{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_43563/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_43563","id":"gutenberg_43563","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43563","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Ireland -- Biography","Irish wit and humor"],"text":"BITS OF BLARNEY\n\n  BY\n\n  R. SHELTON MACKENZIE\n\n  EDITOR OF \"THE LIFE OF CURRAN,\" \"SHEIL'S SKETCHES OF THE\n  IRISH BAR,\" &c.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  REDFIELD\n\n  No 34 BEEKMAN STREET\n\n  NEW YORK.\n\n\n\n\nEntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by\nJ. S. REDFIELD,\n\nIn the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for\nthe Southern District of New York.\n\n\n  EDWARD O. JENKINS,\n  PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,\n  26 Frankfort St., N. Y.\n\n\n\n\nTO J. S. REDFIELD, ESQ.\n\n\nMY DEAR SIR:--The deified heroes of the Norse mythology are believed to\nspend their afternoons in drinking something stronger than lemonade out\nof their enemies' skulls, and some ill-natured persons, seizing on the\nidea, have declared that publishers use the skulls of their authors as\ndrinking-cups, in the same manner. For my own part, I discredit the\nassertion--as far as my relations with yourself enable me to judge; I\nsuspect that the time has gone by when Napoleon's health was drank as \"a\nfriend of literature,\" because he had shot a bookseller; and I give you\nunlimited permission to use my skull, in the Norse fashion, provided\nthat you wait until \"in death I shall calm recline,\" when I shall have\nno further occasion for it. In such case, the least you can do will be\nto drink my memory, \"in solemn silence\"--the beverage being\nwhiskey-punch, as a delicate compliment to my country.\n\nSeriously speaking (or writing), however, I take leave to dedicate this\nvolume to you, with the solemn assurance that my doing so must not be\ntaken as--a Bit of Blarney.\n\nThe book is Irish--to all intents and purposes, and is put forth with\nthe least possible pretence. It contains Legends--familiar to me in my\nyouth; Stories, which, more or less, are literally \"founded upon facts;\"\nrecollections of Eccentric Characters, whose peculiarities it would have\nbeen difficult to exaggerate;--and Sketches of the two great Irish\nleaders of the last and present century, Grattan, who won National\nIndependence for Ireland, and O'Connell, who obtained Emancipation for\nthe great majority of his countrymen. The Sketch of the great Agitator\nhas extended almost to a biography--but I knew the man well, and write\nof him on that knowledge. In _this_ volume he is certainly entitled to a\nniche, having been the greatest professor of \"Blarney\" these later days\nhave seen or heard.\n\n                                                       Yours faithfully,\n                                                    R. SHELTON MACKENZIE\n\n  NEW YORK, _August 20, 1855_.\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS.\n\n\n  Legends.\n                                               PAGE\n\n  BLARNEY CASTLE                                  9\n\n  LEGEND OF THE LAKE                             16\n  LEGEND OF CORRIG-NA-CAT                        21\n  LEGEND OF THE ROCK CLOSE                       27\n\n  CON O'KEEFE AND THE GOLDEN CUP                 35\n\n  LEGENDS OF FINN MAC COUL                       48\n\n  FINN AND THE FISH                              53\n  THE BREAKS OF BALLYNASCORNEY                   61\n  FINN MAC COUL'S FINGER-STONE                   64\n\n\nIrish Stories.\n\n  THE PETRIFIED PIPER--\n  1. WHO THE PIPER WAS                           74\n  2. WHAT THE PIPER DID                          85\n  3. HOW THE PIPER GOT ON                        91\n  4. HOW THE PIPER BECAME A PETRIFACTION        103\n  5. HOW IT ALL ENDED                           121\n\n  THE GERALDINE                                 145\n\n  CAPTAIN ROCK--\n  1. THE WAKE                                   151\n  2. THE LEADER                                 165\n  3. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE                    172\n  4. CHURCHTOWN BARRACKS                        181\n  5. THE ATTACK ON ROSSMORE                     191\n  6. THE TRIAL                                  201\n\n  A NIGHT WITH THE WHITEBOYS                    223\n\n  BUCK ENGLISH                                  231\n\n\n  Eccentric Characters.\n\n  THE BARD O'KELLY                              251\n\n  FATHER PROUT                                  271\n\n  FATHER PROUT'S SERMON                         283\n\n  IRISH DANCING MASTERS                         291\n\n  CHARLEY CROFTS                                305\n\n\nIrish Publicists.\n\n  HENRY GRATTAN                                 323\n\n  DANIEL O'CONNELL                              342\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS.\n\n\n\n\nBITS OF BLARNEY.\n\n\nHow many have heard of \"Blarney,\" and how few know how and why this\nappropriate term has originated! How could they, indeed, unless they had\nmade a pilgrimage to the Castle, as I did, in order to man[oe]uvre Tim\nCronin into a narration of its legends?--They may go to Blarney,\nwhenever they please, but the _genius loci_ has vanished. Tim Cronin has\nbeen gathered to his fathers. By no lingering or vulgar disease did he\nperish; he died----of a sudden.\n\nScarcely any part of Ireland has attained more celebrity than the\nfar-famed village of Blarney, in the county, and near the city of Cork.\nAt Blarney may be seen the mysterious talisman, which has the\nextraordinary power of conferring remarkable gifts of persuasion on the\nlips which, with due reverence and proper faith in its virtues, invoke\nthe hidden genii of The Stone, to yield them its inspiration. The\nceremony is brief:--only a kiss on the flinty rock, and the kisser is\ninstantly endowed with the happy faculty of flattering the fair sex _ad\nlibitum_, without their once suspecting that it can be flattery. On the\nmasculine gender it is not less effective. Altogether, it enables the\nkisser, like History,\n\n    \"To lie like truth, and still most truly lie.\"\n\nImmortal poesie has already celebrated the locality of Blarney. The\nfar-famed _chanson_, written by Richard Alfred Milliken,[1] and called\n\"The Groves of Blarney,\" has been heard or read by every one:--in these\nlater days the polyglot edition, by him who has assumed the name of\nFather Prout, is well known to the public. There is an interpolated\nverse, which may be adopted (as it sometimes is) into the original\n_chanson_, on account of the earnestness with which it declares that\n\n    \"The stone this is, whoever kisses,\n      He never misses to grow eloquent:\n    'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,\n      Or become a member of Parliament.\"\n\nBlarney Castle is surrounded by the Groves mentioned in the song. It\nstands four miles to the northwest of \"the beautiful city called Cork,\"\nand, of course, in the fox-hunting district of Muskerry. All that can\nnow be seen are the remains of an antique castellated pile, to the east\nof which was rather incongruously attached, a century ago, a large\nmansion of modern architecture.\n\n     [1] In Lockhart's Life of Scott, this renowned Song is attributed\n     to \"the poetical Dean of Cork\" (Dr. Burrowes, who wrote \"The Night\n     before Larry was stretched\"), but really was written by Milliken, a\n     poetical lawyer of whom Maguire says (O'Doherty Papers, vol. ii.,\n     p. 181) that not even Christopher North himself--\n\n     \"Be he tipsy or sober, Was not more than his match, in wine,\n     wisdom, or wit.\"\n\nThe Castle stands on the north side of a precipitous ridge of limestone\nrock, rising from a deep valley, and its base is washed by a small and\nbeautifully clear river called the Aw-martin. A large, square, and\nmassive tower--a sort of Keep,--is all that remains of the original\nfortress. The top of this building is surrounded with a parapet,\nbreast-high, and on the very summit is the famous Stone which is said to\npossess the power, already mentioned, of conferring on every gentleman\nwho _kisses_ it the peculiar property of telling any thing, in the way\nof praise (commonly called flattery), with unblushing cheek and\n\"forehead unabashed.\" As the fair sex have to receive, rather than\nbestow compliments, the oscular homage to the Stone conveys no power to\n_them_. From the virtues which it communicates to the masculine\npilgrims, we have the well-known term _blarney_ and _blarney-stone_.\n\nThe real Stone is in such a dangerous position, from its elevation, that\nit is rarely kissed, except by very adventurous pilgrims of the Tom\nSheridan class, who will _do_ the thing, and not be content with saying\nthey have done it! The stone which officiates as its deputy, is one\nwhich was loosened by a shot from the cannon of Oliver Cromwell's\ntroops, who were encamped on the hill behind the Castle. This stone is\nsecured in its place by iron stanchions, and it is this that the\nvisitors kiss, as aforesaid, and by mistake. The Song, it may be\nremembered, speaks of the Cromwellian bombardment of the Castle:\n\n    \"'Tis Lady Jeffreys that owns this station,\n      Like Alexander, or like Helen, fair.\n    There's no commander throughout the nation\n      In emulation can with her compare:\n    Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder\n      Could ever plunder her place of strength,\n    Till Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel,\n      And made a breach in her battlement.\"\n\nBetween Blarney Castle and the hill whereon Cromwell's troops\n_bivouacked_, is a sweet vale called the Rock Close. This is a charming\nspot, whereon (or legends lie) the little elves of fairy-land once loved\nto assemble in midnight revelry. At one end of this vale is a lake of\nunfathomable depth, and Superstition delights to relate stories of its\nwonders.\n\nWhen Sir Walter Scott was in Ireland, he visited Blarney, accompanied by\nAnne Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Mr. Lockhart. A few days after he was\nthere, it was my fortune to tread in his steps to the same classic\nshrine.\n\nThe barefooted and talkative guide who _would_ accompany me over the\nCastle, thus described \"the Ariosto of the North,\" and his\ncompanions:--\"A tall, bulky man, who halted a great deal, came here,\nwith his daughter and a very small lady, and a dash of a gentleman, with\na bright keen eye that looked here, and there, and everywhere in a\nminute. They thrust themselves, ransacking, into every nook and cranny\nthat a rat would not go through, scarcely. When the lame gentleman came\nto the top of the Castle, wasn't he delighted, and didn't he take all\nthe country down upon paper with a pencil, while one of us sang 'The\nGroves of Blarney.' He made us sing it again, and gave me a crown-piece,\nand said that he'd converse a poem on the Castle, himself, may-be!\"\n\nWhile I am thus gossiping, I am neglecting Tim Cronin, \"the best\nstory-teller\" (to use his own words) \"within the whole length, and\nbreadth, and cubic mensuration of the Island.\"\n\nAfter my visit to Blarney Castle, I met this worthy. I had struck from\nthe common path into that which led through the Rock Close. This valley\nis divided into several fields, all of which are extremely fertile,\nexcept that immediately washed by the waters of the lake. It was now far\nin the summer; and, although the mowers had to cut down the rich grass\nof the other fields, there was scarcely a blade upon this. It was as\nsmooth, green, and close-shaven as the trim turf before a cottage\n_orn\u00e9e_. While I was remarking this, I was startled by a sudden touch\nupon the shoulder, and, turning round, I found myself _vis-\u00e0-vis_ with a\nHerculean-built fellow, who doffed his hat, with a sort of rude\ncourtesy, made an attempt at a bow, and, before I could say a word,\nstruck into conversation.\n\n\"Wondering at this meadow being so bare, I warrant you, sir?\"\n\nI confessed that it had surprised me.\n\n\"Didn't know the why nor the wherefore of it, may-be? It's Tim\nCronin--and that's myself--that can tell you all about it, before you\nhave time to get fat.\"\n\nI ventured to exhibit my ignorance, by asking who Tim Cronin might be?\n\n\"Faith, sir, you may know a great deal of Latin and Greek--and 'tis easy\nto see that the College mark is upon you--but you know little of _real_\nliterature in old Ireland, if you don't know _me_. Not know Cronin, the\nrenowned Philomath, that bothered the Provost of old Trinity in\nAlgebra--from the Saxon _al_, noble, and the Arabic _Geber_, the\nphilosopher? Never once heard, perhaps, of the great Cronin that does\nall the problems and answers, for the Lady's Diary, in mathematics--from\nthe Greek _mathema_, instruction? Nothing like getting at the roots of\nwords--the _unde derivatur?_\"\n\nEven at the hazard of appearing as an ignoramus in the eyes of Mr.\nCronin, I was fain to admit that I had not previously heard of his name\nand erudition. I ventured to intimate, as a sort of half-apology, that I\nwas a stranger in that part of the country.\n\n\"Strange enough, I'll be bound,\" said he, with a shrug of the shoulders.\n\"Know, then, that I am that same Tim Cronin,--'our ingenious\ncorrespondent,' as the Mathematical Journal calls me, when it refuses\none of my articles, 'from want of space,'--bad luck to 'em, as if they\ncould not push out something else to make room for me. Curious, sir, not\nto have heard of me, that keeps one of the finest academies, under a\nhedge, in the Province of Munster! Just sit down on the bank here, and\nI'll soon enlighten you so, about that good-looking lake before your two\neyes, that I'll be bound you won't forget me in a hurry.\"\n\nComplying with the request of this august personage, I had the\nsatisfaction of listening to his legend, thus:\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF THE LAKE.\n\n\nOnce upon a time, and there was no lake here, at all at all. In the\nmiddle of the place where that lake is, there stood a large castle, and\nin it dwelt an unbaptized giant--it was before blessed Saint Patrick\ncame into the country, Heaven rest his soul--and this giant had martial\nrule over all the country, far and near.\n\nIn his time, the Aw-martin, nor any other river, did not flow near us.\nIndeed, though there was plenty of wine in the Castle, there was a great\nwant of water. This was very inconvenient for the ladies--the fellow had\nas many wives as a Turk--because they were always wanting to wash their\nclothes, and their pretty faces, and their white hands, and their\nwell-shaped bodies; and, more than that, they could not make themselves\na raking cup of tea, by any means, for the want of good soft water. So,\none and all, they sent a petition to the giant, praying that he would\nhave the kindness to procure them a well of water. When he read it, he\nmade no more ado but whipped off through the air--just like a bird of\nParadise--to his old aunt, who was a fairy, and had foretold that, some\nday or other, water would be the death of him. Perhaps that was the\nreason that he always took his liquor neat.\n\nWell, he told her what he had come about, and after a world of\nentreaty--for she had a foreboding that something unfortunate would come\nof it--the old fairy put a little bottle into his hands. \"Take this,\"\nsaid she, \"and drill a hole in the rock at the foot of the Castle\nbarbican, where the sun throws his latest ray before he sinks into the\nwest. Make a stone-cover for the top of it--one that will fit it\nexactly. Then pour the water from this bottle into that hole in the\nrock, and there will be a well of pure water, for the use of yourself\nand your family. But, when no one is actually taking water out of this\nwell, be sure that the close-fitting stone-cover is always left upon it,\nfor it is the nature of the liquid to overflow, unless it be kept\nconfined.\"\n\nHe gave her a thousand thanks, and home he went. The first thing he did\nwas to drill a hole in the rock (and he did not find _that_ a very easy\njob), then to fit it with an air-tight stone-cover, and, lastly, to pour\nin the water out of the little bottle.\n\nSure enough, there immediately bubbled up an abundance of bright, clear,\nand sparkling water. The giant then assembled all his family, and told\nthem how the stone-cover must always be kept over the well when they\nwere not using it. And then his wives agreed that, as they had been so\nanxious to get this water, one of them, turn about, should sit by the\nwell, day and night, and see that no one left it uncovered. They were\ncontent to submit to this trouble, rather than run the risk of losing\nthe water.\n\nThings went on very well for some time. At last, as _must_ be the case\nwhen a woman is to the fore, there came a tremendous blow-up. One of the\ngiant's ladies was a foreigner, and had been married, in her own\ncountry, before she fell into his hands. Mild and pale she always was,\npretty creature! lamenting the land she had left and the lover she had\nlost. It happened, one day as she sat by the well, that an old pilgrim\ncame to the gate, asked for a draught of water, in God's name, and held\nout his pitcher for it. Her thoughts were far away, never fear, but she\nhad a tender heart, and she raised the cover from the well to fill his\nvessel. While she was doing this, the pilgrim pulled off his gown and\nhis false beard, and who should he be but her own husband! She sprang\noff her seat towards him, and then, faint with joy and pale as death,\nshe sank back into the oaken chair on which she had been sitting, as the\nguardian of the well. A bird never flew through the air faster than _he_\nflew towards _her_. He seated himself beside her in the chair, held her\nlovingly in his arms, kissed her cheeks and lips twenty times over,\ncalled her all manner of fond names, and sprinkled her with water until\nthe fresh color came again into her face, and the warm life into her\nheart.\n\nAll this time the well was left uncovered, and the waters\nrose--rose--rose, until they surrounded the Castle. Higher and higher\ndid they rise, until, at last, down fell the gates, and then the stream\nrushed in, drowning every living soul within the place, and settling\ndown into the very lake that we sit by now.\n\nThe moral of the story is, that the lady and the pilgrim escaped--for\nthe oaken chair supported them and floated them until they safely put\ntheir feet on dry land. All the rest perished, because they had\nwillingly consented to live in sin with the giant; but this one lady had\nbeen kept there entirely against her will. The two thanked God for their\nescape, and returned to their own country, where they lived long and\nhappily. It had been the giant's pride to put all his best jewels on\nwhoever kept watch over the well, in order that all who passed might\nnotice them and pay respect to his wealth. As this lady had them all\nupon her when the Castle was swallowed up, she and her husband had money\nenough, out of the sale of them, to keep them in a very genteel way of\nlife at home. Some people say that, at times, the walls of the drowned\nCastle can be seen through the waters of the lake,--but I won't swear to\nthe fact, as I never noticed it myself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSuch was Tim Cronin's account of the formation of the lake--a version\nmore pleasant than probable. I ventured to inquire how the meadow next\nthe waters came to be so bare, while all the others bore such luxuriant\ngrass and grain? Mr. Cronin asked me, whether I saw a gray rock on the\nleft, with three pines on its summit. I noticed them, as required.\n\"Then,\" said he, \"look well at the place all around, and I shall tell\nyou another story or two about Blarney.\"\n\nThus admonished, I took a closer survey of the place. The rock rose with\na gentle swell in the distance, but its front was so precipitous as to\nbe nearly perpendicular; and it was thickly covered with ivy, tangled\nlike network, with which were mingled wild honeysuckle, dog-rose, and\nother parasites. There was a sort of rugged entrance at its base, over\nwhich the wild-brier and honeysuckle had formed a natural arch. Except\nthis, the rock had a commonplace aspect.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF CORRIG-NA-CAT.\n\n\nWe call that rock by a strange name--from a strange circumstance, said\nCronin. Upon the top, some hundreds of years ago, there stood a castle,\nbelonging to the old Kings of Muskerry. Some cousin of theirs lived in\nit with his family, and was as happy as the day is long. How it\nhappened, never could be ascertained; but happen it certainly did, that,\none night, castle and people and all suddenly disappeared. I misdoubt\nthat there were bad spirits at work. However, the general belief is,\nthat the rock opened and swallowed all up, and that the lord and lady\nare kept there, spell-bound, as it were, in the shape of cats. From\nthis, the rock is called Corrig-na-cat, or the Cat Rock. 'Tis a mighty\npretty derivation.\n\nWhether the castle were swallowed up in that manner, or not, strange\nsights have been seen, by the light of the full moon, about that place.\nThere is a little green spot on the brow of the hill, where there is a\nfairy-circle; on that spot sweet music has been heard by night, and the\ngood people (as well as the fairies) have been seen dancing on the green\nturf, dressed in green and gold, with beautiful crowns upon their\nheads, and white wands in their little hands. Ah, sir, you may smile,\nbut that's the belief in this part of the country, and he'd be looked\nupon as no better than a heathen who'd venture to say a word against it.\n\nMy grandfather, although a trifle given to drink, was as honest a man as\never broke bread. One summer night, while he lay in bed, between asleep\nand awake, he heard a strange deep voice speak to him. It said, \" The\nwords of fate! heed them. Go, at midnight, to Corrig-na-cat; take with\nyou a box of candles and a hundred fathoms of line; fasten one end of\nthe line to the tree that grows just outside the mouth of the cave, and,\ntying the other end round your waist, boldly advance with a pair of\nlighted candles in your hands: the use of the line is, that you may roll\nit up as you come back, and not lose your way. Keep to the right-hand\nside, and go on until you come to a large room with two cats in it. In\nthe room beyond that, there is as much gold as would buy a kingdom. You\nmay take with you a bag to carry away as much of it as you please; but,\non your peril, do not touch anything else; your life will not be worth a\nbrass sixpence, if you do.\"\n\nYou may be sure, sir, that this piece of information astonished my\ngrandfather. But he was a sensible man, and, doubting whether two heads\nwould be better than one in such a serious matter, nudged my grandmother\nwith his elbow, to know if she was awake. She slept--sound as a top; so\nhe let her sleep on. He was rather too knowing to let _her_ into the\nsecret. He thought over all that he had ever heard of Corrig-na-cat; he\ncalled to mind how his mother had always said that our family were the\nreal descendants of the lord and lady of the castle. He began to fancy\nthat this was some great oracle that had come to visit him, in order\nthat _he_ might break the spell that kept the castle and its inhabitants\nclosed up in the rock. Indeed, he was very much perplexed, but\ndetermined to wait a bit, and carefully keep his own counsel.\n\nA warning from the world of spirits is worth nothing, if it is not\nrepeated. The next night, my grandfather again was cautioned to listen\nto the words of fate. The third night the visitation was repeated. He\nknew, then, that the thing was no feint; and on the fourth night, he\nstole out of the house to go on the adventure.