin’ an Englishman to the sod fwhor your sakes, nor atin’ bread an’ butther. Fwhy now, Miss, if you were beyant wit us, the sarra ounce o’ gunpowdher we'd have in no time for love or money.” “Upon my word, I should like to see Ireland!” exclaimed the blue-stocking; “and why would gunpowder get scarce, pray?” “ Faix, fightin’ about you, Miss, an’ all of yees sure, for my- self sees no differ at all in your hanerable fwhormations of beauty and grandeur, an’ all highflown admirations.” “ But where did you get the pig, Paddy?’ persisted the wit, struck naturally enough with the circumstance. ‘ Now, how do you come to have an Irish pig so far from home ?”’ “ Fwhy, thin, Miss,’twas to a brodher’s o’ my own I was bringin’ it, that was livin’ down the counthry here, an’ fwhin I came to fwhere he lived, the sarra one o’ me knew the place, in regard o’ havin’ forgot the name of it entirely, an’ there was I wit the poor crathur on my hands, till his haner here bought it fwhrom me—Gad bless you, Sir!” “As I live, there’s a fine Irish blunder,” observed the wit; “T shall put it in my commonplace book—it will be so genuine. I declare I’m quite delighted !” “Well, Paddy ” said the Englishman, “here's your money. There’s a pound for you, and that’s much more than the miser- able animal is worth.” “ Thrath, Sir, you have the crathur at what we call in Ireland a bargain.* Maybe your haner ‘ud spit upon the money for luck, Sir. It’s the way we do, Sir, beyant.” * Tronically—a take-in. sae PT fe AR TET IT CTI TC AD NIE OO ne nw r: a SRpEe spec ae ee Re Pg! Laie nea ore C57. eugene is CALM PLD OT PIG = Fn f Be reeeeratar 28 IRISH FIRESIPE STORIES, “No, no, Paddy, take it as it is. Good heavens, what bar- barous habits these Irish have in al] their modes of life,and how far they are removed from anything like civilization !” Peden yer haner.. Faix, Sir; this'll come so handy fot the landlord at home, in regard o’ the rint for the bit o’ phatie ground, so it will, if I can get home agin widout breakin’ it. Arrah, maybe your haner ’ud give me the price o’ my bed, an’ a bit to ate, Sir, an keep me from breakin’ in upon this, Sir, Gad bless the money. I’m thinkin’ o’ poor wife an’ childhre, Sir—strivin’, so I am, to darlins.”’ the do for the ‘Poor soul,” said the lady, “he is affectionate in the midst of his wretchedness and ignorance.”’ “ Here—here,” replied the Englishman, anxious to get rid of him, “there’s a shilling, which I give because you appear to be attached to your family.” “Och, och, fwhat can I Say, Sir, only that long may you reign ower your family and the hanerable ladies to the fwhore, Sir, Gad fwhor ever bliss you, Sir, but you’re tl tleman, an’ all belongin’ to you, Sig? Having received the shilling, he was in tl when, after turning it deliberately in his hand. shrugging his shoulders two or three times, and scratching ] cant face he approached the lady. ““Musha, ma’am, an’ maybe ye’d have the tind] heart, seein’ that the gudness is in your hanerab] an’ it would save the skillyeen that the masther gav'd me for payin’ my passage, so it would, jist to bid the steward. my ladyship, to ardher me a bit to ate in the kitchen below. The hunger, ma’am, is hard upon me, my lady; an’ fwhat I’m dojn’ sure is in regard o’ the wife at home, an’ thurs, an’ me far fwhrom them, in a stl help me!” “What a singular being, George! and how beautifully is th economy of domestic affection exemp]l half-savage state, in the little pl 1e kind, noble gin- o 1e¢ act of departing, is head witha va- lerness in your e face any way, the childhre, the cra. range counthry, Cad e ified, notwithstandin:z his ans he devises for the benefit ofPHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 2g his wifeand children. Juliana, my love, desire Simmons to give him his dinner. Follow this young lady, good man, and she will order you refreshment.”’ ‘“Gad's blessin’ upon your beauty an’ gudness, my lady ; an’ aman might thravel far afore he’d meet the likes o’ you for either o' them. Is it the other handsome young lady I’m to folly, ma’am ?”’ “ Yes,”’ replied the young wit, with an arch smile; “come after me.” “Throth, Miss, an’ ‘tis an easy task to do that, any way; wit a heart an’ a half I go, acushla, an’ I seen the day, Miss, that it’s not much o’ mate an’ dhrink ‘ud throuble me, if I jist got lave to be lookin’ at you, wit nothin’ but yourself to think on. But the wife an’ childhre, Miss, make great changes in us entirely.” “Why, you are quite gallant, |] “ Throth, I suppose I am now, Miss: but you see, my han- addy. erable young lady, that’s our fwhailin’ at home—the counthry’s poor, an’ we can’t help it whedher or not. We're fwhorced to it, Miss, whin we come ower here, by you, an’ the likes o’ you, mavourneen !” Phil then proceeded to the house, was sent to the kitchen by the young lady, and furnished through the steward with an abundant supply of cold meat, bread, and beer, of which he contrived to make a meal that somewhat astonished the ser- vants. Having satisfied his hunger, he deliberately, but with the greatest simplicity of countenance, filled the wallet, which he carried slung across his back, with whatever he had left, observing as he did it: “Fwhy, thin, ’tis sthrange it is that the same custom is wit us in Ireland beyant that is here: fwhor whinever a thraveller .is axed in, he always brings fwhat he doesn’t ate along wit him. An’ sure enough it’s the same here amongst yees,” he added, packing up the bread and beef as he spoke; “ but Gad bliss the cuStom, any how, fwhor it’s a good one!” When he had secured the provender, and was ready to re-Nc chee A ta akc Nt loee SsaNRRA sh acrb a LEE pina pt an, dealer in BS a IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. sume his journey, he began to yawn, and to exhibit the most unequivocal symptoms of fatigue. “Arrah, Sir,’ said he to the steward, “ you wouldn’t have e’er an’ ould barn that I’d throw myself in for the night? The sarra leg I have to put undher me, now that I’ve got stiff wit the sittin’ so lang ;* that, an’ a wishp o’ sthraw, Sir, to sleep an, an’ Gad bliss you!” ‘“‘ Paddy, I cannot say,” replied the steward; “but I shall ask my master, and if he orders one, you shall have the comfort of a hard floor and clean straw, Paddy—that you shall.” ‘‘ Many thanks to you, Sir: it’s in your face, in thrath, the same gudness an’ ginerosity.” The gentleman, on hearing Phil’s request to be permitted a sleeping place in the barn, was rather surprised at his wretched notion of comfort than at the request itself. “Certainly, Simmons, let him sleep there,” he replied ; “give him sacks and straw enough. I dare say he will feel the privilege a luxury, poor fellow, after his fatigue. Give him his breakfast in the morning, Simmons. Good heavens.” he added, “what a singular people ! What an amazing progress civilization must make before these Irish can be brought at all near the commonest standard of humanity!” At this moment Phil steward , who was determined to back th 's request, approached them. “Paddy,” said the gentleman, “I have ordered you sacks and straw in the barn, and your breakfast in the morning | fore you set out.” “Thrath,’ said Phil, “ if there’s e’era sthray blissin’ goin’, de- pind on it, Sir, you will get it, fwhor your hanerable ginerosity to the sthranger. But about the slip, Sir, if the misthi | self ‘ud shake the wishp o’ straw fwhor her in the far corner o’ the kitchen below, an’ see her gettin’ her supper, the crathur. before she’d put her to bed, she’d be thri vin’ like a salmon Sir, inless than no time: an’ to ardher the sarwints, Sir. if you plase, not to be defraudin’ the crathur of the big piatees, > eC. ‘ess her- » * This is pronounced as in the first syllable of ‘‘ Langolee” not like the Seotch « lang.” b BES AAR Ee SSS ERURUSE Ne TNA Vy oe ‘ Ney a ee ae Fa ee ead te keneaen teedPAUL DOHERTY’'S VISIT TO SQUIRE BEAM TON'S. 35 every hour a day long, till it was near six, and time for myself to be off, for I had a mile of ground to walk to the Parade. So I took my cane, and my gloves, and I sauntered along very leisurely till I kem to the Parade; and as I had the number of the door reckoned upon my fingers, I knew I could make no mistake ; and when I counted the steps, I looked up, and sorra a finer house and place ever | laid my two looking eyes upon than Square Beamton’s, witha hall-door big enough for a Bishop, and the full of your fist of a brass rapper on it, not to talk of a beautiful brass plate with an illigant big B, and an E after it, and thin an A, and thin an M, making B, E, A, M, Beam. “*Rigoht,’ sis I, ‘this is the place;’ and I lifted up the big brass rapper, and gev a pound that wud drive a twenty-penny nail in to the hilt. Presently the door was opened mighty smart, and a gintleman with a green coat, and a powdered head, and bunches of gold strings from his shoulders, a red breeches and white stockings, axed myself, very snappishly entirely, did I mane to knock down the house? “«No, Sir, in throth, thin,’ sis I, ‘it isn’t myself ’ud hurt a hair of its head.’ “«Thin what do you want?’ sis he, mighty cross entirely. “ «Why, thin, in throth,’ sis I, ‘it’s Misther Beamton I want, sis I. “*Vou can’t see him,’ sis he, slapping the door in my face. “ ¢Thunder-an’-turf,’ sis I to myself, ‘isn’t this mighty dacent threatment ?’ “ Well, after waiting a long while, sis I to myself, ‘I'll thry agin for Tom’s sake, not to talk of the starvation that’s in my stomach this minit on account of keeping my appetite for the sintleman’s dinner, that he promised to give me.’ So I gave an- other rap, and the same gintleman opened the door agin, and looked mighty wicked; but afore he had time to say a word,— “«T ax your Reverence’s pardon, Sir,’ sis I, ‘but isn’t Mr. Beamton at home: an’ sure he axed me to dine with him, an’ this is quare thratement.’ “*What is your name?’ sis he, mighty polite.- Be IT ITI TITEL EEE YAR EL RPS RRA: # ea Rai ae) Maths se DES IRISH FIRESIDE. STORIES. “* Paul Doherty, Sir,’ sis I, takin’ off my hat, an showin’ him my manners. “*T beg your pardon, Sir,’ sis he; ‘come in, av you plase- ‘And so he bowed and scraped twice as low as I did, showing me the way all the time. When he shut the door, ‘ Will you show me your hat, Sir,’ sis he, mighty polite entirely. ‘Indeed, an’ I will, an’ welcome, Sir,’ sis I: ‘it was made by Beahan in Patrick-street, and cost but fifteen shillings—a very decent man, if you want to buy one.’ “ “Oh, I don’t mane that, Sir,’ sis he,‘be pleased to give me your hat.’ ““Give it to you?’ sis I. *‘Arrah, be aisy,’ sis I, “wud you have me go home in the night air without a hat ?’ Poh no, Sir, sis he: ‘you mistake me—I only want to put by your hat for you tall you are going home.’ “«Sorra thrust you,’ sis I, ‘what wud make me give you my hat, at all, at all—can’t I take care of it myself? “Qh, Sir,’ sis he, thrusting out his hand for it, ‘ every gintle man that dines here gives me his hat to take care of.’ ‘“ Well, you see, the fellow was so persuasive that there was no Petting over. it. So, sis I, «Oh, very well; plase yer Rever- ence, put it in aclane place,’ sis I: an’ he tuck it an’ put it by. “«]’d thank you for your cane,’ sis another gintleman to me, as we passed him by. how hat —too cold to sleep with comfort in the open air: yet such was the chamber which a peasant girl, a native ofa little fishing hamlet upon the coast of Cornwall, had chosen for repose. Her couch was a hard and fearful one—the verge of acliff that rose nearly a hundred feet perpendicular from the sea shore; and yet not the softest couch that ever was spread in hamlet, town, or city, contained a tenant, in form for symmetry—in feature for beauty, the mistress of her who occupied that strange, appalling place of rest. Her slumbers were disturbed, yet deep. Neither the full dawn could break them; not yet the pressure of a hand that had taken hold of hers, nor the tears that fell upon her face from the eyes of one who was hanging over her—a young man about her own age, or a little older, and who seemed to belong to the profession of the sea. “And hast thou slept out again all night?” he murmured, his tears still flowing. “ And: does it grow worse and worse with thy poor wits? and shali-I never see the day when I can make thee my wife? They wili not let me marry thee, because, as they say, thou art mad, and knowest not what thou dost; but when thy mind was sound, I was loved by thee! Had I married thee then, thou still hadst been my wife !—thou still hadst been cherished and loved! Why must I not marry thee now’? I could watch thee then at night. My arms would en- fold thee then, and prevent thee from stealing from thy bed to sleep in such a place as this.” 53 Saar Core, ep eo RRC DREN GEE A BE Gi sapien pater eat OAT ae ome et ae STE ROTAY eoNBA OLE aS IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. i The attachment which united this young man to the being ee P| whom he so pathetically apostrophized, was of that pure and Vi steadfast nature which can never take root except in the un- sophisticated heart. She had lost her reason in consequence of : having been witness to a transaction of blood, which made her i y an orphan. She was to have been married to him ; but, in the unfortunate state of her intellect, no clergyman would cele- brate the rites. But she did not the less enjoy his protection. Beneath his mother’s roof she lived as a sister—the object of a passion in which frustration, and almost hopelessness, had only produced increase of strength. “Kate, Kate!” he called, ‘rouse thee. Don't be frightened ; ‘tis only William. Get up, and come home.” He offered to raise her, but she checked him—looked round and fixed her eyes inquiringly upon the sea. ‘“Where is it?’ she exclaimed, her voice tremulous with in- tense emotion. “ Where is the storm? I see the black sky, but I want the thunder and the wind; the white, white sea, and the big ship driving upon the reef; or is it all over? No,” she added ; ‘‘’tis coming—’ twill be here: I see it.” She rose, and passively accompanied her watchful lover to his mother’s cottage; where, leaving her under the custody of its mistress, the young man repaired on urgent business to a town at some distance from the hamlet. That morning the storm came on; three days it continued— it was now the third day, a lee shore, a boiling sea, and on the coast of Cornwall. A wild and fearful offing. Foam, foam, foam, which way soever youtléokéd—nothing but foam. Black reefs of rocks, that even in the highest spring-tides were never completely covered, discernible now only by a spot here and there—so quick the breakers fell upon them. The spray flying over the cliffs, fifty, sixty, ay, a hundred feet and more, above the level of the sea, and spreading over the land for acres. iI | And all above pitch black, though at noonday. Everything | | seemed to cower before the spirit of the storm—everything ex- cept man. The shore—which consisted partly of huge massesTHE WRECKERS. oc of rock, partly of shingle—was lined with human beings; some in groups, some alone, promiscuously furnished with boat. hooks, gaffs, grapples, hatchets, and knives, ready to dispute with the waves the plunder of the fated ship that might be driven within the jaws of that inhospitable bay. Expectation glistened in their eyes, that kept eagerly prowling backward and forward, far and near, over the waste of waters—they were wreckers. Not afew women, as well as children, were among them; nor were these unprovided against the approach of the wished-for prey—all seemed to have their appropriated places; from which, if they stirred, it was only a step or two, to be the next minute retraced. Little was spoken. At one and the same moment almost every head was turned toward the cliff, at the wild and shrill halloo that rang from it. ‘““"Tis only Kate,” cried one, here and there, as the maniac rapidly descended by a crevice, which few of the lookers-on would have attempted, and that with wary feet. “The crazy slut will break her neck,” carelessly remarked one to another. But she was safe in her recklessness or uncon- sciousness of danger, and in a second or two stood among them. ““A lovely day—a fair, lovely day!” she exclaimed to the first she came up to “Good luck to you! Anything yet. No, no,’ she continued, replying to herself; “white to the north—white to the west—white to the south—all white: not a speck upon the water. But ’tis coming! ’tis coming! ’tis coming!” she reiterated, dropping her voice to her lowest pitch ; “I saw it here last night—a big, black hull—one mast standing out of three—cannons and stores overboard—trising and sinking—rocking and reeling—driving full bump upon the reef where the William and Mary was wrecked seven cursed | years ago: I saw it,” she repeated, eyeing the standers-by with } a look that dared incredulity; then all at once, her voice sink- ing into a whisper, “ Hist, hist!” she added; “’twill be a hand- ful or two for you—and a load for you—and more than one can carry for you,” addressing this person and that successively , “casks, cases, chests, gear, and gold—but what will it be for eee eed ere Gz ———s a o eit St fe Ser Jiimsaiied + aru Eee AOE erento cae PREP SMR HR SHOR NE Ue OEDIRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. Black Norris? It will be a brighter day for him than for any of you. When do they say his time is out ?” , ‘Whose time?” inquired one among the group she was ad. dressing. “One, two, three,” she went on without noticing the ques. tion until she had counted seven: “his seven years were out last May; he was transported three years before his hopeful son murdered my father.” ‘ FHush, you crazy wench,” exclaimed those around her; “ if Norris hears you, you may chance to take a swim in the creek where he is standing.” ‘““Crazy |” she echoed. ‘Yes; bless heaven that made me so! It knows best what it does. I saw my father murdered, though his murderer saw not me; they were struggling which should keep possession of the prey. Old Norris’s knife decided it! I was powerless with fright! I could not speak! I could not stir! I became mad, and the judge would not believe me! I could tell my story better now, but it would be of no use, for they say I am crazy still. There she is!’ vociferated she, point- ing toward the offing at the southern extremity of the bay. ‘““Where—where—where ?” inquired her auditors. “No, no,” she resumed after a minute or two of silence, dur- ing which her eyeballs kept straining in the direction toward which she had pointed. “No,” she resumed, dropping her hand; “but she is coming; and Black Norris will neither want roof nor board, gold or gear, to welcome back the father that bred him up to his own trade. But, where is he?” inquired she; “where, but upon the long reef where I saw him!" Say- ing this, she proceeded to the southern extremity of the bay. A stalwart figure, in advance of the regular line, sat sta- tioned upon the landward end of a huge reef of rocks, that grad- ually dipped into the sea. His hair, black and lank, thrown back from a swarthy, ill-favored visage, hung half way down his shoulders, his eye, dark, small, and glistening bright, directed toward the sea, in quick and restless motion, was everywhere at once. A long boat-hook, clenched with both his hands, restedTHE WRECKERS. a7 across his knees; and, in a belt, which encircled his waist, were stuck a clasp-knife of more than ordinary size, and a hatchet. The wave repeatedly washed more than half way up his lower extremities, but he paid no more heed than if he were a part of the rock that scattered it into mist. “A lovely day—a fair, lovely day!” cried the maniac, ap- proaching him. “ How beest thou, Black Norris? Nay, I am good now,’ continued she, in a deprecating tone; “don’t look angry. I'll never say again that it was you.” The wrecker moved his hand toward his knife. ‘‘ Stop, stop, Black Norris,” cried she, coaxingly and hurriedly laying her hand upon his arm; “keep it for other work! You’ll want it to-day ; before night there will be a hull ashore. There will be need of knife, axe, hook, and all; for the storm is lively yet, the sea shows not signs of going down—the breakers keep tumbling upon the shore. Mark how they sweep the shingles up,and back again! By-and-by they will have something else to roll. ‘tis coming! A huge, black hull—one mast standing out of three—cannons and “"Tis coming, Black Norris! stores overboard—rising and sinking—rocking and reeling— driving full bump upon the reef where the William and Mary was wrecked; the very reef on which you stand, Black Norris! ay, and the very spot—!” ‘ Silence, jade!’’ exclaimed the wrecker, looking from beneath his hand, which, with the rapidity of lightning, was raised to his brow, and placed there horizontally, and leaning eagerly forward. “In the south ?” “ Yes.” ‘“ Just clear of the point ?” ‘‘Yes—the looming of something; ’tis a sloop—I see but one mast.” “’Tis a ship, black Norris; the other two have been cut away.’ “Peace, jade! what know’st thou of the matter?” “’Tis a ship,” she continued ; ‘I told you so! There is the huge, black hull!” DE CW SYNE teeter ENS LEDOT Se ene dad.LP iets Mle a ca RRM LINN AOA nag SE SS a ARISH FIRESIDE STORIES. “Tis there, indeed!” exclaimd the wrecker. “Art thou a witch as well as crazed? ’Tis there, indeed; she is driving right into the bay, coming broadside on.” A huge, black hull it was, high out of the water, asif every article of weight that could be spared had been thrown over- board. Keeling and pitching, she came on, staggering every now and then at the stroke of some wave that broke over her. Fast was she nearing the shore. “Now, now, now!” ever and anon exclaimed the wreckers: but she was floating still, so much had those on board lightened her. At length she was fairly among the breakers. She touched, and touched—yet went on; at last she struck, and a Jong continued crash came undulating upon the ears of the lookers-on, accompained with halloos and shrieks. The shore was now all astir. “That does for her! exclaimed several voices all at once, as an enormous wave towering, as if charged with her doom, came foaming toward her. In another minute it broke upon her with a fury that sent the spray to the clouds, and totally hid her from the shore. When she became visible again, the whole of her larboard broadside was stove in. In a moment men, women, and children were up to their middle in the surf. An- other billow—she was gone! Planks, pullies, spars, and cor- dage, now came floating in, and every one went to work—every one but Black Norris. He kept his station upon the reef—a post which common consent seemed to have yielded up to him. Noone ventured to dispute his right to it. In advance of him stood the maniac. constantly looking in one direction—a kind of cove produced by a forking in the reef. Thence she never took her eye, x. cept to throw a glance at Black Norris whenever he made a movement, as if about to quit the stand which he had chosen. “Twill be here,” she kept repeating; “’twill be here—that which will be worth the hull to thee, were it high and dry, and all thine own; wait for it—’tis sent to thee—’twill be | 1€rc.THE WRECKERS. 69 Did I not tell you of the huge, black hull, and came it not? As surely that will come, which in that hull was sent to thee Be ready with thy boat-hook. The minutes are counted. Th wave that is to bring it is rolling in. There itis! I know it! — Here, take my place and be ready. Here it is—a body—hook it by the clothes! keep it clear of the rocks! Round—round —round here into this nook! Look if it does not lie there as if it were made for it! What think you now, Black Norris? What think you now of crazy Kate? Softly, softly,”’ she con- tinued, as the wrecker, substituting his hands for the instru- ment, began to draw the body up tothe beach. ‘“ Softly—the pockets are full! Softly, lest any should drop from them. That will do—that will do!’ Scarcely was the body clear of the surf when the wrecker be- gan to rifle it. The pockets were full; one of them was speed- ily emptied, when a laugh from the maniac, who, squatting, sat gibbering at the head, arrested Black Norris in the act of exam- ining the contents. “What laugh’st thou at, jade ?” he inquired. “Goon,” she replied—“ ’tis a fair, lovely day, as I told thee; is it not, Black Norris ?” ‘“‘ Peace, jade!’ exclaimed the wrecker. ‘“ Jewels!’ he ejacu- lated, closing a small case which he had opened. The maniac laughed again. ‘“ Wilt thou stop thy cursed mouth,” vocifera- ted the wrecker. “Goon,” murmured the maniac. ‘Go on, Black Norris! You shoyld not be angry with me. Did I not tell you it was coming? Goon. ’Tisa fair, lovely day; isn’t it, Black Nor- ris?” “Silence, again!” cried the wrecker. “Gold!” exclaimed he to himself, as he emptied into his hand a portion of the contents of a purse, which he had taken from the other pocket—“ broad, heavy, yellow pieces!” Another laugh from the maniac. “I tell thee what, mad Kate,” roared out the wrecker, “ take to thy heels, or abide the consequence, if thou utterest that sound again.” Spy An ey SSSEEE LD TRO riers UP evs SAAT Se Tee Carre Ma eS tat SSG hen ks OOP ELON Soe ee Gems ae re a rerk SEG ty is abEER SRE Na Pe Roe a a eader _ ny f 69 TRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. ’ “ Softly, softly!” whispered Kate; “he hears you.’ “Who, jade?” cried the wrecker, starting from his knees. “The owner of the diamonds and the gold. His lips have been moving for the last minute, and now they are wide Hae taxes open.” The wrecker just glanced at the face of the shipwrecked man. “Get thee away, good Kate,” said he, in a conciliatory tone. “Go, Kate; leave me by myself, and I'll never be angry with thee again. Go, good Kate; go.” The maniac looked at the wrecker for a moment—smiled— nodded her head significantly, and rose. ““T am gone, Black Norris,” she cried. “A good day to you! and a good, fair day itis! and a lovely day! Isn’t it, Black Norris? I’llleave you by yourself—I’ll not stay—I’m gone !” and starting toward the pathway which led up the cliff, and the commencement of which was sheltered by a screen of rock, she was quickly out of sight. The wrecker now began to reconnoitre all round him. Every one engrossed with his own occupation, securing such portions of the wreck, or such articles of property as were brought within his reach. His hand approached his knife—grasped it—half drew the weapon from his belt; but suddenly replaced it, and now fastened on the axe—the counterpoise to the blade of which was a wedge-like piece of iron, broad and flattened at the end. In a second the instrument swung by his side. Once again he reconnoitred toward the beach ; then turned toward the pros- trate man. He thought the body moved—he trembled from head to foot. He advanced a single step, but stopped—the fingers were in motion! A low sound—half a voice, half breath—issued from the throat, which now evidently began to ntact tea work. He advanced another step, though a tottering one—an- other—another! He was now within a foot or two of the A | head—he sank, or rather dropped upon one knee. The eyes of | the seaman moved—they turned tothe right, and to the left, and at last glared back upon the wrecker! Both hands now clenched aTHE WRECKERS. 61 the axe. Slowly it was lifted, the edge averted, and the blunt end suspended over the forehead of him that lay. It was raised! It hovered a moment or two, then fell with a short, dull crash—a pause for a moment or two more—limb, eye, every- thing were still—the wrecker threw his weapon behind him, and wiped from his brow the drops that stood thick upon it. “Ha, ha! you have done it!” The wrecker turned, and beheld the maniac standing behind him, with the hatchet in her hand, her eyes flashing. “Nay, move not, Black Norris!’ she continued, “unless you would have me give the corpse a fellow!” Let me get farther from thee without forcing me to do thee a mischief, and I will tell thee something!’’ She retreated about twenty paces, with- out turning her back; the wrecker, now perfectly unnerved, not daring to move. “ Black Norris!’ she resumed, “did I not tell thee that it was a fair, lovely day ?—and a fair, lovely day it is—and a bonny one, too! And know you not why, Black Norris? This day you have done, what you have done!—and this day seven years was the day, the fair, lovely day, when you murdered my father, Black Norris! Now, follow me not, but ”? good-by. She fled. The wrecker had no power to follow. By the fire of a miserable hut, was seated upon a stool, a fe- male, of youthful but haggard appearance. She had an infant at her breast, and was endeavoring to lull it, rocking to and fro, with a low, melancholy hum. Every now and then she paused and listened, and, after a second or two, resumed her maternal task. ‘Be quiet, Shark! be quiet!’ she would occasionally cry, as a lean, black, rough-coated dog, between the Newfoundland and the mastiff, and which was stretched across the hearth, would raise his head, and, turning it in the direction of the door, keep howling amidst the gusts of the storm, which was slowly and fitfully subsiding. aE Hr UTR ao fey ROPE SRE LV? SIERO We LEDS RMS Tart LU SR PTSSODAS at IK. iit ida a a MITT AIS ; si REE SRR eee roe ae Se ie Te 62 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. At length the infant fell asleep, and was transferred from its mother’s lap to a wretched pallet in an adjoining room. Her charge being thus disposed of, she returned into the outer apart- ment. A cooking-vessel was on the fire. She lifted the lid. The steam faintly rose from the contents. “Will never grow hot!” she impatiently exclaimed, and <¢e- sorting to a bellows, through the creviced sides of which escaped the greater portion of the wind which was intended for the proper vent, proceeded assiduously, but also in vain, to urge the sluggish fuel. ‘He'll brain me, if he comes home, and noth- ing ready,” she cried to -herself, in a querulous undertone. “ Heaven send him luck, and I shall have peace for a day or two,’ continued she. “ But for my baby, 1 wish I had never seen the face of Black Norris.” “Let me in,’ cried the wrecker at the door. “Thank heaven, he has met with luck,” ejaculated the wretched wife. She let him in. He hada trunk upon his shoulder, and un- der his arm he carried a bundle of clothes. “Good luck, Norris?” tremulously, and half doubtingly, in- quired she. “Yes,” was his sullen reply. ‘‘ Why do youask with such a face as aiiat r” “T was afraid you had not met with any. ‘Why ?” demanded he, sternly. “From your looks,” timidly responded she. ‘Curse thee,’ muttered the ruffian; “what business hast thou to mind my looks? Here, lend a hand, and help this load from my back.” The trunk was deposited upon the floor. “What, nothing ready? MHast thou not victuals in the house? Hast thou not fire? Hast thou not hands? and why is not my dinner ready? Bestir thee, I have something to do in the next room. On thy life let me not be disturbed till I have done. Haste. Give me the key of the big chest.” ‘Dont wake the baby,” entreatingly enjoined the wife. “He a not slept the whole morning, and is only just now dropped off,” ’)THE WRECKERS. 