\n\nIt was as pitch dark as if light had never been invented. He took the\nhundred fathoms of line, the box of candles, a sack to bring home a\nsupply of gold, and a good-sized flask of strong whiskey. When he\nreached the rock, his heart began to fail him. The night was so still\nthat he could hear the beating of his heart--thump, thump, thump,\nagainst his breast. He could hear the bats flying about, and he could\nsee the owls looking on him with their great, round, brown eyes.\nSwallowing most of the contents of the flask at one pull, he found his\nspirits wonderfully restored, and he pushed forward to the mouth of the\ncave. He fastened one end of the line to the tree; he said an _Ave_ or\ntwo--for we are all of us a pious family--he drained the flask, and then\nhe dashed forward.\n\nThe way was as straight as an arrow for about thirty yards, but, after\nthat, it took as many turnings and twistings as a problem of Euclid in\nthe sixth book, and branched out into many directions. My grandfather\nfollowed on the right-hand side, as he had been told, and soon found\nhimself at the gateway of an old hall. He pushed open the door, and saw\nthat there were doors upon doors, leading off to many a place. He still\nkept to the right, and in a few minutes found himself in a\nstate-chamber. Pillars of white marble supported the roof, and, at the\nfarthest end, the hall opened into an apartment, through which there\nbeamed a soft and beautiful light, as if it came from a thousand shaded\nlamps.\n\nHere was the end of his journey. A carved mantel-piece of white marble\nwas over the fireplace, and there lay two beautiful white cats, on\ncrimson-velvet cushions, before the fire. Diamonds and rubies, emeralds\nand amethysts, pearls and topazes, were piled on the ground in heaps,\nand ceiling and walls were covered all over with them, so that rays of\nlight gleamed down upon him, wherever he looked.\n\nThere was no living thing in the room with my grandfather but the cats.\nThe creatures had golden collars, embossed with diamonds, round their\nnecks; and to these were fastened long gold chains, which just gave them\nliberty to move round the room, being fastened to the walls, one at each\nside, by golden staples. He noticed that the animals steadily kept their\neyes upon him, and appeared to watch every motion of his.\n\nMy grandfather passed on into the inner room. The gold lay on the floor\nlike wheat in a miller's store. He filled his sack with the coin to the\nbrim, until, though he was said to be the strongest man in the whole\nbarony, he had some difficulty in lifting it. As he passed through the\nroom in which the cats were, he paused for a moment, to have a parting\nglance at all the treasures he was leaving. There was one golden star,\nstudded with diamonds as big as walnuts, and blazing like a lamp,\nhanging down before him from the ceiling. It was too tempting. He forgot\nthe advice not to touch anything but the gold in the inner room, and\nreached out his hand to seize the sparkling prize. One of the cats, who\nhad eagerly watched his motions, sprang forward as he touched the jewel,\nand quick as a lightning-stroke, hit out his right eye with a sharp dash\nof his paw. At the same moment, an invisible hand whipped off the sack\nof gold from his shoulders, as if it were only a bag of feathers. Out\nwent all the lights. My grandfather groped his way out as well as he\ncould, by the help of the guiding-line fastened to his wrist, and cursed\nhis greediness, that would not be content with enough. He got home by\ndaybreak, with only one eye in his head, and that, without meaning to\njoke on his misfortune, was the _left_ one.\n\nNext day he sent for the priest, and told him what had happened. My\ngrandmother said that all the misfortune was owing to _her_ not being in\nthe secret. The priest said nothing. Before long, all the country heard\nof the story, and half the country believed it. To be sure, as my\ngrandfather was rather addicted to liquor (and there was a private\nstill, in those days, in almost every corner), it was a chance that he\nmight have dreamt all this:--but then, there was his right eye absent.\nThere were some malicious people, indeed, who hinted that he fell over\nthe cliff, in a drunken fit, and that his eye was scratched out in that\nmanner. But it would ill beseem me to make a story-teller of my\ndead-and-gone grandfather, and so I maintain the truth of his own\nstatement. If it is not true, it deserves to be.\n\nIn this conclusion I fully agreed, and the Philomath, proud of the\ndisplay of his legendary lore, and happy on having fallen in with a\npatient and willing auditor, next proceeded to acquaint me with the\naccredited legend of the meadow next the lake. As before, I shall\nendeavor, in repeating it, to adhere to the very words of my informant.\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF THE ROCK CLOSE.\n\n\nAbout a thousand years ago, or so--but, of course, _after_ this lake was\nformed, to fulfil the old fairy's prophecy, that the giant would come to\nhis death by water--there was a man who owned all the fields in the Rock\nClose. He was a farmer--a plain, honest man. Not long after he had\npurchased the place, he noticed that, though this very field we are now\nsitting in had the same cultivation as the others, it never gave him any\nreturn. He had no idea of having a meadow look like a lawn in front of a\ngentleman's country-house, and lost no time in speaking about it to his\nherdsman, a knowledgeable man, who said it might be worth while to watch\nthe place, for, although he often saw the blades of grass a foot high at\nnight, all was as closely shaved as a bowling-green in the morning. His\nmaster, who was one of the old stock of the Mac Carthies, thought there\nwas reason in what he said, and desired him to be on the watch, and try\nto find out the real facts of the matter.\n\nThe herdsman did his bidding. The next morning he told Mac Carthy that\nhe had hid himself behind an old gateway (you may see the ruins of it\nthere to the left),--that, about midnight, he had seen the waters of the\nlake very much disturbed,--that six cows came up out of the lake, and\nset to, eating all the grass off the field, until, by daybreak, they had\nmade it as smooth as the palm of my hand,--and that, when the day\ndawned, the cows walked back into the lake, and went down to the bottom,\nas much at their ease as if they were on dry land.\n\nThis was strange news for Mac Carthy, and set him quite at his wits'\nends. The herdsman was a little man, with the heart of a lion, and he\noffered to watch again on that evening, to seize one of the cows, and\neither put it into the pound, or go down into the lake with it, and make\na regular complaint of the trespass. Aye, and he did it, too. At dusk he\nwent again, hid himself, as before, and waited to see what would happen.\n\nThe six cows came up out of the lake, as before, and nibbled off the\ngrass, until the field was quite smooth. They could not get into any\nother field, because they were surrounded by high, quickset hedges, and\nI have noticed that cows are not very fond of taking flying-leaps.\n\nJust at dawn, as the last cow was passing by him, on her return to the\nlake, the herdsman made a dart at her tail, and took a fast hold of it.\nThe cow walked on, as if nothing had happened, turned her head, winked\none of her large eyes at him in a knowing manner, and the herdsman\nfollowed, still holding the tail.\n\nDown dashed the beast into the waters--but the herdsman still kept his\ngrasp. Down they went--deep, deep, to the very bottom of the lake. Sure\nenough, there was the giant's castle, that had been drowned centuries\nbefore. A little boy was in the court-yard, playing with a golden ball.\nAll round the yard were piles of armor--spears and helmets, swords and\nshields,--all ornamented with gold. Into the court-yard dashed the cows,\nand with them went the bold herdsman.\n\nOut came a lady, richly dressed up in velvets and jewels, and her eyes\nas bright as the sunbeams that dance on the wall on the morning of\nEaster Sunday.[2] She carried a golden milk-pail in her hand. Loud and\nshrill was her cry when she saw the herdsman.\n\n     [2] There is a popular belief in Ireland that the sunbeams dance on\n     the wall on Easter Sunday morning. In my youth I have often got up\n     at early dawn to witness the phenomenon.\n\nI should have told you that, as they were going down, the cow whispered\nto him, \"I want to speak a word with you, in confidence.\"--\"Honor\nbright,\" said the herdsman.--\"I think,\" said the cow, \"that I'd like to\ngraze on that meadow of your master's, by day as well as by night, for\nthe grass is mighty sweet, and I don't think it agrees with my digestion\nto be driven up and down the lake as I am. If I will you go bail that\nthe master will never put me into any other field but that?\"--The\nherdsman answered, \"I'll promise you, by the holy poker, and that is as\ngood as if I was to swear by the blessed mud.\"--\"Then my mind is at\nease,\" says the cow. \"For the life of you, don't let go my tail,\nwhatever you may hear and see.\"\n\nWhen the young lady shrieked with surprise at seeing a herdsman in that\nplace, out rushed a whole regiment of soldiers, with their cheeks as red\nas the kitchen-fire five minutes before the dinner is done, and the\nlooks of them as fierce as if they were in the heat of battle--a little\nfiercer, may-be.--\"Oh, that villain!\" says the lady, pointing to the\nherdsman.--\"Come here, and be killed,\" shouted the dragoons. But the\nherdsman knew better. \"Send your master to me,\" says he, as bold as\nbrass. \"I always like to do business with principals.\"\n\nThey wondered, as well they might, at the fellow's impudence, but they\nthought it best to call out their master. He came, with a golden crown\nupon his head, and a purple velvet cloak on his shoulders, and a\nbeautiful pair of Hessian boots on his feet.--\"I demand justice,\" said\nthe herdsman, \"for the trespass that your cows have been committing on\nMac Carthy's field; and I seize this cow until the damage be ascertained\nand made good.\"\n\nHe was firm as a rock, and neither coaxing nor threatening could make\nhim yield as much as a pin's point. He stood upon his right, and they\ncould not get him off it. The cow had been seized in the very act of\ntrespass, and all they dared do was to tempt the herdsman to surrender\nher. He knew better. At last the master of them said, \"We must\ncompromise this little matter. Leave the cow here, make out your bill\nfor damage, and if I don't pay it to you either in sterling money, or\nnotes of Delacour's bank at Mallow, or Joe Pike's in Cork, you can have\nyour remedy at law, and summon me, on a process, before the Assistant\nBarrister and the bench of Magistrates at the next Quarter\nSessions.\"--But the herdsman knew better than that, and said he'd prefer\nleaving matters as they were. \"A cow in the hand\"--says he. Then the\nmaster of them said, \"Take that golden ball that the child has, and\nleave us the cow.\"--\"Hand it over to me,\" says the herdsman.--\"Come for\nit,\" said they, in the hope that he'd leave the cow.--\"I've a touch of\nthe rheumatism in my knee,\" says he, \"and 'tis ill-convenient to move\nthe limb.\"--With that, they handed him the ball, and, as soon as he saw\nthat it really was gold, he put it into his breeches pocket, and said it\nwas not half enough.\n\nThen they began to whisper among themselves, and he could hear them\nproposing to get out a bloodhound--one of the breed that the Spaniards\nhad to hunt down the Indians in America--and he thought it full time to\nmake himself scarce. So, he whispered to the cow:--\"My little cow,\"\nsaid he, \"I'd like to go home.\" The cow took the hint, like a sensible\nanimal as she was, and stole backward through half the lake before they\nmissed her. \"If we get safely back on dry land,\" says she, \"neither you\nnor any one else must swear in my presence, for the spell is upon me,\nand then I shall be obliged to return to the lake.\"\n\nJust then the hound was slipped, and he cut through the water like a\ndolphin. But the cow had the start of him, by a good bit. Just as she\nset her foot on land, the dog caught hold of the herdsman, and his bite\ntore away part of the skirt of his coat. Indeed, it was noticed for some\ndays that the herdsman declined sitting down, just as if he had been\nnewly made a Freemason, so I won't say that the dog did not bite more\nthan the garment.\n\nMac Carthy had been cooling his heels on the bank of the lake all the\nwhile that the herdsman was away, and glad enough he was to see him come\nback, in company with the little cow. The herdsman told him all that\nhappened, and handed him the golden ball, which, people say, is in the\nJeffreys' family to this day. The hound runs round the lake, from\nmidnight to sunrise, on every first of July, and is to run, on that day,\nuntil his silver shoes are worn out,--whenever that happens, Ireland is\nto be a great nation, but not until then.\n\nThe field was not visited any more by the cattle from the lake, for\ntheir master, below there, thought that though gratis grazing was\npleasant enough, it was not quite so pleasant to have the cows impounded\nfor trespass. From that time, never another field in all Munster gave\nsuch produce; sow it, or sow it not, there was always a barn-full of\ngrain out of it. About half an acre of it was kept under grass, and on\nthat the cow from the lake had constant feeding.\n\nIn due season, the cow had young ones--the same breed that we now call\nKerry cows--those cattle, small in size, but good in substance, that\nfeed upon very little, yield a great deal of milk, and always fetch the\nbest of prices.\n\nMac Carthy was in a fair way of making a little fortune out of that cow\nof his, she gave such a power of milk, but that, one day as a nag of his\nwas leaping over a hedge into the pasturage where the cow was, Mac\nCarthy burst out with a rattling oath. The moment the words left his\nlips, the cow cocked her ears, winked her eye knowingly at him, gave her\ntail a toss in the air, and made one spring down into the lake. The\nwaters closed over her, and that was the last that mortal eye ever saw\nof her.\n\nFrom that time forth the field was again visited by the cattle from the\nlake, and that's the reason why it is as smooth as you see it now. It is\nsupposed that so it will continue until somebody has the bold heart to\ngo down again and make another seizure for trespass.\n\nMr. Jeffreys, hearing a great deal of the treasures which are said to be\nat the bottom of the lake, laid out a power of money in trying to drain\nit. But it filled faster than the men could empty it. They might as well\nthink of emptying the Atlantic with a slop-basin.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHaving thanked Mr. Tim Cronin, Philomath, for his legends, I took the\nliberty of asking if he believed them? \"Well,\" said he, \"that same\nquestion is a poser. If I am pressed on the point, I must admit that I\ndo not believe them _entirely_; but, when I meet curious gentlemen, I am\nproud to tell them these stories--particularly when they invite me to\nspend the afternoon with them at the little inn at the foot of the hill\nbeyond there.\"\n\nThe hint was taken--as far as enabling him, as he said, to partake of\nhis own hospitality, for my own time was limited, as I had to return to\ndine in Cork. Thus, I was unable to judge whether Mr. Cronin was as\nconversable after feeding-time as before it. He died some two years ago,\nI have been told, and it will be difficult to meet with a Cicerone so\nwell qualified to describe and illustrate Blarney Castle and its\ndependencies.\n\n\n\n\nCON O'KEEFE AND THE GOLDEN CUP.\n\n\nIn Ireland, as in Scotland, among the lower orders, there is a prevalent\nbelief in the existence and supernatural powers of the gentry commonly\ncalled \"fairies.\" Many and strange are the stories told of this\nmysterious and much dreaded race of beings. Loud and frequent have been\nthe exclamations of surprise, and even of anger, at the hard incredulity\nwhich made me refuse, when I was young, to credit _all_ that was\nnarrated of the wonderful feats of Irish fairies--the most frolicksome\nof the entire genus. The more my disbelief was manifested, the more\nwonderful were the legends which were launched at me, to overthrow my\nunlucky and matter-of-fact obstinacy.\n\nI have forgotten many of the traditions which were thus made familiar to\nme in my boyhood, but my memory retains sufficient to convince me to\nwhat improbabilities Superstition clung--and the more wonderful the\nstory, the more implicit the belief. But in such cases the fanaticism\nwas harmless,--it was of the head rather than of the heart--of the\nimagination rather than the reason. It would be fortunate if all\nsuperstitions did as little mischief as _this_.\n\nIt is deeply to be lamented that the matter-of-factedness of the\nAmericans is not subdued or modified by any--even the slightest--belief\nin the old-world superstitions of which I speak. Of fairy-lore they\ncannot, and they do not, possess the slightest item. They read of it, as\nif it were legendary, but nothing more. They feel it not--they know\nit--they are, therefore, dreadfully actual. So much the worse for them!\n\nHaving imbibed a sovereign contempt for the wild and wonderful\ntraditions which had been duly accredited in the neighborhood, time out\nof mind, I never was particularly chary in expressing such contempt at\nevery opportunity. When the mind of a boy soars above the ignorance\nwhich besets his elders in an inferior station, who have had neither the\nchance nor the desire of being enlightened, he is apt to pride himself,\nas I did, on the \"march of intellect\" which has placed him superior to\ntheir vulgar credulity.\n\nMany years have passed since I happened to be a temporary visitor\nbeneath the hospitable roof of one of the better sort of farmers, in the\ncounty of Cork, during the Midsummer holidays. As usual, I there\nindulged in sarcasm against the credulity of the country. One evening,\nin particular, I was not a little tenacious in laughing at the very\nexistence of \"the fairy folk;\" and, as sometimes happens, ridicule\naccomplished more than argument could have effected. My hosts could\nbear anything in the way of argument--at least of argument such as\nmine--they could even suffer their favorite legends and theories about\nthe fairies to be abused; but to _laugh_ at them--that was an act of\nunkindness which quite passed their comprehension, and grievously taxed\ntheir patience.\n\nMy host was quite in despair, and almost in anger at my boyish jokes\nupon his fairy-legends, when the village schoolmaster came in, an\nuninvited but most welcome guest. A chair was soon provided for him in\nthe warmest corner--whiskey was immediately on the table, and the\nschoolmaster, who was a pretty constant votary to Bacchus, lost no time\nin making himself acquainted with its flavor.\n\nI had often seen him before. He combined in his character a mixture of\nshrewdness and simplicity; was a most excellent mathematician and a good\nclassical scholar--but of the world he knew next to nothing. From youth\nto age had been spent within the limits of the parish over which, cane\nin hand, he had presided for more than a quarter of a century,--at once\na teacher and an oracle! He was deeply imbued with a belief in the\nsuperstitions of the district, but was more especially familiar with the\nwild legends of that rocky glen (the defile near Kilworth, commonly\ncalled Araglin, once famous for the extent of illicit distillation\ncarried on there), in which he had passed away his life, usefully, but\nhumbly employed.\n\nTo this eccentric character my host triumphantly appealed for proof\nrespecting the existence and vagaries of the fairies. He wasted no time\nin argument, but, glancing triumphantly around, declared that he would\nconvert me by a particularly well-attested story. Draining his tumbler,\nand incontinently mixing another, Mr. Patrick McCann plunged at once\ninto the heart of his narration, as follows:\n\n\"You know the high hill that overlooks the town of Fermoy? Handsome and\nthriving place as it now is, I remember the time when there were only\ntwo houses in that same town, and _one_ of them was then only in course\nof building! Well, there lived on the other side of Corran Thierna (the\nmountain in question, though _Corrig_ is the true name) one of the\nBarrys, a gentleman who was both rich and good. I wish we had more of\nthe stamp among us now--'tis little of the Whiteboys or Ribbonmen would\ntrouble the country then. He had a fine fortune, kept up a fine house,\nand lived at a dashing rate. It does not matter, here nor there, how\nmany servants he had; but I mention them, because one of them was a very\nremarkable fellow. His equal was not to be had, far or near, for love\nnor money.\n\n\"This servant was called Con O'Keefe. He was a crabbed little man, with\na face the very color and texture of old parchment, and he had lived in\nthe family time out of mind. He was such a small, dwarfish, deeny\ncreature, that no one ever thought of putting him to hard work. All\nthat they did was, now and again, from the want of a better messenger at\nthe moment, or to humor the old man, to send him to Rathcormac\npost-office for letters. But he was too weak and feeble to walk so\nfar--though it was only a matter of three or four miles; so they got him\na little ass, and he rode upon it, quite as proud as a general at the\nhead of an army of conquerors. 'Twas as good as a play to see Con\nmounted upon his donkey--you could scarcely make out which had the most\nstupid look. But neither man nor beast can help his looks.\n\n\"At that time Rathcormac, though 'tis but a village now, was a borough,\nand sent two members to the Irish Parliament. Was not the great Curran,\nthe orator and patriot, member for Rathcormac, when he was a young man?\nDid not Colonel Tonson get made an Irish peer, out of this very borough,\nwhich his son William is, to this very day, by the title of Baron\nRiversdale of Rathcormac? Does not his shield bear an open hand between\ntwo castles, and is not the motto, 'Manus h\u00e6c inimica tyrannis'--which\nmeans that it was the enemy of tyrants? Did not the Ulster King of Arms\nmake the Tonsons a grant of these arms, in the time of Cromwell? But\nhere I have left poor little Con mounted on his donkey all this time.\n\n\"Con O'Keefe was not worth his keep, for any good he did; but, truth to\nsay, he had the name of being hand and glove with the fairies; and, at\nthat time, Corran Thierna swarmed with them. They changed their quarters\nwhen the regiments from Fermoy barracks took to firing against targets\nstuck up at the foot of the mountain. Not that a ball could ever hit a\nfairy (except a silver one cast by a girl in her teens, who has never\nwished for a lover, or a widow under forty who has not sighed for a\nsecond husband--so there's little chance that it ever will be cast), but\nthey hate the noise of the firing and the smell of gunpowder, quite as\nmuch as the Devil hates holy water.\n\n\"'Tis reckoned lucky in these parts to have a friend of the fairies in\nthe house with you, and that was partly the reason why Con O'Keefe was\nkept at Barry's-fort. Many and many a one could swear to hearing him and\n'the good folk' talk together at twilight on his return from Rathcormac\nwith the letter-bag. My own notion is, that if he _had_ anything to say\nto them, he had more sense than to hold conversation with them on the\nhigh road, for that might have led to a general discovery. Con was fond\nof a drop, and, when he took it (which was in an algebraic way, that is,\n'any _given_ quantity'), he had such famous spirits, and his tongue went\nso glibly, that, in the absence of other company, he was sometimes\nforced to talk to himself, as he trotted home.\n\n\"One night, as he was going along, rather the worse for liquor, he\nthought he heard a confused sound of voices in the air, directly over\nhis head. He stopped, and, sure enough, it was the fairies, who were\nchattering away, like a bevy of magpies; but he did not know this at the\ntime.\n\n\"At first he thought it might be some of the neighbors wanting to play\nhim a trick. So, to show that he was not afraid (for the drink had made\nhim bold as a lion), when the voices above and around him kept calling\nout 'High up! high up!' he put in his spoke, and shouted, as loud as any\nof them, 'High up! high up with ye, my lads!' No sooner said than done.\nHe was whisked off his donkey in a twinkling, and was 'high up' in the\nair, in the very middle of a crowd of 'good people'--for it happened to\nbe one of their festival nights, and the cry that poor little Con heard\nwas the summons for gathering them all together. There they were, mighty\nsmall, moving about as quickly as motes in the sunshine. Although Con\nhad the reputation at Barry's-fort of being well acquainted with them\nall, you may well believe that there was not a single face among the lot\nthat he knew.\n\n\"In less than no time, off they went, when their leader--a little morsel\nof a fellow, not bigger than Hop-o'-my Thumb--bawled out, 'High for\nFrance! high for France! high over!' Off they went, through the\nair--quick as if they were on a steeplechase. Moss and moor--mountain\nand valley--green field and brown bog--land and water were all left\nbehind, and they never once halted until they reached the coast of\nFrance.\n\n\"They immediately made for the house (there it is called the _ch\u00e2teau_)\nof a great lord--one of the Seigneurs of the Court--and bolted through\nthe key-hole into his wine-cellar, without leave or license. How little\nCon was squeezed through, I never could understand, but it is as sure as\nfate that he went into the cellar along with them. They soon got astride\nthe casks, and commenced drinking the best wines, without waiting to be\ninvited. Con, you may be sure, was not behind any of them, as far as the\ndrinking went. The more he drank, the better relish he had for their\ntipple. The 'good people,' somehow or other, did not appear at all\nsurprised at Con's being among them, but they _did_ wonder at his great\nthirst, and pressed him to take enough--and Con was not the man who'd\nwait to be asked twice. So they drank on till night slipped away, when\nthe sun--like a proper gentleman as he is--sent in one of his earliest\nbeams, as a sort of gentle hint that it was full time for them to\nreturn. They had a parting-glass, and, in half an hour or so, had\ncrossed the wide sea, and dropped little Con ('pretty well, I thank\nyou,' by this time) on the precise spot he had left on the evening\nbefore. He had been drinking out of a beautiful golden cup in the\ncellar, and, by some mistake or other, it had slipped up the sleeve of\nthe large loose coat he wore, and so he brought it home with him. Not\nthat Con was not honest enough, but surely a man may be excused for\ntaking 'a cup too much' in a wine-cellar.\n\n\"Con was soon awakened by the warm sunbeams playing upon his face. At\nfirst, he thought he had been dreaming, and he might have thought so to\nhis dying day, but that, when he got on his feet, the golden cup rolled\non the road before him, and was proof positive that all was a reality.\n\n\"He said his prayers directly, between him and harm. Then he put up the\ncup and walked home, where, as his little donkey had returned on the\nprevious night without him, the family had given him up as lost or\ndrowned. Indeed, some of them had sagaciously suggested the probability\nof his having gone off for good with the fairies.\n\n\"Now, does not my story convince you that there _must_ be such things as\nfairies? It is not more than twenty years since I heard Con O'Keefe tell\nthe whole story from beginning to end; and he'd say or swear with any\nman that the whole of it was as true as gospel. And, as sure as my name\nis Patrick McCann, I _do_ believe that Con was in strange company that\nnight.\"\n\nI ventured to say to Mr. McCann that, being yet incredulous, I must have\nbetter evidence than little Con's own declaration.\n\n\"To be sure you shall,\" said he. \"Was not the golden cup taken up to\nBarry's-fort, and to be seen--as seen it was--by the whole country?\"\n\nI answered that, \"Certainly, if the cup is to be seen there, the case is\nmaterially altered.\"\n\n\"I did not say that the cup _is_ at Barry's-fort,\" said McCann, \"only\nthat it _was_. The end of the story, indeed, is nearly as strange as the\nbeginning.--When Con O'Keefe came back from his wonderful excursion, no\none believed a word of what he said; for though it was whispered that he\nwas great with the fairies, yet, when the matter came tangibly before\nthem, they did not credit it. But Con soon settled their doubts; he\nbrought forward the cup, and there was no gainsaying _that_ evidence.\n\n\"Mr. Barry took the cup into his own keeping, and, the name and\nresidence of the French lord being engraved upon it, determined (as in\nhonor bound) to send it home again. So he went off to Cove, without any\ndelay, taking Con with him; and, as there luckily was a vessel going off\nto France that very day, he sent off little Con with the cup and his\nvery best compliments.\n\nNow, the cup was a great favorite with the French lord (being a piece of\nfamily plate, given to one of his ancestors by one of the old kings of\nFrance, whose life he had saved in battle), and nothing could equal the\nhubbub and confusion that arose when it was missing. His lordship called\nfor some wine at dinner, and great was his anger when the lackey handed\nit to him in a glass, declaring that they could not find the golden\ngoblet. He threw glass, and wine, and all, at the servant's head--flew\ninto a terrible passion--and swore, by all that was good and bad, that\nhe would not take anything stronger than water until the cup was on the\ntable again; and that, if it was not forthcoming in a week, he'd turn\noff every servant he had, without paying them their wages, or giving\nthem a character.\n\n\"The cup was well searched for, but all to no purpose, as you may\nsuppose. At last, the week came to an end--all the servants had their\nclothes packed up, to be off in the morning. His lordship was getting\ndreadfully tired of drinking cold water, and the whole house was, as one\nmay say, turned topsy-turvy, when, to the delight and admiration of all,\nin came Con O'Keefe, from Ireland, with a letter from Mr. Barry and the\ncup in his fist.\n\n\"I rather think they welcomed him. His lordship made it a point to get\n'glorious' that night, and, as in duty bound, the entire household\nfollowed his example, with all the pleasure in life. You may be certain\nthat Con played away finely at the wine--you know the fairies had made\nhim free of the cellar--so he knew the taste of the liquor, and relished\nit too. There can be no doubt that there was a regular jollification in\nthe ch\u00e2teau that night.\n\n\"Con remained in France for a month, and was perfectly in clover, for,\nfrom the lord to the lackey, every one liked him. When he returned, he\nhad a heavy purse of gold for himself, and many fine presents for his\nmaster. Indeed, while the French lord lived, which was for fifteen good\nyears longer, a couple of hogsheads of excellent claret were annually\nreceived at Barry's-fort, as a present from him, and there was no wine\nin the country to equal it. As for Con O'Keefe, he never had the luck to\nmeet the fairies again, a misfortune he very sincerely lamented. And\nthat's the whole story.\"\n\nI asked Mr. McCann, whether he really believed _all_ of it? That worthy\nreplied in these words:--\n\n\"Why, in truth, I must say, some parts of it require rather an elastic\nmind to take in; but there's no doubt that Con _was_ sent over to\nFrance, where, it is said, there was a great to-do about a golden cup. I\nam positive that Mr. Barry used to receive a present of claret, every\nyear, from a French lord, for I've drank some of the best claret in\nIreland from Mr. Barry's cellar. If the tale _be_ true--and I have told\nit as I have heard Con O'Keefe tell it, especially when overcome by\nliquor, at which time, the truth is sure to come out--it is proof\npositive, that there have been fairies in this neighborhood, and that\nwithin the memory of man!\"\n\nSuch a logical conclusion was incontrovertible, especially when enforced\nby a facetious wink from the schoolmaster; so, I even left matters as\nthey were, and listened with all proper attention to other stories in\nthe same vein, and to the same effect. If the narrator did not credit\nthem, most of his auditors did, which amounts to much the same in the\nend. Some other time, perhaps, I may be tempted to relate them.\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS OF FINN MAC COUL.\n\n\nThere is a similarity, all over the world, between the popular legends\nand traditions of different nations. They are reproduced, with slight\ndifferences of circumstance and costume, to suit each new locality. For\nexample, the Maiden Tower at Constantinople, actually built by the\nEmperor Manuel, centuries ago, for the purpose of a double\ncommunication--with Scutari, on the Asian side, and with the point of\ncoast occupied by the Serai Bournou on the Asian. Whenever the hostile\nvisit of a Venetian fleet was anticipated, a strong iron chain used to\nbe drawn on both sides, across the entire breadth of the strait.\nRespecting this are several legends, all of which have their prototypes\nin the West.\n\nThe generally received account has appropriated it as the place in\nwhich, for safety, a damsel was held in close retirement until the fatal\ntime named in a prediction should have passed away; but a serpent,\naccidentally brought up in a basket of fruit, caused the maiden's death.\nHere is a striking illustration of the similarity between the legends of\nthe East and those of the West. In the Third Calendar's Story, in the\nArabian Nights' Entertainments (which have charmed all of us in youth,\nand rarely fail to delight us when we return to them in maturer years),\nthe whole interest turns on an incident of the same character. Both\nstories appear deeply imbued with that fatality which forms the\ndistinguishing feature in Eastern belief and practice. Near Bristol,\nalso, are the remains of a tower, called Cook's Folly, erected to be the\ndwelling-place of a youth of whom it had been predicted that (like the\nheroine of the Turkish legend) his life would be in peril from a serpent\nuntil the completion of his eighteenth year. The dangerous time had\nnearly expired, when the youth died from the venomous bite of an adder,\nwhich had been accidentally conveyed to his isolated abode in a bundle\nof fagots.\n\nIn the south of Ireland, on the summit of a mountain called Corrig\nThierna (the Chieftain's Rock), is a heap of stones which, if there be\ntruth in tradition, was brought there to build a castle in which was to\ndwell a son of Roche, Prince of Fermoy, of whom it had been predicted\nthat he would be drowned before his twentieth year. The child, when only\nfive years old, fell into a pool of water which had been collected, on\nthe top of the mountain, to make mortar for the erection of the tower,\nin which it was intended he should be kept \"out of harm's way,\" until\nthe perilous period had elapsed. The child was drowned. In each case,\nthe prophecy appears to have brought about its own fulfilment. There is\na moral in these old traditions, did we but know how to seize and apply\nit.\n\nWashington Irving has localized several legends as American, but his Rip\nVan Winkle has been traced to a German origin, and many of his other\nlegends appear to be old friends in a new attire. Who can say whence any\ntraditional stories are derived? Some years ago, a supplement to the\nThousand-and-One Nights, containing an Arabian tale called the Sage\nHeycar, was published at Paris, and the translator noted the curious\nfact that this Oriental story contained many incidents exactly similar\nto passages in the life of \u00c6sop: such as sixteen pages of details of a\nvisit made by Heycar to the court of Pharaoh, which are the same, word\nfor word, with the account of the like visit made by \u00c6sop. So, too, the\nchallenge which Pharaoh sent to the King of Abyssinia, demanding him to\nbuild a palace in the air, and the ingenious means to which \u00c6sop had\nrecourse, are transferred to Heycar. Even the fables of \u00c6sop, the\nPhrygian, have been claimed for Lokman, the Arabian philosopher, and now\nthe very incidents of his life are taken from him by Heycar.\n\nThe Coventry legend of Lady Godiva is claimed by the Arabians. In Von\nHammer's new Arabian Nights is the story called Camaralzeman and the\nJeweller's Wife, founded on an incident precisely similar to that in\nwhich the English heroine appears.\n\nThe truth is, it is impossible to ascertain what coincident mythology\nconnects the East and the West. We know not what relation Thor of\nScandinavia may have with Vishnu of Hindostan. The oldest English and\nIrish stories appear to have corresponding legends among the Celts,\nDanes, Scandinavians, and Normans, and, again, these have wandered\neither to or from the East. Even such thoroughly English stories as Tom\nThumb, Jack the Giant Killer, and Whittington and his Cat, are claimed\nas aboriginal in foreign countries. The Wise Men of Gotham, one of the\noldest English provincial legends, is given, nearly verbatim, in one of\nthe German popular stories, collected by the Brothers Grimm, and its\nincidents may be found in the Pentamerone (in the story of Bardiello),\nbut has been translated from the Tamul tongue, which is a dialect of\nSouthern India, as the \"Adventures of Gooroo Noodle and his Five\nDisciples.\"\n\nThe Germans are very fond of legendary lore. Like the Irish, they have\ntheir cellar-haunters, who invariably tap the best wine, and make\nthemselves merry with whatever the cellar and larder can supply. Like\nthe Irish, too, they have traditions of gigantic dwellers in the land,\nin days gone by, and they re-people the Hartz with men of enormous\nstature and strength, capable of daring and doing any thing, yet who\ndiffer from the Genii, in the Arabian Tales, who are spoken of as\npossessing supernatural powers, while the giants of Western tradition,\nhaving nothing remarkable, except their size and strength, and so far\nfrom being endowed with more than human powers, may be noticed, on the\ncontrary, as being slow-witted and rather dull of comprehension,--for,\nlike most very tall people of the present day, their upper story is\nunfurnished. Such were Finn Mac Coul, and his great rival, Ossian,\nneither of whom can be named as remarkably bright \"boys.\" There are a\nfew instances of this which may be worth recording. For example:--\n\n\n\n\nFINN AND THE FISH.\n\n\nIn the good old times, \"when Malachi wore the collar of gold, which he\nwon from the proud invader,\" no Irish hero was more celebrated than Finn\nMac Coul. What cabin is there, from the Giant's Causeway to Cape Clear,\nwhich is not full of his glory?\n\nFinn Mac Coul was famous for his strength of mind and body, for his\nwisdom and his might. The Saxons fled before him when he unfurled\nIreland's ancient banner--which bore the poetical name of The\nSunburst--and thousands arrayed themselves around it; mountain and vale,\nplain and tarn, hall and bower, were full of the glory of his graceful\ndeeds of gentle courtesy. His mighty mind was suitably lodged, for he\nwas tall as one of the sons of Anak, and might have passed for own\nbrother to him of Gath.\n\nBefore relating any of his wonderful bodily achievements, it may be as\nwell to mention the mysterious manner in which his wisdom, like a\ntangible revelation, fell upon him.\n\nIn the ancient days of Ireland's glory, the province of Munster was a\nKingdom, and was called Momonia. One of the Mac Carthy family had\nsovereign sway. He was a good-natured, soft-hearted, fat-headed sort of\nneutral character--one of that class, still too common in Ireland, known\nby the apologetic _sobriquet_ of \"nobody's enemy but his own.\" He kept\nopen house for all comers, and the effect of his undiscriminating\nhospitality was, that, a monarch in name, he was next to a pauper in\nreality, living, as the saying is, quite \"from hand to mouth.\" This he\ncould have borne, for, like the eels, he was used to it, but the empty\nstate of his exchequer rendered him unable to pay for the military\nservices of his subjects, and the result was, that his dominions\ngradually fell into a state of partition among his brother monarchs of\ngreater power, richer treasury, and smaller hospitality.\n\nIt happened that one of these, named Mac Murragh--an ancestor of him\nwhose daughter's frailty led to the subjugation of Ireland by Henry\nII.--ruled over Leinster, while poor Mac Carthy was enjoying nominal\nempire over the rich plains of Munster. Mac Murragh was ambitious. He\nsaw what an easy prey Momonia might be. He wished to feed his herds upon\nthat beautiful tract of land intersected by the river Suir, which even\nyet is called \"The Golden Vale,\" and he declared war to the knife\nagainst King Mac Carthy.\n\nIt happened that Mac Carthy was fully aware of the value of the golden\nvale--indeed, it was the very pride of his heart. He determined to\nresist his foe, as best he could. But before taking up arms, on the\ndefensive, he resolved to have recourse to other than mortal aid.\n\nIt was some time before the avatar of Saint Patrick--that redoubted\npatriarch whose mission it was to teach the benighted Irish the benefits\nof religion and the blessings of whiskey. Therefore, under King Mac\nCarthy, Druidism was the \"established church.\" One of the most ancient\nArch-Druids in Munster resided in a cave near Mitchelstown, dug by his\nown hands in one of the Galtee Mountains, and to him, in this emergency,\nKing Mac Carthy betook himself for advice and aid.\n\nThe Arch-Druid was noted, far and near, as an interpreter of dreams, a\ndiviner of auguries, an unraveller of mysteries, and a reader of\nprophecies. Common rumor declared that he was master of\nenchantments,--that the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed at his\ncommand,--that he had communion with spirits from another world, and\ncould compel them to obey his bidding.\n\nAfter the performance of many rites and ceremonies, some penance and\nmuch prayer, the Arch-Druid asked the King of Munster whether he knew\nthat part of the West which we now call Mayo? Mac Carthy replied that he\nought to know it, for he had been brought up there. \"Then,\" said the\nArch-Druid, \"thither we must go. For in one of the rivers which run\nthrough that district, by the foot of a lofty mountain, there is a\nsalmon, which, if caught, cooked, and eaten, will bestow long life and\nhealth, wisdom and valor, success in arms and love, upon him who eats\nit.\"\n\nThe King thanked the Arch-Druid for his information, and gave him a\nliberal largess, when he added that in the book of the future it was\nwritten that this wonderful fish was predestined to be caught by his own\nroyal hands. This put him into excellent spirits, and he proposed to the\nArch-Druid that they should \"make a night of it,\" which they did, upon\nmead or metheglin--for, in those days, whiskey had not been invented.\n\nThe next day they set off on their fishing-tour. The way was long, the\nroads bad, and travelling rather dangerous. But, seating themselves on\nthe Arch-Druid's cloak, its wizard-owner muttering a few cabalistic\nwords, forthwith they were wafted, men and cloak, through the air, on\nthe swift wings of the wind, to the precipitous ridge of hills\nsurrounding the lofty rock now called Croagh Patrick. The cloak and its\ntwo passengers finally dropped down on the bank of the river of which\nthe Arch-Druid had spoken.\n\nThey followed the course of the stream through one of the most fertile\nvalleys that sunshine ever glanced upon, until they reached a dark\ncavern where the struggling waters sink suddenly into the earth. No one\nhas yet been able to ascertain whither the stream finally goes--whether\nit again rises to the earth--whether it runs through a subterranean\nchannel, or is sucked in to quench the Phlegethon of this world's\ncentral fires. No one knows--nor would it much matter if he did.\n\nClose by the mouth of this cavern is a dark, deep hollow, over which the\ngloom of eternal night ever seems to rest, and into which the stream\nfalls before it sinks into the abyss, whirling in foaming eddies,\nwarring as in agony, and casting up a jet of spray into the air. Loudly\nthe waters roar as they fall on the rugged rock beneath--they are\nwhirled round and round, until, at regular intervals, they descend into\nthe yawning gulf beneath.\n\nIn this pool, among thousands of fishes, of all sorts and sizes, was the\nSalmon of Knowledge, the possession of which was to make King Mac Carthy\namazingly wise, and irresistibly mighty. By this pool he sat, in company\nwith the Arch-Druid, day after day, for a whole month, until their\npatience was nearly, and their provisions wholly, exhausted. They had\nsport enough to satisfy Izaak Walton himself, for they were perpetually\ncatching fish. There was a little hut hard by, and in it the King and\nthe Arch-Druid alternately officiated as cook. Still, though he was\nlatterly on a fish diet, the King grew never the wiser. He got so tired\nof that kind of food that historians have gone the length of asserting\nthat even a Hoboken turtle-feed would have had no charm for his palled\nappetite. Amid the finest fish that Royalty ever feasted upon, he sighed\nfor the white and red of his own fine mutton from the green fields of\nMunster.\n\nTo add to his misfortune, though he wanted only one salmon, fish of all\nsorts _would_ hook themselves on to his line. There was perpetual\ntrouble in taking them off the hook. They determined to judge of the\nsalmon, as Lavater did of men, by their looks. Therefore the fat and\nplump fish obtained the dangerous distinction of being broiled or\nboiled, while the puny ones were thrown back, with the other fish, into\nthe water.\n\nThus it happened that, one evening at dusk, a lank, lean, spent salmon\nhaving been caught, they did not think it worth cooking, and the King\ntook it up to throw it back into the water. He did not cast it far\nenough, and the poor fish remained on the bank. It was quietly wriggling\nitself back into its native element, when it was espied by a little boy\nwho had a special taste for broiled fish. He seized it, took it home,\nmade a fire, and set about cooking it.\n\nThis youth was the famous Finn Mac Coul:--but he was not famous _then_.\nHe had fled from the South, from some enemies of his family, and, being\nhungry, the salmon, poor and lean as it seemed, was better to him than\nnothing.\n\nThe fire being red, he put the salmon upon it. The poor fish, not quite\ndead, writhed on the live coals, and the heat caused a great blister to\nswell out upon its side. Finn Mac Coul noticed this, and, fearing that\nthe fish would be spoiled if the blister were to rise any more, pressed\nhis thumb upon it. The heat soon made him withdraw it. Naturally enough,\nhe put it into his mouth to draw out the pain. At that moment, he felt a\nstrange thrill throughout his whole frame. He was suddenly changed in\nmind. The moment that thumb touched his lips he had increase of\nknowledge. _That_ told him that he could do no better than devour the\nsalmon. That done, he was a changed Finn--a new and enlarged edition,\nwith additions; quite a tall paper copy.