63 “Curse the child,” cried the wrecker. “Thou thinkest of nothing but the child. Look to my dinner.” He went into the next apartment, shut the door after him, and bolted it. He examined the jewels again. He emptied the purse of its contents and counted them. He opened the rest of the pock- ets. The trowsers he had taken from the bundle and thrown down upon the floor of the other room—all contained riches. He placed them upon the ground, a pplied the key, and hastily began to deposit them in the bottom of the chest. Inthe pro- gress of his work, he started and stopped short, at a shuffling of feet which he heard in the outer apartment, accompanied by the sound of voices, as of persons speaking in a low key. Mutter- ing a curse he proceeded. “ Norris, Norris,’ not, but went on. ‘“‘ Norris,” whispered his wife at the door. He replied ‘“You are wanted.” He an- swered not, but listened anxiously—all was silent. “ Norris!” she whispered again. she repeated. ‘Silence, and confound thee! “I cannot help it, “ You are wanted, “ Presently!” he ’-was the ruffian’s reply. Norris!” rejoined she, husband! Ocome! Docome!” vociferated. The last article was put im. He locked the chest, and eet ig the door, threw it open. “Well, is my dinner ready?” he noisily demanded, entering the outer apartment, and Ae towards the table—which had been constructed out of the fragments of a wreck—a corpse lay stretched upon it. At the head and at the foot was a group of his neighbors. He stood for a moment or two transfixed. “What means this?” at length he boldly inquired, with a loud voice, striving to conceal a cowering heart. ‘Merciful powers!” exclaimed one, lifting the rifled trows- ers, which the wrecker had thrown upon the floor. ‘“ Merciful powers! if it is not your father’s body, Norris, that you have been stripping.” “My father’s body ?” forsaking his cheeks. still whispering. echoed Black Norris, the blood utterly a ants ae re ani BOR e Yet: geo TMA ASD ead nee BR EN PRE am HNO WS Pee Oi re SasIRISH FIRE SIDE STORIES, Ves, there it is, stretchéd tipon the table!” Black Norris did not attempt to speak. He looked at the body—at the by-standers—at his wife—at the body again—with an expression of utter vacuity in his countenance. He then approached the table, half seated himself on a corner of it, his back to the corpse; and with one leg upon the floor, kept swing- ing the other, looking wildly around him. MHis wife, who had dropped upon the stool on which she had been nursing her child, sat the image of horror. The rest kept silence. “It can't be helped!” at last exclaimed Black Norris. ‘‘ The dead have no use for clothes. We'll bury him to-morrow, and wake him to-night.” His auditors looked at one another, but made no remark. Pipes, tobacco, and spirits, were speedily procured and placed upon the same table with the corpse, which was now covered with a sheet. Black Norris seated himself at the head. His neighbors, whose numbers were now increased by occasional droppers-in, accommodated themselves as they could with stools, empty kegs placed cn end, and pieces of plank converted into temporary forms, sat ranged around. The room waxed merry, save where the wrecker’s wife sat crouching near the fire, her head supported by the wall. At length the first supply of spirits was out. “Tl bring you better,” cried the wrecker. “ What we have been drinking was watered; I'll bring it to you as pure as from the still.” He disappeared ; and, after a lapse of about ten or fifteen minutes, returned with a fresh supply. He opened the door unobserved, but stopped short upon remarking that the place which he had just quitted was occupied by three or four who were intently employed in examining the head of the dead body, from which the sheet had been partially removed. The rest of the company were leaning forward, apparently absorbed in what was passing. “Tis an ugly mark!” said one. “No rock could do that!” observed another. ’THE WRECKERS. 6 5 “Nol” interposed a third; “’tis more like the blunt end of an axe-head; see! here is the regular mark of the edge all 1 would not be Black Norris for all he has got by this y )? day's work round. “Why not ?” vociferated the wrecker, springing forward, and confronting the speaker. I’ very eye was turned toward the wrecker, in whose counte- nance desperation and gathering fury were fearfully depicted. No answer was returned to his question. “Why not!” repeated he, with increased vehemence. “Why not?” echoed the young man, recovering from tem- porary surprise. ‘ Why, who was it stove your father’s fore- head in, Black Norris?’ added he, after a pause. He nad scarcely time to duck his head. The vessel which the wrecker carried flew over it, and in the next moment the young man’s throat was in the ruffian’s gripe. Black Three or four of the strongest “ Loose your hold of him,” cried several, all at once. Norris paid no heed to them. and boldest rushed together upon him at once; overpowered him, and rescued his almost suffocated victim. The wrecker drew his knife, and brandished it. They rushed upon him again betore he had time to make a stroke with it, and wrenched it from him. His wife, who, it appeared, had retired into the in- ner apartment during the interval of her husband’s absence, now burst from it, sank on her knees before him, and, clasping him round the legs with one arm, while with the other she sup- ported her infant, implored him to be calm. A _ blow levelled the child and mother to the earth. With horror of the savage act, the spectators stood awhile, as if bereft of the power of speech or motion. Fora second or two the wrecker glared around him like a fiend, then suddenly vanished into the inner room. He searched here and there, blaspheming all the time, cursing this thing and that thing, as anything came to his At length, however, he suc- Then a pouch filled with slugs; Hastily hand, except what he wanted. ceeded in finding his pistols. snd, last of all, a powder-horn, presented themselves. gare Ao dgmD BENT CWP STOMA ure iv SEROE SUTL Pee ren UCVRISH FIRESIDEZ SPARES. he loaded and primed the weapons, and proceeding to the door with one in each hand, advanced a pace into the outer apartment. ‘‘Now, roared the wrecker, ‘now, who is the man to come on?’ Noone stirred. “I give you just as much time,” con- tinued he, “as it will take you to clear the house. When that is expired, I fire at the man that remains.”’ A wild, shrill, piercing laugh was the answer to his menace. It came from the head of the corpse. The maniac was stand- ing there. The wrecker’s axe was in her hand—the blunt end resting on the mark in the dead man’s forehead. “Ha, ha!” she cried exultingly, “there is your father, Black Norris, a corpse upon the plank of wood, to get possession of which, you murdered my father; and here is your axe upon the mark which you made in your father’s forehead when I told you, as you were rifling him on the beach, that his eyes were moving, and you coaxed me to leave you alone with him. See how nicely it fits. But I knew you, and stole back. I did, Black Norris. And I saw the blow, and heard the crash, and snatched up your hatchet when you threw it behind you, and ran away with it. Give you joy of your diamonds and your gold, Black Norris. : Oi 2pm BBY SS clot cae a ate CW SPUR aR TS SOT Oe OE SaratCab uie a Fis chee aici ada ee 0 UATE; dt PLS A ITS g ASR Se ates NE as rs eS ee eT 7 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. my seed, breed, an’ gineration always scorned the like, but a scoundhrel in Malla Lane, has played the puck with me, an’ ] want a little revinge on him.” “Tt’s all nathral,” sis he, “if he ill-used ye.” “ He’s the ruinashun of myself, an’ nine motherless grawls: an’ he has, at this blessid minit that I spake to ye, forty gal- lons o’ whiskey in his back-house, unnonst to the gauger.” The jantleman’s eye glistened with delight. “Come along, sis he, “an, if we make a sayshure, I'll give you a guinea to boot.” “Long life to your noble honor,” sis I, “I knew yer honor looked like some grand jantleman, an’ p’rhaps, yer honor would want a baste to remove the whiskey, an’ I have a snug horse an’ car at yer honor’s service.” My hand for ye, we let no grass grow undher us, till we come to the right place, an’ I had Shaune an’ the car ready in s a jiffy. The whiskey was saised an’ conveyed into my car; an’ as we came down towards the guard-house, the shuperwiser slipt the guinea into my fist. “Vou desarve it,” sis he, ‘an’ here’s a crown to dhrink the king’s health, besides.” “QO, you're the jewel of a jantleman,” sis I, “long life an’ good luck to your noble honor—wheep, Shaune’’—an’ I turned up Blarney Lane. The jantleman turned on his heel. ‘This is our way, over the bridge,”’ sis he. “But this is my way, up the hill, Sur,” sis I,—‘ wheep, Shaune.”’ The jantleman got into a high passion, and collared me. “Fair an’ easy, ma boohil,” sis I, “that’s my whiskey, an’ here’s my permit; an’ if I hear another word coming out o your ugly mouth, I'll get a fosse o them thripewomen below, to cool your courage in the river.” But for all that, he throttled me still, an’ flung a hawk’s eye round fora constable. A crowd of broguemakers an’ thripe women now gathered round us.THE BOCCAUGH’S CURSE. ~ / ‘Jack Begly,” sis a fat thripewoman, to a big broguemaker, “* Jack Begly, have ye the spirit o’ a man to stand on yer t tian ?” “Let us have at him, Poll Dooly, the squinting thief,” sis another fierce virago, brandishing a large thripe knife, an’ be. fore ye could say Jack Robinson, he received a shower of thripes right in his face. The sogers at the guard-house, hearing the row, rushed out to see the sport, an’ while the thripewomen an’ broguemak. ers were busy amusing themselves wid the gauger, I slipt away the car as quietly as possib] lean’ whipt Shaune to the top of his speed, up Blarney Lane. Stopping for a minit to brathe the horse, I heard below, at the distance of half a mile, the roar o’ the thripewomen, the clash o’ the bagnits, an’ the rattling o’ t] hundreds came rushing agin sodger’s 1¢ stones along the street. While me tothe bottom of B larney Lane, I was clearing « ut at the top of it, an’ laving all the fun be- hind me. From that d; ly to this, I never inthered Cork—nor, if I can help it, will I ever again, till the day of my death. AEN AG N/€ MONG all the sweet scenes of ay native home, that \\ eae fancy paints for my mind's eye in the calm soft twi- Io light, there is not one over the memory of which it 7 x" delights me more to linger, than the snug little em- bowered farm-house of Dunglass, and its comfortable, good-humored occupants, Dermod Moran and his pretty Norah. Charity and hospitality are, Iam proud to Say, No scarce virtues among my countrymen; but here they flour- ished in their glory. Nota poor neighbor within the circuit of 4 mile—not a beggar went the ro; ad—but could boast of having 7 wo pins there, an’ see a blagard gauger throttle any fellow-Chris.. GREE op Sa eaten Ro RATE RENE Sir ear a e * a < for sich a weary trudge as I had wid it, but my breakfast ? eiuere,. Said -Stinton, that along with it, and now, be off—or, stop —Cartwright, will you dine with me to-day, and let us broach the keg? I’ll guar- antee its excellence, for this is not the first I have got from the same quarter, that’s extre nous.” “With all my heart,” replied Cartwright, “upon the terms half-a-crown, ‘take throwing him ee you say, that of the broach.” “Then, my lad,” said Stinton, ‘say to my daughter, that aCOND Y CULLEN AND THE GAUGER. 17 19 friend, perhaps a friend or two, will dine with me to-day—that is enough.” They then mounted their horses, and were proceeding is before, when Cartwright addressed the gauger as follows:— “Do you not put this lad, Stinton, in a capacity to overreach you yet? “No,” replied the other, “the young rascal spoke the truth after the discovery of the keg, for he lost his temper, and was no longer cool.” ‘For my part, hang me if 1’d trust him.” “T should scruple to do so myself,” replied the gauger, “but as I said, these Keerigans—notorious illicit fellows, by the way, —_send mea keg or two every year, and almost always about this very time. Besides, I read him to the heart, and he never winced. Yes, decidedly, the whiskey was for me; of that I have no doubt whatsoever.’ ‘I most positively would not trust him.” ‘“ Not that, perhaps, I ought,” said Stinton, “ on second thought, to place such confidence ina lad who acted so adroitly in the beginning. Let us call him back, and re-examine him, at all events.’ Now, Condy had, during this conversation, been discussing the very same pcint with himself. ‘Bad cess forever attend you, Stinton, ara,” jae exclaimed, “for there’s surely something ree lucky shot from be- hind a hedge, or a break-neck fall down a cliff, or something of that kind: if the ould boy hadn’t his crouds hard and fast in you, you wouldn’t let me walk away wid the whiskey, any how. Be- dad, it’s well I thought o’ the Keerigans ; for, sure enough, I did hear Barny say, that he was to send a keg into him this week, some day—and he didn’t think I knew him, aither—Faix, its many a long day since I knew the sharp puss of him, ¥ wid aneye like a hawk. But what if they folly me, and doupall? Any way, Pil + prevint them from having suspic! ‘on on me, before I go a toe farther, the ugly rips.” » Stinton He instantly wheeled about,a moment or two beforeIRISH FIRL SIOZ me ee ts: and Cartwright had done the same, for the purpose of sifting him still more thoroughly—so that they found him meeting them. ee | “Gintlemen,” said he, “ how do I| know that either of yous is Mr. Stinton; or that the house you d‘rected me to is his? [| i) know that if the whiskey doesn’t go to him, I may lave the il 1 i) country !” 5 mE | “You are either a deeper rogue, ar a more stupid fool | than I took you to be,” observed Stinton— but what security » can you give us, that you will leave the keg safely at its destina- tion r”’ “If I thought you were Mr. Stinton, I’d be very glad to | leave you the whiskey, and even do widout my breakfast—Gin- tlemen, tell me the truth, bekase I’d only be murdered out of Phe face.” | “Why, you idiot,” said the gauger, losing his temper and sus- ' picions both together, “can’t you go to the town and enquire where Mr. Stinton lives?” Z i | ‘“Bedad, thin, thrue enough, I never thought of that, at all, at 1 le ail, but | beg your pardon, gintlemen, an’ I hope you won’t be angry wid me, in regard that its kilt and quarter’d I’d be if I let myself be made a fool of by any body.” “ Do what I desire you,” said the exciseman; “enquire for a Mr. Stinton’s house, and you may be sure the whiskey will reach A him.” ie “Thank you, Sir, bedad I might have thought of that my- i a Soin This last clause in a soliloquy would have deceived a saint him- self. 4 “Now,” said Stinton, after they had recommenced their journey, ‘‘are you satisfied ?” “Yam, at length,” said Cartwright, “if his intentions had been ei dishonest, instead of returning to make himself certain against en | being deceived, he would hav us > made the best of his way from a rogue never, at least seldom, wantonly put himself in the way of danger or detection.”CONDY CULLEN AND THE GAUGER. 181 That evening, about five o'clock, Stinton, Cartwright, and two others, arrived at the house of the worthy gauger, to partake of his good cheer. A cold, frosty evening gave a peculiar zest to the comfort of a warm room, a blazing fire, and a good dinner. No sooner were the viands discussed, the cloth removed, and the glasses ready, than their generous host desired his daughter to assist the servant in broaching the pyptap le keg. “That keg, my dear,’”’ he proceeded, “ which the country lad who brought the key of the cellar left here to-day.” “A kee i repeated the daughter, with surprise. “Yes, Maggy, my love, a keg, I said so, I think?’ “But, papa, there came no keg here to-day !” The gauger and Cartwright both groaned in unison. No keg!” se said the gauger. “No keg!” echoed Cartwright. ‘“ No keg, indeed,” re-echoed Miss Stinton—“ but there camea country boy with the key of the cellar, as a token that he was to set the five-gallon—’” “Oh!” groaned the o o oD auger—‘‘ oh! oh! oh! I’m knocked up, outwitted,—oh !” ‘Bought ana sold,’ added Cartwright. ‘Go on,” said the gauger, “I must hear it out ?” “Asatoken,” proceeded Miss Stinton, “that he was to get the five-gallon keg for Captain Dalton.” “And he got it?” “Yes, Sir, he got it; for I took the key asa sufficient token.” “But, Maggy—oh! hear me, child—surely, he promt a keg here, and left it; and, of course, it’s in the cellar?” “No, indeed, papa, he brought no keg here; but he did bring the five-gallon one that was in the cellar away with him.” “ Stinton,” said Cartwright, “send round the bottle “The rascal,’ ejaculated the gauger, “we shall drink his health.” And, on relating the circumstances, the company drank the sheepish lad’s health, that bought and sold the gauger.i aba a SAI Bae ELLEN DUNCAN. HERE are some griefs so deep and overwhelming, that even the best exertions of friendship and sym- pathy are unequal to the task of soothing or dispel- NAS 8 ling them. Such was the grief of Ellen Duncan, who was silently weeping in her lone cottage on the bor- ders of Clare—a county at that time in a frightful state of anarchy and confusion. Owen Duncan, her husband, at the period about which our tale commences, resided in the cabin where he was born and reared, and to which, as well as a few acres of land adjoining, he had succeeded on the death of his father. They had not been long married, and never were husband and wife more attached. About this time outrages began to be perpetrated; and soon increased fearfully in num- ber. Still, Owen and Ellen lived happily, and without fear, as they were too poor for the marauders to dream of getting much booty by robbing; and their religion being known to be “the ould religion ov all, ov all,” in a warfare that was exclusively one of party, they were more protected than otherwise. Owen never was particularly thrifty; and as his means were small, was generally embarrassed, or, rather, somewhat pinched in cir- cumstances. Notwithstanding this, however, he was as happy | as a king; and according to his unlettered neighbors’ artless praise, “there wasn't a readier hand, nor an opener heart in the wide world—that’s iv he had id—bud he hadn’t, an’ more was the pity.’’ His entire possessions consisted of the eround we have mentioned—most part of which was so rocky as to be entirely useless—a cow, a couple of pigs, and “the ould cabin,” which consisted of four mud-walls, covered wit fanged 1 thatch, in which was an opening, “to let in the day-light, an’ to let out 182ELLEN DUNCAN. the smoke.” In the interior there was no division, or separate apartment, as the one room contained their cooking materials, and all other necessaries, besides their bed, which was placed close to the fire, and, of course, nearly under the opening in the roof. If any one spoke to Owen about the chances of rain coming down to where they slept, his universal answer was, “Shure, we’re naither shugar nor salt, any how; an’ a dhrop ov rain, or a thrifle ov wind, was niver known to do anybody harm —0arrin it brought the typhus; bud God’s good, an’ ordhers all for the best.” Owen had ‘been brought up in this way, and so, as he could “ve by his labor, he never thought of needless luxuries; and Ellen, seeing him contented, was so herself. For some months previous to the time of which we write, Owen's affairs had been gradually getting worse and worse; and it was with no pleasing anticipations that he looked forward o g to his approaching rent-day. His uneasiness he studiously kept a secret from his wife, and worked away, seemingly with ag much cheerfulness as ever, hoping for better days, and ¢rustzng in Providence! NHowever, when within a week of the time that he expected a call from the agent, he found that, with all his in- dustry, he had been only able to muster five-and-twenty shillings, and his rent was above five pounds. So, after a good deal of painful deliberation, he thought of selling his single cow, thinking that by redoubled exertion he might after awhile be enabled to repurchase her; forgetting that before the cow was sold was really the time to make the exertion. A circumstance that greatly damped his ardor in this design was the idea of his wife’s not acquiescing in it; and one evening, as they sat together by the light of the wood and turf fire, he thus opened his mind :— ‘Ellen, asthore, it’s myself that’s sorry I haven’t a fine large cabin, an’ a power o’ money, to make you happier an’ comfort- abler than you are.” “Owen,” she interrupted, “don’t you know I’m very happy? an’ didn’t I often tell you, that it was the will of Providence that we shud be poor? So it’s sinful to be wishin’ for riches.” ’oe DALLES, IRISH FIRE SIDE | } “Bud, Ellen, acushla, it’s growin’ worse wid us every day | an’ I’m afeard the throuble is goin’ to come on us. You know how hard the master’s new agint is—how he sould Paddy Mur. phy’s cow, an’ turned him out, bekase he couldn’t pay his rint an’ I’m afeard I'll have to sell ‘Black Bess,’ to prevint his doin re.) the same wid us.” | \ “Well, Owen, agra, we mustn’t murmur for our disthresses 1 so do whatever you think right—times won't be always as they ‘ are now.” S| “ Bud, Ellen,” said he, “ you’re forgettin’ how you'll miss the dhrop ov milk, an’ the bit of fresh butther, fur whin we part wid the poor baste, you won't have even thim to comfort you.” ‘Indeed, an’ iv I do miss them, Owen,” she answered, ‘“‘ shure it’s no matther, considherin’ the bein’ turned out ov one’s home into the world. Remember the ould sayin’ ov, ‘out ov two evils always chuse the laste; an’ so, darlint, jist do whatever you think is fur the best.” After this conversation, it was agreed on by both that Owen ial should set out the next day but one for the town, to try and | dispose of the “ cow, the crathur ;”” and although poverty had be- eun togrind them a little, still they had enough to eat, and slept tranquilly. However, it so happened, that the very morning | on which he had appointed to set out, “lack Bess’ was seized eh for a long arrear of a tax that had not been eitherasked or paid there for some time, and driven off, with many others belong- aie | ing to his neighbors, to be sold. Now, you must know, good | reader, that there is a feeling interwoven, as it were, in the Irish nature, that will doggedly resist anything that it conceives in the slightest or most remote degree oppressive or unjust; < 9 ie and that feeling then completely usurped all others in Owen’s mind. He went amongst his friends, and they condoled with ‘ | one another about their grievances; there was many a promise K iy exchanged, that they would stand by each other in their future et | resistance to what they considered an unlawful impost. When 1! the rent-day came, by disposing of his two pigs, and by borrow- y | i vd ; . . 1 . I ing a little, he was enabled to pay the full amount, and thusELLEN DUNCAN. protract for some time the fear “ov bein’ turned out on the world.” Some days after, the whole country was in a tumult—Daly, ‘the procthor,” was found murdered in the centre of the high road, and there was no clue perceptible, by which the perpe- trators of the crime could be discovered. The very day before, Owen had borrowed the game-keeper’s gun, to go, as he said, to a wild, mountainous part of the country to shoot hares; and from this circumstance, and his not having returned the day after, a strong feeling of suspicion against him was in the minds of most. In fact, on the very evening that we have represented Ellen sitting in tears, the police had come to the cabin in search of him; and their report to the magis- trate was, that he had absconded. MHiswife wasin a miserable state of mind, and her whole soul was tortured with conflict- ing emotions. Owen’s long absence, as well as his borrow- ing the gun, seemed to bespeak his guilt; and yet, when she recdiies cted the gentleness of his manner, and his hitherto blameless life, she could not deem him so, no matter how cir- cumstances seemed against him. But then, the harrowing idea that it mzght be, came in to blast these newly-formed hopes, and her state of suspense was one of deep and acute misery. She was sitting, as we have said, alone; the fire, that had consisted of two or three sods of turf heaped upon the floor, had almost entirely gone out; the stools and Jdosses were tossed negligently here and there; and the appearance of the entire apartment was quite different from its usual neat and tidy trim. Her head was bent a little, and her hands were clasped tightly round her knees, while her body was swaying to and fro, as if the agitation of her mind would not allow of its repose. Her eves were dry, but red from former w eeping ; and she was occasionally muttering, “No, he can’t be cuilty’ — “Owen commit a murdher!—It must be an unthruth!” and such like expressions. Gradually, as she thus thought aloud, her motions became more rapid, and her cheeks were no longer dry, while the light that entered through the open door becom-IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. ing suddenly shaded, she turned round, and raised her tearful eyes to question the intruder. She sprang eagerly forward, and hung on his neck (for it was Owen himself), while she joyfully exclaimed :— “ Oh, heaven be praised, yer come back at last, to give the lie to all their reports, an’ to prove yer innocence.’ “Ellen, my darlint,” he answered, “I knew you'd be glad to get me back,” and he kissed, again and again, her burning lips; “but what do you mane, acushla?—What reports do you spake ov, an’ ov what am I accused ?”’ “ Oh, thin, Owen, I’m glad you didn’t even hear ov id; an’ the poliss here, sarchin’ the house to make you pres‘ner. Shure, ik , Billy Daly, the procthor, that sazed poor Black Bess, was murdhered the very morning you wint to shoot the hares; an’ on account ov yer borryin’ the gun, an’ threatenin’ hi im the day ov the sale, they said it was you that done id; bud 1 gev thim all the lie, fur I knew you wor innocent. Now, Owen, a hagur, you look tired; sit down, an’ I'll get you somethin’ to ate. Och, bud I’m glad that yer returned safe?” The overjoyed wife soon heaped fresh turf on the fire, and partly blowing, partly fanning it into a flame, hung a large iron pot over it, from a hook firmly fixed in the wall. While these preparations were going forward, Owen laid aside his rough out- side coat, and going to the door, looked out, as if in irresolu- tion. “Ellen,” at length, said he, turning suddenly round, “ I’m thinkin’ that I’d betther go to tke poliss barrack an’ surrindher —or rather, see what they have to say agin me; as I’m an in- nocent man, I’ve no dhread; an’ if I wait ‘till they come an’ take me, it’ll look as iv I was afeard.” “ Thrue fur you, agra,”” she answered; ‘“‘ bud it’s time enough yit a bit—no one knows ov yer bein’ here. You look slaved, an’ had betther rest yerself, an’ ate a pratee or two. I haveno milk ov my own to offer you zow, but I'll go an’ thry an’ geta dhrop from a iia? When Ellen returned with a little wooden nogginELLEN DUNCAN. husband was sitting warming his hands over the fire; and it was then she recollected that he had not brought back the gun with him ; besides, when she cast a glance at his clothes, they were soiled with mud and clay, and torn in many places. But these circumstances did not for a moment operate in her mind against him, for she knew from the very manner of his first question, and the innocence of his exclamation, that the accusations and suspicions were all false. Even though he had not attempted to explain the cause of his protracted absence, she felt con- scious that it wes not guilt, and forbore to ask any questions about it It was he first opened the subject, as they sat to- gether over their frugal meal. “Ellen,” said he, ‘sence I saw you last, I wint through a aale ov hardship; an’ I little thought, on my return, that I’d be accused ov sa black a crime.” ‘Och, shure enough, Owen, darlint: but I hope it ’ill be all fur the best. I little thought I’d see the day that you’d be sus- pected ov murdher.” “Well, Ellen, aroon, all’s in it is. it can’t be helped. Bud, as I was sayin’—whin I left this, I cut acrass by Shemus Doyle’s, an’ so up into the mountain, where I knew the hares were coogsin’ about in plenty. I shot two or three ov thim: an’ as night began to fall, I was thinkin’ ov comin’ home, whin I heerd the barkin’ ova dog alittle farther up,in the wild part, where I niver venthured afore. I dunna what prompted me to folly id; bud, any how, I did, an’ wint on farther an’ farther. Well, Ellen, agra, I at last came to a deep valley, full up a’most ov furze an’ brambles, an’ I seen a black thing runnin’ down the edge ov id. It was so far off, I thought it was a hare, an’ so I lets fly, an’ it towled over an’ over. Whin I dhrew near, what was it bud a purty black spaniel; an’ you may be shure, I was sorry fur snootin’ it, an’ makin’ such a mistake. | lays down my gun, an’ takes id in my arms, an’ the poor crathur licked the hand that shot id. Thin suddenly, there comes up three sthrange min, an’ sazin’ me as if I wora child, they carrid me down wid them, cursin’ an’ abusin’ me all the way. As they made me take asiiacaenencaoe IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. solemn oath not to revale what I saw there, I can’t tell you any more; bud they thrated me badly, an’ it was only yestherday I escaped.” “ Well, Owen, ahagur, we ought to be thankful that you're back here safe; bud do you think the magisthrate will be satis- fied with this story—they are always anxious to do justice, but they must be satisfied.” “In throth, they are, machree; but shure I'll sware to id; an’, besides, you know, the raal murdherer may be discovered —for God never lets it, ov all other crimes, go athout punish- ment. An’ now, I'll jist go to the barracks at onst, an’ be out Ov suspinse.” Ere Duncan had concluded this sentence, the tramp of feet was heard outside, and in a few seconds, the cabin was full of armed men, who cameto take him prisoner. He had been seen entering his cabin; and they immediately, z. e., as soon as they could muster 2 party, set out to make him captive. As he was known to most of them, and did not make the slightest attempt at resistance, they treated him gently, but bound his hands firmly behind his back, and took every necessary precaution. Though Ellen, while it seemed at a distance, had conversed calmly about his surrender, she was violently agitated at the ap- pearance of the armed force. She clung to her husband's knees, and refused to part from him, wildly screaming, “ He’s inno- cent ! she walked Ly his side to the magistrate’s house (a distance of three miles), her choking sobs and burning tears attesting the violence of her uncontrolled feelings. A short examination was gone through there; and the circumstantial evidence that was adduced made the case look very serious. One man positively swore that he had seen Duncan pass by in the morning, in the cy: g, direction where the body was found, and that he was. armed with a gun. Another, that in about an hour afterwards he had heard a shot, but supposed it was some person coursing, and that the report was just where the body was found, and where Owen had been seen proceeding to. His only cow having been My husband’s innocent!” and when all was prepared, -ELLEN DUNCAN. 189 seized by Daly, a threat that he was heard uttering, and his ab- sence from home. were duly commented on; and finally, he was committed to prison to abide his trial et the Ennis assizes. While all this was going forward, Ellen’s emotions were most agonizing. She stared wildly at the magistrate and the two witnesses; and as the evidence was proceeded with, she some- times hastily put back her hair, as if she thought she were un- der the influence of a dream. But when his final committal was made out, and her mind glanced rapidly at the concurrent testimony, and the danger of Owen, she rushed forward, and flinging her arms round him, wildly exclaimed :— ‘They sha’n't part us—they sha’n’t tear us asunder! No, m0, Owen, I will go wid you to preson! Oh, is id come to this wid us ?—You to be dkragged from home, accused ov murdher and I—I—Father of marcies, keep me in my sinses—I’m goin’ mad—wild, wild, mad!” “Ellen!” said Owen, gently unwinding her arms, and kissing her forehead, while a scalding tear fell from his eye on her cheek—“ Ellen, asthore machree! don’t be overcome. ‘There's a good girl, dhry yer eyes. That God that knows I’m guiltless, g ‘ill bring me safe through all. May his blessin’ be on you, my poor colleen, till we meet agin! You know you can come an’ see me. Heaven purtect you, Ellen, alanna!