\n\nThat night, Finn Mac Coul quietly strayed down to the cavern, and found\nthe King and the Arch-Druid at high words. His majesty had dreamed, in\nhis afternoon nap, that the Salmon of Knowledge had been on his hook,\nand that the Arch-Druid had coaxed it off, and privily cooked and eaten\nit. Finn told him that the Arch-Druid knew that the salmon could be\ncaught only by a King's hand, but had intended, even before they left\nMunster, to cook and eat it himself, and then to usurp the crown. The\nArch-Druid, who had a conscience, had not a word of explanation or\nexcuse. The King immediately ran him through the body, and engaged Finn\n(who, by this time, had shot up to the height of twelve feet) to lead\nhis armies against the invading King of Leinster, and the result was\nthat, so far from conquering Munster, and appropriating the Golden Vale,\nKing Mac Murragh was obliged to pray for pardon, and to pay tribute to\nKing Mac Carthy, who thenceforward, with the aid of Finn Mac Coul's\nstrength of mind and body, was the most powerful of all the monarchs of\nIreland.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BREAKS OF BALLYNASCORNEY.\n\n\nContemporary with Finn Mac Coul, was the renowned giant, called Ossian.\nThere has been a question whether he were Scotch or Irish. But as Ossian\ncertainly came all the way from Scotland to compete with Finn Mac Coul,\nit is not likely that they were countrymen.\n\nThat contest--it was of the description given by Ovid of what took place\nbetween Ajax and Ulysses. Go to that wild and beautiful district near\nDublin, that patch of mountain scenery, so splendid and romantic, known\nas the Breaks of Ballynascorney and learn, as I did, what tradition now\nreports of the contest between Ossian and Finn Mac Coul.\n\nA mountain road winds through these Breaks, like a huge snake. By the\nroad-side there stands a tremendous rock of granite--perfectly isolated.\nMany such are to be seen scattered over the island, and the general\nbelief is, that each column-stone marks the spot where some noted\nwarrior had fallen in the old contests between the Irish and their\nDanish invaders. A different legend belongs to _this_ rock.\n\nThe day had been beautiful--one of those brilliant days of softness and\nbalm so prevalent in Ireland. The noontide sun may have been a little\ntoo sunny, but this could be remedied by reposing in the pleasant\nshadow of some of the lofty cairns which abound in that place. The day\ngently glided on, until, when a summer-shower made the heath glitter\nwith its diamond drops, we sought shelter in a rustic cabin by the\nwayside.\n\nNo one was within, but an old woman, remarkably talkative. She paid us a\nworld of attention--insinuated a world of compliments on the beaming\nbeauty of the fair lady who accompanied me--would \"engage that one so\npretty was not without a sweetheart,\" and, with a smile at myself,\n\"would not be long without a husband\"--hoped that she \"would be happy as\nthe day was long, and live to see her great-grand-children at her\nfeet,\"--was certain she was an Irishwoman, \"for she had the fair face,\nand the small hand, and the dark blue eye, and the long black lash, and\nthe bounding step,\" and prophesied more good fortune than (to one of the\nparty, at least) has yet been fulfilled.\n\nThis old woman was a good specimen of a shrewd Irish peasant. Her\ncompliments were insinuated, rather than expressed; and, _malgr\u00e9_ the\nbrogue, I question when more delicate flattery--pleasant, after all, to\none's _amour propre_--could be more dexterously conveyed in the circles\nwhich we call brilliant. This tact in the matter of compliment appears\nintuitive.\n\nAllusion having been made to the granite column in the neighborhood, our\nhostess asked whether we should like \"to know all about it.\" The answer\nwas in the affirmative, and then--happy to hear the tones of her own\nvoice, proud of giving information to persons above her own station, and\nin pleased anticipation of a _douceur_--she told us a legend which, as\nshe was rather prolix, I shall take leave to give you in my own words.\n\n\n\n\nFINN MAC COUL'S FINGER-STONE.\n\n\nFinn Mac Coul went hunting one day on the Curragh of Kildare. His sport\nwas indifferent, for he brought down only a leash of red deer, and a\ncouple of wolves. He came back to his house, on the hill of Allen, in\nsuch bad spirits, that his wife asked him what was the matter, and said\nthat, no doubt, he would have better sport another time. Heaving a deep\nsigh, he told her that it was not his bad sport that annoyed him, but\nthat news had that morning reached him that Ossian, the Scotch giant,\nwas coming over to challenge him to a trial of strength, and if he lost\nthe day--for he could not decline the contest--his credit, and the\ncredit of Ireland, would be gone forever.\n\nAt this news, Finn's wife became as low-spirited as himself. They sat by\nthe fire, like Witherington, \"in doleful dumps,\" and their thoughts were\nthe reverse of happy.\n\nSuddenly, the lady--for the life of me I cannot bring myself to\ndesignate her as plain \"Mrs. Mac Coul\"--asked her disconsolate lord and\nmaster at what time Ossian was expected to arrive? Finn told her that\nthe Scottish Hercules had intimated his intention of paying his visit at\nnoon on the following day. \"Oh! then,\" said she, brightening up,\n\"there's no need to despair. Leave all to me, and I'll bring you through\nit like a Trojan. A blot is no blot until 'tis entered.\" This remark,\nshowing at once her philosophy and her knowledge of backgammon, was very\nconsolatory to Finn Mac Coul, who, like men before and since, was rather\nunder what is called petticoat government. His mind was relieved when\nhis wife saw daylight.\n\nAfter breakfast, the next day, Finn (by his wife's direction) went into\na huge child's-cradle, a feat which he had some difficulty in\naccomplishing. There he lay, crumpled up uneasily, while she kept busy\nin the kitchen, baking some cake or griddle-bread.\n\nBy-and-bye, up came Ossian, who knocked at the door, and civilly\ninquired whether Finn Mac Coul lived there, and if he were at home?\n\"No,\" said his wife, \"he's gone to the fair of Bartlemy; but I am his\nwife, and, perhaps, I can answer for him.\"\n\n\"What!\" said Ossian, \"did not he hear that I, Ossian of Scotland, was\ncoming over for a trial of strength with him? I hope he does not mean to\nskulk. Wherever he may be, I shall not return home until I _see_ him,\nand until he _feel_ me.\"\n\nWhen the wife found that Ossian was too far North to be put off by a\n\"not at home,\" she put the best face on it, welcomed him to Ireland,\nhoped he had a pleasant passage, and that the tossing on the salt-water\ndid not disagree with him, invited him into the house, and said that\nFinn would soon be back, and ready to indulge him in any way he pleased.\n\nOssian sat down by the fire, quite at his ease. He had a great conceit\nof himself, and was, indeed, the strongest man in Europe at that time.\nHe noticed the large cakes that were baking in the oven, each of them\ntaking two stone weight of flour, and asked why she made them of such a\nsize. \"They are for that little creature in the cradle, there,\" said\nshe, pointing over her shoulder to Finn. Then Ossian looked round, and\nnoticed the cradle, with Finn in it, and a night-cap on his head, and\ntied under his chin, and he pretending to be fast asleep all the time.\n\nAstonished at the immense bulk, Ossian called out, \"Who's there? What\nman is that in the cradle?\" \"Man!\" said Finn's wife, with a pleasant\nlittle laugh, \"that's our youngest child. I am weaning him now, and I\nsometimes think the fairies have overlooked him, he's so dwarfed and\nsmall, and does not promise to be half the size of his father and his\nbrothers.\"\n\nOssian never said a word to that; but he could not take his eyes off the\ncradle, thinking, no doubt, if the undergrown baby was such a bouncer,\nwhat must the father be.\n\nBy-and-bye, Finn's wife told Ossian that, as he had a long journey, and\nFinn was staying out longer than she expected, he might as well take\nsome refreshment, without waiting for him. The cakes were nice and brown\nby this time, and she asked him to break his fast with one of them. He\ntook it, and when he made a bite in it, he roared again with pain, for\nhis two best front teeth were broken. \"Oh!\" he cried out, \"it is as hard\nas iron,\"--and so it might be, for she had put an iron griddle into it,\nand baked it with it in. \"Hard?\" said she. \"Why, that child there would\nnot taste it if it were a bit softer.\"\n\nThen she recommended Ossian to wash the pain away with a sup of the\nfinest whiskey in the province; and she fetched a wooden _piggin_, that\nwould hold about a gallon to a gallon and a half, and filled it to the\nbrim. Ossian took a long pull at it; as much as a quart or so. Then\nFinn's wife laughed downright at him for taking so little. \"Why,\" said\nshe, \"the child there in the cradle thinks nothing of emptying that\n_piggin_ in one draught.\" So, for shame's sake, and because he did not\nlike to be thought a milk-sop, Ossian took a little more, and a little\nmore yet, until, before long, the liquor got the better of him.\n\nNow, this was the very pass that the good wife wished to bring him to.\n\"While his father is out,\" said she, \"and I wonder why he is not home\nbefore now, may-be you'd like to see the child there throw a stone, or\ntry a fall with you, or do any of the diverting little tricks that\nhis father teaches him.\" Ossian consented, and she went over to the\ncradle and gave Finn a shake. \"Wake up, dear,\" said she, \"and amuse the\ngentleman.\"\n\nSo Finn stretched himself, and Ossian wondered at his black beard, and\nhis great bulk. \"'Pon my word,\" said he, \"you're a fine child for your\nage.\" Then, turning to Finn's wife, he asked, \"Has he cut any of his\nteeth yet?\" She bade him feel his gums. Then Ossian put two of his\nfingers into Finn's mouth, and the moment they were there Finn bit them\nto the bone. Ossian jumped round the room with pain. \"Ah!\" said Finn's\nwife, \"you should see his father's teeth; he thinks nothing of biting\noff the head of a two-shilling nail, when he uses it for a tooth-pick.\"\n\nBy this time, Ossian was far from comfortable. But he thought he must\nput the best face on it; so he said to Finn, \"Come, my lad, let us see\nhow your father teaches you to wrestle.\"\n\nFinn did not say a word, but grappled Ossian round the waist, and laid\nhim sprawling on the ground before he could say \"Jack Robinson.\" Ossian\npicked himself up, very sulkily, and rubbed the place that had come in\ncontact with the hard floor of the kitchen.\n\n\"Now,\" said Finn's wife, \"may-be you'd like to see the child throw a\nstone.\" And then Finn went in front of the house, where there was a heap\nof great rocks, and he took up the very identical stone which now\nstands in the Breaks of Ballynascorey, and flung it all the way from the\nhill of Allen. To this day it bears the marks of Finn's five fingers and\nthumb--for his hand was not like an ordinary hand--when he grasped it;\nand to this day, also, that stone bears Finn's name.\n\nOssian was greatly surprised, as well he might be, at such a cast. He\nasked, \"Could your father throw such a stone much farther?\"--\"Is it my\nfather?\" said Finn: \"faith, he'd cast it all the way to America, or\nScotland, or the Western Injes, and think nothing of it!\"\n\nThis was enough for Ossian. He would not venture on a trial of strength\nwith the father, when the son could beat him. So he pretended to\nrecollect some sudden business that called him back, posthaste, to\nScotland, thinking he never could get away half quick enough. And the\nstone remains where Finn threw it, and, if you only go that way, any one\non or near the Sigham mountain will show you FINN MAC COUL'S\nFINGER-STONE.\n\n\n\n\nIRISH STORIES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PETRIFIED PIPER.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nWHO THE PIPER WAS.\n\n\nIrish Legends almost invariably remind me of the Field of Waterloo. When\nour tourists rushed _en masse_, to behold the plain on which the\ndestinies of Europe had been decided, they exhibited the usual\nrelic-hunting and relic-buying mania. Bullets and helmet ornaments,\nrusty pistols and broken swords, buttons and spurs, and such\nthings--actually found on the battle-field--were soon disposed of, while\nof the tourists it might be said, as of the host of Dunsinane, \"The cry\nis still 'they come!'\" So, the demand exceeding the legitimate supply,\nthe Belgian peasantry began to dispose of fictitious relics, and a very\nprofitable trade it was for a long time. To this day, they are carefully\nmanufactured, \"to order,\" by more than one of the hardware makers of\nBirmingham.\n\nIn the same manner, Irish legends having become a marketable commodity\n(Carleton and Crofton Croker, Banim and Griffin, Lover and Whitty,\nhaving worked the vein deeply), people had recourse to invention instead\nof tradition--like George Psalmanazar's History of Formosa, in which\nfiction supplied the place of fact. Very amusing, no doubt; but not\nquite fair. More ingenious than honest. Therefore, the Irish story I\nshall relate, if it possesses none other, shall have the merit, at\nleast, of being \"founded on facts.\"\n\nFermoy is one of the prettiest towns in Ireland. It is not very remote\nfrom that very distinguished Southern metropolis--of pigs and\nporter--known as \"the beautiful city of Cork.\" Midway between city and\ntown lies Water-grass-hill, a pretty village, located on the highest\narable land in Ireland, and now immortal as having once been the\nresidence of the celebrated Father Prout. Some people prefer the\ncountry-town to the crowded city: for, though its trade be small, its\nsociety rather too fond of scandal, its church without a steeple, and\nits politicians particularly intolerant, Fermoy is in the heart of a\nfertile and picturesque tract, and there flows through it that noble\nriver, the Blackwater, honorably mentioned by Spenser, and honored in\nlater song as the scene where might be beheld\n\n          \"The trout and the salmon\n          A-playing backgammon.\n    All on the banks of sweet Castle Hyde.\"\n\nThe scenery around Fermoy is indeed most beautiful, and _above_ all\n(in more meanings than one) towers Corrig Thierna--the Lord's rock,\ncommonly spoken of as Corran--which, to such of the inhabitants as have\nnot seen greater elevations, appears a mountain entitled to vie with\nwhat they have heard of the Alps, Appenines, or Andes.\n\nAlthough Fermoy now contains fully seven hundred houses (exclusive of\nstables and pigsties), and a population of nearly seven thousand souls,\nmen, women, and children--to say nothing of horses, oxen, sheep, mules,\ndonkies, cats, dogs, and such other creatures as have no souls--it was\nnot always so extensive and populous.\n\nIn every town a high traditional authority is constantly referred to as\n\"within the memory of the oldest inhabitant,\" and it may be stated, on\nthis antique authority, that, not much more than half a century since,\nFermoy was a very small and obscure hamlet, consisting of no more than\none little pothouse and half a dozen other mud-cabins, luxuriantly\nlocated, with some ingenuity, so as to enjoy, front and rear, a\n_maximum_ of the morning and afternoon sunshine. These domiciles were\nranged in a row, and hence arose the figurative saying, \"All on one\nside, like the town of Fermoy.\" The energy, ability, and capital of one\nman (the late John Anderson, who introduced mail-coaches into Ireland),\nraised the village of Fermoy into a populous and thriving town, which,\nin 1809, was a merry place--partly owing to the mirth whose chief\nminister was Remmy Carroll, son of old Carroll, the piper.\n\nAs Remmy is the hero of my tale, it is only proper that I should\ndescribe him. Irish parlance emphatically distinguished him as \"a mighty\nclever boy,\" which did not mean a compliment to his capacity or\nacquirements, but was simply a figure of speech to declare that this\nHibernian Orpheus stood about \"six feet two in his stocking-vamps.\"\nRemmy Carroll's personal appearance was not quite as _distingu\u00e9_ as that\nof his great contemporary, Beau Brummell. His coat, originally of blue\nfrieze, had worn down, by age and service, to a sort of bright gray,\ntessellated, like mosaic-work, with emendations of the original\nsubstance carefully annexed thereto by Remmy's own industrious fingers.\nThe garment, like the wearer, had known many a fray, and Remmy was wont\nto observe, jocularly, when he sat down to repair these breaches, that\nthen, like a man of landed property, he was occupied in \"taking his\nrents.\"\n\nCare is not very likely to kill a man who can jest upon his own poverty.\nAccordingly, Remmy Carroll was as light-hearted a fellow as could be met\nwith in town or country. He was a gentleman accustomed to live how and\nwhere he could, and he was welcomed everywhere. It was mentioned, as an\nundoubted fact, that where men of substance--rich farmers and thriving\nshopkeepers--had been very coldly received by bright-eyed angels in\npetticoats, looks and even words of encouragement had been extended to\nRemmy Carroll. The fair sex are proverbially of a kind nature,\nespecially towards young men, who, like Carroll, have handsome features\nand jocund speech, lofty stature and winning smiles, that symmetry of\nlimb which pleases the eye, and that subduing conversation which pleases\nthe ear. What was more, Remmy Carroll knew very well--none better!--that\nhe was a favorite with the rose-cheeked Venuses of Fermoy and its\nvicinity. It may be mentioned also--as _sotto voce_ as type can express\nit--that he was also perfectly aware that he was a very personable\nfellow, what Coleridge has described as \"a noticeable man.\" Was there\never any one, no matter of what age or sex, possessing personal\nadvantages, who was not fully aware of the fact?\n\nIt would be tedious to expatiate very particularly upon the extent and\nvariety of Remmy Carroll's accomplishments. He followed the hereditary\nprofession of his family, and was distinguished, far and near, for his\nreally splendid execution on the Irish pipes--an instrument which can be\nmade to \"discourse most excellent music,\" and must never be confounded\nwith the odious drone of the Scottish bag-pipes. Remmy's performance\ncould almost excite the very chairs, tables, and three-legged stools to\ndance. One set of pipes is worth a dozen fiddles, for it can \"take the\nshine out of them all\" in point of loudness. But then, these same pipes\ncan do more than make a noise. The warrior, boldest in the field, is\ngentlest at the feet of his ladye-love; and so, the Irish pipes, which\ncan sound a strain almost as loud as a trumpet-call, can also breathe\nforth a tide of gushing melody--sweet, soft, and low as the first\nwhisper of mutual love. You have never felt the eloquent expression of\nIrish music, if you have not heard it from the Irish pipes.[3] It is\nquite marvellous that, amid all the novelties of instrumentation (if I\nmay coin a word) which are thrust upon the patient public, season after\nseason--including the Jews'-harping of Eulenstein, the chin-chopping of\nMichael Boiai, and the rock-harmonicon of the Derbyshire mechanics--no\none has thought of exhibiting the melodious performance of an Irish\nreally were a first-rate performer, he could not fail to please, to\ndelight, to astonish. But, again I say, do not confound the sweet\nharmony of the Irish with the drony buzz of the Scotch pipes.\n\n     [3] This praise of the Irish pipes is by no means exaggerated. The\n     last performer of any note, in Fermoy, was an apothecary, named\n     O'Donnell, who certainly could make them discourse \"most eloquent\n     music.\" He died about fifteen years ago. It was almost impossible\n     to listen with dry eyes and unmoved heart to the exquisite manner\n     in which he played the Irish melodies--the _real_ ones, I mean--not\n     those which Tom Moore and Sir John Stevenson had \"adopted\" (and\n     emasculated) for polite and fashionable piano-forte players and\n     singers. There is now in New York a gentleman, named Charles\n     Ferguson, whose performance on the Irish pipes may be said to\n     equal--it could not surpass--that of O'Donnell.\n\nRemmy Carroll's accomplishments were not limited to things musical. He\ncould out-walk, out-run, and out-leap any man in the barony of Condons\nand Clongibbons; aye, or of any five other baronies in the county of\nCork, the Yorkshire of Ireland. He could back the most vicious horse\nthat ever dared to rear and kick against human supremacy. He had\naccepted the challenge scornfully given to the whole world, by Big Brown\nof Kilworth, to wrestle, and had given him four fair falls out of five,\na matter so much taken to heart by the said Big one, that he emigrated\nto London, where, overcome with liquor and loyalty, he was tempted to\nenlist in an infantry regiment, and was shot through the head at the\nstorming of Badajoz some short time after.\n\nRemmy Carroll could do, and had done more than defeat Brown. He could\nswim like a fish, was the only man ever known to dive under that\nminiature Ma\u00eblstrom which eddies at the base of The Nailer's Rock\n(nearly opposite Barn\u00e4an Well), and, before he was one-and-twenty, had\nsaved nine unfortunates from being drowned in the fatal Blackwater.[4]\n\n     [4] There really was a person named Carroll residing in Fermoy at\n     the date of this story. He was of gigantic stature and strength,\n     with the mildest temper ever possessed by mortal man. He was\n     noted for his excellence in swimming and his remarkable skill as a\n     diver. Whenever any person had been drowned in the Blackwater,\n     (which runs through Fermoy,) Carroll was sent for, and never\n     quitted the river until he had found the body. There is one part\n     considered particularly dangerous, opposite Barn\u00e4an Well, in which\n     a large projection, called the Nailer's Rock, shelves out into the\n     water, making an under-current of such peculiar strength and\n     danger, that even expert swimmers avoid it, from a fear of being\n     drawn within the vortex. Many lives have been lost in this fatal\n     eddy, into which Carroll was accustomed to dive, most fearlessly,\n     in search of the bodies. It was calculated that Carroll had\n     actually saved twenty-two persons from being drowned, and had\n     recovered over fifty corpses from the river. When he died, which\n     event happened at the commencement of the bathing season, a general\n     sorrow fell upon all classes in the town of Fermoy, and for several\n     weeks no one ventured into the river. It was as if their guardian\n     and safeguard had departed. In my youth, passed on the banks of the\n     Blackwater, there was a belief that whenever one person was drowned\n     in that river, two others were sure to follow, in the same season.\n\nNo man in the county could beat him at hurly, or foot-ball. He was a\ncrack hand at a faction-fight on a fair day--only, as a natural spirit\nof generosity sometimes impelled him, with a reckless chivalry, to side\nwith the weaker party, he had, more than once, been found magnanimously\nbattling against his own friends.\n\nYet more.--Having had the advantage of three years' instruction at Tim\nDaly's far-famed Academy, Remmy Carroll was master of what a farmer,\nmore alliterative than wise, called \"the mystery of the three\nR's:--Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithmetic.\" He knew, by the simple taste,\nwhen the Potheen was sufficiently \"above proof.\" He had a ten-Irishman\npower of love-making, and while the maidens (with blushes, smiles, and\nsoftly-similated angers) would exclaim, \"Ah, then, be done, Remmy!--for\na deluder as ye are!\" there usually was such a sly intelligence beaming\nfrom their bright eyes, as assured him that he was not unwelcome; and\nthen he felt it his duty to kiss them into perfect good-humor and\nforgiveness.--But I am cataloguing his accomplishments at too much\nlength. Let it suffice to declare, that Remmy Carroll was confessedly\nthe Admirable Crichton of the district.\n\nHe was an independent citizen of the world--for he had no particular\nsettled habitation. He was a popular character--for every habitation was\nopen to him, from Tim Mulcahy's, who lived with his wife and pig, in a\nwindowless mud-cabin, at the foot of Corran, to Mr. Bartle Mahony's\ntwo-story slated house, on a three hundred acre farm, at Carrigabrick,\non the banks of the Blackwater. At the latter abode of wealth, however,\nRemmy Carroll had not lately called.\n\nMr. Bartholomew Mahony--familiarly called \"Bartle\"--was a man of\nsubstance. Had he lived now, he might have sported a hunter for himself,\nand set up a jaunting-car for his daughter. But the honest, well-to-do\nfarmer had at once too much pride and sagacity to sink into the\n_Squireen_. He was satisfied with his station in life, and did not\naspire beyond it. He was passing rich in the world's eye. Many, even of\nthe worldlings, thought less of his wealth than of his daughter, Mary.\nOf all who admired, none loved her half so well as poor Remmy Carroll,\nwho loved the more deeply, because very hopelessly, inasmuch as her\nwealth and his own poverty shut him out from all reasonable prospect of\nsuccess. He admired--nay, that is by far too weak a word: he almost\nadored her, scarcely daring to confess, even to his own heart, how\nclosely her image was blended with the very life of his being.\n\nMary Mahony was an Irish beauty; that most indescribable of all\nbreathing loveliness, with dark hair, fair skin, and violet eyes, a\ncombination to which the brilliant pencil of Maclise has often rendered\njustice. She had a right to look high, in a matrimonial way, for she was\nan heiress in her own right. She had \u00a3500 left her as a legacy by an old\nmaiden-aunt, near Mitchelstown, who had taken care of her from her\ntwelfth year, when she left the famous Academy of the renowned Tim Daly\n(where she and Remmy used to write together at the same desk), until\nsome eight months previous to the date of this authentic narrative, when\nthe maiden-aunt died, bequeathing her property, as aforesaid, to Mary\nMahony, who then returned to her father.\n\nWith all her good fortune, including the actual of the legacy, and the\nideal of inheritance to her father's property--with beauty sufficient to\nhave turned the head of any other damsel of eighteen, Mary Mahony was\nfar from pride or conceit. She had the lithest form and the most\ngraceful figure in the world, but many maidens, with far less means,\nwore much more showy and expensive apparel. Her dark hair was plainly\nbraided off her white brow, in bands, in the simplest and most graceful\nmanner; while, from beneath, gleamed orbs so beautiful, that one might\nhave said to her, in the words of John Ford, the dramatist,\n\n                \"Once a young lark\n    Sat on thy hand, and gazing on thine eyes,\n    Mounted and sung, thinking them moving skies.\"\n\nThe purple stuff gown (it was prior to the invention of merinos and\nmuslins-de-laine), which, in its close fit, exhibited the exquisite\nbeauty of her form, and set off, by contrast, the purity of her\ncomplexion, was also a within-doors article of attire: when she went\nout, she donned a long cloak of fine blue cloth, with the sides and hood\nneatly lined with pink sarsnet. Young and handsome Irish girls, in her\nrank of life, were not usually satisfied, at that time, with a dress so\nquiet and so much the reverse of gay.\n\nBut Mary Mahony's beauty required nothing to set it off. I do not\nexaggerate when I say that it was literally dazzling. I saw her twenty\nyears after the date of this narrative, and was even then struck with\nadmiration of her matured loveliness;--how rich, then, must it have been\nin the bud!\n\nMary, as Remmy Carroll said _before_ he knew that he loved her--for\n_then_, he never breathed her name to mortal ear,--was \"the moral of a\ndarling creature, only t'would be hard to say whether she was most good\nor handsome.\" Her hair, as I have said, was dark (light tresses are\ncomparatively rare in Ireland), and her eyes were of so deep a blue that\nnine out of ten on whom they glanced mistook them for black. Then, too,\nthe long lashes veiling them, and the lovely cheek (\"oh, call it fair,\nnot pale\"), on which their silky length reposed,--and the lips so red\nand pouting, and the bust whose gentle heavings were just visible behind\nthe modest kerchief which covered it,--and the brow white as snow (but\nneither too high nor too prominent),--and the fingers tapering and\nround, and the form lithe and graceful,--and the feet small and\nwell-shaped, and the nameless air which gave dignity and grace to every\nmotion of this country-girl! Oh, beautiful was Mary Mahony, beautiful as\nthe bright image of a poet's dream, the memory of which shadows he forth\nin the verse which challenges immortality in the minds of men.\n\nThe _contour_ of her face was neither Roman, nor Grecian, nor\nGothic;--it was essentially Irish, and I defy you to find a finer. The\nonly drawback (for I must be candid) was that her nose had\nsomewhat--just the slightest--of an upward inclination. This, which\nsometimes lent a sort of piquancy to what would otherwise have been\nquite a Madonna-like face, only made her not too handsome; at least, so\nthought her admirers. Lastly, she had a voice as sweet as ear ever loved\nto listen to. No doubt, it had the distinguishing accents of her\ncountry, but with her, as with Scott's Ellen, they were\n\n    \"Silvery sounds, so soft, so dear,\n    The listener held his breath to hear.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nWHAT THE PIPER DID.\n\n\nIt was in the summer of 1809, that, for the first time since both of\nthem were children and schoolmates, Remmy Carroll spoke to Mary Mahony.\nOften had he seen her at the dance, which without his aid could not be,\nbut in which, alas, _he_ could not join--a dancing piper being almost as\nanomalous as a hunting archbishop! Often had he admired the natural\ngrace of her movements. Often had he been struck by the bewitching\nmodesty of mien and motion which had the power of suddenly changing the\nrakish, rollicking gallantry of her followers (for she was a reigning\ntoast) into a most respectful homage. Often had he noticed her at\nchapel, whither she came to pray, while others flaunted and gazed as if\nthey had come only to see and to be seen. Often had he followed her very\nfootsteps, at a distance--for the very ground on which she trod was\nhallowed to this humble lover--but never yet had he dared to hope.\n\nThe shortest way from Fermoy to Carrigabrick is by the banks of the\nBlackwater, and this way, on Whitsunday, 1809, was taken by Mary Mahony\nand a merry younger cousin of hers on their homeward route. There are\nstiles to be crossed, and deep drains to be jumped over, and even a\npretty steep wall to be climbed.\n\nRemmy Carroll, who knew that they would thus return home, had followed\nthe maidens afar off,--sighing to think, as they crossed the stiles,\nwith a world of gentle laughter, that he must not dare to think of\nproffering them any assistance. With all his love--perhaps, indeed,\nbecause of it--he had hitherto been careful to avoid the chance of even\na casual notice from the subject of his untold passion, _She_ was\nwealthy, _he_ was poor; and, therefore, he shrunk from the object of his\nunuttered passion. Her feelings towards him at this time were rather\nkind than otherwise. She knew, what all the parish were unacquainted\nwith, that Remmy devoted the greater portion of his earnings, not only\nto the support of a bed-ridden old aunt, who had neither kith nor\nkin save himself in the wide world, but even to the procuring for her\nwhat might be esteemed rather as luxuries than mere comforts. Whatever\nmight be the deficiencies in Remmy Carroll's wardrobe, his old aunt\nnever went without \"the raking cup of tay\" morning and evening. Was it\nbecause she had noticed how carefully Remmy Carroll avoided her, that\nthe bright eyes of Mary Mahony rested upon him with some degree of\ninterest, and that she even liked to listen to and encourage her\nfather's praises of his conduct towards his aged relative, for whose\ncomfortable support he sacrificed dress--the natural vent for youthful\nvanity in both sexes?\n\nMary and her merry cousin went on, through the fields, until they\nreached the most difficult pass. This was a deep chasm separating two\nmeadows. A deep and rapid stream flowed through the abyss, whirlingly\npouring its strong current into the Blackwater. The maidens lightly and\nlaughingly tripped down the steps which were rudely cut on the side of\nthe chasm. It was but a quick, short jump across, Hark!--a sudden\nshriek! He cleared the wall at a bound--he dashed across the meadow--in\none minute he was plunging down the abyss. He saw that Mary's cousin had\nsafely reached the other side, where she stood uselessly wringing her\nhands, and screaming in an agony of despair, while Mary (precipitated\ninto the deep and swollen stream, her foot having slipped) was in the\nact of being hurried into the eddies of the Blackwater. There was no\ntime for delay. He plunged into the stream, dived for the body, which\nhad just then sunk again, and, in less time than I have taken to tell\nit, had placed his insensible but still lovely _treasure trove_ on the\nbank which he just quitted. The other maiden no sooner saw that her\ncousin had been rescued than--according to womanly custom in such cases,\nI presume--_she_ immediately swooned away, leaving poor Remmy to take\ncare of Mary Mahony.\n\nWith the gentlest care he could employ, he exerted his best skill to\nrestore her, and, in a short time, had the inexpressible delight of\nseeing her open her eyes. It was but for a moment; she glanced wildly\naround, and again closed them. Soon the bloom returned to her cheek--and\nnow she felt, though she saw not, that she lay supported in the arms of\nRemmy Carroll; for, as he leant over her, and her breathing came softly\nand balmily upon his face, his lips involuntarily were pressed to hers,\nand the maiden, through whose frame that stolen embrace thrilled, with a\nnew and bewildering sensation, might be forgiven, if, at that moment,\nshe intuitively knew who had thus brushed the dewy sweetness from her\nlips; might be forgiven, if, from that epoch, there gushed into her\nheart a feeling more kind, more deep, more pervading, than ordinary\ngratitude.\n\nBy this time, the pretty cousin had thought proper to recover; nor has\nit yet been accurately ascertained whether, indeed, she had or had not\nbeheld the oscular proceeding which I have mentioned. Now, however, she\nhastened to pay the feminine attentions, more suitable to the situation\nof a half-drowned young lady, than those which Remmy Carroll had\nattempted to bestow. He had the satisfaction, however of carefully\ntaking Mary Mahony across the stream in his arms. Nay, before he\ndeparted, she had softly whispered her gratitude; and in her tone and\nmanner, there was that which breathed hope to him, even against hope.\nThough he quitted them, he loitered about while they remained in sight,\nand just as Mary Mahony was vanishing through the stile which opened\ninto her father's lands, she turned round, saw her deliverer watching\nher at a distance, and she kissed her hand to him as she withdrew.\n\nFrom that hour the current of his life flowed on with a fresher\nbound--the fountain of hope welled out its sparkling waters, for the\nfirst time, from its depths. To the world--to no living soul, would he\nhave dared to avow his new-born feeling, that Mary Mahony might one day\nbe his own. Within his heart of hearts it lay, and with it was the\nconsciousness, that to win her he must merit her. _How_, he knew not;\nbut the resolve is much.\n\nThree months glided on. Carroll continued to pursue his calling as a\nmusic-maker, and not a wedding nor christening passed by, or,\nindeed, could pass by, without the assistance of his \"professional\"\npowers. But he now became what a young and gay Irishman seldom is--a\nhoarder of his earnings. He laid aside much of the wild and reckless\nmirth which had made him, despite his poverty, the king of good fellows.\nRemmy was, in many respects, above the generality of his class; for he\nhad got a tolerably good education; he was quick at repartee, and not\nwithout a certain manly grace of manner; his conversation was never\ngarnished with expletives; he had a good voice, and could sing with\nconsiderable effect; he was an adept in fairy lore and romantic legends;\nand he was accustomed to retail news from the newspapers to a wondering\nauditory, so that the marvel was how he could be \"such a janius\nentirely.\" Hence his popularity with all classes. But now, as I have\nsaid, he laid aside all mirth that might involve outlay. His manners\nbecame sedate, almost grave,--nay, if we dared to apply such high words\nto a man of such low degree as an Irish piper, it might be added, that a\ncertain degree of quiet dignity became blended with his speech and\nactions. Like the wedding guest described by Coleridge, he seemed \"a\nsadder and a wiser man.\" Such a change could not pass unobserved, and\nwhile one-half the circle of his acquaintance shook their heads, and\nominously whispered, \"Sure the boy must be fairy-struck,\" the fairer\nmoiety suggested that the alteration must have been produced by\nLove, though even their sagacity and observation failed to ascertain the\nobject of his passion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III.\n\nHOW THE PIPER GOT ON WITH MARY MAHONY.\n\n\nThe aim and the result of Remmy Carroll's newly-acquired habits of\neconomy and self-denial became evident, at length, when his appearance,\none Sunday, in the Chapel of Fermoy--it was the Old Chapel, with mud\nwalls and a thatched roof, which stood in that part of Cork Hill whence\nnow diverges the narrow passage called Waterloo Lane--caused a most\nuncommon sensation. It was Remmy's first appearance, on any stage, in\nthe character of a country-beau. His ancient coat was put into Schedule\nA (like certain pocket-boroughs in the Reform Bill), and was replaced by\na garment from the tasty hands of Dandy Cash, at that time the Stultz of\nFermoy and its vicinity. This was a broad-skirted coat of blue\nbroadcloth, delicately embellished with the brilliancy of shining gilt\nbuttons, each not much larger than a half-dollar. A vest of bright\nyellow kerseymere, with a double-row of plump mother-of-pearl studs; a\nnew pair of closely-fitting unmentionables, with a liberal allowance of\ndrab ribbons pensile at the knees; gray worsted stockings, of the\nrig-and-furrow sort, displaying the muscular calf and the arched instep;\nneat pumps, with soles not quite half an inch thick, and the uppers made\n\"elegant\" by the joint appliances of lampblack and grease (considered to\n_nourish_ the leather much better than \"Warren's jet blacking, the pride\nof mankind\");--a well-fitting shirt of fine bandle-linen, bleached to an\nexquisite whiteness, and universally looked upon as a _noli me tangere_\nof provincial buckism, with a silk _grinder_ \"round his nate neck,\" and\na tall Carlisle hat, encircled with an inch-wide ribbon--such were the\ncomponent parts of Remmy Carroll's new costume. True it is, that he left\na little too much to the taste of Dandy Cash, the dogmatic and\nsingularly conceited Snip; but still, Nature had done so much for him\nthat he appeared quite a new man, the handsomest of the whole\ncongregation, gentle or simple, and many a bright glance fell upon him\nadmiringly, from eyes which had looked scorn at his chrysalis condition;\nand not a few fair bosoms fluttered at the thought, \"what a fine,\nhandsome, likely boy is Remmy Carroll, now that he is dressed dacent.\"\nHe was not the first man whose qualifications have remained\nunacknowledged until such an accident as fine apparel has brought them\ninto notice.\n\nMary Mahony was at Chapel on that Sunday when Remmy Carroll shone out,\nlike the sun emerging from behind a rack of heavy clouds. A casual\nlooker-on might have fancied that she was one of the very few who did\n_not_ mind Remmy Carroll. Indeed, she rather hung down her head, as she\npassed him,--but that might have been to hide the blushes which suffused\nher face when she met his eye. Her father, a kind-hearted man, who had a\ncordial salute for every friend, insisted that they should not hurry\naway without speaking to the piper. Accordingly, they loitered until\nnearly all the congregation had left the chapel, and, among the last,\nRemmy Carroll was quietly stealing away. Bartle Mahony accosted him,\nwith a hearty grasp of the hand, and warmly thanked him for having saved\nMary's life, adding, \"It is not until now I'd be waiting to thank you,\nman-alive, but Mary never let me know the danger she'd been in, until\nthis blessed morn, when her cousin, Nancy Doyle, made me sensible of the\nins and outs of the accident. But I _do_ thank you, Remmy, and 'twill go\nhard with me if I don't find a better way of showing it than by words,\nwhich are only breath, as one may say.\"\n\nThen Bartle Mahony slapped Remmy on the back, in a familiar manner, and\ninsisted that he should walk home with them and take share of their\ndinner. \"Don't hang down your head like a girl, but tuck Mary under your\narm, and off to Carrigabrick, where I follow in less than no time, with\nthe heartiest of welcomes. Don't dawdle there, man-alive, like a goose,\nbut walk off like a man.\"\n\nSo through the town of Fermoy did Mary Mahony walk with Remmy\nCarroll--down Cork Hill and King-street, and across the Square, and\nalong Artillery-quay, and by Skelhorne's paper-mill, and Reid's\nflour-mill, and then, on the Inches, by the Blackwater. History has not\nrecorded whether Mary did actually take Remmy's arm--but it is\nconjectured that he was too shy to offer it, deeming _that_ too great a\nliberty--but it is said that it was she who took the field-route to\nCarrigabrick, and, though she blushed deeply the while, she did not make\nany very violent objection to his taking her in his arms across that\nchasm, the passage of which, on a former day, had so nearly proved fatal\nto her. If I said that, while performing this pleasant duty, Remmy\nCarroll did _not_ press her to his heart, I am pretty sure that no one\nwould believe me. Well, then, there _was_ this gentle pressure, but of\ncourse Mary Mahony believed he could not help it.--Do you think he\ncould?\n\nThey proceeded to Carrigabrick, but the short cut through the fields\nproved the longest way round on this occasion. Bartle Mahony had reached\nthe house fully half an hour before they did, and yet he had gone by the\nroad, which, as every one knows, is nearly a mile round. They had\nexchanged few words during their walk; it was not quite the lady's\nplace to make conversation, and Remmy's thoughts were all too deep for\nutterance. In the earlier stage of love, passion is contemplative, and\nsilence often has an eloquence of its own.\n\nRemmy Carroll had the good fortune to win the particular favor of Mr.\nBartle Mahony, who, as he was retiring to rest, kissed his fair child,\nas usual, and emphatically declared that Remmy Carroll was \"a real\ndecent fellow, and no humbug about him.\" He added, that as he had found\nhis way to their hearth, he must be a stranger no more. And it came to\npass, thenceforth, somehow or other, that Remmy paid a visit to\nCarrigabrick twice or thrice a week. These visits were ostensibly to Mr.\nMahony, but it usually happened that Remmy had also a glimpse of Mary,\nand sometimes a word or two with her. It came to pass that Bartle\nMahony, at length, fancied that a dull day in which he did not see his\nfriend Remmy. Finally, as by a great effort of ingenuity, and in order\nto have a legitimate excuse for having his favorite frequently with him,\nBartle Mahony announced his sovereign will and pleasure that Mary should\nlearn music. Accordingly, when Remmy next came, he communicated this\nintention to him in a very dignified manner, and appointed Remmy\nforthwith to commence instructing her. But Remmy could play only upon\none instrument, and the pipes happen to be so unfeminine, that he\nventured to doubt whether the young lady would quite approve of the\nproposition. Having hinted this difficulty to Bartle Mahony, that worthy\nwas impressed with its force, but, rather than relinquish his project,\ndeclared that, all things considered, he thought it best that he himself\nshould be the musical tyro.\n\nIf the truth were known, it would have appeared that the poor man had no\ndesire to learn, and certainly no taste. But as Remmy Carroll, proud as\nhe was poor, had peremptorily refused the money offered as a substantial\nmark of gratitude for having saved Mary Mahony's life, this was her\nfather's indirect and rather clumsy mode of rewarding him. Very\nmagnificent were the terms which he insisted on making with the piper:\nhe could have been taught flute, harp, violin, psaltery, sackbut, and\npiano at less cost. Very little progress did the kind old man make, but\nhe laughed soonest and loudest at his own dulness and discords. However,\nif the pupil did not make good use of his time, the teacher did. Before\nthe end of the first quarter, Mary Mahony had half confessed to her own\nheart with what aptitude she had involuntarily taken lessons in the art\nof love.\n\nIt would make a much longer story than I have the conscience to inflict\nupon you, to tell how Mary Mahony came to fall in love with Remmy\nCarroll--for fall in love she certainly did. Perhaps it was out of\ngratitude. Perhaps it might have been his fine person and handsome\nface. Perhaps, because she heard every girl of her acquaintance praise\nhim. Perhaps, because he was her father's favorite. Perhaps, because\nthey were so constantly thrown together, and he was the only young man\nwith whom she frequently associated. Perhaps she loved him, because she\ncould not help it. Why strive to find a reason for woman's love? It is\nlike a mighty river springing up one knows not where--augmented one\nknows not how--ever sweeping onward, sometimes smoothly, sometimes in\nawful rapids, and bearing on its deep and constant current, amid weeds\nand flowers, rocks and sands, many a precious freight of hope and heart,\nof life and love.\n\nFathers and husbands are so proverbially the very last to see the\nprogress which Love clandestinely makes under their roof, that it will\nnot be considered a special miracle, if Bartle Mahony noticed nothing of\nthe game which was in hand--hearts being trumps! Mary's merry cousin,\nNancy Doyle, quietly smiled at the flirtation, as \"fine fun,\" but did\nnot seriously see why it should not end in a wedding, as Mary had\nfortune enough for both.\n\nWinter passed away, and Spring waved her flag of emerald over the\nrejoicing world. Mary Mahony was walking in one of her father's meadows,\nfor Remmy Carroll was expected, and he was now--though she blushed with\na soft consciousness--the very pole-star of her constant thought. He\ncame up, and was welcomed with as sweet a smile as ever scattered\nsunshine over the human heart. They walked side by side for a little\ntime, and then, when the continued silence became awkward, Remmy stated,\nfor the maiden's information, what she knew very well before, that it\nwas very fine weather.\n\n\"True for you, Remmy,\" answered she: \"see how beautiful everything\nlooks. The sunbeams fall upon the meadow in a soft shower of light, and\nmake the very grass look glad.\"\n\n\"It _is_ beautiful,\" said Remmy, with a sigh, \"but I have too heavy a\nheart to look upon these things as you do.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" inquired Mary, \"surely you've no real cause to say that? Have\nyou heard any bad news?