—Heaven purtect you!” When he was finally removed, she seemed to lose all power, and but for the arm of a bystander would have fallen to the ground. It was not without. assistance that she was at length enabled to reach her cabin. Tt is strange how man’s feelings and powers are swayed by outward circumstances, and how his pride and strength may be entirely overcome by disheartening appearances! So it was vith Owen, although constantly Visited in prison by his faith- ful wife—although conscious of his own innocence—and al- though daily receiving assurances of hope from a numerous cir- cle of friends—yet still his spirit drooped; the gloom of im- prisonment, the idea of danger, the ignominy of public execu-IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. tion, and all the horrors of innocent cenviction, gradually wore away his mental strength ; and when the assize time approached, he was but a thin shadow of the former bluff, healthy Owen Duncan. Inso short atime as this, can care and harrowing thought exhibit its influence on the human frame! Never was there a finer or more heavenly morning than that which ushered in the dav of trial. The court-house was crowd. ed to suffocation, the mob outside fearfully numerous, and nevet before, perhaps, was Ennis in such a state of feverish excite- ment. Daly’s murder was as nought in the minds of all, in comparison with Duncan's accusation. Alas! the former was an occurrence of too frequent repetition, to be very much thought of; but the latter—namely, Owen’s being suspected— was a subject of the extremest wonder. His former high char- acter—his sobriety—his quietness, and his being a native of the town, in some measure accounted tor this latter feeling; and there was an inward conviction in most men’s minds, that he was guiltless of the crime for which he wasaccused. Although the court-house was crowded, yet when the prisoner was called to the bar, a pin could be heard to drop in any part of the place. There wasa single female figure leaning on the arm of an aged and silver-haired, though hale and healthy countryman, within a few feet of the dock; and as the prisoner advanced, ronted the judges and laying his hand on the iron railing, con! and the court, she slowly raised the hood of the cloak, in which she was completely muffled, and gazed long and earnestly on his face. There was in that wistful look, a fear—a hope—an undying tenderness; and w hen his eye met hers, there was a proud, yet soit and warm expression in its glance, that reas- sured her sinking heart. As she looked round on the court, and the many strange faces, and all the striking paraphernalia of justice, a slight shudder crept silently over her frame, and s..e clung closer to her companion, és if to ask for all the pro. tection he could afford. It was Ellen anda her father, who came, the former summoned asa witness, and the latter tc accompany and support the daughter of his aged heart.ELLEN DUNCAN. IQ! Duncan was arraigned ; and on being asked the usual question of “ cuilty, or not guilty?’ he answered in a clear, calm voice, ‘Not guilty, my lord!” and the trial proceeded. The same evidence that was adh at the magistrate’s house was a second time repeated ; and evidently, its train of circumstances made a deep impression on the court. While the first part of the examination was going forward, Ellen remained as motionless as a statue, scarcely daring to move or breathe; but when the depositions went more and more against Owen, her respirations became quick, short, and gaspish; and when the crier desired her to get upon the table, 1t was with difficulty that she obeyed him. When seated, she gazed timidly round on the crowd of counsellors and the judges, as though to bespeak their sympa- thy ; but then, not meeting a single glance from which to glean even the shadow of hope, she covered her face with her hands. A moment or two elapsed, and she grew more assured, and the counsel for the crown proceeded with the examination ‘Ellen Duncan, is not that your name?” was the first auestiel “Tt is, Sir,” she shrinkingly answered, without raising her eyes. Do you know the prisoner at the bar?” “Do I know the pres’ner at the bar?” she reiterated; “dol know Owen Duncan? Shure, isn’t he my own husband ?” “Do you recollect the night of the twenty-first of September?” «Tl do, Ga “Can you sweat to whether your husband was at home on that night, or not?” Her voice faltered a little as she answered in a negative; and on the presiding judge repeating the question, with the addition of, “Did he return at all neat day?” it seemed as if she first thought that her answers might criminate him still farther, and clasping her hands convulsively together, and raising her face ta the bench, while the scalding tears chased each other down her sunken cheek, she passionately exclaimed :— “ Oh, for the love of heaven, don’t ask me anything that ill be worse fer kim! Don’t, counsellor, jewel, don't: ‘don’t askIRISH FIRESIVDE 2 ORIES, me to sware anything that ‘ill do 4zm harm; for I can’t know what I’m sayin’ now, as the heart within me is growing wake.” After a few cheering expressions from the bench, who evi. dently were much moved by her simple, energetic language and action, she was asked whether she could tell the court where her husband spent that and the following nights; and with all the eagerness that an instantaneously formed idea of serving him could give, she answered :— “Oh, yis! yis! my lord, I can. He was in the mountains. shootin’ wid Phil Doran’s gun, an’ he was sazed by some men, that made him stop wid thim, an’ take an’ oath not to revale who they wor, an’ they thrated him badly; so, afther three days he made his escape, an’ come home to the cabin, whin he was taken by the poliss.”’ “One word more, and you may go down—What was done with that gun?” The judge’s hard and unmoved tone of voice seemed to bring misgiving to her mind, and she trembled from head to foot as she falteringly answered :— “The wild boys in the mountain kep’ it, my lord, an’ so he couldn’t bringid home wid him. But indeed, my Lord, indeed, he’s innocent—I’ll swear he never done id! Fur, oh! iv you knew the tindherness ov his heart—he that niver hurt a fiy! Don’t be hard on him, for the love ov marcy, an’ I'll pray for vou night an’ day.” This was the last question she was asked, and having left the table, and regained her former position by her father’s side, she S ’ ce listened with moveless, motionless intensity to the judg “charge.” Herecapitulated the evidence—dwelt on the strong circumstances that seemed to bespeak his guilt—spoke of the mournful increase of crime—of laws, and life, and property be- ing at stake—and finally clesed his address with a sentence ex- pressive of the extreme improbability of the prisoner’s defence ; for he, oa being asked if he had anything further to say, re- plied in the negative, only asserting, in the most solemn man- ner, his innocence of the charge.ELLEN DUNCAN. 193 The jury retired, and Ellen’s hard, short breathings alone told that she existed. Her head was thrown back, her lips apart, and slightly quivering, and her eyes fixedly gazing on the empty box, with an anxious and wild stare of hope and suspense. Owen's face was very pale, and his lips livid— there was the slightest perceptible emotion about the muscles af his mouth, but his eye quailed not, and his broad brow had the impress of an unquenched spirit as firmly fixed as ever on its marble front. A quarter of an hour elapsed, and still the same agonizing suspense ; another, and the jury returned not— five minutes, and they re-entered. Ellen’s heart beat as if it would burst her bosom; and Owen’s pale cheek became a little more flushed, and his eye full of anxiety. The foreman, in a measured, feelingless tone, pronounced the word “ Guilty !” and a thrill of horror passed through the entire court, while that sickness which agonizes the very depths of the soul convulsed Owen’s face with a momentary spasm, and he faltered, “God's a will be done.” The judge slowly drew on the black cap, and still Ellen moved not—it seemed as if the very blood within her veins was frozen, and that her life’s pulses no more could execute their functions! No man, however brave or hardened, can view the near approach of certain death, and be unmoved ; and as that old man, in tremulous tones, uttered the dread fiat of his fate, Owen's eyes seemed actually to sink within his head— the veins of his brow swelled and grew black, and his hands erasped the iron rail that surrounded the dock, as though he would force his fingers through it. When all was over, and the fearful cap drawn off, Ellen seemed only then to awake to con- sciousness. Her eyes slowly opened to the fullest extent— their expression of despair was absolutely frightful—a low, gur- gling, half-choking sob forced itself from between her lips, and ere a hand could be outstretched to save her, she fell, as if quickly dashed to the ground by no mortal power—her piercing shriek of agouy ringing through the court-house, with a fearful, prolonged cadence. Evening approached, and the busy crowd of idlers had passedIRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. away, some to brood over what they had seen, and others to forget, in the bustle of life, that there were woes and miseries in the hearts of their fellow-beings. Owen was remanded to prison, as his execution was not to take place till tne commis- sion was over, thus giving him more than a week to prepare The light that struggled through the bars oO for that final doom. of his cell rested fully on the stooping figure of his wife, as she bent over the rude bed on which he lay; and her hot tears fell fast down her cheeks, as she thought how soon they were doomed to part forever. Hope was not, however, entirely dead within her, for the jury had strongly recommended him to mercy ; and ignorant as she was of forms and ceremonies—help- less as lone woman in misfortune always is—she had determined on going to Dublin, to kneel at the feet of the Lord Lieutenant— then the proud and whimsical Duke of ——,, and there to solicit his pardon. Having hesitated for some time as to the manner in which sheshould break it te him, and ask his advice, she thus began :— “ Owen, dear Owen! do you know what I’ve been thinkin’ ov, an’ where I’ve been thinkin’ ov goin’ ?” There was no answer returned for some time, and on looking at him more earnestly, she was astonished to find that he had sunk into a profound slumber. “ Guilt,” thought she, “is not there!’ and her resolution was taken instantly—she would not wake him—she would not let him know her purpose—and if she succeeded, her eyes flashed through her tears at the antict- pation of his rapturous surprise. Stooping lower, she gently pressed her lips to his; and kneeling beside his bed, poured forth a short but fervent prayer to HIM in whom alone we can put our trust.—“ In whose hand is the soul of every. living thing, and the breath of all mankind.’’—‘ Who preserveth not the life of the wicked, but giveth right to the poor.”’ There was something exceedingly and touchingly beautiful in the attitude of that young wife—her hands clasped, her lips moving with her prayer, like rose leaves with the evening breeze, and her up- Hav- turned face, with its holy and deep religious expression.ELLEN DUNCAN. 195 ing concluded her fervent petition, she noiselessly arose, and giving her sleeping husband one long and lingering look of af fection, that death could not estrange, she silently glided from the cell. On the third night from the events which we have narrated, a poor woman was observed wending her toilsome way through the streets of the metropolis. Her appearance bespoke fatigue and long travel; and as she neared the Upper Castle gate, she had to lean against the railing for support. The lamps were lichted, carriages rolling to and fro, and all the buzz of life was ringing in her ears; but, oh! suffering in her face, and the shrinking with which she surveyed oO 1g from the expression of pain and 4 the sentinels pacing up and down, it was evident that her mind iB but little accorded with the scenes by which she was surrounded. She slowly and fearfully entered the wide court-yard—a flood of licht was streaming from the windows of the vice-regal dwelling, and a crowd of idlers stood round about, viewing the entrance of the visitors, for it appeared as if there wasa revel of some kind going on. Ellen’s heart sank within her, as she heard the carriages rolling and dashing across the pavement, for she felt that amid the bustle of company and splendor her poor appeal might be entirely unnoticed. As she waited, she saw several of the persons assembled thrust rudely back by the soldiers that were on guard, and when she advanced a step or two for the purpose of entering, a brute in human shape pushed her with a blow of the end of his musket back against the pillar. He was about to repeat his violence, when the poor creature fell on her knees before him, and screamed :— ‘Sojer, darlin’, don’t stop me! I’m only goin’ in to plade for my husband’s life, and shure you won’t prevint me? I've th marcy’s sake, let me pass.” At this moment the carriage of the eccentric and beautiful Lady , one of the wildest, strangest, and best-hearted females of the Irish court, set down its lovely burden. She had seen the whole transaction of the sentinel, and heard Ellen's pa- . ‘ . . ‘ ’ 1 : ‘avelled many a wairy mile to get here in time; an’ oh! fut —196 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. thetic appeal, and her heart was instantly moved in her favor, for the example of fashion had not yet frozen up its finer feelings. Partly through the workings of a softened heart, and partly to make what was then all the rage, a scene of sensation, she re- solved instantly to get her admitted to the presence of the Duke —nay, to present her herself. She was well known tobea favor- ite, and whatever whim of hers took place, no matter how extrava- gant, was sure to meet his hearty concurrence. She desired Ellen to rise and follow her; and the poor creature’s eyes streamed with tears as she invoked a fervent blessing on the head of her lovely protectress. While passing up the grand staircase, amid the oD o wondering gaze and suppresed titter of many a pampered menial, I she instructed her how to proceed ; and having received a hasty account of all, and desired her not to be f turned to the simpering master of the ceremonies to tell him of her “ dear, delightful freak; there was a glad smile on her lip, and a glowing crimson on her cheek, but still there was a glist- aint-hearted, she ening moisture in her fine eyes, that told of soft and womanish feelings. The Duke was sitting on a chair of crimson velvet ; a cushion of the same costly material supported his feet; and he was looking, with an appearance of apathy and evmuz, on the splen- did group around him. The glitter of the lights, the lustre of the jewels, and the graceful waving of the many-colored plumes, gave everything a courtly, sumptuous appearance, and the air was heavy with odors, the fragrant offering of many a costly exotic. Suddenly every eye was turned on the door with wonder and astonishment and every voice was hushed as Lady entered, her cheeks blushing from excitement, and her eye bright with anticipated triumph. She led the poor and humbly- clad Ellen by the hand, who dared not look up, but with her gaze riveted on the splendid carpet, was brought like an au- tomaton to the feet of the Duke, where she mechanically knelt down. , playfully “Will yer Excillincy be plazed,” began Lady mimicking the brogue, “‘to hear this poor crathur’s complaint.ELLEN DUNCAN. 197 Her husband has been condimned to die for a murdher he didn’t commit, by no manner ov manes, as the sayin’ is; an’ as there was a strong recommindation to marcy, if you'll grant him a reprieve, you'll have all our prayers, and (in an undertone) your Excillincy knows you want thim ?” The Duke seemed a little bewildered, as if he could not make out what it meant, and the glittering crowd now all surrounded the group; when Ellen, who had ventured to look timidly up, conceiving that the Duke hesitated about the pardon, (poor ! creature! she little knew that he had not even heard of Owen’s trial,) eagerly grasped the drapery of his chair, and while the big tears rolled from beneath her eyelids, exclaimed :— “Oh! may tie great and just Providence, that sees the workin’ ov all our hearts, pour a blessin’ on yer Lordship’s head —may H7zs holy grace be wid you for iver an’ iver, an’ do listen to my prayers! My husband is innocent—ah, oh! as you hope for marcy at the last day, be marciful now to zm.” “Lady ,’ said the Duke, “what is the meaning of all 7 this—will you explain ?” “Your Excellency,” answered she, in the natural sweet pathos of her tones, ‘it is a poor man who has been condemned to die on circugstantial evidence. He has been strongly recommended to mercy, and this weeping female is his wife. 1 found her out- side, praying for admission, and have brought her thither. She has travelled mostly on foot, upwards of ninety miles, to aska pardon; and I trust you will not refuse a reprieve, till your Grace has time to inquire into the circumstance. ‘This is the head and front of my offencing.’ “ May heaven bless yer Ladyship,” burst from the depths of Ellen’s grateful heart, “fur befrindin’ thim that had no support but His gracious marcy.” Lady ’s suit was eagerly seconded by many a fair creature, who thronged around; and the Duke smiled as he answered : “Well, well! one could not refuse so many fair beseechers, so we willorder him to be reprzeved. And there, now, let the poor woman be removed.”IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. | Ellen’s heart was light, and her eye was glad, and her very Mi inmost soul was thankful to the Omnipotent, as she that night fe rested for a few hours, ere she set out on her return; and Lady , as she pressed her costly pillow, felt a fuller sense of hap- piness in being useful to her fellow-creature than ever she ex- : perienced before. Oh! that all the wealthy and in power were at incited by similar feelings. | The remainder of our simple tale is soon told. The reprieve arrived—the sentence was changed to banishment—and the very day appointed for Owen’s death was that of his wife’s successful return. One week previous tothe embarkment of those sen- | tenced to transportation, a man was to be executed for sheep- stealing. On the drop he confessed his guilt, and that he, and not Duncan, was the murderer of Dal Owen was immedi- y. ately released, and a subscription raised for him, with which, well as with a weighty purse presented to Ellen by Lady —~, he took a comfortable farm, and rebought “Slack Bess.’ LEGEND OF OSSHEEN, THE SON OF FIONN. ‘*Of all the numerous ills that wait on age, Bae if What stamps the wrinkle deepest on the brow ? To find each lov’d one blotted from life’s page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.’’—Syvon. faith in Ireland, the legend says, that in his perigri- nations he met a very aged man, whose gigantic di- mensions far exceeded the ordinary stature of the men who lived in that age. He described himself to be Ossheen, the son of Fionn mac Cumhal, the famous king, or commander of the Fiana Ejirion, the celebrated do- mestic troops of the kingdom* that flourished in the com- Bia Phi . * Fionn mac Cumhal, the Fingal of Macpherson, flourished in the beginning of the third century, during the reign of Cormac, monarch of Ireland. The Irish knew no titles of no-LEGEND OF OSSHEEN, 199 mencement of the third century of the Christian era. These brave “heroes of the western isle” had disappeared from the earth, and the fame of their extraordinary prowess lived then, as now, in the traditionary records of the land. Ossheen alone survived the lapse of ages, borne down by the weight of years, and the melancholy memory of bye-gone days, among a strange and degenerate race. He had been conveyed to 777e-nan-Oge, the elysium of the heathen Irish, and on this permitted return to earth, the gallant band which he left in all the pride of chivalry were gone: «“ And of their name and race, Scarce left a token or a trace.” The passage of Ossheen to the “Country of the Immortals,” and his return to earth, happened in the following manner: The Fiana Eirion, which formed the national guard to de- fend the land against foreign invasion or domestic treachery, were, it is said, quartered on the people during the winter sea- son, but from May to November they lived on their romantic hills, supported by the produce of the chase. Lough Lane was 4 favorite summer haunt, and often did the hunter’s cry, and the matchless speed of the tall Bran,* force the mountain deer to lave his panting breast in the waters of the lake. The wild district by the banks of the western Ariglin, in the county of Cork, where the writer of this legend resides, bears testimony to the trace of their footsteps. Drumscarha, or the parting hill of heroes, near tkat stream, is yet pointed out as the fort to which Goul mac Morna, the leader of the northern troops, re- tired, when he withdrew in anger from Fionn. The troops bility, and the commander of the troops was called Righ mor Fiana, or the great king of the soldiery. From this title of Fionn, Macpherson borrowed the sounding epithet of Kine of Morven, by which he distinguishes Fingal. The heaps of burnt stones which are frequently found near the border of a well are called Fulah Fian, and they are said to be sroduce of the ands pre- the remains of the heated stones with which these hardy warriors baked the } chase in deep pits, exactly in the manner in which the natives of the South Sea Isl pare their hogs. * Bran was a dog of great swiftness and courage. Tradition affirms that he remains yet alive, enchanted, in the Lake of Killarney200 (RISH FLIRESIDE SBTORLLES. were hunting in the last-mentioned district in the harvest sea- son, when they received intelligence that a cornfield in the neighborhood of the camp was on different nights much trod. den down by some unaccountable means; for though the field was well minded, the perpetrator of the mischief remained un- discovered. Many of the soldiers watched in vain, and at last Ossheen, the son of Fionn, volunteered his service. In the stillness of the night he heard a rustling in the corn, and by the light of the moon he discovered a beautiful white colt, without a spot. The hero advanced, and the colt slowly re- treated ; but as they approached the ditch, he bounded forward and seized the animal by the mane, which floated in the mid- night breeze. The alarmed colt fled with an eagle’s speed, and the pursuer perseveringly followed. The chase had not continued long, when the earth suddenly opened—he held by the floating mane, and shortly after their descent, he found himself in a fair, extensive country, and the white colt, the object of his pursuit, metamorphosed into a beautiful lady, whose yellow ring- lets were yet strained in his determined grasp. With an ineffable smile, whose magic completely took away the intention of re- turning, she welcomed him to Tire-nan-Oge; and the pleasures of the chase, and the society of his brothers in war, were things forgotten as if they had never been. When Ossheen had spent some time in this region of immor- tal youth, and unfading spring, he felt strongly inclined to visit the green land of his birth, and regain the society of his for- mer friends. Upon intimating this wish to the lady, she as- sured him that to seek the Fiana Eirion would be fruitless toil, for that race of heroes had long since disappeared from the earth “Ah!” said he, “why attempt to deceive me? Fionn, the king of men—Oscar, my dauntless son—Dearmid, of the eagle’s speed—Conan, the subtle—heroes whom I left only twelve months since, are not surely dead.” “You have already spent three hundred years here,” said she; “for the longest measure of duration on earth is but as a mo-LEGEND OF OSSHEEN. 201 ment in our estimation: yet if you are determined to revisit your favorite haunts, you may proceed—this horse will safely convey you to earth; but if you alight from his back during the journey, it will preclude your return to this place, and you will find your youth and strength vanished, and yourself laden with three centuries of years and infirmities.” He departed—revisited the cloudy Mangerton—winded his course beneath savage Turk—stretched his view into the far prospect from romantic Clarah—and roused the red deer of the Galtys—but in vain. No long-remembered friend met his eye —the land was occupied by a feeble and diminutive race—the very face of nature was changed—rivers had abandoned their ancient channels—deep valleys were level plains, and the wavy forests became barren moors—he had not known it as the land of his love, had not the multiform hills, and the firm-set, ever- lasting mountains, been the unchangeable landmarks of his mem- ory to guide him through the altered scene. Filled with the deepest melancholy, he retraced his footsteps to Tire-nan-Oge; but as he came to the bank of a deep river, he saw one of the degenerate men of that time vainly endeavor- ing to raise a sack of corn which had slipped from his horse's back into the middle of the stream. Ossheen had not forgotten his military oath, one clause of which bound the ancient Irish soldier to assist the distressed. He spurred into the current, and en- deavored without alighting to raise the sack with his foot; but ‘t remained unmoved. Surprised that a weight so apparently light should mock his effort, he sprung into the water, when both his horse and the treacherous apparition disappeared, and left him, a wretched and forlorn being, bent beneath a load of years. ' «The Dialogue of Ossheen and Patrick” can tell the difficulty that apostle had in converting the haughty worshipper of Crom humble doctrines of the Christian religion. He and when he lost duct to the mild and became a member of the saint’s household; h extreme old age, he had a servant to con his sight throug : appetite corresponded his steps. It appears that Ossheen’sale 202 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. ae | with his stature, and that the saint’s housekeeper dealt his por- tion with a niggard hand, for when the old man expostulated with her one day on the scantiness of his repast, she bitterly i replied, that his large oat-cake, his quarter of beef, and mzscawn | of butter, would suffice a better man. q “Ah,” said he, his memory adverting to the days of his Al i) | strength, “I could yet show you an ivy-leaf broader than your A cake, a berry of the quickbean larger than your mzscawn, and the leg of a blackbird that would outweigh your quarter of beef.” ‘ With that want of respect to the aged and destitute which | indicates the ill-tempered and rude of that sex, she gave him the Le dtrect—but Ossheen remained silent. | Some time after, Ossheen directed his attendant to nail a | raw hide against the wall, and to dash the puppies of a bitch ot of the wolf-dog species, that had lately littered, against it. They in succession fell howling and helpless to the ground, ex- cept one, that clung with tooth and nail inthe hide. He was carefully reared, and when he was full-grown and vigorous, Ossheen one day told his attendant to conduct him to the plain of Kildare, and to lead the dog ina leash. As they went along, Ossheen at a certain place, asked his guide if he beheld any- thing deserving of particular notice; and he replied, that he saw a monstrous plant resembling ivy, that projected from a huge rock, and almost hid the light of the sun, and also a large tree by a neighboring stream, which bore a red fruit of enar- i mous bulk. Ossheen carried away the leaf and the fruit. | They shortly reached the plain of Kildare, and he again de- manded whether any strange object met his servant's attention. “Yes,” said the other, “I perceive a dal/an of extraordinary size...” He then desired to be led to the stone; and after removing it, from its place with one giant effort, he took from the cavity ae beneath a cran-tubal, or sling,* a ball, and an ancient trumpet. : * The Irish, from the accuracy of their aim, and their uncommon strength of arm, were hoe famous slingers. The missiles discharged from the cran-tubal were a composition of blood, . lime, and salt. ieeeLEGEND. OF OSSHEEN 203 Sitting on the upturned dad/an, he blew the musical instrument. The loud blast seemed to pierce the concave sky, and though the sound appeared to sweep the extended earth, it was sweet and harmonious. After the lapse of some hours, the blind musician inquired if his attendant beheld anything uncommon. “T perceive,” said he, “the flight of birds advancing from every quarter of the heavens, and alighting on the plain before ”” us He continued the magic strain, when his attendant exclaimed, that a monstrous bird, the shadow of whose bulk darkened the field, was approaching. “That is the object of our expectation,” said Ossheen, “let slip the dog as that bird alights.” The wolf-dog bounded with open jaws to the fight, and the bird received his attack with matchless force. The thrilling blasts of the trumpet seemed to inspire the combatants with renewed rage; they fought all day, and at the going-down of the sun the victorious wolf-dog drank the life-blood of his pros- trate foe. ‘‘ The bird is dead,” said the affrighted servant, “and the dog, bathed in blood, is approaching to devour us.” “Direct my aim,” said the hero, “towards the dog;” then launching the ball from the cran-tubal, it arrested the rapid pro- gress of the savage animal, and felled him lifeless to the earth. The leaf, the berry, and the leg of this amazing blackbird, were the spolia optima he produced to the housekeeper in proof of his veracity. This was the expiring effort of the warrior- bard; for the legend records, that indignation at this woman’s insulting language shortly afterwards broke his heart. Such is the legend of Ossheen, the son of Fionn, and which, in some of the more distant districts of our country, is handed down from father to son, as being the true history of this last of the noble race to whom it alludes. Eerie: Be PYPx THE BITER BITTEN. Cerne OT far from a little village in the South of Ireland com gees" there lived one Paddy Casey, a decent, honest, sim- % YY Ant } a 9 GRY > ple, poor man, who endeavored, by unremitting in- dustry, to support in comfort a wife and large family, on little more than two acres of ground —an enter- prise not always practicable, but: particularly difficult when a rainy season set in, or the weather was unfavorable for the particular kind of crops he endeavored to grow on his land. On one occasion of this kind, his stack of barley, which the little farm had produced him, was malted to such a degree as to render it quite unsaleable, thus blasting the hopes which he had formed of a sufficiency of provision for the ensuing winter. Although nearly all his neighbors were engaged in the trade of illicit distillation, Paddy Casey had hitherto avoided it, from an unwillingness to run so great a risk; but the case now stood thus—by success in such a speculation, he had the fairest hope of gain; by failing, he had nothing to lose. So he took the advice of his neighbors, and prepared his otherwise worthless corn for the still; and in course of time, had the good fortune to bear home his poteen in safety. Another difficulty was still to be surmounted, however, before he could count himself per- fectly safe; and this was, to dispose of it. All the information he could gain on this point was, that in the neighboring town there lived a grocer, who, dealing largely in illicit spirits, gener- ally was the purchaser of all the neighborhood could supply. To him Paddy accordingly determined to go; and having borrowed an ass and car, and packed his little cargo securely under a load of straw, set out for his destination in the evening, calculating to reach it towards dusk, when he would have much better chance to escape notice, 204Se at cele 3 rae Bases mes, eed LHE BITER BITTEN Fortune favored our hero, and he reached the grocer’s door without interruption, where he was introduced to this important personage—a pompous, burly little body, with a sinister expres- sion of countenance, which plainly indicated he had within little of the finer feelings of humanity ‘Your honor,” said Paddy Casey, taking off his caubeen most respectfully, “I’m a poor boy that was directed to your honor, to know if your honor ’ud take a dhrop of the rale, hone-made stuff from me—about twenty gallons of it, your honor?” ‘I don't think I ever dealt with you, honest man—did 1?” said the grocer. “No, your honor,” said Paddy: “but you did with my neighbors, the Kearneys—’twas they sent me—and I've a sam- ple of it here inthe bottle. I never was in thethrade afore, and it would be a charity for your honor to buy it; for I dunna what I'll do with it, if you don’t.” ‘“ Have you it under the straw ?”’ “T have, yer honor, shure enough; and here’s the sample— never got the taste of water, no more nor the child unborn.” Poor Paddy’s eagerness to effect a sale did not escape the notice of the wily negotiator, and he determined, accordingly, to take advantage of the simplicity and helplessness of his new cus- tomer. Having tasted the sample, and ascertained its strength and purity, he proceeded:— ‘Ves, it’s pretty good—twenty gallons, you say—why, honest man, the fact of the matter is, I’m not in need of any, at present, as I’ve bargained already for as muchas I want. But since you 1y you’re in such a hobble, I don’t mind if I put myself toa +x Sz little inconvenience about it.” “Why, then,” said Paddy, interrupting him, “may the blessin’s of all the saints be about you, and follow you wherever you go. Is it down this gateway I'll turn, Sine “Stay, stay,” said the grocer, “we havent settled about ~~ the price yet—I can only give you three shillings a gallon for it.Ss? ORL S. 206 IRISH FIRESIDE “Och, your honor,” said Paddy, quite disappointed, “ when was the likes of that sould undher four shillings?” “ But, my good fellow,” said the grocer, ‘you forget that | don’t want your whiskey, at all, and ’tis only asa compliment I’m taking it; so take it, or leave it—I don’t want the bargain, if you don't.” “Oh, bedad, Sir,” answered poor Paddy, “that ‘ud never pay —say four shillings.” “No,” said the cunning trader, turning into his shop, “ take three, or try another market.” “Maybe yer honor ‘ud recommend me to somebody else that wants the like.” “Vou won't let me have it at three shillings, then?” asked the grocer, angrily. “Och, shure yourhonor couldn’t ask it for that?” answered Paddy. et) well; said the grocer, ry where, I'll not bar you, but you'll see if you'll do better. There’s a gentleman up at the end of the town would be glad, I fancy, to get it; at least he looks out for it pretty sharp. You may try him, if you like—he lives next the church—a “since you wish to thry else- sreen hall-door house, two stories high—you can’t miss it.” “Say three and nine, and don’t send me any farther,” said Paddy. “No, no—have your own way—I won't take it at all, now.” “Well, my blessing on you, any how, whay-up-ho,” and turn- ing his ass to the street, he proceeded in the direction pointed out to him, and reached it without much difficulty. On rapping, and demanding to see the master, the proprietor of the house with the green hall-door, a tall, good-humored looking man, appeared, with a black coat, drab inexpressibles, and top-boots. “Well, my man, what's your business with me?” said he. “Why, your honor,” said Paddy, laughing slyly, “I was tould your honor kept a sharp lookout for good poteen.”’ “And that I do,” said the gentleman, ‘‘sure enough—I’ll giveSh ee Sree hie tea EATS oS ore . sa Pass \ se of Seteecice to sats Ne a. oat 245, ae a THE BILER BIT PEN, you five guineas into your hand, if you bring me where there’s & wallon OF Kh. “ Whilleli’?” thinks Paddy to himself, “I’m made up now entirely. If he give so much fora single gallon, and have all the trouble of going for it, sure he'll be offering me the world an’ all when I bring it to the door with him.” “Well, my man,” said the gentleman, on observing his de- ichted silence, ‘“‘ what do you say " “An’ what ill you give me,” said Paddy, “ if I bring you to where there’s twenty ?” ‘I'll give you what I said, upon my honor,” answered the gen- tleman. ‘But wh at ‘ll you give me if I bring the twenty to your very door to you?” says Paddy, slapping his brawny thigh with his open px lm, as he reached the climax in the bargain. + “Twenty gallons of the best poteen you ever tasted—that’s 1?” said the gentlenan—* what's that you say? what I say,” repeated Paddy; “never got the taste of water, or the blast of a gauger's eye.” ‘My good fellow,” said the gentleman, looking a little bewil- dered. “either some person has played a very gre¢ at trick on you, or else you are about playing a particularly silly one on me, I’m thinking.” “Oh. the never a thrick in it—there they are, snug under the sthraw,” said Paddy ; ‘‘an’ sure, yer honor, here’s the sample— thry it;” and producing the bottle with the sample from be- neath his coat, and the gentleman having put it to his lips, Paddy, in his eagerness to conclude what he thought so profita- ble a bargain, almost rammed the neck of it down his throat, siving hima tolerably fine sample of it before he could get it from his mouth. ‘Eh,” said Paddy, chuckling with most irrepressible glee, ‘isn’t that the stuff?” Some time elapsed, however, before the gauger recov rered sufficiently to give an answer from the fit of coughing which seized him after this ianeauctad drench.IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. eh | “You vagabond thief,” he exclaimed, on regaining his voice, : “do you know who I am ?—don’t you know I’m the gauger?” | | “ Miilia murder,” ejaculated Paddy Casey, leaning up against the wail, quite stunned by this information, “ what ‘ill I do now, at all, at all. Och, the worst of luck to you, grocer Reynolds, | to go ruin a poor boy, with a houseful of childher, this-a-way.” hi | a “I must seize this poteen, my man,” said the gauger, restored Ay to his usual good humor; “but, at the same time, I pity you very much, for I’m sure, some trick has been played on you, to make you come into my clutches—I dare not let you go.” “Oh, your honor,” exclaimed Paddy, “I didn’t mean you the least offince; and sure there was a thrick, or I wouldn't be the | fool, to come near you; ’twas all the doing of that Reynolds, the grocer, yer honor, who has ruinated me and my childher.” So ne told his story exactly as it happened, his extreme sim- plicity testing the truth of every part of it. “Ho, ho,” said the gauger; “so Mr. Reynolds deals in poteen—does he? this may turn out well, for both of us. na Now, my man, vou see the trick he has played on you, and, I | suppose, you would have no great objection to punish him for his heartlessness ?” “None whatever in life, yer honor; I’d walk to the world’s end, with pebbles in my brogues, to have my revinge on him,” vehemently exclaimed our hero. “You needn’t go half so far to do it completely, then,” 1 answered the gauger; “ follow the directions I'll give you, and play no trick, and you'll find it easy enough to have complete satisfaction of the scoundrel who could thus endeavor to injure a poor man.” He then gave him a detail of his plan, which Paddy most joy- tully proceeded to execute. Having returned to the grocer’s, with a melancholy, discon- solate air, Paddy once more demanded to see the waiter, who came forth with a grin, in anticipation of the scene which he expected would ensue; he was disappointed, however, on see- ing the car and cargo still in possession of the owner.f : : | : 5 ‘ oh a THE BITTER BIDEN. “So that gentleman wouldn’t take your whiskey?” said he. “Qh, whirra sthrue!’’ answered Paddy, “sure he wasn’t at home, or he would.” “T say, my good fellow, do you know who he was?” “Oh, the sorra a know: but sure he must be a good fellow, any how, if he has sucha regard forthe poteen. Mr. Reynolds, dear, do take it from me at the three-and-six, and earn my bless- in’, and miy wife’s an’ childher’s, into the bargain. Dth, dth; sorra’s on you for poteen, what throuble you're givin’ me—three an’ six, your honor.”’ “No, no,” answered the grocer; “since you missed your other customer, I’ll not go back of my former offer. I'll give you the three for it; and now, at a word, make up your mind, take it or leave it, tor my tae’s coolin’,, and l can’t stand hig- cling here with the likes of you all night.” “Well, take it, yer honor,” said Paddy; “anything sooner than bring it Lack Musha, the next dhrop of poteen I make aoain, may it be my poison.” “Here, John,” said the grocer, calling over his shop-boy, and whispering him, “take this man’s whiskey, and put it where you know.” His orders were soon executed. Paddy, on pretense of see- ing that Ie got fair play in the measuring, having made good his entry irto the cellar, employed himself, in pursuance of the sauger’s directions, in observing whete it was placed. As soon as it was all regularly measured and put by, his account was made up, and the amount paid, and the gate opened for his departure, when, much to the surprise and dismay of the erocer and his assistants, the passage was in a moment oc- cupied by the gauger, and a party of soldiers under his di- rections, who were quickly in possession of every post in the concern. “Tl] thank you for the key of the cellar, Mr. Reynolds?” said the gauger, coolly. “Oh, certainly, Sir,” posure; “but you'll allow me to say, J said the grocer, with an assumed com- don’t understand what210 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. you mean by disturbing my place in this manner, at such an hour of the night. It is quite incomprehensible, so it is.” On this, the gauger and Paddy exchanged looks, ina manner calculated very much to awaken the suspicions of grocer Rey- nolds, who at length discovered the hobble into which his prac- tical joke had plunged him. From the arrangement of his cel- lar, however, he was pretty confident of security, if he could only obtain Paddy’s silence; he accordingly moved towards him. “ What will you take and hold your tongue ?” said he. “What will you give me, grocer Reynolds?’ answered Paddy. The grocer slipped a pound note into his hand; and scarcely had he done so, when Paddy was seized by one of the soldiers and led into the cellar. ’) ‘““Where was this poteen placed?” said the gauger; but Paddy was most piously silent. The question was repeated, but still no answer, and a third time, with like success; Paddy, all the time, shaking his head, and making signs, which the gauger at length understood. “Ho, ho,” said he, “is that what you are at?—here, men, re- move these vessels in the corner.”’ The command was obeyed, and forth came to light the hid. den treasure, so lately purchased by the facetious grocer. The seizure was of course made, amid the dismay and confusion of the grocer and his family, whom such a disclosure necessarily placed in the greatest danger. The vessel was removed: and Paddy, being set at liberty, demanded from the gauger his re- ward. The five guineas were laid in his hand, and he trudged home that night, tne happiest man in the barony. Moreover, when he told his story, no one blamed him for the part he had acted; nor is it recorded, that he was himself ever wounded in conscience for enjoying the spoils of ‘‘a biter bitten.”SE ate oe trena tO 2. spt Ss MSOF aie ASR Ser 5 EE ELIT ES UPS LEGEND OF JACK-0’-THE-LANTERN. DY 7 SAT lr : ’ 3/( GaQN CE upona time there lived a man, whose natural dis- position was churlish and morose, and the asperities of whose soul had not been softened down by the in- fluence of a knowledge of God; and his acquirements fe) in the things of this world did not much exceed the ‘ { > narrow skill which enabled him to cultivate the farm on which he lived. He was known throughout the country for his unsocial manners—his blazing hearth never cheered the wayworn stranger—and the repulsed beggar never again sought his inhospitable door. In short, he lived the reproach of hu- manity, and his name was a bye-word in the land. Jack, for so this churl was named, was returning home one night from a neighboring fair, when, as he approached a dark and rapid stream at a particular ford, which the imagination of the people of that time had associated with some tales of mur- der and superstition, he heard a groan that, to his fancy, pro- ceeded from some tortured spirit. He suddenly drew in the mare on which he rode—all the horrid tales recorded of that dark glen rushed to his memory—and as a second and a third sound of agony smote his ear, his bristling hair stood erect, the cold beads of dismay oozed at every pore—nor did the whiskey which he quaffed that evening in his own sordid way, prevent the current of his blood from freezing at his very heart; but when the horrid sounds were again repeated, he summoned nerve sufficient to inquire what he could do for the tortured soul that crossed his path in that glen of gloom and horror. “For the love of heaven,” said the voice, “take me to some human habitation; for [am no tortured spirit, but a poor home- less wanderer who have lost my way on the wild moor, and have lain down here to die, for I durst not cross this rapid water. 211a2 TRISH FIRESIDE STOKES. So may mercy be shown you in your hour of need, and in the day of your distress.” Delivered from supernatural terrors, the peasant’s soul soft- ened into humanity. With an indescribable feeling of pity, which never till that hour reached his heart, he dismounted, and saw extended on the damp earth a very aged man, witha white beard, who was evidently borne down with the load of years and misery. He wrapped the aged sufferer in his warm great coat, placed him on the saddle, and then mounted on the crupper, he supported the object of his pity till he reached home. His wife smiled to behold her gruff husband engaged in the unusual office of hospitality, and wondered much what charm could have soothed his unsocial soul to kindness. The miserable stranger received every necessary that her cupboard afforded—was laid to rest in a warm bed, and in a short time his grief and infirmities were forgotten in sound repose. About the dawn of day, Jack was awakened from his sleep by a bright blaze of light that shone through all the cabin. Unable to account for this sudden illumination, he started to his feet from the bed, when his progress was instantly checked, and his astonishment greatly augmented to behold a young man of celestial beauty, wrapt in white garments. His shoulders were furnished with wings, the plumage of which exceeded in whiteness the down of swans; and as he spoke, his words stole like the notes of a heavenly harp, to the soul of the wondering cottager. “Mortal,” said the celestial visitant, “I am one of the angels commissioned to watch over the sons of Adam. I heard thy brethren exclaim against thy unsocial temper, and utter disre- gard of the sacred virtue of hospitality; but I find that some generous seeds of virtue have lain uncultivated with thee. In me thou beholdest the miserable senior whom thy generous humanity relieved—I have shared thy frugal fare and lowly bed: my blessing shall remain with thy house, but to thyself in particular | bestow three wishes—then freely ask, as I shall freely give. May wisdom bound the desire of thy soul.”LEGEND OF FACK-O'-THE«~LANTERN Jack paused for a moment, and then said, * There’s a syca- more tree before the door, fair and wide-spreading, but every passer-by must pluck a bough from it—grant that every one Pyuching it with such intent, may cling to the tree till I release him. Secondly, I do wish that any person who sits in my elbow-chair, may never be able to leave it, nor the chair to leave the ground, without my consent. There’s a wooden box on the wall—I keep it to hold the thread, and awls, and hammer, with which I mend my brogues, but the moment I turn my back, every clown comes here cobbling for himself: my third re- quest is, that the person who puts his hand into the box, might not withdraw it, and that the box may stick to the wall, during my pleasure. My wishes are ended.” The angel ae as he granted the boon; and the legend further adds, that Jack was from that hour excluded from all hope of ie because he had eternal happiness within his wish, and neglected to secure the vast gift; but the angel's blessing remained with his house—his children were many, and his crops and cattle throve with large increase. In twenty years after, as Jack sat one evening in his elbow- chair, musing on his earthly affairs, a strange and unearthly smell of brimstone assailed his nose; and when he turned round to ascertain the cause, the appearance of a tall, dark-looking being, graced with a pair of horns, a cloven foot, and a long tail, which he carried rather genteely tucked under his arm, further increased his astonishment. The stranger immediately opened his message—mentioned Jack’s exclusion from heaven, and spoke of his infernal master’s anxiety to see him speedily at his own hot home. When fack heard these awful - tidings, he repressed every ymptom of alarm, and, starting to his feet, bid the stranger welcome. “I hope,” he continued, “your honor won't be above sitting in the elbow- chair, and tasting a drop of poteen this cold evening, while I put on my Sunday clothes.” The demon complied. “There,” said his host, “isa real drop of the native. The ga i eres cahennes akc) Rocke See ot ean a Sage * re rareIRISH PIRE SIDE STORIES. sorra a gauger ever set his ugly face on it. Why, then, would your honor tell me if ye have any gaugers in place?” “We have lots of them,” replied he of the cloven hoof: but your native we give them other employment than still-hunting; but come, the road is long, and we must away.” So saying, he motioned to leave his seat, but found himself immovably fixed therein, while the guileful mortal set his flail to work on his captive enemy. Vain every entreaty for mercy —in vain he kicked, and flung his arms around; the swift de. scending instrument of vengeance smashed every bone in his skin; and it was only when exhausted, and unable to prosecute his task, that he consented to liberate the miserable being, on his solemn oath, that he would never more visit this upper world on a similar errand. Satan has more than one courier to do hiserrands. A second messenger, provided with the necessary instruction for shun- ning the fatal chair and flail, was despatched to fetch the doomed mortal, who was ruminating, next day, on the adventure of the preceding evening, when the latch was raised, and a stranger cautiously entered. When he had explained his business, Jacl ry requested that he would be seated, and expressed his willing- ness to depart when he had put a stitch or two in his old brogue. The courier was too cautious, and declined to sit: but Jack took the chair, pulled off his broken shoe, and requested the demon to hand him an awl from the small box. The infernal visitant obeyed; but found that he could neither withdraw his hand, nor remove the box from the wall. He cast a glance of dismay at his mortal antagonist, who sprung to the flail, and bestowed such discipline as forced the present visitor to submit to the same conditions for his release that his brother devil had done. It is said that his sable majesty was greatly surprised at the discomfiture of his two trusty messengers; and, like a skilful general, he resolved to go in person and explore the enemy’s camp. He ascended from the nether world, through Mangertonne Be Mesias aie cath ER RO ete LEGEND OF FACK-O-THE-LANTERN. 215 mountain, near Killarney, where that barren and bottomless pool, called the Hole of Hell,* now fills up the funnel which formed his upward passage. He looked round from the lofty height into the far country, and with the sagacity of the vul- ture in quest of his prey, directed his course to Jack’s habita- tion. It was a sunny morning, and a heavy frost of some days’ continuance had congealed all the waters, and rendered the sur- face of the land hard and slippery. Aware of Jack’s wiles, he rapped at the door, and, in a voice of thunder, bid the miser- able mortal come forth. “T will go whithersoever your lordship commands me,” he answered, awed by the threatening voice and formidable man- ner of his summoner; “but the road is slippery, and. you will permit me to fetch my cane; besides, I would wish to kiss my wife and little ones before I go.” The fiend was inexorable, and urged the wretched being on before him. “Tf I walk without the support of a stick,” he resumed, hob- bling on before his captor; “I shall speedily break my bones; and if there are no carmen on the road to hell, how would your lordship wish to fetch my carcase on your princely shoulders? Oh, that I had even a bough from yonder sycamore to support my poor old limbs!’ To stay his murmuring, and furnish the desired support, Satan laid hold ona fair branch of the tree, but immediately found that he was unable either to break the bough, or quit his hold; and Jack, with a yell of joy, returned to fetch his favorite fail. In the words of the legend, whoever would come from the remote ends of the earth to hear the most fearful howlings, occasioned by the most dreadful castigation, would here have ample gratification. Jack broke his three best flails on the oc- casion: and, though the miserable fend cried loudly for mercy, he continued his toil till the going-down of the sun, when, on his promising neither to seek Jack on earth, or permit his en- * The Devil’s Punch-Bowl, called by the peasantry, © The Hole of Hell.”216 InRISH FIRE SIDE SPORTZ S. trance into hell, the arch-fiend was released, and the fortunate man retired to rest, more fatigued from that day’s thrashing than ever he had been before. Our story draws near its close —Jack, with all his skill, could not baffle the assault of Death. He paid the debt of nature; but when his soul was dismissed to its final residence, the porter at the gate of the infernal re tance—the fiends turned pale with affright—and even Satan himself fled within the lowest depths to hide his head from the dreaded enemy. Then, because he was unfit for heaven, and that hell refused to take him, he was decreed to walk the earth with a lantern to light him on his nightly way till the day of judgment.—Such, reader, is the legend relative to Jack-o’-the- Lantern, commonly believed by the peasantry in many districts of Ireland. rions stoutly denied him admit- ¢ oO TALE OF THE OLD WARS. made his last effort to recover that triple crown which he had so justly forfeited, many of the ancient strong- Sy holds of Ireland were as much as possible repaired, x from the devastation which Cromwell or time had J effected upon them, and garrisoned, each by some neighboring chieftain, who held the precarious post in the name of the denounced monarch. Among the number, the castle of Roscommon was, parhaps, the strongest in that district. It was held by one of the O’Connors, but which of them my infor- mant does not say—however, by an O'Connor it was held, and, what is far better worth remembering than who his father was, he was himself the father of the fairest girl that Ireland, rich as she inthat commodity, could boast of, before or since. When the tide of battle began to roll westward, checked only by the broken bridge of Athlone and the hitherto fordless Shannon. itTALE OF THE OLD WARS. 217 could net be well expected that a pugnacious Connaughtman should sit quiet in his hall, while the boom of the distant cannon ever and anon interrupted the song of the harper, or the fond playfulness of his daughter; so, after enduring the temptation | with the most exemplary forbearance for a whole day, he, on the morrow, summoned together his little garrison, and culling a few to remain behind, kissed his daughter affection- ately, and he rode away, might and main, with the rest of his followers. Daily communication was for sometime kept up between the castle and the beleaguered town, which was distant little more than sixteen miles, and all spoke with confidence of the impreg- nability of the defence—an assertion verified every morning by the reiterated roll of the cannonade borne over the flat inter- vening country by the calm summer breeze, and which an- nounced that Athlone was yet in the hands of the Irish. At lencth a day came without any tidings except the booming echoés, and it was followed by one uncheered even by that par- tial assurance. The warder on the highest tower denied that he could hear what even imagination could torture into the noise of the conflict, although the little wind that blew came direct from that quarter, and all the agonies of suspense were inflicted on the isolated garison, heightened by the varied and unsatis- factory accounts and rumors flying among the town’s s-people of Roscommon. Next day broke, but gave no relief; and the whole day had been spent by them in gazing from the watch: tower in vain. Towards evening the group which occupied this situation had dwindled to two—an ecclesiastic and a young and beautiful female—the brother and daughter of the absent chiet- tain “Ha, Grace!” said the former, hurriedly pointing to a turn of the road which lay within ken at no great distance, “what see ycu there oe band of spears and some dozen kerns, as lama true priest.” | A hasty exclamation of delight, as she caught the object, es- a caped from the anxious daughter, but the slowness of then ee ee OE SER LO RS wienitt Steere Pe ante se the218 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. movement did not escape her notice, and she remarked it to her companion. “ Ay, child,” said he, now first perceiving it: “heaven send it bodes no evil to your hot-brained father. Let us down to meet them, however; they’ll be at the portal as soon as we’ — and, descending the narrow stairs, they crossed the court-yard, and met the party, already arrived at the entrance. ‘“Where’s my father, Cormac?’” asked Grace of a tall middle- aged man, somewhat in advance of the others, the foster-brother of O’Connor; but he answered her nothing save to point toa litter which the kerns had that moment laid on the floor of the hall. She raised the covering, and met the grizzled face of the chieftain, stiff in death, and stern in the fierceness of battle. She needed no more, but in the poignancy of her anguish, ut- tered one loud cry, and escaping amid the eenzng of the atten- dants, she fled to her chamber, to indulge her deep, wild grief in its solitude. “ How, in heaven’s name, did this befal?’”’ exclaimed the priest, when he recovered from the first shock of the announce ment. “ Athlone has fallen, father,’ answered Cormac, sorrowfuly. “Worse and worse!” ejaculated the inquirer, striking his brow with his open palm—‘‘he had died well if he saved it, dear as he was to all of us.” “ But tell us how did it befal? The sorrow which affected poor Cormac was so bewildering ” exclaimea the ecclesiastic. as to make his answer to this question so broken and inco- herent that it added but little to the informatien of his audi- tory, and would, perhaps, add less to that of my readers; I shall, therefore, tell the story for him. When the partisans of William reached Athlone, in pursuit of the remnant of that army which the rival king had so shame- fully sacrificed at the Boyne, they found their further progress ridge | t of the Irish, to place the natural and unfordable barrier of the Shannon between them and their enemies, thus rendering the : o impeded by an arch of the bri being broken in the flgh4 ——— oe Pi ne bie ps sh tig ene Oc : NEO ns _ pe lias cede de ES RS RC teh ae 52g Soe Boe TALE OF THE, OED: WARS. town actually impregnable, so long as they could oppose the many energetic and well-directed efforts of Ginkle to create a passage by stretching a gallery across the breach, where the whole weight of the battle was thus necessarily concentrated. Nor were the friends of James less remiss on their part in the defence of this all-important post, as by their unceasing vigil- ance they baffled every attempt made by the enemy to effect their object; having erected a strong wooden breastwork almost at the brink of the breach, similar to which was another on the opposite side—the one backed and defended by the strong and ancient fortalice, the other by the ruins of the suburbs, in which Ginkle had posted his army and raised his batteries. Leaning on the battlements of one of the towers of the castle were two officers of nearly one age and appearance—both in middle age, and giving in their countenances all the promise of that wild, forward bravery, for which they were both so noted. ‘How provoking,” exclaimed one of them, “are those Eng- lish! There they stand, you see, under the tremendous can- nonade our gunners pour on them; and there they wz// stand, until the river grows dry, or the last man of them be a corpse. Blockheads! if they want to get in, can’t they build another bridge—it would save them time. How say you, O’Connor?” ‘Even so,” answered the father of Grace to his querist, who was no other than the well-known Sarsfield; “and yet I would it were otherwise. Beshrew me, if it be worth my while to re- main here to look for manhood or hard blows! For a day or two I amused myself firing off that cannon yonder; but though they said my bullets all told well, it gave me not the least satis- faction, so I got tired, and left it to the gunner: and, saving that, I might as well be in my own quiet hall, whither I'll of to-morrow.” “For the love of old Ireland and King James, don’t pray to see an Englishman this side the river, unless he be.a prisoner,” said Sarsfield ‘‘ Marry, I love hard blows as well as you, vet will I wait patiently until they are forced to raise the seige, and then———but hold, in the name of heaven, look at the breast- work!”id a RO setae ileal 220 TRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. A discharge of orape-shot had been fired from an adjacent battery, raised by the English that morning to command the breastwork, which had not only the effect of nearly clearing that post of its defenders, but also set on fire the dry and shattered timber of which it was composed. The tumult that ensued was horrible: the crackling of the blazing wood—the occasional ex- plosion of the ammunition—the groans of the wounded, un- able to escape the horrible death that threatened them, and the shouts and confusion of those who attempted to stop the con- flagration, making the din indescribable; while the smoke and scattered ruin completed the horrors of the scene. Nor had the English neglected to avail themselves of the diversion which they had effected. The planks which they had prepared for such a contingency were vigorously pushed forward, their ends resting on the front of the opposite breach; and now it seemed as if they had nothing to do but cross the narrow bridge and win the town, so opportunely defenceless ; for the last man, half- suffocated, and singed from head to foot, had already sprung with difficulty out of the fearful enclosure, and, as he did so, fell senseless in the arms of those without. The important ad- vantage won by the Williamites had not, however, escaped the eagle eye of Sarsfield, raised as he was above the smoke and fame which concealed it from those more near, SO, shouting to his panic-struck followers—" Cowards! cowards! to the breach . — to the breach, or ye are all lost—they have the planks across!” he rushed headlong down the stairs after the more forward O’Connor, who, on the first prospect of the fray, had flown to the dangerous arena. An Irish sergeant, standing at the foot of the tower, had caught the concluding part of Sarsfield’s ex- clamation; nor did he need more—with a loud cry he gathered some six men loitering near the spot, and ran at their head to the bridge. | “ Evin go bragh!” shouted the daring leader. “ Bas ain son Etreann !”* responded his eager comrades ; and * Death for Ireland.TALE OF THE OLD WARS. 221 with one simultaneous bound the devoted band sprung into the midst of the fame and smoke, and disappeared. A moment suspense followed—it was but a moment—plash and another: but the shout of of thrilling went one beam into the water triumph which burst from the lips of all was quickly deafened —another shower of grape was hurled from the fatal battery full on the defenceless little party, and with the red blast of blood and tattered flesh which it drove before it, half quenched the raging fire behind. To a man they had perished, and, it seemed, without having thoroughly effected the daring object for which they had so nobly confronted a certain death, since, when the din ceased, the voice of a Huguenot captain on the opposite side was heard exclaiming— N’importe mes fils, c'est une encore! suivez—vite, vites— et toute est gagné!’”*—while burst from his chivalrous soldiers, in answer, a thrilling shout of, “ Vive l’Orange !” and one by one they commeneed:their passage over the single tottering plank, which the ill-fated band had been occupied in loosening when they were so suddenly cut off. Just at this critical moment Sarsfield and O’Connor both reached the spot, with the few fol- lowers of the latter, and almost at the one moment saw, Over- topping the smoke, the helmets of the advancing Huguenots— in another minute they would have effected a lodgment on the Connaught bank, and that object won, the conquest of Athlone should inevitably follow. “ Farrah! farrah! O'Connor aboo!’’ exclaimed the reckless chieftain, and his whole band, like hounds slipped from the leash, dashed forward on that fatal path, already travelled by the lowly heroes who had preceded them, while O’Connor himself, on attempting to accompany them, found himself held firmly by Sarsfield. “’Tis certain death—if you go, you never return,’ whispered the latter “ Nabocklish !’+ exclaimed the fiery chieftain, still struggling to free himself. * No matter, my children, there is one still ; follow—quick, quick—and all is won. + Never fear. aie Sc ama Se ORT al geP eAE TS i} Mas i; easORNS te SLI ich a eh en eth RN 222 IRISH FIRESIDE. STORIES: “But there are enough already—I tell you, you will be use. less. Nay, then, if you zw2// go, I go too.” “The more the merrier,’ answered the O'Connor, laughing, ld laid his hand on one and plunged on after his men. Sarsfie of the burning barriers to vault over and accompany him; but the half-consumed timber, unable to bear his weight or the im- petuosity of his attempt, broke under him, and pitched him heavily on the ground, whence the surrounding soldiers raised him. O'Connor and his men, on emerging from the blazing ruins, came in full view of their antagonists, and of that spot which had been so fatal but a minute before, strewed with torn limbs and masses of mangled flesh and disfigured corpses, while blood, oozing out of them, fell heavily in torrents into the roar- ing stream beneath. But little time had they to survey the dis- gusting scene, for the Huguenot was already within eight feet of the brink, and the foremost of his men close behind him. Not a moment was to be.lost on either side—a crisis of horrible im- portance had arrived; and swiftly as the chieftain passed for- ward over the unequal ground, ere he reached the end of the plank, the Huguenot leader, by a vigorous spring, gained the eround likely to be so hotly contested, and now stood on the defensive; but he was not able to sustain the impetuous charge made by the O'Connor. His guard was beaten down—his slight rapier shivered by the heavy broad-sword of his adver- sary—his pistols fired ineffectually—and he was at his mercy. One sweep of that broad sword, and his dissevered head bounded into the water, followed by the gory trunk, and a cou- ple of his soldiers, who, in the meantime, had made cood their landing but to meet death on the shore. Still, an overpower- ing number were advancing within one yard of the bank, sup- ported by thousands on the opposite side, ready and eager to follow them, but not daring to fire a shot in their defence. Another soldier leaped forward, and was cut down by the hand of O'Connor, and in falling backward tumbled into the water the five next him. Now there was some hope for the Irish,TALE OF THE OLD WAXS: 223 and they did not misuse the golden opportunity, but essaying altogether, with might and main, succeeded in hurling plank and soldiers and all into the boiling current below. Up to this moment. the silence with which the operations were viewed by both armies was truly appalling—the deep interest of both forbidding them scarce to breathe: but when the catastrophe was no longer doubtful, the triumph of the one, and the bitter disappointment of the other, broke forth in cries of widely dif- ferent meaning. “Back! back! my children !’’ shouted O’Connor—“ ye have done well. But this is no place for men who love to give claw for claw.” His command was about to be obeyed. He himself had stooped forward to take a las’ grim look at the wretches be- neath, struggling and drowning, borne down by their heavy ar- mor. “ The outlandish man’s hat were a prize worth fighting for ejaculated Cormac, “’twill win me favor over all Connaught my life long;’’ and he stooped to lift from the bloody ground the richly-laced and plumed hat of the fallen Huguenot. again the deadly battery The momentary delay was fatal opened its fire—again the blast of grape hustled in among them —and again a mass of disfigured, mangled bodies clothed the narrow glacis Cormac alone, from his stooping posture, °5- caped unhurt. On recovering the awful shock, he looked round for that object dearest to the heart of every true clansman, but doubly dear to him. He looked in vain—he was the only liv- ing thing that stood among that heap of death. His eye clanced next hurriedly over the bodies, and recognized that of the chieftain, his head bleeding profusely, but without a sign of life. He stood in the stupor of deep grief, looking at the fallen warden, until a few dropping musket-shots, ineffectually discharged at him from the English post, awakened him to a sense of his danger; so, proudly shaking aloft the spoil of the Huguenot, he threw the rich and glittering trophy towards his enemies, and lifting in his arms the body o: his chieftain,S727 OATES. 224 IRISH FIRESIDE crossed the smouldering breastwork, and laid it sorrowfully among his comrades. fdas, for our cause!’ exclaimed Sarsfield, ‘“it has lost a brave and true champion. Does any life remain? Ho! the poor gentleman lives—room there, and let him have air—get water, good fellow—air, air—he has escaped by a miracle!” The water was brought, and O’Connor slowly revived, and was carried to his quarters. In the meantime, the guns of the castle were directed against the obnoxious battery, and quickly silenced it. The damage which it occasioned was next repaired, and Athlone was once more safe for King James. The wounds of the O'Connor, though fearful, were yet not such as threatened immediate death, nor did they altogether preclude the hope of recovery among his anxious friends—one of whom scarce left his apart- ment unless when rigid duty demanded it. This was Sir Wal- ter O'Kelly, a young cavalier, aid-de-camp to Sarsfield, who, long before the commotions which now separated the nearest and dearest, was the accepted suitor of the daughter of the wounded gentleman, and now tended him even as she would have done. Nor was this the only solace possessed by O’Con- nor; for, on the very morning after his mishap, the English, dispirited by their last signal failure, of which he was the prime instrument, had fallen back from the bridge, and were every moment expected to retreat altogether from the scene. This, alas! was a vain expectation. One morning, at day-dawn, the unwonted tolling of a bell awoke Cormac from his slumbers, and he started up to prepare the bandages and dressings for the wounded chieftain, who still slept, amid the tumult, which every moment increased. At length, the tread of a hurried foot, which Cormac knew to be O’Kelly’s, sounded on the stairs, and that gentleman entered the room so abruptly as to awake the chieftain. “ Alas! O’Connor,” said he, on entering, and perceiving him awake, “we must remove you to Roscommon.” “Wherefore, man?’ asked O’Connor, faintly. “If it be toTALE OF THE CLD WALKS. bo bo U1 bless my child before I die, cannot she come hither? I would she were here, that I might see ye wed—tell her so.” “Woe is me!” exclaimed the cavalier, “this is no place for either of you now. The English are in the town—have crossed the river, no one knows how or where—but Sarsfield 1s still be- tween us and them. Gracious Heaven! how pale you grow. Haste. Cormac, with some water, and tell my fellows who are below to hurry up with the litter.” “No,” said the dying chieftain, with difficulty, “no water— no litter—tell my child, my last prayer was for her—my last wish to see you united. Let it be done when you meet—and swear to me—by this stiffening hand—that you will ever—ever— cherish her.” O'Kelly swore; and as he did so, a gleam of satisfaction passed across the pale face of the O'Connor. “My son! my son!” he faintly ejaculated, and fell a corse ‘nto the arms of the cavalier. It was no time for weeping, and yet he wept; and laying the body on the litter, gave, under the command of Cormac, a few of his own soldiers te bear it to his home—his duties forbidding him to quit the side of Sars- field. “ Requiescat in pace!’ groaned the priest, when he con- cluded: “but what of Sir Walter ?—Sent he no token to the Lady Grace, or to me?” “ He told me to say the troops were all on the retreat, he believed, to the hill of Aughrim, and that he couldn’t quit his post, but within a day or two he would contrive to come over.” “To Aughrim?” said he; “then all is not lost—they'll have one battle more for the good cause, and who knows the issue. Now, hear my sacred pledge, the chief of my house shall never wear cowl, or finger beads, when helmeted heads and gauntleted Ho, some of hands are doing a man’s work for their country. and let these vou! bring me the armor that hangs yonder, oO weeds lie idle till) the battle ss: won, and then I’m priest ae aes Ee i 3 share a aor MA ACER ine: in 7TRISH FIRE SIDE STORIES. Loud shouts from his auditory applauded the extraordinary intent; and in another minute the unfrocked ecclesiastic stood among his admirers in the garb and plight of a mail-clad man; that defence not having fallen so much in disuse 1n the wilder regions of Ireland as elsewhere, at the time of which I write. Scarcely was his apparel complete, when a lovd knock- ing and demand for entrance at the outer gate seemed to afford an opportunity to the new cavalier to appear in his unwonted vocation. But no sooner was it announced that the intruder was the Sir Walter mentioned by Cormac, than the gates were thrown open, and a handsome, well-armed young officer rode hurriedly in, attended by some score men-at-arms, all bearing on their persons the marks of recent conflict and uncurbed flight. The young man dismounted, and was met full in the porch by the armed priest, at whose appearance he recoiled, appalled and gasping. 5 * Gracious heavens, I saw him dead!” said O'Kelly, in those low and hollow tones which extreme terror alone can utter “Nay, Sir Walter,” replied the other, “does my new gear liken me so much to poor Richard, that you see not the differ- ence between a living priest and a slain warrior? I had armed myself to head my kerns to Aughrim, where I heard but this moment our friends had retreated. What tidings bear you thence r’’ ‘‘Aughrim is lost!” answered the cavalier, somewhat recov- ered from the terror his very natural mistake had thrown him into. “Lost !—and St. Ruth ?” Mpiciny) “And Sarsfield ?” bled t’ koers And the army ?” “Broken and scattered! The few that staved together fled to Limerick, whither I am come to escort you,” “Evil tidings, Sir Walter!’ said the priest, sin] letting these gintlemin (maning the sogers) come in to a bit of mutton, an’ a dhrop of rale parlamint.’ “The sogers, well became ’em, up and tould Mr. Purcell to in- dulge the poor man; and whin they inthered, my dear, they got hould-belly-hould of mutton and whisk ey—-the gintleman himself was prevailed on to taste a cup 0’ Kate’s coffee, with a rale good szick in it. “*Kate Murphy, honey,’ says he. (that’s Darby), for he always gev her her own name, ‘I must be going, heaven speed all * The stomach of a sheep. +t A garment worn on the neck.DARBY DOOLY AND AIS WHITE HAORSE. a3 thravellers. Bring us t’other bottle, and thin I'll kiss yourself an’ the poor childhre, that I won't see no more * and hie let an to wipe his eyes. ‘““« Darby, a goun,’ says she, ‘ yer belly lost upon ye.’ “«Kate Murphy,’ says he, ‘maybe you want a dhrop o« eye- wather to help your sight to behould your poor man hanging like a scal’crow on a windy day.’ “ VV f the crowd that thronged the hall, and presently placed herself by the side of our hero. Magistrate—“ What’s your complaint, Reilly?” Tim— And, plaze your honor, this woman's pigs that as- saulted me, an’ near kilt me.” “QO, don’t mind a word he says, your worship,” interrupted the widow, ‘‘ for—” Magistrate—‘ Silence, woman, you will be heard in your turn.” “Yis, silence, Mrs. Delany,” exclaimed Tim, “ you will be hard in your turn.” The serious and theatrical manner in which terance to this mandate was too much for the spectators, already a little shook by his outre appearance, anda Tim gave ut- gravity of the EN aaa282 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. roar of laughter, in which the bench heartily joined, followec his words. ‘“ Musha, thin,” said Tim, “it would be much betther for thim there peelerers to be minding their goats, than to be laughing at an honest man—it’s ugly enough they are already, without making themselves more so; troth, they ought to sell them- selves for tobaccy signs, half of them—” Magistrate— Proceed with your complaint, Sir, at once.” Lim—* 1 will, your honor. You must know, your worships, that I farm a taste of arable land, outside the town here, and this woman is my right-hand neighbor. Well, your w orships, whin I used to come into the market here, to sell one little thing or another—and, maybe, to buy something too—whin I'd go home, the crathurs, the childher, would up and tell me how Mrs. Delany’s three pigs would be rootin’ my little grain of piatees; and whin I'd go out to the field, your worships, I'd find that the sorra a lie was there in the childher’s mouths, for, sure enough, my piatees would be all rooted, but the sorra a pig could I lay my clutch upon. Well, your worships, I’d go in thin to Mrs. Delany, and I upand tell her tow her pigs had misbehaved.” ‘Oh, no, Mr. Reilly,” interrupted the defendant. “ you never tould me but once.” “Tin times, Mrs. Delany, Degsing your pardon. And Mrs. Delany, says I, your pigs is badly edicated—they know as much about larnin’, Mrs. Delany, says I, as a dancin’ master does about navigation. (Here the court was convulsed with laugh- ter.) Well, your worships, it’s how I was remarkin’ that Mrs. Delany’s pigs was badly larned; and, as I tould her one mornin’, if she didn’t know how totache her childher better nor her pigs, they’ll be a cryin’ disgrace to her.” Magistrate—“ What has that to do with the case?” Lim—* V'll tell you, your worship. Last Tuesday mornin’, when I was tying some straw to cover a turf-ree] come cryin’ to me, that the pigs was at their ould work. rootin’ my piatees—up I leaps, and straight I runs to the fields, and, ek, the. childherCASE OF ASSAULT AND BATTERY. 283 sure enough, your worships, there they were, and their noses in clover. Hurish, hurish, muck, muck, says I, well, wid that, as soon as ever they hard me, straight they galloped towards me, and, before I could get out of the way, the biggest of them, bad manners to him, leaps up and hot me right here”—suiting the action to the word, Tim stretched forth his gigantic arms, and made his enormous hands meet on his breast in full force. It would be impossible to describe the state of the court during the delivery of Tim’s eloguent harangue; several shed tears from the laughter. “Oh, your worships,” exclaimed Mrs. Delany, ‘‘he has ma- lined my pigs, for betther behaved bastes never lay upon straw ; ] told my little gesha of a daughther to keep them out of his pratees, from the first mornin’ he spoke to me, and as for strik- ing him, your worships, the poor animals knew no betther, for they were makin’ home, and he stood in the gap.” Magistrate—* You must compensate Reilly for the damage your pigs have done his potatoes.” Tim— Oh, plaze your worship, I am not lookin’ for com- pensation, but in regard of their bad behavior, and their strikin me, that 1 complain; and, Mrs. Delany,” he added, turning to the widow, “if you promise to keep them out of my arable land, and tache them betther manners in future, I'll not prosecute them no farther.” This being faithfully promised, and Tim having made another tow to the bench, and begged their “ honors’ pardon,” for the trouble he had given them, retired amidst the laughter of the spectators, he himself, however, filled with the importance of the part he had pertormed, and giving sundry frowns at those gentiemen he denominated “ peelerers.”’ PERE ER ATT TiTHE GHOST AND THE TWO BLACK- SMITHS. prwanns of forty vears ago, in the beautiful little village of Randalstown, Wham ne’er a town surpasses For honest men and bonnie lasses,’ there lived a blacksmith, named James Walker; he was an industrious, honest man, and regularly attended the Pres- | byterian house of worship—but still he had his failings. He oc- ae casionally took a little too much of the mountain-dew, to quench | the spark in his throat, but was accounted a most excellent work- man, notwithstanding. About a mile anda half from the vil- lage, on the road leading to Ahoghill, lived another blacksmith, | called Harry Donnell. Harry was in most respects a similar ted | character; for he too had a similar failing, with this exception, | that though he had to passthrough Randalstown to the chapel, he made it a point never to be seen tipsy on Sunday. At any other time, when he came to the village, James and he were sure to have adrop. During their potations, however, they never meddled with religion, wisely observing, that it was a subject too sacred for discussion over the bottle. Their time was generally employed in discussing the most improved methods of shoeing horses, making spades and plow-irons, etc., and whatever improvement any one of them had made or found (| out, it was freely imparted to the other. 1 i It happened cne year, in the latter part of autumn, that , | Harry had been detained longer than usual from sceing his 284ne Ra ae a THE GHOST AND THE TWO BLACKSMITHS. 285 friend, but having got his corn in, arid the potatoes secured from the coming frosty blast, he resolved to go to the village, oT o \o purchase some iron, and coals, and other articles, but more especially to see his friend, James, and havea glass. He left home in the afternoon of one of the dreary days in November, telling his family not to be uneasy if he should delay longer than usual, being almost certain he would get company home. As he rode along the road, his eye wandered with delight down the sloping vale of the River Main, where the then com- fortable farmers resided in independence, and hospitality sat smiling at their board; but, alas! the times are altered ¢here now. He soon reached the town; and having made his purchases, and arranged all to his mind, he called at the shop of his friend, James, from whom he received ahearty shake of the hand, with an expression of surprise at his being so long absent. They immediately went to the Globe Tavern—were shown into the little parlor, where a rousing turf-fire was blazing in the grate, at which they sat down—called for half-a-pint of spirits, and in a short time a smoking jug of punch was on the table, which they speedily quaffed, discoursing on their usual topics, and the jug was again and again emptied and replen- ished, till the toll of the curfew informed them it was nine o’clock. Harry then remarked that it was time he was home, adding a wish that he was past Drumarory Bush,* “ where,” “~ he said, “so many fearsome things had been seen, and about which so many alarming stories shad been told.” This led them into a discussion on theexistence of ghosts, fairies, and other aérial beings; James arguing that there were no such things, and Harry as firmly maintaining that there were. At last, James, seeing that all his arguments had no effect in con- * Drumarory Bush was a large hawthorn, that grew on the edge of the road, one-half mile out of _Randalstown, in going to Ahoghill, and was famous in country story as the haunt of fairies, witches, and evil spirits ; and even the devil himself was said to be seen at it ; so that it was a place very few liked to pass at a late hour. In fact, the writer, when a boy, durst not passit alone, after night-fall. Itis now cut down, so that its place is no more to be found; but a little above where it stood isa rise in the road, still called Drumarory rae. ee aN a = —S 2 eee RESET z T. iSIRISH #IRESIDE. STORIES. vincing Harry, or in removing his fear, proffered to accompany him beyond the dreaded Lush; protesting that he feared neither ghost, or fairy, nor even emissary of the old boy himself. Harry thankfully accepted his company; and when matters were thus arranged, they repaired to the Lar, to pay the reckon- ing; after which Harry, remarking that it would be very dan- gerous to go out in so cold anight after drinking warm punch, without a taste of raw spirits, called for another noggin, during the drinking of which their former subject was renewed at the bar, and was attentively listened to by all who surrounded the kitchen fire. At last Harry and James set off; James still pro- testing that he was as little afraid of passing Drumarory bush as any other bush. subject till— Their discourse ran mostly on the same The dreaded bush was drawing nigh, Where ghosts and witches nightly cry ;” but, to their great inward satisfaction, all was quiet. Scarcely had they proceeded a few paces further, when a blazing light sprung up, and seemed to dance about the bush, with great ra- pidity ; this put them te a stand. James said, ‘In God’s name, we'll see what it is;’’ but they had not gone more than a few steps, when something clad in white stepped on the road, giving a wild, unearthly scream ; and just opposite to them they heard another, still more terrific. James’ philosophy instantly for- sook him; and both spurred their horses back to the town; but still, as they ventured to peep round, they saw the white ghost, and the light following, till they came opposite Feehoge, where the apparition and light glided down a dark avenue, and disap- peared. Over-exertion and terror made them now slacken theit pace ; but they soon renewed it, on hearing a foot coming fast behind them; they stopped, however, on hearing a human voice cry out: “If you are Christians or men, I entreat you to stand, for I am frightened out of my senses bya ghost.” This person soon joined them; and to their great joy, they found it was Jamie Irons, the barber of Randalstown, who declared he would faint, or perhaps dic, unless he would soon get a glass of whis.THE GHOST AND THE TWO BLACKSMITHS. 287 key. This he was promised, as they were now at the head of the town. They came to the same inn, called for a pint of spirits, of which Jarnie got a large share, and related to the amazed inmates their strange adventure—Irons confirming it by declaring that as he was coming up Feehoge avenue, a white woman or ghost, followed by a blazing light, passed him, and efterwards glided, without any noise, through the orchard- hedge. The whiskey soon restored their wasted spirits; and Jamie. seeing no chance of any more liquor coming in, began to remark thet it would be a pity Harry should be detained in town all night. That as there was now three of them, he proposed they should go to Drumarory, and see Harry past; offering himself as a vidette. To this they agreed ; and, taking another glass, they set off, Irons, as he promised, being some perches in ad- vance. They soon arrived at the bush—but nothing was to be heard, save the distant swells and falls of the River Main; so, leaving Harry on the top of Drumarory Brae, the two returned to town. Harry being now in full spirits, and, as he thought, out of al) danger, began to grow quite courageous—swearing that he could beat any fellow who durst oppose him on the road—nor was he afraid of the very old boy. The whiskey was now taking full effect In this way he went on, till h reacl ed Seymour's-bridge, a mile out of town, where there was, and still ought to be, a school-house, against the gable of which he leaned himself, in order to rest; when, looking towards the west, across the road, he saw on the height opposite, a man in the attitude of challenging him to fight! Harry instantly step- red on the road, ordered him to come down, and keep less vaporing, or he would soon make him repent it, to this the man seemed to pay ao attention,but still kept taunting him, as form- erly. At this, Harry losing all patience, made a race at him; but forgetting there was an old gravel-pit, generally full of water, € on a level with the road, and directly opposite, he plunged into it, over head and ears, and would probably have been drowned had he not been providentially rescued by a young man comingIRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. down the road at the time, who heard the plunge. When brought out, he could hardly be persuaded that what he took fora man in the attitude of fighting was nothing but a large rag-wort waving in the wind. He, however, resolved in future never to be drunk after night in Randalstown, or stay there late, which resolution he faithfully kept till the day of his death. The story of the ghost and the two smiths passed current in the town and country; and was firmly believed by almost every one; and there are still some people living in that neighbor- hood, who would yet vouch for its authenticity; but the truth is, Jamie Irons, as he informed the writer, was the ghost him- self; he was, perhaps, the greatest man for tricks of this sort, ever bred in the county of Antrim; and, though his counte- nance was indicative of nothing but wisdom, and the utmost gravity, so that he was seldom seen to smile, yet he was of a most playful and merry disposition, and delighted in humbug- ging every one that he knew was self-conceited, or too opiniona- tive. On the night mentioned, he was sitting at the inn’s kitchen-fire; and, when James Walker so frequently protested that he feared no ghost or evil spirit, he resolved to put his courage to a fair trial. Getting, therefore, a white sheet,a keenoge,* and a bunch of svlinters of bog-fir, such as is used by fishers at night, he proceeded before the two smiths to Dru- marory ; and, with the assistance of a person he brought for the purpose, performed, as can be easily imagined, the above decep- tion on the blacksmiths. * Keenoge, or Cunea,isa turf-coal, rolled tightly in tow or flax, so that you may carry it a long way in your pocket without its kindling ; but when opened out to the air, it instantly becomes, as it were, alive again, and will kindle any combustible,IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. THE POTEEN STILL. So “ ‘ licit spiritous liquor, so well known by the name of INS poteen whisky, with a most unaccountable infatua- tion. Ido not think that it would be altogether fair to say that this is from the mere love of ardent spir- its, as the article distilled according to law is now so very cheap, that a single shilling will purchase a sufficient quantity to satisfy even a drunkard; nor can it be from the hope of gain, as the profits arising must be very inconsiderable, and not in any manner such as could tempt any reflecting mind to risk the severe penalties inflicted by the law in case of detec- tion. Notwithstanding, in almost every part of the country where a facility of secrecy, or a means offer, the practice is per- severed in, despite the dreaded-punishment. On the rude brow of the heathy mountain, in the nearly inaccessible bog, in the lonely island of the lough, in the dark cave of other days, and the desolate and neglected ruins of the ancient abbey or mould- ering castle, night after night, arises the smoke of the foteen Rettle. Unformers (the most detested name in Ireland) are sometimes found, from either a spirit of malice or revenge, to betray the secret to the revenue officer; and then follows the destruction of what may be called all the peasant’s harvest and hope. His kettle is destroyed; all the vessels used in the pro- cess are broken; his malt is scattered, and his liquor spilled ; and imprisonment and fine, and consequently, the utter ruin of himself and his unfortunate family, winds up the catastrophe. But the informer, if known, or ever discovered, is made to suffer all the penalties of outlawry. His property is destroyed in every shape—his house is burned—and his neighbors shun his presence, as they would a pestilence. In vain he flies the district; he is watched and hunted—his character, and the curse of the betrayer, follow hot upon his footsteps; and, not unfrequently, his life pays the forfeit of his deceit. x G8? HE Irish peasantry practice the distillation of that il- PDC esis marr reenact Ee erat men CERCA SBT NON s290 IRISH FIRESEOL STORIES. Near Castleconnell,* in the County of Limerick, there resided, some years ago, a small farmer of the name of Dunne. His wife was the daughter of a neighboring farmer an affectionate, warm-hearted, simple woman—the faithful partner of her hus- band’s toils. They had no children—yet they did not murmur at their lonely lot, but— “Kept the even tenor of their way,” undisturbed by unseemly broils or dissatisfied repinings. Their means, though small, were more than sufficient for their humble wants; and being sober, careful, and industrious, they were con- sidered as comfortable a couple as any within the bounds of the barony of Clanwilliam.+ Nicholas Dunne was an early riser; and one morning, in the autumn of the year 1805, as he was proceeding with some reapers to cut down the ripened produce of his fruitful fields, after crossing the stile that led from his little garden into an adjoining meadow, where there was a well of clear spring-water, his ears caught the faint sounds of an in- fants cries. His (hace was in a particularly lonely situation: the lark had scarcely risen from her dewy bed—and what could bring, at such an hour, an infant in such a place, surprised Nicholas Dunne. He turned in the direction from w hich the sound proceeded, and, by the side of the solitary spring, he dis- covered an infant, wrapped w armly in an old coarse blue man- tle, such as is usually worn by the poorer sort of country peo- ple, and without any other dress. The men searched about on all sides, but could discover no traces whatever of any person * On the east side of the river Shannon, about seven and a half miles from Limerick, The castle was a very ancient building, being the residence of the O’ Briens, kings of Munster. The celebrated Brien Boroimhe lived here for some time, and his grandson was basely and treacherously slain in the north tower, by the prince of Thomond. When the English took possession of this part of Ireland, Castleconnel was granted tothe Red de Bur £0; and W7y- liam de Burgo, in the reign of Elizabeth, was created the first baron of Castleconnell. The de Burgos were afterwards attainted, but the estates were restored on the accession of James. In 1688 they were again attainted, ard the castle taken by the Prince of Hesse, under the command of Ginkle, who ordered it to he blown up. This ca.tle was very large, and sit- uated on a height. There is an excellent spa here, famous for curing ulcers and for destroying worms in children. sores, and + The name of the barony in which Castleconnel' is situated.Pye. Pe AC ESET BOGE seve! eee olen ae a ae ma THE POTEEN STILL. 