\"\n\n\"No cause!\" and here the pent-up feelings of his heart found utterance:\n\"Is it no cause?--Oh, Mary dear--for you _are_ dear to me, and I may say\nit now, for may be I may never be here to say it again--is it no cause\nto have a heavy heart, when I have nobody in this wide world that I can\nspeak to about her that's the very life of my life, while I know that I\nam nothing to her, but one that she sees to-day and will forget\nto-morrow! Is it no cause, when I know that the little linnet that's now\nsinging on that bough, has as much chance of becoming an eagle, as I\nhave of being thought lovingly of by the one that I love? Haven't I\ncause to be of a heavy heart, knowing that I would be regarded no more\nthan that little bird, if I were to try and fly beyond the state I'm in,\nwhen I know that I am not many removes from a beggar, and have been for\nmonths dreaming away as if I was your equal? You are kind and gentle,\nand when I am far away, perhaps you may think that I would have tried to\ndeserve you if I could, and then think well of one who loves you better\nthan he loves himself. Oh, Mary Mahony! may God's blessing rest upon\nyou, and keep you from ever knowing what it is to love without hope.\"\n\nOvercome by his emotion--aye, even to tears, which flowed down his\ncomely cheeks--poor Remmy suddenly stopped. Mary Mahony, surprised at\nthe unexpected but not quite unpleasing matter of his address, knew not,\nfor a brief space, what answer to make. But she was a woman--a young and\nloving one--so she let her heart speak from its fulness.\n\n\"May-be,\" said she, with a blush, which made her look more beautiful\nthan ever,--\"may-be, tis a foolish thing, Remmy, to love without\nhoping;\" and she looked at him with an expressive smile, which,\nunfortunately, he was unable to distinguish through the tears which were\nnow chasing each other down his face, as round and nearly as large as\nrosary-beads.\n\n\"It's of no use,\" he said, not perceiving the nature of her words; \"it's\nof no use trying to banish you from my mind. I've put a penance on\nmyself for daring to think of you, and it's all of no use. The more I\ntry not to think, the more I find my thoughts upon you. I try to forget\nyou, and as I walk in the fields, by day, you come into my mind, and\nwhen I sleep at night you come into my dreams. Wherever I am, or\nwhatever I do, you are beside me, with a kind, sweet smile. Every\nmorning of my life, I make a promise to my heart that I will never again\ncome here to look upon that smile, far too sweet and too kind for such\nas me, and yet my steps turn towards you before the day is done. But\nit's all of no use. I must quit the place altogether. I will go for a\nsoldier, and if I am killed in battle, as I hope I may be, they will\nfind your name, Mary, written on my heart.\"\n\nTo a maid who loved as well as Mary Mahony did, there was a touching\npathos in the simple earnestness of this confession;--aye, and\neloquence, too, for surely truth is the living spirit of eloquence. How\nlong she might have been inclined to play the coquette I cannot resolve,\nbut the idea of her lover's leaving her put all _finesse_ to flight, and\nshe said, in a low tone, which yet found an echo, and made a memory in\nhis heart: \"Remmy! dear Remmy, you must not leave me. If you go, my\nheart goes with you, for I like you, poor as you are, better than the\nrichest lord in the land, with his own weight of gold and jewels on his\nback.\"\n\nWhat more she might have said puzzles conjecture--for these welcome\nwords were scarcely spoken, when all further speech was arrested by an\nardent kiss from Remmy. Oh! the first, fond kiss of mutual love! what is\nthere of earth with so much of the soft and gentle balm of heaven?\n\nThere they stood, by the ruins of that old castle, the world all forgot.\nThere they whispered, each to each, that deep passion with which they\nhad so long been heart-full. The maiden had gentle sighs and pleasant\ntears--but these last, Remmy gallantly kissed away. Very wrong, no\ndoubt, for her to have permitted him to do so, and, in truth, she\nsometimes exhibited a shadow of resistance. There was, in sooth,\n\n    \"A world of whispers, mixed with low response,\n    Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains\n    Of nightingales.\"\n\n\"And you won't think the worse of me, Remmy, for being so foolish as to\nconfess how I love you?\"\n\n\"Is it me, life of my heart? not unless you say that it was foolish to\nlove _me_. Sure, they were the happiest words I ever heard.\"\n\n\"And you will love me always, even as now?\"\n\n\"Ah, Mary, I see that you are joking now.\"\n\n\"And you won't go as a soldier?\"\n\n\"Not I, darling; let those who have heavy hearts, and no hope, do that\nsame.\"\n\nMuch more, was spoken, no doubt. Very tender confessions and\nconfidences, in truth, which I care not to repeat, for such are of the\nbright holidays of youth and love, and scarcely bear to be reported as\nclosely as an oration in the Senate, or a lawyer's harangue at Nisi\nPrius, in a case of Breach of Promise. Such tender confessions and\nconfidences resemble those eastern flowers which have a sweet perfume on\nthe soil to which they are native, but lose the fragrance if you remove\nthem to another clime.\n\nAt last, with many a lingering \"one word more,\" many a gentle pressure\nof the hands, and several very decided symptoms, belonging to the genus\n\"kiss,\" in the sweet botany of love, Mary and Remmy parted. Happy,\nsweetly and sadly happy (for deep love is meditative, rather than\njoyful), Mary Mahony returned home. She hastened to that apartment\npeculiarly called her own, threw herself on the bed, and indulged in the\nluxury of tears, for it is not Sorrow alone that seeks relief in\ntears,--they fall for hope fulfilled as truly, though less often, as for\nhope deferred. Weep on, gentle girl, weep in joy, while you can. Close\nat hand is the hour in which, ere you have done more than taste it, the\nsparkling draught of happiness may be snatched from your lips.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nHOW THE PIPER BECAME A PETRIFACTION.\n\n\nAlike delighted and surprised at thus finding Mary Mahony a sharer in\nthe emotions which so wildly filled his own heart, Remmy Carroll\nreturned to Fermoy, in that particular mood which is best denoted by the\ntopsy-turvy description--\"he did not know whether he stood upon his head\nor his heels.\" He rested until evening at a friend's, and was not\nunwilling to have some hours of quiet thought before he again committed\nhimself to commerce with the busy world. About dusk, he started with his\nfriend for a farmer's, on the Rathcormac side of Corran Thierna, where\nthere was to be a wedding that night, at which Remmy and his pipes would\nbe almost as indispensable as the priest and the bridegroom.\n\nAs they were passing on the mountain's base, taking the soft path on the\nturf, as more pleasant than the dusty highway, a little lower down,\nRemmy suddenly stopped.\n\n\"There's music somewhere about here,\" said he, listening.\n\n\"May-be it's only a singing in your head,\" observed Pat Minahan. I've\nknown such things, 'specially if one had been taking a drop extra\novernight.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said Remmy, \"I hear it again as distinctly as ever I heard the\nsound of my own pipes. There 'tis again: how it sinks and swells on the\nevening breeze!\"\n\nMinahan paused and listened. \"Sure enough, then, there is music in the\nair. Oh, Remmy Carroll, 'tis you and the lucky boy, for this must be\nfairy music, and 'tis said that whoever hears it first, as you did, is\nsurely born to good luck.\"\n\n\"Never mind the luck,\" said Remmy, with a laugh. \"There's the fairy ring\nabove there, and I'll be bound that's the place it comes from. There's\nfox-glove, you see, that makes night-caps for them; and there's\nheath-bells that they have for drinking-cups; and there's sorrell that\nthey have for tables, when the mushrooms aren't in; and there's the\ngreen grass within the ring, as smooth as your hand, and as soft as\nvelvet, for 'tis worn down by their little feet when they dance in the\nclear light of the full moon. I am sure the music came from that\nfairy-ring.\"\n\n\"May-be it does,\" replied Minahan, \"and may-be it doesn't. If you\nplease, I'd rather move on, than stand here like a pillar of salt, for\n'tis getting dark, and fairies aren't exactly the sort of people I'd\nlike to meet in a lonely place. 'Twas somewhere about here, if I\nremember right, that Phil Connor, the piper, had a trial of skill with\nthe fairies, as to who'd play best, and they turned him into stone,\npipes and all. It happened, Remmy, before your father came to these\nparts,--but, surely you heard of it before now?\"\n\n\"Not I,\" said Remmy; \"and if I did, I wouldn't heed it.\"\n\n\"Oh, then,\" said his companion, with an ominous shake of the head at\nRemmy's incredulity, \"it's all as true as that you're alive and kicking\nat this blessed moment. I heard my mother tell it when I was a boy, and\nshe had the whole of it from her aunt's cousin's son, who learned the\nins and outs of the story from a faymale friend of his, who had it on\nthe very best authority. Phil Connor was a piper, and a mighty fine\nplayer entirely. As he was coming home from a wedding at Rathcormac, one\nfine moonshiny night, who should come right forenenst him, on this very\nsame mountain, but a whole bundle of the fairies, singing, and skipping,\nand discoursing like any other Christians. So, they up and axed him, in\nthe civilest way they could, if he'd favor them with a planxty on his\npipes. Now, letting alone that Phil was as brave as a lion, and would\nnot mind facing even an angry woman, let alone a batch of\nhop-o'-my-thumb fairies, he never had the heart to say no when he was\ncivilly axed to do anything.\n\n\"So Phil said he'd oblige them, with all the veins of his heart. With\nthat, he struck up that fine, ancient ould tune, 'The Fox-hunter's\nJig.' And, to be sure and sartain, Phil was the lad that could play:--no\noffence to you, Remmy, who are to the fore. The moment the fairies heard\nit, they all began to caper, and danced here and there, backward and\nforward, to and fro, just like the motes you see dancing in the\nsunbeams, between you and the light. At last, Phil stopped, all of a\nsudden, and they gathered round him, the craturs, and asked him why he\ndid not go on? And he told them that 'twas dying with the drought he\nwas, and that he must have something to wet his whistle:--which same is\nonly fair, particularly as far as pipers is concerned.\n\n\"'To be sure,' said a knowledgeable ould fairy, that seemed king of them\nall, 'it's but reasonable the boy is; get a cup to comfort him, the\ndacent gossoon.' So they handed Phil one of the fairy's fingers full of\nsomething that had a mighty pleasant smell, and they filled a hare-bell\ncup of the same for the king. 'Take it, me man,' said the ould fairy,\n'there isn't a headache in a hogshead of it. I warrant that a guager's\nrod has never come near it. 'Twas made in Araglyn, out of mountain\nbarley,--none of your taxed Parliament stuff, but real Queen's 'lixir.'\nWell, with that he drank to Phil, and Phil raised the little dawny\nmeasure to his lips, and, though it was not the size of a thimble, he\ndrank at laste a pint of spirits from it, and when he took it away from\nhis lips, that I mightn't, if 'twasn't as full as 'twas at first.\nFaith, it gave Phil the boldness of a lion, that it did, and made him so\nthat he'd do anything. And what was it the _omadhaun_ did, but challenge\nthe whole box and dice of the fairies to beat him at playing the pipes.\nSome of them, which had tender hearts, advised him not to try. But the\nmore they tried to persuade him, the more he would not be persuaded. So,\nas a wilful man must have his way, the fairies' piper came forward, and\ntook up the challenge. Phil and he played against each other until the\ncock crew, when the lot all vanished into a cave, and whipped Phil away\nwith them. And, because they were downright mad, at last, that Phil\nshould play so much better than their own musicianer, they changed poor\nPhil, out of spite, into a stone statute, which remains in the cave to\nthis very day. And that's what happened to Phil Connor and the fairies.\"\n\n\"You've made a pretty story of it,\" said Remmy; \"it's only a pity it\nisn't true.\"\n\n\"True!\" responded Minahan, with tone and action of indignation. \"What\nhave you to say again it? It's as true as Romilus and Ramus, or the\nIrish Rogues and Rapparees, or the History of Reynard, the Fox, and\nReynardine, his son, or any other of the curious little books that\npeople do be reading--that is, them that _can_ read, for diversion's\nsake, when they've got nothing else to do. I suppose you'll be saying\nnext, that fairies themselves ain't true? That I mightn't, Remmy, but\n'twouldn't much surprise me in the laste, to hear you say, as Paddy\nSheehy, the schoolmaster, says, that the earth is round, like an orange,\nand that people do be walking on the other side of it, with their heads\ndownwards, and their feet opposite to our feet!\"\n\n\"And if I did say so?\" inquired Remmy, who--thanks to his schooling from\nthe redoubtable Tim Daly--happened to know more of the Antipodes than\nhis companion.\n\n\"Faith, Remmy, if you did say so, I know one that would misbelieve you,\nand that's my own self. For it stands to reason, all the world to a\nChany orange, that if people was walking on the other side of the world,\nwith their feet upwards and their heads down, they'd be sure to fall off\nbefore one could say 'Jack Robinson.'\"\n\nTo such admirable reasoning as this, Remmy Carroll saw it would be quite\nuseless to reply, so he allowed Minahan to rejoice in the advantage,\nusually claimed by a female disputant, of having \"the last word.\"\n\nThey proceeded to the farmer's, Minahan, as they went along,\nvolunteering a variety of particulars relative to the Petrified\nPiper--indulging, indeed, in such minuteness of detail, that it might\nhave been taken for granted that he had, personally, seen and heard the\nmatters he described.\n\nIt is to be feared that Remmy Carroll was but a so-so listener. He had\nno great faith in fairies, and his mind was just then preoccupied with\nthoughts of his own darling Mary Mahony. At last, Minahan's conversation\nended, for they had reached the farmer's house, where Remmy and his\npipes received the very warmest of welcomes.\n\nYou need not fear that I have any intention of inflicting a description\nof the marriage upon you. It is enough to say that the evening was one\nof thorough enjoyment--Irish enjoyment, which is akin to a sort of\nmirthful madness. Perhaps Remmy was the only person who did not\nthoroughly enter into the _estro_ of the hour, for though successful\nlove may intoxicate the mind, it subdues even the highest spirits, and\nembarrasses while it delights. There is the joy at the success--the\ngreater if it has been unexpected--but this is a joy more concentrated\nthan impulsive. Its seat is deep within the heart, and there it\nluxuriates, but it does not breathe its secret to the world,--it keeps\nits treasure all to itself, at first, a thing to be thought of and\nexulted over privily. Love, when successful, has a compelling power\nwhich subdues all other feelings. The causes which commonly move a man,\nhave little power when this master-passion fills the breast.\n\nIn compliance with the custom at all wedding-feasts in Ireland, the\ncompany freely partook of the national nectar (by mortals called\nwhiskey-punch), which was as plenty as tea at an ancient maiden's\nevening entertainment, where sally-lun and scandal are discussed\ntogether, and a verdict is given, at one and the same time, upon\ncharacter and Souchong. Remmy, of course, imbibed a fair allowance of\nthat resistless and potent mixture, the boast of which is, that \"there\nis not a headache in a hogshead of it.\" Blame him not. The apostle of\nTemperance had not then commenced his charitable crusade. How could\nmortal man refuse the draught, brewed as it specially had been for him\nby the blushing bride herself, who, taking a dainty sup out of the horn\nwhich did duty for a tumbler, had the tempting gallantry to leave a kiss\nbehind--even as \"rare Ben Jonson\" recommends. What marvel, if, when so\nmany around him were rapidly passing the Rubicon of the cup, Remmy\nshould have taken his allowance like \"a man and a brother\"--no, like a\nman and a piper,--particularly, when it is remembered that Love, as well\nas Grief, is proverbially thirsty. Still, Remmy Carroll had not exceeded\nthe limits of sobriety. He had drank, but not to excess--for his failing\nwas not in that wise. And even if he had partaken too freely of the\ncharmed cup, it is doubtful whether, with strong passion and excited\nfeeling making a secret under-current in his mind on that evening, any\nquantity of liquor could have sensibly affected him. There are occasions\nwhen the emotions of the heart are so powerful as to render it almost\nimpossible for a man, even if he desired it, thus to steep his senses in\nforgetfulness.\n\nRemmy, therefore, was not \"the worse for liquor\"--although he certainly\nhad not refrained from it. Minahan, on the other hand, who was quite a\nseasoned vessel, most buoyant in the ocean of free-drinking, and to whom\na skinful of strong liquor was quite a god-send, had speedily and easily\ncontrived to get into that pleasant state commonly called\n\"half-seas-over,\"--that is, he was not actually tipsy, but merry and\nagreeable; and as he insisted on returning to Fermoy, though he was\noffered a bed in the barn, the trouble of escorting him devolved on\nRemmy.\n\nThey left the house together, lovingly linked arm-in-arm, for Minahan\nthen had a tendency to zig-zag movements. The next day, Minahan was\nfound lying fast asleep, with a huge stone for his pillow, near the\nfootpath, at the base of Corran Thierna. It was noticed by one of those\nwho discovered him, that his feet were within the fairy-ring which Remmy\nhad observed on the preceding evening. But of Remmy himself there was no\ntrace. If the earth had swallowed him up, he could not have vanished\nmore completely. His pipes were found on the ground, near Minahan, and\nthis was all that remained of one who, so often and well, had waked\ntheir soul of song.\n\nThe whole district became alarmed; for, independent of regret and\nwonder, on account of Remmy's personal popularity, a serious thing in a\ncountry district is the loss of its only Piper. At length, Father Tom\nBarry, the parish priest of Fermoy, thought it only his duty to pay a\ndomiciliary visit to Minahan, to come at the real facts of the case, and\nsolve what was felt to be \"a most mysterious mystery.\"\n\nMinahan was found in bed. Grief for the sudden loss of his friend had\npreyed so heavily upon his sensitive mind, that, ever since that fatal\nnight, he had been drowning sorrow--in whiskey. It was now the third day\nsince Remmy Carroll's disappearance; and when Father Tom entered the\nhouse, he found Minahan sleeping off the combined effects of affliction\nand _potheen_. He was awakened as soon as could be, and his first\nexclamation was, \"Oh, them fairies! them thieves of fairies!\" It was\nsome time before he could comprehend the cause of Father Tom's visit,\nbut even when he did, his words still were, \"Oh, them fairies! them\nthieves of fairies! they beat Bannagher, and Bannagher beats the world!\"\n\nA growl from the priest, which, from lay lips, might have been mistaken\nfor an execration, awoke Minahan to his senses--not that he was ever\ntroubled with a superfluity of them. He testily declared his inability\nto tell his story, except upon conditions. \"My memory,\" said he, \"is\njust like an eel-skin, your Reverence. It don't stretch or become\nproperly limber until 'tis wetted.\" On this hint, Father Tom sent for a\nsupply of Tommy Walker;[5] and after summarily dispatching a noggin of\nit, Minahan thus spoke:--\n\n\"'Twas Remmy and myself, your Reverence, that was meandering home\ntogether, when, as bad luck would have it, nothing would do me, being\npretty-well-I-thank-you at that same time, but I must make a\ncommencement of discourse with Remmy about the fairy people: for, your\nworship, I'd been telling him before, as we went to the wedding of Phil\nConnor, who was transmographied into a stone statute. Well and good,\njust as Remmy came right forenent the fairy-ring, says he, ''Faith, I\nwould not object myself to have a lilt with them!' No sooner had he said\nthe words, your honor, than up came the sweet music that we heard the\nnight before, and with that a thousand lights suddenly glanced up from\nthe fairy-ring, just as if 'twas an illumination for some great\nvictory. Then, the music playing all the while, myself and Remmy set our\ngood-looking ears to listen, and, quick as I'd swallow this glass of\nwhiskey--here's a good health to your Reverence!--a thousand dawny\ncreatures started up and began dancing jigs, as if there was quicksilver\nin their heels. There they went, hither and thither, to and fro, far and\nnear, coursing about in all manner of ways, and making the earth tremble\nbeneath 'em, with the dint of their quickness. At last, your Reverence,\none of them came out of the ring, making a leg and a bow as genteel as\nould Lynch, the dancing-master, and said, 'Mister Carroll,' says he, 'if\nyou'd please to be agreeable, 'tis we'd like to foot it to your pipes\n(and you should have seen the soothering wink the villain gave as he\nsaid the words), 'for,' says he, ''tis ourselves have often heard tell\nof your beautiful playing.' Then the weeny little mite of a fairy fixed\nhis little eyes upon Remmy, and, that I mightn't, if they did not shine\nin his head like two coals of red fire, or a cat's eye under a blanket!\n\n     [5] At that time, the two great whiskey-distillers in Cork were\n     Thomas Walker and Thomas Wise,--respectively carrying on their\n     business in the South and North suburbs of the city. Both are\n     alluded to in Maginn's celebrated song, \"Cork is the Aiden for you,\n     love, and me.\" The verse runs thus:--\n\n     \"Take the road to Glanmire, the road to Blackrock, or The sweet\n     Boreemannah, to charm your eyes; If you doubt what is _Wise_, take\n     a dram of Tom Walker, And if you're a _Walker_, top off Tommy\n     Wise.\"\n\n\"'I'm no player for the likes of ye,' says Remmy, modest-like. But\nthey'd take no excuse, and they all gathered around him, and what with\nsootherin' words, and bright looks, and little pushes, they complately\nput their _comehether_ upon him, and coaxed him to play for them, and\nthen, the cajoling creatures! they fixed a big stone for a sate, and he\nstruck up _Garryowen_, sharp and quick, like shot through a holly-bush.\nThen they all set to at the dancing, like the blessed Saint Vitus and\nhis cousins, and surely it was a beautiful sight to look at. The dawny\ncreatures worn't much bigger than your middle finger, and all nately\ndressed in green clothes; with silk stockings and pumps, and\nthree-cocked hats upon their heads, and powdered wigs, and silk sashes\nacross their breasts, and swords by their sides about the size of a\nbroken needle. 'Faith, 'twas beautiful they footed it away, and\nremarkable they looked.\n\n\"Well, your honor, _he_ was playing away like mad, and they were all\ncapering about, male and faymale, young and old, just like the French\nwho eat so many frogs that they do ever and always be dancing, when one\nof the faymale fairies come up to Remmy's elbow, and said, in a voice\nthat was sweeter than any music, 'May-be, Mister Carroll, you'd be dry?'\nThen Remmy looked at her a moment, till the faymale fairy hung down her\nhead, quite modest. 'Well,' says Remmy, 'you _are_ a nice little\ncreature, and no words about it!' She looked up at him, and her cheeks\ngot as red as a field-poppy, with delight at Remmy's praising her;--for\nfaymales, your Reverence, is faymales all the world over, and a little\nblarney goes a great way with them, and makes them go on as smoothly as\na hall-door upon well-oiled hinges. Then, she asked him again if he did\nnot feel dry, and Remmy said he'd been to a wedding, and wasn't dry in\nparticular, but he'd just like to drink a good husband to her, and soon,\nand many of them. So, she laughed, and blushed again, and handed him a\nlittle morsel of a glass full of something that, I'll be bound for it,\nwas stronger, any how, than holy water. She kissed the little glass as\nhe took it, and he drank away, and when he was handing her back the\nglass, his eyes danced in his head again, there was so much fire in\nthem. So, thinking that some of the same cordial would be good for my\nown complaint, I calls out to Remmy to leave a drop for me. But, whoop!\nno sooner had I said the words, than, all of a sudden, the whole tote of\nthem vanished away, Remmy throwing me his pipes, by way of keepsake, as\nhe dashed down through the earth with the rest of them. I dare say he\ndid not want to be bothered with the pipes, knowing that in the place he\nwas going to be could use those that Phil Connor had taken down before.\nAnd that's all that I know of it.\"\n\nHere Minahan, overpowered with grief and the fatigue of speaking,\nperpetrated a deep sigh and a deeper draught, which exhausted the\nremnant of the whiskey.\n\n\"But, Minahan,\" said Father Barry, \"you certainly don't mean to pass off\nthis wild story for fact.\"\n\n\"But I _do_, your Reverence,\" said Minahan, rather testily. \"Sure none\nbut myself was to the fore, and it only stands to reason that as one\npiper wasn't enough for the fairies, they seduced Remmy Carroll away,\nbad cess to 'em for that same. And, indeed, your worship, I dreamed that\nI saw him last night, made up into a stone statute, like poor Phil\nConnor; and sure there's great truth in dreams, entirely.\"\n\nFather Barry, of course, did not believe one word of this extraordinary\nstory, but his parishioners did, and therefore he eschewed the heresy of\npublicly doubting it. He contented himself with shaking his head,\nsomewhat after the grave fashion of a Chinese Mandarin in a grocer's\nwindow, whenever this subject was alluded to, and this Burleigh\nindication, as well as his silence, obtained for him an immense\nreputation for wisdom.\n\nThere was one of his congregation who shared, to the full, the good\npriest's disbelief of Minahan's \"tough yarn\" about the fairies. This was\nMary Mahony, who was convinced, whatever had befallen Remmy,--and her\nfears anticipated even the worst,--that he had not fallen into the hands\nof the fairies. Indeed, she was bold enough to doubt whether there were\nsuch beings as fairies. These doubts, however, she kept to herself. Poor\nthing! silently but sadly did she miss her lover. She said not one word\nto any one of what had passed between them on the memorable day of his\ndisappearance. But that her cheek grew pale, and that melancholy gently\nbrooded in the deep quiet of her eyes, and that her voice, always low,\nwas now sad and soft as the mournful murmur of the widowed cushat-dove,\neven vigilant observation could notice little difference in her. Not a\nday passed without her father lamenting Remmy's absence, and when he\nspoke approvingly of our vanished hero, tears would slowly gather in her\neyes, and her heart would swell with a sorrow all the deeper for\nsuppression. It was great consolation for her to find, now that he was\ngone, how all lips praised the good qualities of Remmy Carroll. It is\npleasant to feel that one's love is not unworthily bestowed.\n\nMeantime, the deportation of Remmy, by the fairies, became duly\naccredited in Fermoy and its vicinity. If he had solely and wholly\nvanished, it might have been attributed to what Horatio calls \"a truant\ndisposition;\" but his pipes were left behind him, circumstantial\nevidence of Minahan's narrative. Mightily was this corroborated, a few\nmonths after, when Gerald Barry, the priest's nephew, being out one day,\ncoursing on Corran Thierna, discovered a sort of cave, the entrance to\nwhich had been concealed by the huge rock which lay close to the magic\ncircle of the fairies! His terrier had run into it, after a refractory\nrabbit, who would not wait to be caught, and, from the length of his\nstay, it was conjectured that the cave must be of immense extent. True\nit is, that no one harbored the audacious thought of examining it; for\nwhat mortal _could_ be so reckless as to venture into the stronghold of\nthe \"good people,\"--but the very fact of there being such a cavity under\nthe rock, dignified with the brevet-rank of a cavern, satisfied the\nFermoy folks that Remmy Carroll was within it, changed into a PETRIFIED\nPIPER!\n\nSome weeks later, Gerald Barry's dog again ran into the cave, and\nremained there until the young man, unwilling to lose a capital terrier,\ndug him out with his own hands; for neither love nor money could tempt\nany one else to do such a fool-hardy exploit. He declared that the\nmysterious cave was no cave, but only an old rabbit-burrow! All the old\nwomen, in and out of petticoats, unanimously announced that it was clear\n(\"as mud in a wineglass,\" no doubt), that the cave _had_ been there,\nbut that the fairies had changed the whole aspect of the place, to\nprevent the discovery of their petrified victims; for, argued they, if\nthey could make men into marble statues, they certainly must possess the\nminor power of making a cave look as insignificant as a rabbit-burrrow.\nLogic, such as this, was sufficient to settle the mooted point, and then\nit became a moral and physical certainty, in the Fermoy world, that Phil\nConnor and Remmy Carroll were petrified inmates of the mountain cavern!\n\nWhen, some eighteen months after this, it was Gerald Barry's ill-fortune\nto break his collar-bone by a fall from his horse, in a steeple-chase,\nthere arose a general conviction, in the minds of all the Fermoy\nbelievers in fairy-lore, that _this_ was a punishment inflicted upon him\nby \"the good people,\" for his impertinent intrusion into their peculiar\nhaunts.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nHOW IT ALL ENDED.\n\n\nSlowly, but surely, does the tide of Time carry year after year into the\neternity of the Past. As wave chases wave to the shore, on which it\nbreaks--sometimes in a gentle and diffusing ripple, sometimes into\nfeathery foam, if it strike against a rock--so does year chase year away\ninto the memory of what has been. It is the same with empires and\nvillages, with the crowded haunts of men, and the humble huts wherein\nthe poor do vegetate. For each and for all, Time sweeps on; carrying on\nits tide, amid many things of little value, some with which are linked\nsweet and tender associations. To look back, even for a single year, and\ncontrast what _has been_ with what _is_! How mournful the retrospect, in\nthe generality of cases! Hopes fondly cherished, alleviating the actual\npains of life by the promise of an ideal improvement; day-dreams\nindulged in, until they become fixed upon the mind, as if they were\nrealities; resolutions made, which the heart found it impossible to\ncarry into practice; sunny friendships in full luxuriance, which a few\nhasty words, too quickly taken up, were to throw into shade, at once and\nforever; love itself, which promised so much in its glorious spring,\ngrown cold and careless. Talk of the changes of a year!--look back, and\nrecollect what even a single day has given birth to; but, think not that\nthere is always change, or that all changes are for the worst. Sometimes\nthe bright hopes will have the glad fulfilment; the day-dreams, after\npassing through the ordeal of expectation, which, when deferred, maketh\nthe heart sick, will be happily realized; the friendship on which we\nrelied will have gone through the trial, and have stood the test; the\nlove will have proved itself all that the heart had ventured to\nanticipate, and have thrown upon the realities of life, an enduring\ncharm, mingling strength and softness, including in its magic circle,\nendurance as strong as adamant, and tenderness which subdues even while\nit sustains. Aye, life has its lights and shadows; and, in the circling\ncourse of time and circumstance, the shadow of to-day glides gently on,\nuntil it be lost in the sunshine of the morrow.\n\nLet us return to our story. Imagine, if you please, that six years have\npassed by since the mysterious and unforgotten disappearance of Remmy\nCarroll, our very humble hero. Many changes have taken place, locally\nand generally. Fermoy, rapidly rising into opulence, as the greatest\nmilitary dep\u00f4t in Ireland, still kept a memory of Remmy Carroll. Death\nhad laid his icy hand upon Mr. Bartle Mahony, whose fair daughter, Mary,\nhad succeeded to his well-stocked farm and his prudent accumulations,\nwhich, joined with her own possessions, made her comparatively wealthy.\nBut, in her, and in such as her, who derive their nobility from God,\nfortune could make no change--except by enlarging the sphere of her\nactive virtues. In a very humble and unostentatious way, Mary Mahony was\nthe Lady Bountiful of the place. The blessings of the poor were hers.\nWherever distress was to be relieved--and Heaven knows that the mournful\ninstances were not a few--there did the quiet bounty of Mary Mahony\nflow, scattering blessings around by that gentle personal expression of\nfeeling and sympathy, which the highly imaginative and excitable Irish\nprize far more than the most liberal dole which mere Wealth can\nhaughtily bestow. Oh, that those who give, could know, or would pause to\nthink, how much rests on the manner of giving! Any hand can dispense the\nmere _largesse_, which is called \"Charity,\" but the voice, the glance,\nthe touch of hearted kindness soothes the mental pangs of the afflicted.\nIn Ireland, where there are countless calls upon benevolence, casual\nrelief has been demanded as a sort of _right_; but a kind word, a gentle\ntone, a sympathizing look, makes the gift of double value. And where was\nthere ever kindness and gentleness to equal those exercised by Mary\nMahony? She had had her own experiences in sorrow, and was, therefore,\nwell qualified to yield to others that touching sympathy which most\nforcibly awakens gratitude. She had suffered, and, therefore, she\nsympathized.\n\nHer beauty remained undimmed, but its character was somewhat changed. If\nthere was less of the fire of earlier days, there was more of\nintellectual expression, the growth at once of her mind's development\ninto maturity, and of the sorrows which had chastened her, as well as of\nthe circumstances which had thrown her thoughts into contemplation. At\nher age--she was barely three-and-twenty--it appears absurd to talk of\nher loveliness having had its peach-like bloom impaired. As Wordsworth\nsays,\n\n    \"She seemed a thing that could not feel\n    The touch of earthly years.\"\n\nWhat the same true poet has said of that fair Lucy, who yet lives in his\nexquisite lyric, might have been said, without any breach of truth, of\nour own Mary Mahony:\n\n    \"Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower\n      On earth was never sown;\n    This child I to myself will take;\n    She shall be mine, and I will make\n      A lady of my own.'\"\n\nAt first, after her father's death, when it was known in what a\nprosperous state she had been left (and rumor, as usual, greatly\nexaggerated the fact), she had been pestered with the addresses of\nvarious persons who would have been happy to obtain a fair bride with\nher goodly heritage, but it was soon found that she was not\nmatrimonially inclined, so, by degrees, they left her \"maiden meditation\nfancy-free.\" Among her suitors were a few who really were not influenced\nby interested motives, and sought to win her, out of their admiration\nfor herself. Gently, but decidedly, they were repulsed, and many of\nthem, who were much above her in wealth and station, were proud to be\nreckoned among her warm friends at a later period. It seemed as if she\ncould not have made an enemy--as if she could not awaken unkind feelings\nin any mind. Even scandal never once thought of inventing stories about\nher,--goodness and innocence were around her, like a panoply.\n\nMary Mahony remained true to the cherished passion of her youth. It\nflowed on, a silent and deep stream. None knew what she felt. None were\naware of the arrow in her heart, and her pain was the intenser for its\nconcealment. So wholly unsuspected was her secret, that when,\nimmediately after her father's death, she received Remmy Carroll's\nbed-ridden relative as an inmate at her own residence; people only\nadmired the charity which had led her to succour the helpless. No one\nappeared to think, for they did not know, that Remmy could ever have\nawakened an interest in her heart.\n\nThe destinies of Europe had been adjusted. The Imperial Eagle of France\nhad been struck down at Waterloo, when Napoleon and Wellington had met\nand battled. After peace bad been proclaimed, the Ministry of the day\nproceeded to reduce the war establishment, by disbanding the second\nbattalions of many regiments. The result was that some thousands of\nex-soldiers wended home. Very many of them were from Ireland, and came\nback mere wrecks of manhood--for the casualties of battle, and the\ncertainties of sharp hospital practice, are only too successful in\nremoving such superfluities as arms and legs.\n\nIn the spring of 1816, two or three persons might have been seen walking\ndown the main street of Fermoy. If there could have existed any doubt as\nto what they _had_ been, their measured walk and martial bearing would\nhave promptly removed it. They, indeed, were disabled soldiers. The\nyoungest might have numbered some eight-and-twenty years, and, though he\nwas _minus_ his left arm, few men could be found whose personal\nappearance was superior to his own.\n\nThey passed on, unnoticed, as any other strangers might have passed on,\nand found \"choicest welcome\" in a hostelrie, \"for the accommodation of\nman and beast,\" at the lower end of the town. What creature-comforts\nthey there partook of I am unable to enumerate, for the bill of fare, if\nsuch a document ever existed in that neat but humble inn, has not been\npreserved. The sun had nearly gone down, however, before any of the\nperipatetic trio manifested any inclination towards locomotion. At last,\nhe, to whom I have more particularly drawn attention, told his\ncompanions that he had some business in the town--some inquiries to\nmake--and would rejoin them in an hour or two at the latest. He might as\nwell have spoken to the wind, for they had walked that day from Cork (a\ntrifle of some eighteen Irish miles), and were already fast asleep on\nthe benches. Their companion wrapped himself up in a large military\ncloak, lined with fur--whilom, in Russia, it had covered the iron-bound\nshoulders of a captain in Napoleon's Old Guard. This completely\nconcealed his figure, and drawing his hat over his face, so as to shade\nhis features, he sallied forth, like Don Quixote, in search of\nadventures.\n\nWhen he reached the Sessions House, at the extremity of the town,\ninstead of pursuing the high road which leads to Lismore, he deviated to\nthe extreme left, crossed the meadow-bound by the papermill, and found\nhimself on the Inch, by that rapid branch of the Blackwater which has\nbeen diverted from the main current for the use of the two\nmills--illegally diverted, I think, for it renders the natural course of\nthe river a mere shallow, and prevents a navigation which might be\ncarried on with success and profit, from Fermoy, by Lismore, down to the\nsea at Youghall.\n\nRapidly pressing forward, the Stranger soon came to the chasm which has\nalready been mentioned as that from which, some years since, Remmy\nCarroll, the piper, had rescued Mary Mahony from drowning. He threw\nhimself, at listless length, on the sward by the gurgling stream, and\ngazed, in silence, on the fair scene before him.\n\nIt was, indeed, a scene to delight the eye and charm the mind of any\nbeholder. Across the broad river were the rocks of Rathhely, clothed\nhere and there with larches and pines, those pleasant\nevergreens--before him swept the deep and rapid waters--and, a little\nlower down, like a stately sentinel over the fine country around, rose\nthe tall and precipitous rock, on which stood the ruins, proud in their\nvery decay, of the ancient castle of Carrigabrick,--one of the round,\nlofty, lonely towers, whose origin and use have puzzled so many\nantiquaries, from Ledwich and Vallancey, to Henry O'Brien and Thomas\nMoore, George Petrie and Sir William Betham.\n\nWith an eager and yet a saddened spirit, the stranger gazed intently and\nanxiously upon the scene, varied as it is picturesque, his mind drinking\nin its quiet beauty--a scene upon which, in years long since departed,\nmy own boyhood loved to look. And now, in the softened effulgence of the\nsetting sun, and the silence of the hour, the place looked more like the\nembodiment of a poet's dream, or a painter's glorious imagining, than\nanything belonging to this every-day world of hard and cold reality.\n\nThe Stranger gazed upon the scene silently for a time, but his feelings\nmight thus be embod ed in words:--\"It _is_ beautiful, and it is the\nsame; only, until I saw other places, praised for their beauty, I did\nnot know how beautiful were the dark river, and the quiet meadows, and\nthe ivy-covered rock, and the gray ruin. Change has heavily passed over\nmyself, but has lightly touched the fair Nature around me. Heaven knows\nwhether _she_ may not be changed also. I would rather be dead than hear\nshe was another's. The lips that my lips have kissed--the eyes that my\neyes have looked into--the hand that my hand has pressed--the form that\nmy arms have folded; that another should call them his--the very thought\nof it almost maddens me. Or, she may be dead? I have not had the heart\nto inquire. This suspense is the worst of all,--let me end it.\"\n\nThus he thought--perhaps the thoughts may have unconsciously shaped\nthemselves into words: but soliloquies may be thought as well as uttered\naudibly. He rose from the damp sward, sprang across the chasm, proceeded\nrapidly on, and in ten minutes was sitting on the stile, by which, in\nother days, he had often parted from Mary Mahony--for, by this time, my\nreaders must have recognized Remmy Carroll in the Stranger.\n\nHow long he rested here, or with what anxious feelings he gazed upon the\nhouse, just visible through the trees, I am not able to state,--but I\ncan easily imagine what a contention of hope and fear there must have\nbeen in his heart. The apprehension of evil, however, was in the\nascendant, for, though two or three half-familiar faces passed him, he\ncould not summon courage to ask after Mary and her father. At last, he\ndetermined to make full inquiries from the next person he saw.\n\nThe opportunity was speedily afforded. A female appeared, slowly\nadvancing up the path. Could it indeed be herself? She came nearer. One\nglance, and he recognized her, the star of his spirit--bright, beaming,\nand as beautiful as Memory and Fancy (the dove-winged ministers of Love)\nhad delighted to paint her, amid the darkness and perils of the Past.\n\nHe sprang forward to meet her. There was no recognition upon her part.\nNor was this very wonderful--though the lover of romance might expect,\nas a matter of course, that, from pure sympathy, the maiden should have\ninstantly known who was before her. Years, which had passed so gently\nover her, softening and mellowing her beauty, had bronzed his face, and\nalmost changed its very expression. The dark moustache and thick\nwhiskers, which he now wore, his altered appearance, his military\nbearing,--all combined to make him very different from the rustic,\nhowever comely, whom she had last seen six years before.\n\nSeeing a stranger advance towards her, Mary paused. He accosted her,\nwith an inquiry whether Mr. Bartle Mahony was to be seen?\n\n\"He is dead,\" said she. \"He has been dead nearly six years.\"\n\nCarroll started back, for the unwelcome news chilled him, and the\nwell-remembered tones struck some of the most responsive chords of his\nheart.\n\n\"I am grieved to hear of his death. I knew him once. He was kind to me\nin former days, when kindness was of value, and I came to thank him now.\nGod's blessing on his soul! He was a good man.\" There was a slight\npause, and he resumed, \"Perhaps you can tell me, young lady, whether his\ndaughter is alive, and where she may be seen? The trifles which I have\nbrought from foreign countries, to mark my recollection of his goodness\nto me, perhaps she may accept?\"\n\n\"You are speaking to her,\" said Mary.\n\n\"My little presents are in this parcel,\" said Remmy. \"They are relics\nfrom the field of battle. These silver-mounted pistols were given to me\nby a French officer, whose life I saved,--this Cross of the Legion of\nHonor was hastily plucked from the bosom of one of his dead comrades,\nafter a fierce charge at Waterloo. Take them:--I destined them for your\nfather from the moment they became mine.\"\n\nHe placed the parcel in her hand.--One question would bring hope or\ndespair. He feared to ask it. He drew closer, and, as composedly as he\ncould, whispered into her ear, \"Are you married?\"\n\nThe blood flushed up into Mary's face. She drew back, for his\nquestioning vexed her, and she wished to get rid of the inquisitive\nstranger. She handed him back the parcel, and said, \"I hope, sir, that\nyou do not mean to annoy or insult me? If you do, there are those within\ncall who can soon release me from your intrusion. I cannot retain the\npresents which a mere stranger tells me were intended for my poor\nfather.--And, if I must answer your last question, I am _not_ married.\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" was Carroll's earnest and involuntary exclamation.\n\nPeople may talk as they please of the quick-sightedness of love. Mary\ncertainly had little of it, for she did _not_ recognize her lover, and,\nturning round, prepared to return home. Carroll gently detained her, by\nplacing his hand upon her arm.\n\n\"I pray your pardon,\" said he, \"but I may not have an opportunity of\nagain speaking to you, and I have a word to say about a person whom you\nonce knew, but have probably forgotten. There was a poor, worthless\nyoung man, named Carroll, in this neighborhood a few years ago. He was a\nweak creature, fool enough to love the very ground on which you trod,\nand vain enough to think that you were not quite indifferent to him.\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said Mary, with a flushed cheek, and flashing eyes,\n\"why you should continue to intrude your presence and your conversation\nwhen you see that both are unpleasant to me. I do not know why you\nshould ask me questions which a sense of common decency would have\navoided. If I answer you now, it is that my silence may not appear to\nsanction imputations upon one over whom, I fear, the grave has\nclosed--whom, be he alive or dead, it was no dishonor to have known and\nhave regarded. I did know this Carroll whom you name, but cannot imagine\nhow you, a stranger, can have learnt that I did. It was his misfortune\nto have been poor, but he never was worthless, nor could have been.\"\n\n\"One word more,\" exclaimed Remmy, \"but one more word. Remmy Carroll, so\nlong believed to have been dead, is alive and in health--after many\nsufferings he returns home, poor as when he left it, rich in nothing but\nan honest name. He comes back, a disabled soldier, and he dare not ask\nwhether, beautiful and wealthy as you are, you are the Mary Mahony of\nother years, and love him still?