291 being near the place. Nicholas considering that the infant was purposely left there, and deserted by its unnatural mother, and that it must die of cold or hunger if immediate care was not taken of it, he rolled his great coat round it and returned to his house. He placed it in the arms of the kind-hearted Nelly, who looked at it with astonishment, and then turned an inquir- ing and searching, yet anxious glance upon herhusband. Hemet herlooks witha smile. “There’sa present for you this mornin’, why, a heager,” said Nicholas. “Tt’s welcome, then, as the flowers ov May,” said Nelly, aad the big tears stood large and sparkling in her eye. “I found it down by the side of Tubdber na boo,’* said Nich- olas, wishing to remove the suspicion that appeared to move Nelly, ‘“‘and sure Jem and Paddy heerd it afore myself, why.” ‘An’ you don’t know who owns it, then?” inquired the some- what relieved Nelly. ‘ Yerra, the sorra know then, why; Nelly was satisfied. They agreed to keep and take care of the young deserted one, until claimed by those who might prove their natural right to it; and as heaven had withheld the blessing of children from them, it perhaps placed this one in their hands to recompense and bless them. It wasa boy ; and upon further examination it was discovered that its legs were crooked, and its feet twisted into a hoof-like shape, and a small slip of paper, with the words “ not christened yet,’ written in a twisted and awkward hand, pinned upon the blue cloak that enwrapped it. The kind Nelly set about tending and nursing it with a new pleasure awakened in her heart; and Nicholas, notwithstanding the satire and jeers of his neighbors, looked on with a heartfelt satisfaction. Nicholas Dunne had the boy christened on the following Sun- day evening. “What name do you intend to give him, Nick,” said the i responded Nicholas, and priest. * The well or spring of the cow.292 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. “Why, you see, Father James,” replied Nicholas, “the little weeny crether has been sent asthray very early in the beginning of his days, and as your reverence is about to put your holy hand over him, I was just sayin’ to Nelly that we ought to call him Fames Sthray,* your reverence.” “Tts just a good name, Nicholas,” said the priest; and the little foundling was forthwith baptized by the original cognomen of James Stray. Master Stray, despite his distorted legs and feet, grew and flourished like a young tree planted by the side of living waters, and Nelly was proud of her success as a nurse. In the due course of time he was placed under the tuition of the village teacher, along with some eighty or ninety of the country young- sters, where he obtained the nick-name of Crudbeen or Comrel- lickeent Dunne. In person he was small and misshapen; his skull was uncommonly large, and projected in an unusual man- ner over his keen, small eyes, which twinkled in their cavities like small torches from the recess of a beetling cave. His legs were without flesh or muscle, and curved out in opposite direc- tions; and his feet appeared like clumsy knobs appended to their extremities; but his arms were long, strong, and muscular; and his body was large and strong; his chest expanded and full, promising uncommon strength, as if nature wished to make up what was wanting in the other parts by doubly fortifying this. His temper was warm, and even playful, unless when in- sult, or injury, or any remark upon his decrepitude, roused him, and then revenge alone seemed to be the master-passion of his soul; and often did his young school-fellows, who thought to mock and taunt the poor cripple with impunity, feel that his * This story is really founded on fact, and this is the name which was actually given to the little foundling. The after circumstances are only a fair narrative of facts which came under the writer’s own observation. + These words are nearly synonymous, and it would be impossible to find any one word in the English language to express the complicated meaning which they convey. They are applied to persons who have crooked or deformed feet ; the latter word in particular is gen- erally used for this purpose. The former word is more properly the term given to the feet of pigs and cows, and also applied, as in the case of the latter word, but not so generally. %THE FOLEAN STILL, 293 blow and his courage were much above the sum of their calcu- lation. Bein 1 g made acquainted at an early age with his unfortunate and dependent situation, he strove to evince by his gratitude to his protectors that their time and attention were not thrown away upon an unworthy object. He watched over their con- cerns with a diligent and careful eye; he strove to anticipate their wishes, and always met their reproofs with humility. At length his good mother, the tender Nelly, died; and the affectionate Nicholas soon followed her, leaving the poor de- serted foundling, now about eighteen years of age, the sole in- heritor of his little property. Crubeen, being both intelligent and industrious above his neigh. bors, during the time he could spare from his farm, commenced a trade in cattle; and so prosperous was he in his dealings, that in a short time he was said to have amassed a considerable sum of money, besides improving and adding to his farm; and the farm- ers around him, who had daughters to dispose of in marriage with some little dower, began to look on the once despised Crubeen Stray, the child of destitution, and, perhaps, of shame, as the most eligible match in the country. Nor was the warm-hearted Crubeen unsusceptible of the softer emotionsofthe soul. Hebecame enamoured of a young woman, the daughter of a farmer who lived some miles distant, and whom he beheld several times at prayers. He was not long in finding an opportunity of being introduced, but, to his infinite mortification, he found he had a favored, and consequently a powerful rival to contend with, when comparing a fine, well- formed, handsome young fellow, with his own crippled and ill- formed appearance. Still, being of a lively and warm tempera- ment, he did not despair, but pushed his suit with much vigor. Crubeen had one enemy in the world—a young man in his own immediate vicinity, and nearly of his own age. He was called Jeremiah O’Sullivan; and since they were children he seemed to be actuated by the most malicious feelings towards the orphan, Crubeen.. At school they had fought several des-IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES, perate battles, in the most of which the superior address and strength of arm of the cripple brought him off the conqueror, They were usually class-fellows, and here the quickness and at- tention of the doccaugh™ rendered him the superior; and thus, by degrees, the shame of defeat, and the feeling of contempt with which he regarded Crubeen, rendered O’Sullivan, even from his boyhood, the fixed and determined enemy of the de- crepit foundling, which enmity his future success in life only served to confirm. O'Sullivan turned out a drunkard and idler, and neglected his business, and wasted his means. His constant resort was to the ale-house or the dance-house. He left his sowing or mowing for the funeral, the fair, and the pattern, where no business could lead him, and where his presence was not required. In this way he was fast running to ruin, when an unfortunate spirit of confederacy round its way among the peasantry, and O’ Sullivan was the first to join in their noctur- nal deliberations. His hatred to Crubeen led him several times to propose injuring him in person or property, but this was constantly rejected by his companions, to whom the Jdoccaugh had endeared himself by his kindness and humanity. Payo, Said they, “‘Crubeen Dunne is the best giasther in the country, and the best employer, and the best friend to the poor, and no one shall hurt the hair of his head while we can prevent it.” Such was the state of affairs near Castleconnel when ‘“ Mis- ther Dunne,” as the deserted child of Tubber na boo was now called, was induced at a time, when, as the people expressed it, “there was worse than no price for corn,” to try the speculation of distilling the produce of his farm into joteen whiskey, as he imagined it might bring something of a profit, which he could not hope for if he brought it to market. Accordingly, he sent a special messenger to the most famous person in the country for making the “right sort,” and appointing to meet him ata fair to be held some few miles distant on the following week. * Cripple, literally.THE POTEEN STILL. 2905 The distiller was universally known by the name of Sthawka ;* a rambling, houseless, homeless being, who had no family or fixed residence, and who wandered from place to place, wher- ever his services were required. His only trade was making’ poteen—his highest gratification was in drinking it—and his whole delight was in fighting at markets or fairs. The fair-day came, and Crubeen having finished his business at an early hour, proceeded to search among the town of tents, which was erected on one side of the fair-green, for the Sthawka. It was about the mid-hour—and what was a very uncommon circumstance, there was as yet no sign of riot or disturbance, when Crubeen observed Sthawka issuing in a zig-zag from one of the tents. He had a tough ash sapling in his dexter hand, which he twirled about with inimitable dexterity. He gazed up and down with an eager glance, round about, right and left all was quiet. Men, horses, cows, and sheep passed and re- passed, in mingled confusion and discord; lowings, and bleat- ings, cries and curses were heard all around, but still no positive | signs of a “ruction” were apparent. Obstinate pigs held long and angry discussions with their drivers, but still no distant “hurroo” gave the well-known signal for attack. No cheering shout met his ear. No stick flourished on high above the mov- ing mass. No tent demolished of its wattles met iis eye. He looked up at the sun, and perceived it was past the usual hour. “Och, thundher and turf,” shouted he, capering among a crowd of men collected round a large lot of sheep, and flourish- ing his a/pine high over his head— “Boys, jewel, it’s past twelve, and the devil a blow struck yet. Och, Jimmety Haggerty, where are you, why? Is there no one to make a beginnin’?” and he stared about fiercely and wildly upon the faces around him. The men took no notice of this sudden burst of pugnacity, most of them were acquainted with the person and character of the Sthawka, and no one wished to give an opportunity to begin the sport. He was as- _ * The idler—the stalker—the lounger.Thi ST FIRE SIO STORIES. tonished to find his summons unattended to, and throwing off his great-coat, and taking it by one of the sleeves, he dragged it after him on the ground to where a sensible-looking man was surveying the lot of sheep. “Will you be pleased just to stand on* the tail ov my coat, if you please, Sir?” said the Sthawka, with the most undesign- ing air. “No, no, Sthawka,” said the man, with a good-humored smile, “Tm your friend—but I’d like to see the man that ’id be afther doin’ it, faix, ’'d shew him a ha’p’ny, why.” At this instant, Jerry O'Sullivan, seeing the Sthawka with his coat on the trail, inspired by some dozen classes of the native, and urged by his mischievous disposition, leaped, with a sudden bound, upon the coat, at the same time, contrary to the rules to be observed on such occasions, laid the poor Sthawka pros- trate, with a tremendous blow on the back of the head. “Foul play,” “Foul play,” “He took him false,” were repeated by sundry voices, yet no one dared to oppose the ruffian, until the boccaugh, hobbling up on his misshapen stumps, faced O'Sullivan, with eyes flashing angry and determined indignation from be- neath his far-projecting and heavy brows. “Coward!” he ex- claimed, in accents of bitter contempt, “you struck a man with his back turned to you, and without giving him notice of your challenge—turn now, an’ face a poor cripple, iv you dare.” O'Sullivan turned his face towards the hobbling Crubeen Dunne, but so struck was he by the animated and ireful expres- sion of his strongly-marked countenance, that his heart became appalled; but the shame of retiring before so contemptible an antagonist in appearance, after the act he was just after perpe- trating, prevented him from actually turning to fly. * This was really the custom when two factions were gathered at a fair: if there was any seeming unwillingness in one of the partiesto begin the sport, the champion of the other was frequently known to drag his coat after him through them, as a tacit challenge ; and it was considered an acknowledgement of their defeat if no man was found who would tread on it, and fairly face the challenger. The custom is still used where any remains of the old clanships are found.re 5 Se THE POTEEN STILL. ‘“ He’s afraid of the poor toccaugh,” said a bystander, observ- ing the change in his countenance, and the hesitation of his manner. “Och, sure its only Jerry O’Soolivan,” exclaimed another, in accents of contempt, “that’s always quarrellin’, and never fightin’, and that no one thinks it worth their while to fight for or agin, why!” “ What’s id all about?” asked a stranger, coming up; “is id the Malownys and the O’Flahertys that’s goin’ to kick up the stir, when all's quietness ?”’ “ Augh, no, then, it’s only Jerry O’Soolivan, that’s always first in the fight, and first to run away ; an’ he kem false upon poor Sthawka, and kilt him, an’ now he’s afeered to face Crubeen Dunne,” was the reply. O'Sullivan, during the moment the above remarks were pass- ing around him, felt all their force, and the estimation in which he was held galled and fired him. He had never met “ the out- cast of his parents,” in personal combat, since they were boys before. He conceived a hope, from the appearance of the cripple, striving, as it seemed, to support kis athletic body upon his weak and bending limbs, and, without replying, he levelled a desperate blow at the head of Crubeen, which the doccaugh, hobbling a step or two on one side, avoided, and driven by the force of the blow, and the disappointed nerve, which not finding its object at the point to which its might was levelled, impelled the striker forward some yards. Crubeen, with an agility un- expected, seized O'Sullivan, with his left hand, by the poll, as he bent forward, and wheeling him round him, with uncontrol- lable force, struck him across the legs, and brought him prostrate to the earth. A shout of triumph rung round on all sides, mingled with execrations of shame and reproach upon O’Sullivan, who, after some time, recovering the use of his limbs, sneaked away. The Sthawka, who had arisen from the earth as his foe was levelled to it, now came up to his defender, and, extending his hand, cried out—LRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. “Give us your hand, J/zsther Dunne, you’re the ‘right sort,’ let you be what you will, and you did for me to- day what one good man only does for another; but it’s no matther, J’ll go home with you to-night.’’ Crubeen, and his friend the Sthawka, retired to a tent where the doccaugh expected to meet the idol of his soul, Kathleen O’Brien, whose father had appointed this day for arranging and settling all things connected with his future e Rapnidde. or deciding his fate in a contrary way. They met O’Brien and his daughter, according to appointment, and the excited heart of Crubeen expanded into joy and love under the bright eyes of the blooming Kathleen, and he felt how happy his lot would be if blessed with such a partner for life. The moments flew as light- some and quick as butterflies on the summer wind: Kathleen seldom joined in the conversation, and when obliged to answer, did so in monosyllables, and ina distressed and constrained tone of voice. Theyhad not been long together, when a young man, whom Crubeen knew as the lover of Kathleen, entered the tent; he looked at the daughter first, then at the father. and lastly, with a scowl of contempt, fixed his flashing eyes upon the cripple, and, flinging himself carelessly into a seat on one side, called for some liquor, and sat without touching it, seem- ingly absorbed in bitter reflection. Kathleen started and blushed as he entered, but suddenly turned ghastly pale, and appeared ready to faint. Crubeen watched all her motions with the eye of a lynx, and the deductions which he drew were certainly not of the most pleasing nature, for he, too, looked confused, and bit his lip until the blood started. Shortly after the doccaugh’s evil genius, Jerry O’Sullivan, with three desperate-looking ruffians, poked in his head at the Opening, and, spying Crubeen, he whispered his companions, and they stalked in; and as they passed, O'Sullivan fixed his stare, with a malicious expression of mingled hate and revenge, upon the cripple, and pushed his way to a seat within earshot of what was passing at the bench where the cripple sat, and near to where the lover of Kathleen sat, silent and aloneTHE POTEEN STILL Liquor being brought to them, and the health of each indi- vidual having passed in succession—‘ Musha, then, Christy Kilday,” said one of them, ‘ did you listen to the song on ‘the Sportin’ Ould Gray Mare,’ to-day, why ?”’ “No,” replied Christy, ““I was busy all the day, selling the bonnives,* why, then.” “What was it all about, why?’ said another. “Why, it’s all about the Dews,t and Boneypark, and St. Path- rick, and the Scripthers, and the peelers,” said Christy. “Did id say a gradle about the Scripthers, then?” asked Jerry O'Sullivan. “ Augh, thin, sure it did, a power, antirely, but the sorra word ov id myself remimbers,”’ replied Christy. “ Did it advise a body to shun those that God puts his bad mark upon?” asked O’Sullivan, glancing spitefully at Cru- béén, “Why, then, I dunna,” replied Christy ; “but what’s the manin’ ov the same, why?” “Why, you must know,” said Jerry, in a loud voice, “the construction ov the manin’ ov all that is, that anybody born with a blind eye, or a hump on his back, or wid crooked legs, or comrellickeen feet, isn’t lucky, and we’re ordhered to shun them, as a body would a sarpint, for God has put his own bad mark on them.” Crubeen heard all this—so did O’Brien, and his daughter Kath- leen—they looked alternately on each other, but the expression of the doccaugh’s face struck them with astonishment; a slow cf burning indignation had bespread his usually pallid features, his brow hung fearfully over his fiery eyes, and the muscles worked beneath the skin in a variety of contortions. He ap- peared a few moments deprived, by his wrath, of the power of speech; at length his words found way. Kathleen slanced at her lover, blushed, and hung her head, and her father bit his * Bonnives—small sucking pigs. + Dews—Jews—the usual mode of pronouncing the word by the peasantry.300 TRISH FIRE SIDE STORIES. lip in inquietude and anger, as the cripple gave vent to his feel. ings. “Listen to me, then, Jerry Soolivan,’’ exclaimed Crubeen; “who is crippled in the heart—who is crucked inside -and who is blind to everything but badness—who is black within and white without—these are the people that God has set his mark upon; the false-hearted, the coward, the rogue, and the liar. It's you l mane, Jerry Soolivan, the man with the white liver, and the desavin’ sneer—you are the man that every good and honest man should shun!” and the withering glance and the deep tones which accompanied these expressions seemed to sink into the very soul of O'Sullivan. But he quickly recovered himself, and leaping to his feet— “Come, boys,’ he shouted, “let’s smash the ugly doccaugh, that hasn't the face or tongue ov a Christhen,” and he made a rush towards where the cripple stood, ready to meet him, but the lover of Kathleen crossed him, and, with one well-aimed blow, sent his stick, shivered in pieces, to the other end of the tent. The Sthawka, at the same time, brandished his a/pzne, and sent forth the shriek of defiance in the joy of hisheart. The ruffian was astounded, so were his companions, who accompanied him in the hope of having but a decrepit, lame object, and a drunken “shaughraun’* to contend with. “ Stand back,” said the voung man, the lover of Kathleen—‘‘stand back, this blessed minit; the first man that offers to strike a stroke here in this tint, this day, ‘ill have the sorest head he ever had in his life. I know some ov you, boys, and yous know me. As for you,” turn- ing to O'Sullivan, “you are a coward anda bad-hearted man. I watched your words, and I saw your mind: never come across me agin in afair or patthern,iv you havea regard for your own- Soli,” O’Sullivan and his companions sneaked out of the tent. Crubeen invited the young man to sit down, with which he was about to comply, when, catching the bright eye of Kathleen * Shaughraun, an unfortunate outcast and rake.ag 2 ORS aren ceerngtret ene Ri 0 OER THE POTEELN. STILL: fixed on him, he turned away. ‘ No,” said he, ‘I’m much ob- leeged to you, but it’s growin’ late, an’ I must be goin’,” and he walked slowly out of the tent. It was wearing late in the afternoon, and Crubeen, who had watched everything that passed, and who knew the young man to be the lover of Kathleen, felt that it would be useless for him to pursue a suit which could never end in his happiness, making some trivial excuse for going, he stood up, and wished the parties a good-evening, apvointing the following Sunday to meet them at the little chapel, and departed with his friend the Sthawka. Next day Crubeen and his friend set to work in constructing their stillhouse. The farm bordered upon a deep arm of the Shannon, that stretched like a minor creek far into a hollow be- tween two hills. The banks were, in most places, broken and precipitous, and it was in one of those chasms that the Sthawka hollowed out for himself a shelter and a house. The malt had been steeped the regular time. The kettle and worm, the stand and keeve, were all in their proper places, and the work progressed with what Sthawka termed “wondherful success.” But the plans best laid are those which oftenest are frustrated, and so it was with Crubeen’s distillation. O’Sullivan, who watched with the assiduity of unwearied malice, beheld with delight the work in which his foe was engaged, and allowed it to go on until the last moment, when his triumph and revenge would be most complete. The last stage of the process had commenced, and Sthawka pronounced it the master-work of the art-—“ Such a sup wasn’t in the County of Limerick that blessed night.” A bottle was sent up to the Crubeen, for his gratifica- tion, and expectation and hope was at its height, when a little boy rushed into the still-house, and exclaimed, in hurried ac- cents— Run’ then, why, Sthawka, jewel, for here’s the gauger and the sidewry sollogh* cumin’ a top OV yé, as fast as they ” Can. * Sidewry sollogh—the dirty soldiers ee “gg ee ret en earteeeees hyIRIS: FIRE STIOEL STORTES, “You're a liar, now,” said the Sthawka, casting an anxious and alarmed look at his work, “an’ you want only to friken me, the way I'll give you a crutskeen.’’* ‘““No, no, ’pon my sowkens, then,” exclaimed the Hoy: “an more betoken, Jerry O’Sullivan just left them at the turn ov the doreheen.’’+ “Augh, then, bad cess to the dirty negur,” exclaimed Sthawka, “it’s all up with us, why,” and he seized on two or three kegs which he had drawn off, and cast them into the water, and leaving the rest to their fate, he rushed out. The gauger and the soldiers came up and surrounded the hut. The gauger was the first to enter, and looking about, he exclaimed —“Walk in, gentlemen; the nest is here, but the bird is gone.’ They then commenced breaking up the vessels and spilling the liquor about the place; and when the work of des- truction was complete, a party proceeded to the Crubeen’s, and taking his horse out of the stable, they harnessed it to his car, and loaded it with the still and other utensils belonging to the apparatus. “It’s the first and the last,’ exclaimed Crubeen, as he saw his property disappearing beneath the moonlight down the road towards the town—‘ It’s the first time I ever engaged in such a business, and it’s the last time I will ever meddle with the like; but, thank God, they have no prisoners along with them.” As soon as the gauger and the soldiers were gone, Sthawka made his appearance, with a countenance expressive of the deepest calamity. “All’s gone, avick,” said he: “but then. iv that villain, O’Sul- livan, doesn’t pay for peeping in that way, may I never have a hand in a dhrop as long as I live.” “ Sthawka,” said Crubeen, “it’s my wish that you never men- tion this affair, or the name of Jerry Soolivan again.” * Crutskeen, atin measure for drinking out of; hence the old song of ‘‘Ma Crutskeen Lawn,” or, my fair cruiskeen. + Boreheen; a small, narrow bridle road.MAIN atin nla a ra THE POTEEN STILI. 3 «Ha, ha!’ laughed the Sthawka, ‘do you think I could live in the same counthry witha blaguard intormer, why? 1! couldn't earn a bit or a sup where the likes ov him id be, then.” The appointed Sunday came, and the Crubeen repaired to hear prayers, and to keep his appointment with old O’Brien and his daughter. On the day previous, he had sent word to the young man who stood up in his defence at the tent, and who, he since learned, was a distant relation of his self-adopted parent, Nicholas Dunne, desiring that he might meet him at the little chapel. When prayers were Over, they retired to the little public house opposite, and Crubeen introduced his friend, much to the surprise of Kathleen and her father. After some preliminary conversation, the generous cripple opened the wishes of his heart in the following words :— “ Jemmy O’Brien,” said he, “ I liked your daughther from the first hour I saw a sight of her face, and every time I saw her afther I liked her betther; but at that time I didn’t think there was another that was more fittin’ for her than me, and one that she loved before I ever spoke a word on the matther to man or mortual. Here’s a dacent boy, and one of an ould stock of honest people, and he likes Kathleen, and if Iam not greatly mistaken, Kathleen isn’t behind-hand in that way.” The father of Kathleen looked serious and fidgety at this part of Cru- been’s address. “I know he is not so well off in the world,” continued Crubeen, “as you’d wish the husband of your daugh- ther should be—aye, but don’t turn away your head till you hear me out—I know he’s not to your likin’, in the way of the world, but still he’s not so bad. He has a snug spot ot land, if the little arrears were paid, and it stocked, and put in heart for him. I know what you have to give Kathleen, and as he’s the relation of an ould friend of mine, here, now, give him your daughther, and I’ll give him as much as you give her, with, maybe, a few pounds more in the bargain.” O’Brien stared at Crubeen; he couldn’t conceive how any one could be so mad as to give away their hard-earned wealth to a stranger, but perceiving the cripple to be serious, he mut-304 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. tered forth something like an acquiescence; and the precise amount of Kathleen’s fortune being stated, the boccaugh pro- duced a long checker-bag, and told out, in the presence of tl landlord, an equal sum, which he handed to ft] “And here,” said he, “is a full receipt for all you, which I got from the agent last week, as I was paying my Oyo tent, Me stood up.. “ Now I must go,’ he added; “May God bless you, and may you, Kathleen, be as happy as I wish you,” and he departed. The marriage ceremony was sol.- emnized the following Sunday. Crubeen was invited to the wed- ding, but he was ill, and could not attend. Sthawka promulgated the tale of O’Sullivan’s treachery through the country. Tyke society to which he belonged, and who long suspected his fidelity, became alarmed for their own general safety, and resolved on his destruction. He was taken on a fishing excursion one night down the Shannon, but never re- turned. Search was made, but he never was found. Crubeen never married; he lived to a good old age, the general benefac. tor of all around him. Careful, industrious, and intelligent, he became wealthy; and, being naturally generous, humane, and benevolent, he was the benefactor of the poor, and the idol of the needy. 1e le young man. arrears due by THE MOWIN’ MATCH. fi. thin, Dan, agra, what in the name o’ wondher’s bringin’ you out o’ yer bed at this time o’ night, af- ther yer hard workin’ all day? a body id think you’d be wantin’ some sleep!” exclaimed the careful widow who exulted in the appellation of “ Missus Phelim Dawley,” to her son, as about midnight she heard him get up and endeavor to steal softly forth. Dan at first appeared a little posed; but then rubbing his eyes he muttered, in a half-sleepy tone :— “Och, wisha, wisha! bud id’s quare’—i 3 Za tegen’, — ~ a —— —— PAN tn Cae neta nil ek ae pices ae x? THE MOWIN’ MATCH. 206 oo “Are you dhramin’, child, or what’s come over you, at all? Don’t you plainly persave id's as dark as pitch—an’ what's makin’ you get up?” Dan, who by this time had invented an excuse, sravely an- swered :-— “Why, thin, mother, shure enough, id’s the dhramin’s bewil- dhered me entirely. Faix, I thought id was mornin’; an in throth I was wondherin’ at meselt bein’ so lazy at gettin’ up, bud (a yawn) I’m glad to be in the wrong box (a yawn), an’ ‘ll jist turn in agin.” So saying, the sleep-loving youth bade his mother good-night, and retired to his nook, for room t could not be called. The ~areful matron was satisfied at this, and again lay down, and soon fell into a sound sleep; and the good youth, who was on the watch, no sooner perceived this, than, brogues in hand, he stole across the room, and gently unbolting the door went forth, closing it carefully again. A few stars were twinkling here and there in the sky, and giving but a faint light, by which he might direct his footsteps ; however, as his mother’s cabin stood beside the road, and he knew every inch of the country, there wasn't much fear of his losing his way. He proceeded along at a pretty rapid pace, humming some tune, and occasionally whistling, until at length he stopped op- posite another cabin, and going to a small window in the back part of it, began to sing the air which he had been trying ever since he left home. The words were very original, and ran somewhat as follows :— “Och, my darlin’ Mary! like a little fairy You thrip along the green grass in style; An’ wor you Dido, or Queen Juno, either, I’d love you dearly for yer own sweet smile. Your lips are the necthur, an’ whin you do lecthur, Dianya’s self couldn't sweeter spake ; Och, me queen ov beauty, that bates out Vanus, If you prove cruel, me heart will brake!” He had got thus far in his tender strain, when “the ould306 IRISH FIRESIDE § TORTIE S. | cloak” was chucked out of the orifice which it fill female face appeared, smiling with satisfied i plimentary tribute just paid to her HY | lighted Daniel could utter a word, sl ia what in the same manner, not in > one which he thought sweeter th ed up, and a vanity at the com- beauty; and before the de- 1€¢ answered his strain some. ad very unmusical voice, and an honey :— “Iv be all this nonsense you think | I tell you yer out, Misthur Dan, asthore; Dianyas an’ Junos may do fur others, Bud not fur me, as ] sald afore : I'm a quite culeen, and a plainly s So you needn’t be thrying Ll Such flattherree, which yera to win me, poken, all your coortin’ art; lways croakin’, Will never make me give you my heart,” “Och, Mary, alanna, bud id’s yersel the delighted lover, dancing, il air :— f can turn id,” exclaimed as if in time to the concluding ‘“ Always croakin’, | Will never make me give you my heart,” Hi:| | “ Whoo—och—musha it’s the natest turned tchune !—Mary, the a ra gal, where did you make id out, at all?” Mary, on the genuine Milesian principl i tion by propounding another, which was— nt | “Ah, thin, you foolish boy, you, what | ‘ such an hour as this?—singin’ and gall c, answered one ques- orought you here at ivantin’ undher a poor girl’s windee, as iv you wanted to turn her wits. It ’ll be tellin’ you somethin’, iv me father hears you.” “What brought me out, Mary ?” repeated Dan, bringing his voice to the pitch tender: whicl 1, en passant, resembled a key inarusty lock. “Is id you axes me that, eroo? Well. that flogs the world: did you never hear tell wildered about a bit ov a colleen—eh, mavourneen? as to ven- thur out, jist to give her a taste ov a saranade Ov a boy bein’ so be- , as the gintlemin | 1 call id, to make her sleep soundher, iv she wor sleepin’, and to a bid her waken iv she worn’t.” | [ | At this tender and i Pat! sentimental effusion, Mary did not7 a Cece a THE MOWIN’ MATCH. 20 307 blush, but her white teeth glittered as she laughingly an swered— “Why, thin, Dan Dawley, you bate my skili, as the gauger said whin the boys put out to say—fur raally I didn’t think you wor sich a gommoch !” “Well, well,” half-soliloquized Dan—‘ this sartinly bangs—a gommoch ! Och, Mary, asthore, don’t you know how you’ve desthroyed me, wid yer pair ov eyes, an’your incomparable beauty—id’s murdhered, I believe, I am.” Mary here half-drew in her head as she sung, in reply :— “Ah, thin, go yer ways, you gay desaver, And don’t think to move me wid all yer lies ; Shure, yer butthered words are repeated often, An’ though you pretind, I don’t mind yer sighs.” Here the old rag was again thrust into the window, and the voice ceased, and all was silent as before; for the ‘‘ spark was quite knocked out ov Dan be her quareness,”’ and he stood for a moment or two irresolutely ; then his pride came to his aid, and he loudly, and with somewhat of exultation, chanted— ‘Thin sense thus you thrate me, so rude and bitther, Though a rural famale never born should be; No insinuashins shall intoxicate me, Thus to be turned off so ungratefullee.” He then twirled his alpeen round his head, gave his caubeen a crush down, disdainfully pulled up his breeches, and loudly humming the latter part of the air, struck off into a path which led across the fields. Scarcely had he gone, till the bundle was a second time chucked away; and Mary’s head appeared, peep- ing forth to discover if he loitered; but seeing that he did not, she withdrew, saying nought, but in her heart half-repenting the useless coquetry which led to his dismissal; for, be it known unto the reader, Dan Dawley was the boy of all others for Mary Brady’s fancy. He had known her long, and paid her every attention; and the sensible folk observed, that it cer-and thin. IRISH FIRESTIDE SSTORIA S. tainly would be a match, whenever Dan “gev over his wild ways, an reglarly tuk to industhry,” a period which would be exceedingly difficult to name. Love and war are often spoken of together; and with the rejected Dan Dawley, war was now the word; for he was not such a gommoch as to come out solely for the one, which we will prove plainly to the reader. He scudded on (for his original shambling gait could not be called walking!) for about an hour, and at last stopped opposite a large barn, erected originally beside a dwelling house, but it had long since been levelled, leaving the aforesaid barn standing lone and bare on the brow of a slight hill, and far from any human habitation. At the door of this, a couple of men armed with scythes were standing g, who, having exchanged the customary salutions of acquaintances, withdrew, and let Dan pass, at the same time saying :— “Id's jist cum in the nick ov time you are, fur yer absence was remarked, an’ the masther’s spakin’ to the boys, afore we set off.” When Dawley entered, he at a bird’s-eye view perceived nearly a hundred men assembled, who were standing, lounging, or sitting, just as inclination prompted them; a keg of whiskey was in the centre, beside which stood a tall man, with a ruddy face, and brown curly hair, and he was haranguing them, and did not cease on Dan’s entrance, although he perceived him; and he was the leader, or masther, as he was called. “Boys,” said he, “I suppose I needn’t remind you that whin I had the money I stood to you like a prence, and what more could Ido? You know whin the ould house was taken from me, be that rascally Scotch attorney, an’ I was sint off athout as much land ov me own as id fill a garden-pot—(I that onst owned, at laste my ancesthors did, the whole counthry!) that I cum an’ joined yees, zz toto, which manes wid a heart and hand, and I have stuck to you since then, through thick Now, boys, I'd have a sperat above remarkin’, iv id was an Irishman cum into me property, or a man that id en-THE MOWIN’ MATCH. courage the Irish, but id’s not—he’s an attorney, an’ a Scotch- man.’ Here some, whose national prejudices he had effectually e probed, shouted, “ Enough, enough, Misthur O'Mara, what ill we do “Why, thin, boys, darlin’, sense you’re good enough to say so, (’ll just tell you, an’ id’s but child’s play to you, although id’s justice. He’s got over a whole ship-load of young larch-threes, besid threes—may I be hanged iv 1’d touch a twig ov thim iv they es bundles ov others, from Scotland, mark you—vot Irish had the Irish sap in thim !” “Whoo, whoop, hurroo—we know ¢hat, Misthur O’Mara—we know that.” “Hes about six acres ov thim planted, an’ T was thinkin’ iv we’d jist show him afore mornin’ that the Irish air doesnt agree wid Scotch timber, it would be as good a lesson as we could tache him, an’ others ov thim, too. What do yees say to that?” ‘Let us at them—let us at them,” shouted the-excited crowd, amongst whom Dan Dawley was not the least conspicuous. “ Well, my lads,’ continued O'Mara, I knew you'd stand to me, an so desired you to bring your scythes an’ rapin’ hooks, as they’re not two feet above the ground, an’ are as tindher as crass. A quare six acres OV hay he’ll have in the mornin’, I’m inclined to think.” Having thus concluded, he advanced, and gave every man a portion of the whiskey ; shaking hands as he passed with Dan, who had the honor of being his foster-brother; and then, all be- ing arranged, they set off with wonderful rapidity across the fields, in the opposite direction to which Dan had advanced by. O’Mara had been, at an early age, deprived of both his par- ents and thus was left without any control, at the time when the mind is most pliant, and most easily moulded. He got someway connected with some of the boys, with which the county abounded. dashed about his money—drank—gamed—rioted— hunted—and at twenty-eight years of age, owing to his own310 LRISH FIRESTDE STORIES. folly, found himself ejected from his estate, without a penny in his purse, and deeply in debt into the bargain. Such a situa- tion of affairs would have driven any other man but O’Mara mad, but he bore the loss quite philosophicalty + and thought would intrude, got drunk if he had the wl when uiskey, and if he hadn’t, sang a verse of a popular song, which ran somewhat in this strain— ‘The houses and lands may have left me But joy man with wealth ne’er enherits; All’s lost, but that hath not bereft me Of pleasure or lightness of spirits. Then hip—hip—hurrah! I'll not grieve for the day That took the estate and the houses away.” He lived. on just as usual, only that gradually he found his old rich friends deserted him, and as he asked for the loan of a few pounds pretty often, and had but a bad memory, it is not much to be wondered at. Then he tookto the society of the poor ones, and amougst ¢he boys was always tl title of “the masthur;” while in the day he sometimes helped them with their work, not being too proud to put his hand to the plow, and even took part in their frugal but hospitable meal, and thus he managed to do what many young men are sent to college for—-namely “ ¢o put over his time.” The party which he led, after having travell miles further, at length came upon tl 1e leader, under the a!d ed about three 1e verge of the plantation, which extended over fully the number of acres O’Mara ] mentioned, and had been planted with inf He then disposed them silent! lad inite cost and labor. y ina regular row, just as mowers commence; and taking a scythe himself, made the first cut. No sooner was this done than to work they all went, without uttering a sylable, but noiselessly and with vigor, and ina space of time almost incredibly short, the entire plantation was de- stroyed. O’Mara then drew a paper from his pocket, which he attached to one large tree, that had been left standing pur-Sip Ke Pea é S ah i re eae “ Gee eres elle THE MOWIN’ MATCH. aT] posely, and on which was written, in a disguised hand, and pur- posely ill-spelled : “Let Mr. Gahagan take notis dat we let no Skotch threes stand on Irish ground. ‘Signed by ordher, © Fis “ CAPTAIN + STARLITE, “earls.” Having placed this in the conspicuous position before men- tioned, the leader summoned them all together, and at a beck, they set off at a quick run till they arrived at another end of the estate, where there were about fifty cartloads of turf dry- ing. He then stopped, and drawing a flint and steel from his pocket struck a light, with which he immediately ignited one of the driest sods, and placing it beneath the mass, yet exposed fully to the high wind, he exclaimed :— “Now, me lads, iv there’s any ov you wants to light yer pipe, you'll have a bonfire in an instant, an’ maybe whin we go id may warm some poor boy that hasn’t the whiskey to keep the cowld out.” At this unexpected feat silence could be observed no longer ; so they burst forth into a prolonged shout, that rang like thun- der on the silence of the night; and then, perceiving that the mass began rapidly to take the flame, they heaped some of the driest part near it, and, with another hurroo, departed, each separating as he got toa certain spot-on the high road. Dan Dawley and O’Mara went together, as the former had offered him a shelter for the night, and rapidly as tuey crossed the fields by the very shortest cut, when they at last reached the cabin and looked round, they perceived that the whole at- mosphere was ed with tne conflagration. In a moment more, chuckling at the success of their project, they both lay down without having a second time disturbed the old woman. The next morning, when the night’s devastation became ap- parent, the whole neighborhood was in an uproar, and Mr. Geoghegan, the owner of the property convened a meeting of —_— RR Dh GPRM SETSIEISH FIRE SIDE: STORTES. 312 his brother magistrates, for the purpose of taking into consider- ation the best means to be adopted of discovering the perpetra- tors, and, by a signal example, of stopping effectually such out- rages, which began to be too frequent. Suspicion often fixes its lynx eye in the right quarter, and did so in this instance; for from threats which Geoghegan had heard O’Mara let fall, and from the wild life which he had been latterly living, he said that he had almost no doubt but that he was in some way con- nected with the mown’; and it was proposed by one, and ap- proved by all, that he, together with his constant comrade, the spotless Dan Dawley, should be arrested. They were encoun- tered by the police sent in search of them in a small shebeen house, which they often frequented; and after some insolent language from O’Mara, at such ax outrage being committed on his immaculate person, and after Dan “ talkin’ to one of thim, the rapparee, wid his alpeen,” they were at length firmly se- cured, and led to the mansion of the injured magistrate, which formerly belonged to one of the prisoners, and where almost al] the influential men of the county were assembled. O'Mara, on being led in and confronted with his late attorney, but now the owner of his property, and his foe, preserved a dignified silence, and stood with his arms folded beside Dan, who looked uneasily around, with a half-serious. half-tipsy glance, that was irresistibly comic, and kept edging farther and farther from the police, who stood near him, till at last he was nearly beside Geoghegan’s chair. This gentleman, perceiving that he was somewhat far gone, and little knowing that whiskey, g instead of taking from, gives addition to the cunning of some, began to examine and cross-question him as to how he spent the night, and then found that he could make nothin for his style of parrying, and never giving a direct rep puzzle a bench of judges. o gz of him, ly, would ‘You say,” observed one of the gentlemen, ‘‘that vou were at home all the night; now how comes it, that this man swears he heard your vuice outside Mary Brady’s, a short time before the outrage was perpetrated.”a pe OR arr % Pe a eter ft THE MOWIN’ MATCH. 313 : “He say id,’ indignantly exclaimed Dan, turning an eye of fre on the informer, who was a rival in the favor of his mis- tress; “the lyin’ disciple. Och, give me bud elbow-room, an’ 'll bate the thruth out of him, any how.” “Then you positively affirm, that you did not leave your home last night ?” “Sorry I’d be to conthradict yer worship in that same, an’ faix. id wasn’t aninvitin’ night, be no manner, to be out in—I'd rather be sittin’ be’— ‘We don’t want to know, Sir, anything about what you'd rather, answer plainly—were you outcr not,” interrupted Geo- ghegan, who was beginning to find examining him was hopeless. “Och, now, yer honor’s beginnin’ to be angry, I see. The mischief cam’t stand the gintlemin tur hotness sometimes.” “Tm afraid we'll gain no information from this fellow, Geo- ghegan,” said one of his brother magistrates; “but, at all events, let us confront him with the girl, as she’s now ar- rived.” Then, having called her by name, to Dan’s infinite perplexity, Mary Brady stood to be examined. He winked at her in an in- stant, and that so wickedly, that all present observed it, and or- dered him to be led back. “ Wirra sthrue, masther, jewel,” ke whispered, as he passed the spot where the reckless O’Mara (who was infinitely amused at the entire scene) was standing, “ we're sould now, in arnest, I’m + afeard Mary was a modest-looking girl, with black piercing eyes, and very red lips, with a certain roguish leer eternally playing about their corners; as She advanced, che looked for an instant on Dans face, and its ludicrous and imploring expression caused her eyes to brighten with merriment, and her clittering teeth to be seen, as she bit her lip to avoid laughing. However, her answer to the first question effectually dispelled all fear, and Dawley could not conceal the delight he felt at her bewildering the examiners. ‘Did you see the prisoner, Daniel Dawley, last night, at any314 LRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. ’ hour past eleven,” said one of the magistrates, who prided him- self on his powers of gaining the truth from witnesses. Fler pretty lips affected to pout, and her brows slightly con- tracted as she answered :— “Oh, Sir, I wondher a gintleman like you ’id attempt to ask such a question ov a poor girl, whose reputashun’s all she de- pinds on. See a man after eleven o’clock—w like?’ “This man, Bartle Connor, is ready to swear that he heard his voice under your window.” ho ever heerd the “ Bartle Connor\swear that ? well. well, to be shure, there’s no dependin’ on any one in this world,” exclaimed Mary. “J thought he’d be the last id do so. Musha, musha, I b’lieve the men are all alike.” Bartle was greatly moved at this, and, starting forward, de- clared that he could not swear to it, but deLeved he heard it; upon which Dan burst out with :— “Why, thin, you ill-lookin’ spalpeen you, iv you enly could say that much, you might have kept yer tongue quiet in yer mouth ; fur I can teil you, id ‘ill cost you somethin’; fur the minut I lay hands on you, highway or lowway, in public or pri- vate. I'll make proper smithereens ov yer dirty’ -— “Silence, Sir,” sternly commanded Geoghegan, upon which Dan immediately ceased “Well, my good girl, you are positive in asserting that you did not see Daniel Dawley last night ; such pretty lips as those ought to blush if they did not speak the truth.” “Och, an shure, well I knew id, an’ see id plainly now, yer worship’s only jestin’ wid me. Well. you're welcum, though id’s ashame to make a fool ov a poor girl in such a manner.” “T think,” here said Geoghegan, “that we may be justified in committing these men to prison on suspicion, until other cir- cumstances shall arise to prove tl tract nothing in this way.” 1eir innocence, as we can ex- “Send Dan to preson—is that w hat yer honor’s saying?” ex- claimed Mary, will ing to give the face of affairs another turn—THE MOWIN’ MATCH. ‘“wisha, thin, id might be the worst day’s work ever you dun, in the regard ov losin a frind , for 1 heerd him say meself, ov yer honor’’— “Say what,” eagerly asked he. ‘“ Why that yer honor was a good man, an’ just to the poor, an one agin whom he’d cut off his hand afore he'd rise id—’” ‘Did Daniel Dawley really say all this?” “Tn throth he did, an’) more betoken, maybe id was him kep the boys from visitin’ you so long, fur all 7 know.” Geoghegan’s greatest pride was to appear popular; and Mary well knew that to tickle his vanity before his brother magis trates, might have the effect of making him more lenient to Dan: nor was she mistaken; for, after some further consulta- tion, he was set at liberty, while O'Mara, in default of finding heavy bail, was detained. “ Give us the five fingers, Mary, a/anna,” said he, in ecstasy when they were departing ; “Och, bud id’s now this heart o! mine is entirely yours; an’ you may thrate meas you like; bud from this out, iv I ever spake an unkind word to you or yours, may I never he happy.” Then, turning to his rival, who was a few feet behind— “As to you, Mr. Bartle Connor, I'd scorn to take a mane ad vantage of you; so I just peaceably warn you to get together your pack agin the next patthern ; fur, bad cess to me, iv I don’t give the Dawleys the wind o’ the word, an’ bate the sivin sinses out ov every mother’s sowl of the Connors I cum acrass; as to yerself, you poor atomy ov a crathur, keep out of my way, or I'll be obleeged to dirty my stick wid you!” To this highflown speech the other disdained reply, but gath ering the skirts of his coat “‘ under his arms,” he trudged off as if it made no impression ; but quite contrary was the case, for since that day “war to the knife” has been the word between the faugh a ballagh boys of both the Dawleys and the Con- nors. From O’Mara’s reckless character, no one would be mad } enough to go bail for him; so he was placed in the county gao!IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. until the judges should be going on circuit; and there he was as merry as ever, and as thoughtless; missing only the free lib. erty of range to which he had been hitherto accustomed. When the trial came on there was no evidence; as, although there were upwards of a hundred men employed in Zhe mown, not one was found to peach, and so he was acquitted, much to the de- light of his foster-brother, who, “on the strenth oy id,’ had named that very day for his wedding with Mary, who had at last consented to make him a happy husband. O'Mara still continued after this to lead the same boisterous life, until at length he was shot in an engagement which some smugglers—whose cause he had thought proper to espouse—had with the excise officers; and Dan and his wife were, along with all the peasantry, mourners at his funeral; for such a disposi- tion as his is always idolized amongst the Irish, as it is partly national; and they don’t care for the faults, so as the sinner have a heart. A cold, calculating disposition, no matter how amiable, is always detested, in comparison toa rattling, thought- less, extravagant one. FAIRIES, OR NO FAIRIES. Aa Ee ASP GOHN MULLIGAN was:as fine an old fellow as ever ey threw a, Carlow-spur into the sides of a horse. He 4 was, besides, as jolly a boon companion over a jug of punch as you would meet from Carnsore Point to Bloody Farland. And a good horse he used to ride ; and a stiffer jug of punch than his was not in nine- teen baronies. Maybe he stuck more to it than he ought to have done—but that is nothing whatever to tl ing to tell. John believed devoutly in fairies: and an angry man was he, if you doubted them. He had more fairy stories than would ° oO Oa 1e story I am go-a FAIRIES, OR NO FAIRIES, 87 make, if properly printed ina rivulet of print running down a meadow of margin, two thick quartos for Mr. Murray, of Albe- marle Street; all of which he used to tell on occasions that he could find listeners. Many believed his stories—many more did not believe them—but nobody, in process of time, used to con- tradict the old gentleman, for it wasa pity to vex him. But he had a couple of young neighbors who were just come down from their first vacation in Trinity College, to spend the sum- mer months with an uncle of theirs, Mr. Whaley, an old Crom- wellian, who lived at Ballybegmullinahone, and they were too full of logic to let the old man have his own way undisputed. Every story he told they laughed at, and said that it was im- possible—that it was merely old woman’s gabble, and other such things. When he would insist that all his stories were derived from the most credible sources—nay, that some of them had been told him by his own grandmother, a very respectable old lady, but slightly affected in her faculties, as things that came under her own knowledge—they cut the matter short by declar- ing that she was in her dotage, and at the best of times, had a strong propensity to pulling a long bow. “But,” said they, “Jack Mulligan, did you ever see a fairy yourself?” “Never,” was the reply. ‘Never, as I am a man of honor and credit.” “Well, then,” they answered, “until you do, do not be bothering us with any more tales of your grandmother.” Jack was particularly nettled at this, and took up the cudgels for his grandmother; but the younkers were too sharp for him, and finally he got into a passion, as people generally do who have the worst of an argument. This evening—it was at their uncle’s, an old croney of his, with whom he had dined—he had taken a large portion of his usual beverage, and was quite riot- ous. Heat last got up in a passion, ordered his horse, and, in spite of his host’s entreaties, galloped off, although he had in- tended to have slept there, declaring that he would not have anything more to do with a pair of jackanapes puppies, who,318 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. because they had learned how to read good-for-nothing books | in cramp writing, and were taught by a parcel of wiggy, red- aes | snouted, prating prigs, (‘‘not,” added he, ‘ however, that I say a man may not be a good man, and have a red nose,’’) they im- agined they knew more than a man who had held buckle and | tongue together, facing the wind of the world for five dozen Vi years. | He rode off ina fret, and galloped as hard as his horse, Shaun- | | buie, could powder away over the limestone. ‘Sure enough,” Lh f hiccoughed he, “the brats had me in one thing—-I never did see i a fairy; and I would give up as good five acres as ever grew Yh apple-potatoes to get a glimpse of one—and, by the powers! Hh what is that?” hh | He looked, and saw a gallant spectacle. His road lay bya noble demesne, gracefully sprinkled with trees, not thickly planted, as in a dark forest, but disposed, now in clumps of five or six, now standing singly, towering over the plain of verdure : around them, as a beautiful promontory arising out of the sea. | He had come right opposite the glory of the wood.. It was an | oak, which in the oldest title-deeds of the county ei were at least five hundred years old—was called the old oak of and they an Ballinghassig. Age had hollowed its centre, but its massy 4 boughs still waved, with their dark serrated foliage. The moon was shining on it bright. If I were a poet, like Mr. Words- i worth, I should tell you how the beautiful light was broken into t a thousand different fragments—and how it filled the entire tree with a glorious flood, bathing every particular leaf, and showing forth every particular bough; but, as I am not a poet, I shall go on with my story. By this light Jack saw a brilliant company of lovely little forms dancing under the oak, with an unsteady and rolling motion. The company was large. Some spread out far beyond the farthest boundary of the shadow of the oak’s branches—some were seen glancing i i through the flashes of light shining through its leaves—some | i were barely visible, nestling under the trunk—some, no doubt, | were entirely concealed from his eyes. Never did man see any-— Sere cali ce’ FAIRIES OR NC FAIRIES. 319 thing more beautiful. They were not three inches in height, but they were white as the driven snow, and beyond number, numberless. Jack threw the bridle over his horse’s neck, and drew to the low wall which bounded the demesne, and leaning over it, surveyed, with infinite delight, their diversified gambols. By looking long at them, he soon saw objects which had not struck him at first; in particular, that in the middle was a chief of SRR EGR APT RE TRE TT So -f SH superior stature, round whom the group appeared to move. He gazed so long that he was quite overcome with Joy, and could not help shouting out ‘Bravo! little fellow,” said he, “well kicked, and strong.” But the instant he uttered the words, the night was darkened, and the fairies vanished with the speed of lightning. “JT wish,” said Jacks “I had held my tongue; but no matter now. I shall just turn bridle about, and go back to Ballybeg- mullinahone Castle, and beat the young Master Whaleys, fine reasoners as they think themselves, out of the field clean.” No sooner said than done, and Jack was back again, as if upon the wings of the wind. He rapped fiercely at the door, and called aloud for the two collegians. “ Halloo!”’ said he, “young Flatcaps, come down now, if you dare. Come down, if you dare, and I shall give you oc-oc-ocular demonstration of the truth of what 1 was saying.” Old Whaley put his head out of the window, and said," Jack Mulligan, what brings you back so soon ?” “The fairies,” shouted Jack, ‘‘the fairies!” “J am afraid,” muttered the Lord of Ballybegmullinahone, ‘the last glass you took was too little watered: but no matter —come in and cool yourself over a tumbler of punch. He cameinand sat down atthetable In great spirits he told his story: how he had seen thousands and ten of thousands of fairies, dancing about the oak of Ballinghassig, he described their beautiful dresses of shining silver; their flat-crowned hats, clittering in the moon-beams; and the princely stature and de- meanor of the central figure. He added, that he heard them singing, and playing the most enchanting music; but this was , ata on QO :320 IRISH PLIRESTIDE. STORES. merely imagination. The young men laughed, but Jack held his ground. “ Suppose,” said one of the lads, “ we join company with you on the road, and ride along tothe place where you saw that fine company of fairies ?” “Done!” cried Jack; “ but I will not promise that you will find them there, for I saw them scudding up in the sky, like a flight of bees, and heard their wings whizzing through the air.” This, you know, was a bouncer, for Jack had heard no such thing. Off rode the three, and came to the demesne of Oak-wood. They arrived at the wall flanking the field where stood the creat oak; and the moon, by this time, having again emerged from the clouds, shone bright, as when Jack had passed. “Look there,” he cried, exultingly; for the same spectacle again caught his eyes, and he pointed to it with his horsewhip ; “look, and deny, if you can.” ‘““Why,’’ said one of the lads, pausing, “ true it is that we do see a company of white creatures; but were they fairies ten times over, I shall go among them;” and he dismounted, to climb over the wall fo) fom, Tom-;” cried Jack, “Stop; man, stop! what are you doing? The fairies—the good people, I mean—hate to be meddled with. You will be pinched or blinded ; or your horse will cast its shoe; or—look! a wilful man will have his way. Oh! oh! he is almost at the oak—God help him! for he is past the help of man.” By this time Tom was under the tree, and burst out laughing. “Jack,” said he, ‘keep your prayers to yourself. Your fairies are not bad, at all. I believe they will make tolerably good catsup.” “Catsup !’’ said Jack, who, when he found that the two lads (for the second had followed his brother) were both laughing in the middle of the fairies, had dismounted and advanced slowly —‘ What do you mean by catsup?” “Nothing,” replied Tom, “but that they are mushrooms (asFAIRIES, OR NO FAIRIES. indeed they were); and your Oberon is merely this overgrown puff-ball. Poor Mulligan gave a long whistle of amazement, staggered back to his horse without saying a word, and rode home in a hard gallop, never looking behind him. Many a long day was it before he ventured to face the laughers at Ballybegmulina- hone; and to the day of his death the people of the parish, aye, and five parishes around, called him nothing but Musha- roon Jack, such being their pronunciation of mushroom. I should be sorry if all my fairy stories ended with so little dignity; but— ‘These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air—into thin air.” PADDY CORCORAN. you wor away from us,’ was shouted out, as Paddy Corcoran hopped before his own cabin door, he evi- dently appearing as one who was after seeing hard service—his swelled face and black eye giving sure evidence that he did not go and return from his usual excursion without meeting with something beyond his every- day manner of life. Paddy, as far as could be judged from his one perfect eye, which beamed as bright as all well-watered eyes generally do, winked with great significance to a bloated, dapper little man, who whispered him—‘‘ And have. you the Queen’s own (smuggled whiskey) along wid you, Paddy, dear af Paddy Corcoran was a regular hager or carman, between his own native town, and the capital of the same county, who once a week received commissions to gratify every taste, and satisfy the different wants which the capital could supply; and al- ECW ETS Ta rea i222 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. though Paddy was as irregular as the different houses of cal] on the road could make him, yet his horse, true to its paces, whether with or without its owner, was in due course received by a crowd of expectants, who thronged around Paddy’s dwelling to feast their eyes with the newest importations: and frequently the contents of the cargo were fully distributed ere Paddy made his appearance, whose arrival was often facilitated by his being picked up from off the road by some more sober neighbor, as he drove\along. At this moment the dapper little man whom we have men- tioned, gave a knowing wink, which was immediately recognized by Paddy, who followed him; and as he was well-known to sell a good “dhrop,’ and as Paddy’s arrival was a sure indication that there was no fear of being disappointed, and a strong chance of “hearing all about it,” some half-a-dozen of the boys brought up the rear, until they stopped before a house, over the door of which was inscribed “ Entertainment for man and beast,” into the taproom of which they entered, and rapping for a pint of the “raal sort,” invited Paddy to sit and partake “of what’s going ;”’ who, nothing loth, and finding himself again in his own town, and amongst the neighbors, after taking a hearty swig of the tumbler, became himself again; and the boys, itching to have the particulars of Paddy’s adventures, continued priming him to the “spaking” point, which, from his present dry condition, required sometime to soak the following account of his distant travels: “ And, och, boys, it’s meself that’s glad to see you, and Judy, and the childher, once more agin, and good luck to ye. Never, whiles the world’s a world, did Paddy Corcoran ’spect to suffer the murdhering he’s after getting, or his two eyes to behould what he did behould. Sure, boys, yeerselves seed me leaving this, last Wednesday, full and hearty, and many’s the commis- sion myself had to town for the neighbors; but had cess to the tay (tea) which the quality dhrinks, it has been sore tay to me, at any rate. When I got to the big town, I called to de- liver my messages. I wint to the grocer’s for the tay, whoPADDY CORCORAN. tould me that he could not give it thin, as the river was so full iv the rain, that the boats couldn’t come up. “ bata " . - o are ee r. . THE WIDOW'S CURSE. “Whist ! said the old woman, in an undertone, as she re. turned quickly from the door, where she had been listening— ” “I hear a noise outside; there’s more nor one coming. Barny started up, and cautiously opening the door, bent his head forward. Drawing back, he said, “I hear ’em coming. God bless you, Norah !” He crept round the hut, and, under shelter of a hedge, retreated in a contrary direction to that from whence the noise proceeded. He was not many minutes gone when four policemen entered ; two remaining outside, and the othertwoentered the hut. Not finding him as they expected, they proceeded to search outside, when the man who was stationed at the rear of the hut saw the shadow of some person who crossed a hedge at a distance. They quickly commenced a pursuit, and as it was moonlight there seemed little chance of his escaping. Afteran hour’s hard run, he arrived at the very strand where, that time three years, he had led poor Connor to his doom. He was fatigued and weak, and the police were gaining fast on him. He saw before him Ireland’s Eye, reposing in the midst of the waves that, fringed with moonlight, laved its rocky sides. With straining eyes he looked out upon it, and he felt a momentary increase of strength inthe thought that could he reach that, he might find means to escape from his pursuers. He darted on, and plunging in the waters, swam for his life. But his strength soon failed him; his limbs grew stiff with the cold, and the curse of the widow seemed to be dragging him down. The policemen just arrived in time to hear his dying shriek of despair, which came fearfully mingling with the hoarse murmur of the deep; and thus, near the same spot where he had heard his victim cry for help, did the unfortunate Barny Sullivan meet a watery grave, and the evidence of the oft-repeated remark, that the Almighty does not suffer murder to go unpunished.Wh A SECKET WELL Rite ok ~ @ ey O, mistress, the business is settled. Och! I could leap over the Tower o’ Hook, for raal joy!” And to OR suit the action to the word, honest Mosy gave a tre- DISS mendous bound. “What business do you mean, Mosy?” asked his / mistress, in some surprise. “Why, ma’am, Miss Jane’s marriage, to be sure.” “Good God! Master Tom has been telling you, I suppose ?” “ An’ it’s himself that has let it out dacently, shure enuff, ma’am, bekase he never keeps nothin’ from me; an’ by teason, that he knows he might as well tell it to me as toa mile-stone.” “QO! an exceeding wise confidant he has chosen, indeed!” ejaculated the mistress, in despair. But turning towards him id s with a grave air, ‘‘ Mosy,” said she, “I must now seriously warn you—” “Warn me!” interrupted Mosy, blubbering and clapping his hands. “Warn me!—O! ma’am, dear mistress, machree! don’t say that cruel word, bekase—bekase I couldn’t quit Mas- ther Tom, for the soul of me! Here, ma'am,” proceeded Mosy, unbuttoning, “shtrip the livery off o’ me—put on my ould rags agin, an’ welkim; but let me stay about the house with Masther Tom. Ochone! did I ever think I’d hear that word,—‘ I warn you,’—to purvide another place!’ “TI did not say all that, Mosy,” said his mistress, smiling; “but I must put you on your guard. If one sentence of this matter be divulged—if the report gets through the country—lI warn you that it is you, and you alone, I'll blame; for no one but you, out of my own family, knows anything of the matter as yet. I have found you ever an honest, well-disposed lad, Mosy, but you have one very great fault—” “Ts it I, maampr cried Mosy, with as amazed a face as if 366low Pere —— : Sas og Baas o | : S ict ey SE ar ; P " 2 SL ARES : SMa eR eo | RE A e peialies 5 ite Asay Stas tees be eee = oe ~ = Rees oe oer od es é - SOE oe ey A SEGRET WEL KEPT. 367 she had told him he was born black. ‘“Isit I1?—then I’m sure, if I has, I knows nothin’ about it—plase to tell me, ma’am.” “The fault is, blabbing; and it is one that does much mis. chief, although, I am certain, you never repeat a word with an ill intention.” “ An’ you may take your davy of that, ma’am,” sobbed Mosy. “ Nevertheless,” resumed his mistréss, ‘you may repeat what you may consider of no consequence, but which will doas much injury as if you spoke from a malicious motive. Now, once for all, I request and desire that you will be particularly careful on the present occaston—you know what I allude to. (Mosy grinned.) It is an affair of great interest to our family; and although the business is nearly settled, a hundred unforseen events might—”’ “ Nearly settled, ma’am. Why, Masther Tom toult me as how it was sartinly to be in a fortnit, an’ he’s gettin’ no forthin, either—cock him up, say I, wid a fine lady an’ a forthin!” “And did Master Tom tell you all this, Mosy, without de- siring you not to repeat it again? I must give hima serious charge.” “Then, if you do, ma’am, I'd be glad you'd lay the charge all upon my back—I suppose it’s a good thrashing—for he bid me, for my life, to tell no one.”’. And Mosy mournfully turned his back round to his mistress, ready to receive the penalty if she were inclined to inflict it. “O shame! shame! Mosy. Master Tom desired you to keep what he confided to you a secret, and yet you told me unasked. O, shame!” “Lord save us!” cried Mosy, opening his eyes wide,—“ sure, tellin’ you is tellin’ no one, ma’am; Masther Tom's own mother, and my misthress? Bekase I knew that you knew it as well as myself; but if ye war a black stranger ye’d see how I’d behave: aye—ye might put yer two eyes out on skivers before I'd satisfy ye—so ye might.’”” And Mosy drew himself up, and put ona resolved face of consequential firmness. “Well, remember!” said his mistress, laying an emp! the word; “remember that I'll depend on your discretion ¢/zs lasis onIRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. time. This house has been a home to you since you lost your parents ;— you are Master Tom’s foster-brother you 2 ave not been treated as common servantsare in general. (‘ Thrue for ye, maam,” admitted Mosy, and hung a lip.) And it is doubly your duty to be faithful and obedient; and now it js time for you to go to post, and if you meet any Companions on the Way, BEWARE!” “ Will I swear, now, ma’am, to put yer heart at rest?” asked Mosy, joyfully. “By no means,” replicd his mistress: “I'd depend on the word of a person of good principles—resolved to do right—~~—as readily as I would on their oath.” “Och! there’s a great differ, ma’am,” quoth Mosy, sh his head, and he paused and thought awhile. “Be th I will swear,” exclaimed he, suddenly, “if it was onl aking e hokey, y to put my ow heart at rest, for it’s thumpin’ powerful with the fright ia in” “No, no, no,” said his mistress: “you shall not swear upon such an account. I'll take your word this time—and now be off.” “Well, God speed all thravellers!” said Mosy, as he jogged off to the next town, with the post-bag slung over his shoulder. Scarcely had he got outside of the avenue-gate when he met Paddy Magrah, a neighbor, a s/eveen, and a news-monger. “A good morro’ to ye, Mosy, avick!” said Paddy. “Good morro’ kindly, Paddy; how is all at home?” says Mosy, setting off on his way as he asked the question. “Ye'll be little likely to know,” says Paddy, shouting after him, “if ye run out of hearin’ before a body can anser. Where bees you goin’ now, ye long loothey, wi’ that leather pocl wer back?’ “To town, Paddy, asthore!” roared Mosy, considerably ahead Or his putsuer. ‘‘An’ I’m on my honor to be back aginst din- ner, so I can’t stop to talk now, if it was to my great, erandmother.”’ y, | heTHE MISER OUTWITTED. Ab, Ma IN SA 7 : ™ aa (ERP A bein boura a bchunach,’* were the stern words nay MOSHE ot : ee ee eC WR with which Darby W allace, a thin, swarthy, with- i We 4s : ~ ‘ - : : | Wy ered, sour-looking man, repulsed a very importun- 4 IN ate beggar, with a soldier's old coat and a Quaker's hat, (uncogenial habiliments), at the Trinity fair | of Fethard, in the County of Tipperary, some i | thirty or forty years ago. ha «“ Ah! then, Misther Wallace, honey, don’t be so hard on the poor,” replied the mendicant, with a significant leer; “ your- lf wouldn't like to meet sich an answer from th’ould man in Sé the County Watherford “ Dhar cneeps, bud he’s a forchin-teller,” ejaculated Darby; aay aud impelled by a momentary dread of that spirit with whom | re he fancied his supplicant to be on terms of familiarity, he thrust his hand into nis waistcoat pocket, and grasped all the copper which it contained: but the touch of the money soon P struck the chord of his avarice—one by one the coins dropped | from his hand, as he slowly raised it, and when at length he ih drew it forth his eleemosynary gift was reduced to a solitary ” - | halfpenny. “By my word,” said the beggar to himself, as soon as Wal- lace turned his back, “1 did not think I could knock that same out of you; I believe it is the first alms you gave since the death of your wife; but I'll do you out of more value than that before another week goes round, or my name is not Peery.” So saying, he went into a tent; while the donor of the copper coin sauntered through the fair, his face changed from its usual | * The Anglo-Hibernian dialect is probably the best for conveying the meaning of many i H phrases in the vernacular language of the Irish peasantry : Na bein boura a behunach, may be rendered, ‘‘ Don’t be botherin’ me, you vilyan (villain).” In spelling the Irish, I have had an eye rather to pronunciation than orthography. 386eae eb THE MEISER OOTWITTED. 3 vinegar aspect by sorrow at having so easily parted with his money. “Sure,” he soliloquised, “ if I hadn’t no more brains than a death’s-head, (and a death’s-head reminds me that I wasn’t at Paul Kelly’s funeral—go nat’n a Dhia trocarie)*—I ought te know that these goshachs of beggars are everywhere, like bad luck; and who can tell, but this blaguard was listening to what passed betune me and Maurice Whelan at Clonmel. Arrah! if I had the luck to think of that, I'd see his nose cheese afore i’d give him a keenoge, not to saya ha’penny, that might be put to so many uses. But here comes Adam Sims; I'll engage he’s Pap SeSaare corer 21% 5. CREWE a a cock-sure that I am going to shell out my little gains for his lady of a dathur and my gentleman of a son, to squandher and spind, afther my years of hard labor, in puttin’ it together. Faith, I'll let my ogaunogh see that it’s no sich tchune on the fiddle, as he thinks; and I’ll tell. him what I’m about, too—that I will so.” The person who now approached was an elderly, decent- looking man, with large silver shoe-buckles, whose venerable grey locks, escaping from beneath his red wig, told that “ O’Dwyer's wearable’’+ was retained more out of fondness for the antique than for the /awful cause assigned in the old adage. After the customary salutations and inquiries, Darby said,— “ Ah! then, are you any way thick wid Maurice Whelan, of Four-Mile-Water ?” “You may say that I am,” replied the other: “I knew him before I knew yourself.” “Why, then,” said Darby, “I'd rather than what I couldn't tell, that you war wud meat the last fair o’ Clonmel, whin J met him there; we were thryin’ to agree; but I suppose he didn’t think me rich enough.” oi : ; : « : PF 2S ’ “Not rich enough !” echoed Sims, “ aliloo, faith,an tis you d be able to buy all the cattle in his possesion.” e . ” * The Irish form of prayer for the dead, equivalent to ‘‘ God be merciful to his soul. . . at ) +So called because the first person who wore a wig in Ireland was one Edmund O’Dwyet, in the time of Cromwell. — hd e — vere ae a a Oe ale oo SP:388 IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. “ Arrah!” said Wallace, “ it wasn’t about cattle we war thryin’ to agree, at all, at all; but about a little girl.” “Eh!” exclaimed Adams, ‘‘are you goin’ to marry Tim to his daughter!” “ By my sowkins, I’m not,” answered Darby, “ but I’m goin’ to marry mysef to her, if the father an’ I.can agree; an’ there's the short and the long of id.” “Wisha, na dhe be the vahu!” *® exclaimed Sims, ‘how bad you're for a wife, whin 'twould be fitther for you be thinkin’ of death.”’ “ Arrah! don’t be prachin’ Parson Palmer to us,” said Darby, “isn’t id betther for me to get what little she has, than to settle it on any son in the world, that, maybe, if I was ould and decriped (decrepit), wud lay me there.” “T suppose, then,” said Sims, “you want to go back about the match bethune him and my Susan?” “Why, then, Adam,” replied Wallace, “I was thinkin’, that as you're a Prodestin, and I’m a Catholic, our childher, you see, would’nt well pull together, bein’ of a different religion.” “ Arrah, Darby!” said Adam, thrusting his head forward, and looking into Wallace’s face, with a bitter sneer, ‘“‘ you know, in your heart that it is’nt religion that makes you brake off, for you’d marry yourson to the daughter of.a Turk, if you thought ’twould sarve you're turn; bud, like a bad man as you are, you want not to let the poor boy do for himself, the way that you yourself should have cll; bud let me tell you, without maning any disrespect to the boy, that I considher the son of Diarmid dhe Vallisha no great shakes for my daughter.” As soon as Sims had uttered these words, he turned disdain- fully on his heel, and walked away. «“ Arrah! fair words butther no parsnips,”’ thought Darby. to himself, “and foul words brake no bones ; so I’m just as well aff, afther Adam’s abuse, as if he gev me all the plaumause in the world—and the proverb that I quoted puts me in mind of poor * A kind of malediction equivalent to the Anglo-Irish---'‘ The nover (never) welcome you ;” sr ‘that you matent (might not) do well.”» 5 — - z iz ; Sree, a Sra chit: i meetin tid etches 5 THE MISER OUTWITTED. Paul Kelly, the schoolmasther, he had id always on his tongue, and, more betoken, I wasn’t at his funeral.”’ From this conversational specimen which has been given, little further need be said concerning the character of Darby Wallace, or as he was more commonly called, Diarmid dhe l hha: He was a man who, as the saying went amongst his neighbors, “ riz from nothin’: would skin the stones for money ; and wouldn’t give a bit to Saint Pether.” The death of his wife, about a year after his marriage, was to him an event fraught with joy, as it saved him from the fearful prospect of a large family ; and a proposal made about five years afterwards by his krother-in-law, the priest of a neighboring parish, to keep his son at hisown house and educate him for the Church, was readily accepted. Our Hibernian Trapbois continued for several years to enjoy the luxury of living to himself; and while he was almost every month lodging considerable sums of money in his landlord's hands, he wore the legs of old stockings for sleeves to his coat (except on Sunday), and kept continually complaining of the difficulty which an honest man found “in keepin’ buckle and thong together, durin’ these hard times.”’ But his enjoyment of the pleasures of avarice meta si ad interruption, when he found that his son, as he attained the years of manhood, had gone counter to the original intentions of his uncle, and had actually proposed for the daughter of Adam Sims, a wealthy yeoman of Ballingarry, who encouraged the match, believing that James Wallace’s father would have no objection: and, indeed, Darby did not say nay; but having chanced to fall in with Maurice —. Whelan (a man who was his exact counterpart), at the fair cf Clonmel already alluded to, a new purpose suddenly set all the wings of his ever active mind to work; and that was nothing more nor lessthan a matrimonial alliance with the only child of Whelan. “The ould man,” said he to himself, “ will give her child in the world but Il niver have STE IE USS ARE FR FAI EO TOT a ORC SIS CASTOR PRO PH a good pinny, as he hasn't a chick nor herself, and thin, ’tis tin chances to wan, that we aii sn any childher.”’27)9 TSH FIRE SIDE STORIES, Taking leave of Darby and his Malthusian speculations for the present, we shall follow the recipient of his dounty into the tent, where he beheld a number of country people, drinking and talking clamorously of their bargains at the fair. But there was one person present whose notice he seemed anxious to attract. This was a genteel-looking young man, dressed ia black, who sat apart from the rest of the company, and appeared busied in reflec. tions which the malancholy cast of his countenance proclaimed to be of no pleasing nature. The beggar, after taking a pot of beer, left the tent ; and the drinking party soon got into too much blood to talk any longer of buisness. The spirit of song descended on them, and one tall, long-winded fellow, throwing himself back on his seat, and exhibiting a sunburnt neck, which had never endured the thraldom of a cravat, proceeded to comply with the repeated calls of the company, for that Irish serenade, so much admired among the peasantry of the County Tipperary, Eman a Knuc. But he had only given utterance to the first words, “Cza he she a mah (Who is that without)?” when they were rendered most apropos, by some one from wzthout giving him such a folthoge on the head, protected only by the inter- vening canvas of the tent, as sent him forward on all fours, and caused him to raise his song an octave higher than he had in- tended. Instantly all was confusion and bustle inthe tent. The first object was to ascertain that the singer was not “kilt dead intirely;” of this he gave the best proof himself, by quickly getting up and raising a “ vengeful halloo” against his aggressor. The next moment the whole party sallied forth, and com- menced a search for the assailant, through the fair. Shortly after the beggar re-entered, and taking his seat opposite the young man in black, exclaimed, in an accent which, though “tipt with a touch of the brogue,” nevertheless evinced him to be “above the commonality.” ‘‘ Blood and thunder, and bolt the door, Jem, don’t you know me?” “Your voice is familiar,” replied the other, “ but your person and dress—eh! can it be possiable that.you are Pierce Long?”THE MISER OOD HITT ED. “Vou may say that I am,” answered the pretended men. dicant. “I should never have known you, but for your voice,” said James Wallace, for it was no other than the son of Diarmid dhe Vallisha. ‘‘And what, in the name of wonder, brings you here, in such a dress ?”’ “T’ll tell you that,” replied Long, “I owe a trifle of money to a man in this town, who, I fear, has the war-hawks on the look-out for me; and my mother won’t give mea rap since I ran away from my master in Dublin; so, being determined not to lose my element at the fair, I put the art which I learned among the players to such a good use that I worked a halfpenny out of your father, which I venture to say no other beggar could do from this to Drogheda; but I had my own reason for trying whether he’d know me. Pooh! man-alive, your thoughts are in the moon!” “ No wonder,” said Wallace, drawing a deep sigh, “after what I have just heard from my father. Would you believe it? ne has come to the determination of breaking the match between me and Susan Sims.” “And getting married himself?” added Long. “Ay, you may open your mouth, but you'll open it wider, when I tell you that it is to Kitty Whelan, the girl that I have in my eye this long time. I had it all from herself; but I have formed a scheme to make him relinquish her—and, egad, I think I can serve you also.”’ “What scheme?” demanded James Wallace; “I hope you don’t mean to injure my father!” “Oh! the devil an injure,” replied his friend; “ but you're not to know everything—but hush! here comes Eman a Knuc and his friends, after their fruitless search for the fellow that floored him; they little dream that I am the man.” The following Sunday being Trinity Sunday, the patron-day of Fethard, great numbers flocked thither from the neighbor- ing country to hear Mass, and see the curious emblematic re- presentation of the Trinity, which was on that day exhibited in er Peas 4 eB .PERO 392 IRiod DIRE SIDE «STORIES. the chapel.* Among the rest were Maurice Whelan and his daughter, a well-looking girl of four-and-twenty, who was in the chapel-yard introduced to a new lover (z. ¢, of her fortune), in the person of Darby Wallace. Maurice Whelan and his son- in-law elect, leaving Kitty to the care of some young men from her own neighborhood, went to a public-house, where, after much discussion, they came to an agreement that they would finally agree on the friday following. Friday arrived, and Darby set out for Four-Mile-Water, mounted on a half-starved horse, mzrabzile dictu/ wearing a new riding-coat, which, after many struggles with his genius, he had consented to accept in part-payment of a bad debt. Having made a longer stay than he intended in Clonmel (in conse- quence of seeing outside the house where he stopped to re- fresh himself, a man who he thought wanted to borrow money from him, which caused him to hide until he saw the object of his apprehension depart), it was night ere he reached the churchyard of Kilronan; and all his matrimonial visions were instantly put to flight by the recollection that Paul Kelly, the schoolmaster, was buried there, and that he had not been at his funeral. “Die ling as Murra!’ said he, ‘What wotld I do if Paul was to appear to me now? he was the devil's own crass man, in his life-time, and I’m thinkin’ he hadn't time enough to mend vet,” At that instant a deep groan issued from the direction of Paul’s grave. Darby now completely lost himself, and azs- mounted in order to run away, but his path was crossed by a figure wrapped in a winding-sheet, and he fell instinctively on his knees. The figure continued to advance, and Darby had just resolution enough to sign the cross, and ask, in a faltering voice, ‘“‘ In the name of God, who are you?” The stentorian voice of Paul Kelly answered, ‘‘ You know well who I am—why were you not at my funeral ?” * This representation of the Trinity may yet be seen in the sacristy of the chapel at Fet- hard. The figures are well executed, and are supposed to be of great antiquity.THE MISER OUTWITTED. 393 “Oh Misther Kelly, avourneen '" replied the trembling miser, “I couldn't help id; bud if ever—’ “Silence!” roared the spectre of the pedagogue, in accents of thunder, such as he might be supposed to have uttered in his “days of nature,” when stilling the murmur of his school- room. “Wed not with the Whelans,” ccentinued he, ‘or sor- row shall follow you, and your gold shall melt like snow in the sunshine.” “Ochone, oh!” interrupted Darby, his grief at the bare idea gold, overcoming for a minute his dread of the we 1: of losing his apparition. “Promise me, this moment,” said the phantom, “that you will break off your intended match, and also, that you will per- mit your son to marry the daughter of Adam Sims, and make whatever settlement her father shall require, or the woes I have threatened shall come upon you, and V’ll haunt you until the day of your death.” “Och, melia murther!” exclaimed Darby, “Misther Kelly, dear, don’t Aurt me, and I swear, by all the books from this to Juroozilom (Jerusalem), to do all you ax me; and if ever you die again, never fear, ‘tis I'll be at your funeral.” The only reply which poor Wallace received was a blow, which laid him on his face and hands; and when he got up, the ghost was no longer visible. He now speedily re-roounted his Ro- sinate, and soon arrived at Maurice Whelan’s, where he was in great danger of being shot as a whiteboy, so furiously did he knock for admittance. “Arrah! is id blind you are?” asked Maurice Whelan, as Darby entered with his hands over his eyes. “Quinch the candle! quinch the candle!” replied Darby, “and lay (let) me go to bed.” “Ts he mad ?” demanded Kitty. “No, bud as sure as day he saw a sperit,—the Lord save us!” answered her father. In less than a minute Darby was in hed, and all the clothes ie alata eal eg aPET 394 LRISH FIRESTIDE STORIES rolled around his head, lest his eyes should again encounter the spirit of the pedagogue. On the following morning, Darby told his intended father-in- law that he came to the resilushin (resolution) of taking Adam Sims’ advice, to think of his sowl, instid of a wife. return to the County Tipperary he consented to t] tween hisson and Sims’ dau And on his 1€ match be. ghter. About a month after, Pierce Long’s minority having expired, he came in fora handsome prop. erty, which caused Maurice Whelan to look on him wit] eyes; and when Darby Wallace came to the bridal d was not a little surprised when his more st 1 other inner, he iccessful rival, with the identical voice of Paul Kelly, said to him, “Well, Darby, since you have come to my wedding, I'll not haunt you for neglecting to attend my funeral.”eg —o beats cog TIES PEN . Pe RTE ETL By PERT Se TTT ree a os ATOR REE TTT bors ony FO te eeej WE Brentet well. The masther distrusted me with a litter of consequence to Counsellor Wigem, that lived in the square; and jist as I was goin’ to go, ould Mrs. Tay- cum, the housekeeper, gev me the beck. So, follying her into the pantry, ‘Jack,’ siz she, ‘I have a little matther here,’ siz she, ‘that I want you to hang for me. It Fee ee el ek ad— Sn a = IRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. wasn't exactly hang she said, but it was the same thing—it was what the hangman does to the misforthn: ate sculpits. ‘Vale this basket, Jack,’ siz she, ‘an’ take care of the bottles that’s in it. ‘Are they full, ma’am,’ siz [, 'No Jags you fool,’ siz she, ‘they're like your own skull, they’re empty. < hope you siz I,“ caze why, ‘twould be avery empty one.’ ‘No matther, Jack,’ siz she, ‘take those bottles—there’s . twelve—to th shop, that’s right forninst the brid docket with the bottles, and th wont oblege me to return the Bh aie ma’am, € great big tay- ge, and lave this bit of a ay give you thruppence for every bottle; that’s twelve thruppences are three shillings ; then get me half a pound of good tay, mind, the best, and that’]} be exactly three shillings more; and mind , Jack, don’t let ’em chate you—and, above all things, don’t forget the etay.’ ‘Nabock. lish, ma’am,’ siz I,‘ they’d be clever fellows that ’id chate Jack Shanahan.’ “Well off I goes, and afther hanging the masther’s dismis. sion at the fat counsellor’s, away wid me to the tay-shop; but, somehow or another, I wint sucha round-a-bout, up-and-down sort of a way, that it was two full hours before I cot there. At long last I seez the bridge; I Hesines you now, siz I, and there was the big tay-shop, sure enough; but faix, it was more liker a jail nor a tay-shop, it had so many iron bars all about it. Frere, siz 1, to adandy chap, that was inside the counther. ‘ I’m fairly kilt, looking for you; will you give me this, ay you plase?’ So he tuk the bit of a docket and looked at it. ‘Wait a bit, my honest man,’ siz he. At last he tuk the basket, and gev ittoa man who fell rattling the bottles, that I i ected nothing less than to see them all in smithereens. Well, when he was done amusing himself, I suppose he gev the dandy chap the wink, for he tuk a pen from behind his ear, and wrote aaa on a bit Of paper. ‘Here,’ siz he, ‘take that to the office.’ « Arrah: what for?’ siz I. ‘To get your money, to be sure,’ siz he: and without saying, by your lave, away he hops, to tind a fine lady with feathers and flounders, that marched in like a peacock, ‘May bad—but I won't curse you,’ siz I to. myself, ‘you uglyOre Pieae Pidll GO THE POST-OFFICE 403 starched-up spalpeen, I’m goin’ to have another journey now, and away wid me as fast as my legs could carry me, for ‘twas beginnin’ to get darkish, and I had a long way to go back. Well, when I got outside I made a fullstop, and fell to scratching my head for vexation. ‘Now, I’m at anamplush, siz I, ‘I never axed the fellow where was the office ; but, bad scran to the bit of me’ll go back. ‘Can you téll me,’ siz I, to a little man who was wiapped up to the two eyes, barrin’ he had any eyes at all, for they were onvisible—in a big cloak, ‘ can you tell me, siz I, ‘which is the way to the office?’ ‘What office ?’ siz he, with a voice that I thought was cumin’ out through his shoes, ’twas so deep and dishmal, but the little curmudgeon never waited for me to to answer him, but went on. ‘ Why, then, you little, ould-fash- ioned, shapeless varmint,’ siz I,‘ you might give a parson a civil answer, at all events.. A dacent young man, who was passin’ at the time, seeing the paper in my fist, cried out— ‘Hilloo, Pat, you divel, run for the bare life, or you'll be late.’ ‘But where’s the office?’ siz I, ‘I’m late enough.’ ‘There, there,’ siz he, ‘ pointing over the bridge, ‘you haven't five minutes to spare.’ Away wid myself, like fun, and never cried crack till I stood fornint a fine, grand house, with huge pillars houlding it oD up, and I knew at wanst that must be the office, for I seen so many chaps pelting like myself, with papers in their fist. In wid myself after them; but here, again, I was at astand. Some were pitching their papers into little pigeon-holes— -others were runnin’ round up a lane like; and what to dol didn’t know, till I seez. a nice-lookin’ jontleman, in a black coat, that I tuk to be aclargy. ‘Beggin’ your riverence’s pardon, Sir, siz I, ‘may I ax you where am I to go withthis ?? ‘Whatis it? my honest man,’ siz he, ‘I’m am in a great hurry; ‘do you want to pay for it, or not?’ ‘ Faix, your riverence,’ siz I1,‘I wants to get ped for it sure enough.’ He just looked at it, and giving mea look as black as murder—‘Go be dimmed, you rascal,’ siz he, ‘if the watch was set I’d have you charged as a nuisance.’ ‘You, and the watch, and all be d d. siz I,’ for I couldn't help it, the insolvent blackguard thrun me into sucha flurrifica- cea eT. Te “te ae, . g id = — Sa . p, 7:TRISH FIRESIDE STORIES. 4o4 8) wasn’t a clargy, at all, although he had a black coat on. Well, I spies a chap in a red coat, marching up and down, an’ 1 ups to him, and I axed him, very civilly—‘ Where, in the name of goodness, is the office, at all,at all?’ ‘There itis,’ siz he, point- ing to a door; ‘in wid you, ‘tis Just on the stroke, or youll be tion. There was a clargy for you! But I suspected the fellow | too late, till to-morrow.’ “In I bowled, and such scramblin’ of paper, and paying of money, I never seen before.‘ Now I’m right,’ siz I, thrusting my arm over the shoulders of five or six chavs: ‘Aisy, siza cross-looking fellow, ‘wait for your time. ‘Take your shovel off my head, you cowboy,’ siz another. ‘Bad luck to your insurance.” cries out a wizened-looking thief, wid a voice like a cracked bagpipe, ‘do you want to walk over us?’ Well, it was all to no use, not a rap could I get. The big clock began to ding away ; and one jackeen, who I seen laughing at me, in the corner, claps his thumb to his nose, and, ‘ Mickey,’ siz he, grin- nin’ at me, ‘does your mother know you're out?” It was well for the little rapscallion he stood so near the door, and made his way out the moment he said it, or I'd have left the print of my marrowbones on his sconce. ‘You're late for to-day,’ siz a man at my side, ‘unless you wish to pay conditional for it.’ ‘Be my sowkins,’ siz I, ‘I ped enough for it already, and back it’ll go agin.’ “You may be*sure, Back to the tay-shop I takes my way, and just as I was goin’ lackeuard, with a bundle of green and with the most my face, one of ‘++ wouldn’t be aisy to shave me then. under the pillars, a saucy b things under his arm, stands before me, ondacious conglometary, he flings open, into them gingerbread things they houlds over their heads to catch the rain. ‘There’s a fine undernelly,’ siz he, ‘and dog chape.’ ‘What’s that you’re saying about Nelly? siz 1: you see, they couldn’t let my poor ould mother alone. ‘Take that, you ragabone,’ siz I, just giving him a backhanded wipe of my fist, and down he comes, bundle and all; but the murther of it was, that in his hurry to tumble, he upset half-a-dozen more thatMV FIRST VISIT TO THE POST-OFFICE. were near him. Oh, such a shillabaloo, in one minute! I thought there was a hundred voices roaring, all together, ‘Watch! watch! watch! watch! Now, siz 1, in my own mind, I’m better not wait for my change; so off I darted, and never looked back till I passed the bridge. ‘lis thing but watches and clocks,’ siz I, ‘in all their mouths; it seems to be a good thrade here, any how. : “ Well, when I entered the big tay -shop again, I spies my customer, the dandy chap. ‘What can I do for you, Sir,’ siz he, purtendin’ not to know me. © Why, then, you imp o’ darkness,’ siz I, ‘you limb of the old boy, is it goin’ for to make game of me you are, after all the callavanting you gave me?’ ‘ What’s the matther 2?’ siz he, ‘I don’t know what you mane.’ ‘Where's the bottles,’ siz I,‘ or the money? I was all over the office—the post-office, I think they call it, but not the ghoast of a penny would one of ’em give me for your bit o' writin.’ Well, my dear, such a fit of laughing as the fellow tuk, I thou cht he was taking leave of his sinses ; ‘and three or four more began to keep him company. ‘Flesh and blood can’t stand this,’ siz I, making one glaum at his curly top-knot, and dragging him half-way over the counter. ‘Where's my money, you onlooky-looking desaver?’ siz 1; ‘shell it out, or rll bate. you to mummy. Well. the bit of a dust ondher the pillars was nothin’ to the that was kicked up now. ‘Murther! murther! shouts the fellow, and about a hundred chaps kem r fear, I soon mé ide skrimmage murther!’ runnin’ about me, from all quarters; but neve a clear stage, and they were glad to keep at a civil distance. DoD ! watch! watch!’ and in comes a Again they roars out, ‘Watch little ould fellow, with a night cap under his hat, and an ould sojer’s coat on him, and a big walking- stick, with some thin’ like ‘Take this fell ow off,’ siz a man; ‘T don’t know what ‘but I know you're a bagnet on the top of it. ‘he has committed a breach on the P ays.’ you mane by a breach on the pays,’ siz I, all cursed bad pays.’ Out goes the ould fellow to the door, and taking out the thing they frighten the birds in the country with, fell to rattlin’ away. In two minits, another ould fogy ENR SAT (PRN Ss Tseds é 406 IRISH PRE SIDE STORIES, lilts up his bit of music, and in they marches and seizes myself be the collar. ‘You must come away to the watch-house, my boy,’ siz they, ‘and maybe that'll tache you better manners,’ ‘And a few weeks on the tread-mill will be no great harm to him,’ siz a chap, puttin’ in his prate. ‘Ay, an’ perhapsbe sent on his travels, to polish him,’ cries another saucy vagabone. Well, I often heard of the watch-house, but I never thought it would be the luck of my mother’s son to be dragged off there, by two such ugly-looking ould picthurs of mortarality, as the two that now had me gripped. ‘And so,’ siz I, quite aisy to myself, ‘these are the watches, that they made such a rout about. Well, it’s my turn to watch now ;’ so watching my op- portunity, when we kem near the turn of a street, I suddently riz up my arms at wanst, and with one wheegee, down goes gutter. Off I darted, for I was a smart fellow at that time, and off goes the rattles again, like the ould fogies, sprawling, in the mad. I turned round a corner, anda whole crowd after me, shouting, and screeching, and rattling. Sucharace I never had before or since. But I was too much for ’em—they never caught me—and when I got home, it was near morning, and I tired, and dirty, and thirsty enough—without bottles, or basket, or money, or tay; and you may be very sure, i never had any great hump on me to pay a visit to the big tay-shop, or the post-office again.”: sigh es” Tee ee Ce P » Rot eae , _— nae ac Rigen cc cnsir ies ale eae re ~ ase REE Aes PUBLICATIONS oF P. J. KRENEDY, Excelsior Catholic Publishing House, 5 BARCLAY ST., NEAR BROADWAY, NEW YORK, Opposite the Astor House Adventures of Michael Dwyer............006. Ademar the Temptagg* A Tale. ....67....66... Ballads, Poems, and Songs of William Col- OS ne oe ry A gk ae Blanche. y from the: ENGR ic bs vce cy eee Preae OF Ventry TOTO Ot r, uc oc vekk sock eB ee'ssccee eee. Trois CO’ GO 60. . os < ings « «Maw ew sass Meese ees Brooks and Hughes Controversy... aes err Treats ride EGER. ots soc oc wewitneosss ss Blind Agneése. 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