\"\n\nMary looked at him with intent anxiety. The color which emotion had sent\ninto her face paled, and then rushed back in a quickened life-tide,\nmantling her very forehead. Even then she had not recognized her lover!\n\n\"If he be indeed returned,\" said she, in a voice so low that Remmy did\nnot know whether the words were addressed to him, or were the mere\nimpulse of her thought, involuntarily framed into utterance, \"and if he\nbe the same in heart--the same frank and honest mind--the same true and\nloving spirit--the same in his contempt of all that is bad, and his\nreverence for whatever is good--his poverty is nothing, for _I_ have\nwealth; and if his health be broken, I yet may soothe the pain I may not\ncure. Tell me,\" said she, and the words came forth, this time, freely\nspoken, as if she had determined to be satisfied and to act, \"tell me,\nyou who seem to know him, though your description wrongs him, where has\nRemmy Carroll been during all these long years? Why did he leave us? Why\ndid he not write to relieve the anxiety of those who cared for him?\nWhere is he now?\"\n\nWhat was the response? Softly and suddenly an arm wound itself around\nthat graceful form, warmly and lovingly fell a shower of kisses on the\ncoral beauty of those luxuriant lips.\n\nWas she not angry--fiercely indignant? Did not her outraged feelings\nmanifest their anger? Was not her maidenly modesty in arms at the\nliberty thus taken, and by a stranger? _This_ was the crowning\nmisconduct--did she not reprove it?\n\nNo! for, in tones which thrilled through her loving heart, Remmy Carroll\nwhispered \"Mary!--my own, true, dear Mary!\" In the struggle (for Mary\n_did_ struggle at first) which immediately preceded these words, the\nlarge cloak and the hat fell off, and then she recognized the forehead\nand the eyes--then she knew him whom she had loved so well, and\nmourned so long--then she threw her arms around his neck, in the very\nabandonment of affection and delight--then she clung close and yet\ncloser to him, as if they never more must part--then, remembering how\nshe was yielding to the warm impulses of her nature, she hid her burning\nface in his bosom, and then, when he embraced her again and again, she\ncould not find words to protest against the gentle deed.\n\nThen, arm in arm, they walked into the house, and there Remmy's aged\nrelative, whose condition and sufferings had been so much improved and\nalleviated by the kindness and bounty of Mary Mahony--simply because she\nwas Remmy's relative--was made happy by the presence of him over whom\nshe had shed so many bitter tears. Perhaps her happiness was augmented\nby perceiving on what excellent terms the heiress and he were--perhaps\nher eyes filled with pleasant tears, when Mary Mahony whispered into her\near \"Minny, he will stay with us now, forever, and will never leave us.\"\nPerhaps, too, the whisper was not unheard by Remmy--and it would be a\ndifficult point to decide whether or not it were intended to reach _his_\near, as well as Minny's. And then, all that both had to learn. There was\nso much to be told on both sides. All that Carroll cared to know was\nthis--that he loved, and that his love was warmly returned. A thousand\ntimes, that evening, and forever, did Mary exclaim against herself for\nnot having recognized him immediately, and a thousand times smilingly\naver, that, from his changed appearance and studied efforts at\nconcealment, the recognition was all but impossible. And then they sat\ntogether, hand clasped in hand, eyes looking into eyes, until an hour\nfar into the night, talking of old times and present happiness, and\nfuture hopes. And they spoke, too, of the good old man who had passed\naway, in the fulness of years, into the far and better land. Old\nmemories were revived, brightened by new hopes. Oh, how happy they were!\nit was the very luxury of love--the concentrated spirit of passion,\npurified by suffering, and tried by absence--the repayment, in one brief\nhour, for years of doubt, pain, and sorrow.\n\nAt last came the time to part; but with it came the certainty of a\nspeedy meeting. The next day, and day after day, until that arrived when\nholiest rites made them man and wife, Remmy Carroll was to be found by\nthe side of his beloved Mary Mahony; and soon, when the news of his\nreturn were noised about, crowds came to see him, and far and near was\nspread the announcement that a wedding was on the _tapis_. General was\nthe surprise--general, too, the satisfaction, for the young people were\nuniversal favorites, and time and circumstances had removed the\nprincipal objections which even the worldly-minded might have raised to\nthe union of Mr. Bartle Mahony's daughter and heiress to one who, a few\nyears before, had occupied a position in society so much beneath her. It\nwas universally conceded that, in every sense, the match was extremely\nsuitable and proper; but Remmy and Mary did not require popular opinion\nto sanctify their attachment. They were all in all to each other.\n\nIt is not to be supposed that Mary Mahony was allowed to continue\nignorant of the vicissitudes through which Remmy Carroll had passed. He\ntold his story, and\n\n     \"She gave him for his tale a world of sighs.\"\n\nIt may be expected that of this tale some notice be here given. But, in\nvery truth, those who look for a romantic elucidation of the mysterious\ndisappearance, and prolonged absence, and unexpected return of Remmy\nCarroll, will be greatly disappointed. The main incidents were simple\nenough, and here they are.\n\nIt may be remembered that Remmy had acted as escort to Minahan, on their\nreturn from that wedding at which the Piper had made his last\nprofessional appearance. He had found some difficulty in piloting his\ncompanion along the high road from Rathcormac to Fermoy; and, indeed,\nwhen they reached the mountain, Minahan, in a fit of drunken obstinacy,\n_would_ throw himself upon the heathy sward, where, in a few minutes,\nhe was fast in the gentle bonds of sleep. Remmy Carroll, having\naccompanied him so far, did not like to leave him, and sat down beside\nhim to watch for his awakening, with the purpose, also, of seeing that\nhe fell into no mischief. But, after a time, from the combined\ninfluences of the fresh air, want of rest, and what he had partaken at\nthe wedding, Remmy found himself quite unable to keep his eyes open. He\nwas conscious that sleep was creeping over him, and so, taking off his\npipes, for fear that he might injure them by lying upon them, he\ncarefully placed them upon the grass, beside him, and resigned himself\nto slumber.\n\nOn awaking, he found--to his excessive amazement--that he was lying \"on\nthe sunny side of a baggage-cart,\" with his head reposing on the lap of\na soldier's wife. In reply to his inquiries, he was recommended to take\nit coolly, and, at any rate, not to make any noise until they reached\nGlanmire, about four miles from Cork, to which city he was informed that\nhe was bound. \"When the cavalcade of baggage-carts and soldiers reached\nGlanmire, he was summarily acquainted with the novel information that he\nhad been duly enlisted as a recruit, and his informant--a\nfierce-looking, hook-nosed, loud-voiced martinet of a Sergeant--asked\nhim to put his hand into his pocket, and _that_ would satisfy him that\nhe had regularly and irrevocably become attached to the military\nservice of \"his Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third.\"\nAccordingly, Remmy did as he was desired, and in the pocket as aforesaid\nfound a bright shilling, which certainly had not been there on the\nprevious night--more particularly, as tenpenny pieces were the current\ncoin in Ireland at the period. To Remmy's possession of the solitary\nshilling, among a little handful of tenpenny and fivepenny pieces (the\nsum-total realized by his performance at the wedding), the modern\nSergeant Kite triumphantly appealed in proof that he had been regularly\nenlisted. It is needless to observe that, of this transaction, Remmy\nCarroll--albeit the person chiefly concerned--had not the slightest\nrecollection. He appealed to one of the officers, and was told that, if\nthe Sergeant said he was enlisted, there could be no doubt of the fact,\nand that his Majesty was fortunate in having obtained such a promising\nrecruit, as the regiment was on the eve of embarkation. His\nremonstrances, and denials, and appeals, were in vain. The significant\nhint was added, that death was the punishment usually awarded for\ndesertion. So, making a virtue of necessity--the more so, as he\nperceived that he was so strongly and suspiciously watched that flight\nwould have been useless--he had no alternative but to proceed to Cork\nwith the regiment, as cheerfully as he could, and, in despite of\nhimself, as it were, was duly attested, magistrates not being very\nparticular in those days. To all his assertions, that he had not the\nslightest recollection of having been enlisted, the reply was that, if\nhe could procure a substitute, they did not require his company--but to\ndo this was impossible.\n\nIn a few days, the regiment embarked for the Peninsula, and his friend,\nthe Sergeant, told him on the voyage, as an excellent joke, in what\nmanner they had trepanned him--namely, that, as the regiment was passing\nby the mountain, early in the morning, en route for embarkation, one of\nthe officers who rode above the highway (for the road is literally cut\nout of and into the hill) had noticed Remmy and Minahan asleep, and had\nremarked what an admirable soldier the former would make; Minahan, it\nseems, was thought nothing of, being, like Othello, \"declined into the\nvale of years.\" The remark was taken as a hint, and Remmy was removed,\neven as he was, fast asleep, to one of the baggage-carts, with the least\npossible delay. The details of the transaction had been executed by the\nSergeant, who chuckled over this narrative, piquing himself not a little\non the dexterity of the trick.\n\nCarroll was unable to write to Mary Mahony, on account of what had\nbefallen him, being afraid of his letter falling into other hands than\nher own. He did write to Minahan, in the hope that, in that circuitous\nway, Mary might obtain a knowledge of his misadventure. The letter, if\never posted, never came to hand, and thus, for more than six weary\nyears, Mary Mahony in particular, with the inhabitants of Fermoy in\ngeneral, was profoundly ignorant of Remmy's fate.\n\nIt was fortunate that Remmy was of that easy temperament which takes the\nworld as it finds it, readily accommodates itself to circumstances, and\nwisely acts on the sensible aphorism, \"what can't be cured must be\nendured.\" While he bitterly lamented his enforced absence from the girl\nof his heart--just at the crisis, too, when he learned that he occupied\nan enviable position in her affections--he knew that all the regrets in\nthe world would not bring him one furlong nearer to her. He determined\nto make the best of his situation. In a short time he even came to like\nit. Good conduct, good temper, and his ability to read and write, soon\nrecommended him to his superiors, and obtained his promotion to the rank\nof Sergeant. In this capacity, he contrived to save a sum of money,\nwhich, in former years, he would have considered quite a treasure, and\nwhich, at any rate, was sufficiently large as to warrant its possessor\nagainst the imputation of fortune-hunting, should he return to Ireland,\nfind Mary Mahony unmarried, and pay his addresses to her.\n\nWhen the short peace of 1814 was made, the regiment in which Remmy\nserved returned to England, and Remmy made application for his\ndischarge, and would have purchased it if he could not procure it by\nother means. But immediately came the renewal of war, by the return of\nNapoleon from Elba, and Remmy's regiment was one of the first to return\nto the Continent. In the battle of Waterloo, Remmy received a severe\nwound in the left arm, which rendered amputation necessary, after\nprolonged and painful sufferings. At length, he was able to return to\nEngland, with a handsome gratuity for his wound, and a respectable\npension, which, with what he had already picked up \"in the wars,\" really\nmade him quite a man of independent means. His plea of poverty had been\nonly a _ruse_ to try the strength of the maiden's affection. But, in her\neyes, of much greater value than his hoard or his pension was a\ntestimonial of courage and character given him by his Colonel, and\nespecially countersigned by the Duke of Wellington, who had personally\nnoticed his conduct during the six years he had been in the service.\nGreat pride, be sure, had Carroll in handing over this precious document\nto Mary Mahony. Many tears did she shed over the vicissitudes which had\nearned it--but tears _will_ flow from bright eyes, when there is a\nhandsome lover at hand to kiss them off.\n\nThe wedding followed, in due course. _Such_ a wedding! that of Camacho\nwas a fool to it. Mr. and Mrs. Carroll, it is true, violated the usage\nof Irish society (of their rank of life) by quitting the farm, on a\nhoneymoon excursion, shortly after Father Barry had united them \"for\nbetter, for worse,\" as it was fully expected that, according to the\nimmemorial custom among the extensive class which embraces all ranks\nfrom the wealthy farmer to the poor peasant, the bride and bridegroom\nshould have presided at the nuptial feast, opened the post-prandial\nfestivities by leading off the dance, and finally gone through the\nloosening the bride's garters, and be followed by the ceremonial of her\n\"throwing the stocking.\" But, except during the performance of the\nnuptial service, the company at Carrigabrick farm saw little, on that\nday of days, of either Remmy Carroll or his fair and faithful\nhelpmate. Enough, however, for the gay bachelors to admire the beauty\n(now bright with happiness) of the bride, while the Waterloo medal and\nthe Waterloo wound of our hero won him favor in the eyes and from the\nlips of all the womankind who were \"on their promotion.\" Despite the\nspeedy flight of \"the happy couple,\" the rites of hospitality were duly\ncelebrated in their homestead, and, indeed, a general holiday was kept\nin the neighborhood. The warmth of Irish hearts had its effervescence on\nthat occasion, and it wished an infinity of joy to Remmy Carroll and his\nbride.\n\nAbout this time, Minahan's character for veracity fell into disrepute,\nit being pretty clear that Remmy Carroll was anything but a\npetrifaction--at least Mary Mahony's testimony would go a great way to\ndisprove _that_ imputation. But there ever are people who will\nmanfully maintain the superiority of the ideal over the real, and a few\nof these, vegetating at Fermoy, used to shake their heads when Remmy\nCarroll walked by, and, having said, all along, that, beyond all doubt,\nsome supernatural agency had removed our hero, think themselves somewhat\naggrieved in the unromantic commonplace explanation of his enforced\nabsence. To the hour of his death, Minahan was ready to say or swear\nthat _he_ had told no more than the truth--or an equivalent for the\ntruth--and was wont to appeal, when in his cups (which was whenever he\nhad anything to put into them), to Carroll's good fortune in proof of\nthe advantageous influence of fairy favor. He had a few\nsemi-converts--who believed that Remmy Carroll was as much petrified as\nPhil Connor. Indeed, without any very remarkable development of the\norgan of marvellousness, I think so too.\n\nIt but remains to add that, in due season, Mr. and Mrs. Carroll returned\nto their farm. Remmy never more played the pipes save for his own\namusement (as the Marquis of Carrabas' cat caught mice), and he and his\nwife lived happily together, after their many trials. One of their\nfamily is settled in the State of New York, and doing well.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GERALDINE.\n\n\n    I.\n\n    A mournful wail, all sad and low, like the murmur which the breeze\n    On an Autumnal eve might make among the sere-leaved trees,--\n    Then a rapt silence, soul subdued; a listening silence there,\n    With earnest supplicating eyes, and hand-clasped hush of prayer.\n    Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen the tears which warriors shed,\n    Where the chief who led them on to fame lies almost of the Dead;\n    Where the eagle eye is dim and dull, and the eagle spirit cold;\n    Where fitfully and feebly throbs the heart which was so bold,--\n    Thou might'st have fancied grief like this, if ever it were thine,\n    To hear a minstrel sing the deeds of the valiant Geraldine.\n\n\n    II.\n\n    Where is that gallant name unknown? wherever Valour shone,\n    Wherever mightiest chiefs were named, the Geraldine was one;\n    Wherever Erin's banner waved, the Geraldine was there,\n    Winning honour from his prince's praise, and favor from the fair,--\n    But now his course is closing, for his final hour has come,\n    And, like a peaceful peasant, 'tis his hap to die at home.\n    The priest hath been to shrive him, and the leech hath been to tend,\n    And the old man, with a Christian heart, prepared to meet his end:\n    \"It is God's will, the Abbot says, that, unlike to all my line,\n    I should die, not on the battle-field,\" said the gallant Geraldine.\n\n\n    III.\n\n    Within his tent the warrior lay, by his side his children three;\n    There was Thomas, with the haughty brow, the Lord of Offaley;\n    There was gentle Ina, wedded to proud Desmond's gallant son;\n    There was Richard, he the youngest born and best belov\u00e9d one.\n    Lord Thomas near his father stood, fair Ina wept apace,\n    Young Richard by the couch knelt down and hid his pale, sad face;\n    He would not that the common eye should gaze upon his woe,\n    Nor that how very much he mourned, his dying sire should know;--\n    But the old man said, \"My youngest born, the deepest grief is thine,\"\n    And then the pent-up tears rained fast on the face of Geraldine.\n\n\n    IV.\n\n    \"Lead out my steed--the Arab barb, which lately, in Almaine,\n    I won in single combat, from a Moorish lord of Spain,--\n    And bring my faulchion hither, with its waved Damascene blade,\n    In temper true, and sharpness keen as ever armourer made.\n    Thou seest, my son, this faulchion keen, that war-horse from the plain,\n    Thou hearest thy father's voice, which none may ever hear again;\n    Thou art destined for the altar, for the service of the Lord,\n    But if thy spirit earthward tend, take thou the steed and sword.\n    Ill doth it hap, when human thoughts jostle with thoughts divine,\n    Steel armour, better than the stole, befits a Geraldine!\"\n\n\n    V.\n\n    \"My father, thou hast truly said:--this soaring spirit swells\n    Beyond those dreary living tombs--yon dark monastic cells.\n    The cold in heart and weak in hand may seek their pious gloom,\n    And mourn, too late, the hapless vow which cast them such a doom:\n    Give me the flashing faulchion and the fiery steed of war--\n    The shout--the blow--the onset quick where serried thousands are.\n    Thine eldest-born may claim and take thy lordships and thy land,\n    I ask no more than that bold steed, this good sword in my hand,\n    To win the fame that warriors win, and haply to entwine,\n    In other lands, some honours new round the name of Geraldine.\"\n\n\n    VI.\n\n    Flashed then into the Chieftain's eyes the light of other days,\n    And the pressure of the old man's hand spoke more than words of praise:\n    \"So let it be, my youngest-born! thine be a warrior's life,\n    And may God safely speed thee through thy coming deeds of strife.\n    Take knighthood from thy father's sword, before his course be run,--\n    Be valiant, fortunate, and true; acquit thee as my son!\n    My harper here?--ere life depart, strike me some warlike strain;\n    Some song of my own battle-field I would hear once more again:\n    Unfurl the silken Sunburst[6] in the noontide's golden shine,\n    In death, even as in pride of life, let it wave o'er Geraldine!\"\n\n     [6] \"The Sunburst,\" says Moore, \"was the fanciful name given by the\n     ancient Irish to the royal banner.\"\n\n\n    VII.\n\n    The banner fluttered in the breeze, the harper's strain went on,\n    A song it was of mighty deeds by the dying Chieftain done.\n    At first he listened calmly,--the strain grew bold and strong,--\n    Like things of life within his heart did Memory's quick thoughts throng:\n    Louder and stronger swelled the strain, like a river in its course;\n    From his couch the Chieftain started,--\"To horse!\" he cried, \"to horse!\"\n    And proudly, like a warrior, waved his sword above his head:\n    One onward step--one gurgling gasp--and the Chief is of the Dead!\n    The harper changed his strain to grief: the Coronach was thine,\n    Who died, as thou hadst lived, a Man, oh mighty Geraldine!\n\n\n\n\nCAPTAIN ROCK.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE WAKE.\n\n\nThe year 1822 was remarkable for being what in Ireland was called \"A\nWhiteboy Year.\" Rents were only paid by compulsion. Tithes were not paid\nat all. Wages were low. The price of food was high. The middleman system\nhad been on the increase, year after year, until the land and people\nwere crushed under it. The priests from the altar, and O'Connell, from\nthe tribune and through the press, earnestly argued the masses _not_ to\nrebel, no matter how great the aggravation, how intense the despair, and\nthe advice had great weight in most instances. Many causes combined to\nrender the peasantry ripe for revolt.--As, on one side, there were not\nwanting men able and willing to act as leaders in any popular movement;\nso, on the other, there was no lack of Government spies to fan the\nflame, to cajole the peasantry into breaches of the law, and to betray\nthose whom they thus had duped.\n\nThe discontented and disaffected were principally concentrated in my\nnative county of Limerick. From time to time, the military force in that\ncounty had been augmented, until, at the particular period in question\n(1822), there were several regiments of infantry, and at least one of\ncavalry, on harassing duty. What between still-hunting (for the\nmanufacture of mountain-dew was then in full operation) and man-hunting,\nthe military had full occupation day and night. Various pretexts were\nused, also, to weary the military, by putting them upon a false scent,\nevery now and then, so that the service was particularly severe and\nfatiguing. Added to the military array was the Constabulary force,\nintroduced by the late Sir Robert (then Mr.) Peel, while Secretary for\nIreland, the members of which, after his name, have obtained the\n_sobriquet_ of \"Peelers.\" An active and efficient body of men these\nPeelers were, and are, although the force, from its original\nestablishment, has been unpopular in Ireland--probably owing to its very\nactivity and efficiency. Be this as it may, it is undeniable that while\nthe bulk of the Irish people, of all classes, cordially have fraternized\nwith the soldiery, they have ever manifested a strong dislike to the\npolice. This unfriendly feeling, too, has sometimes been fostered by\nmany who, from their station, might be expected to entertain gratitude,\nand exercise courtesy, towards these protectors of their lives and\nproperty.\n\nWhiteboyism continued to increase, notwithstanding the strong military\nand police force poured into the district. Detachments of infantry were\nquartered in almost every hamlet--the cavalry, called \"here, there, and\neverywhere,\" upon true and false alarms, were dreadfully overworked. At\nlast, as a necessary matter of protection, two or three Peelers were\nquartered in almost every respectable country house in certain disturbed\nbaronies. The whole county was in a dreadful state of alarm, excitement,\nand activity. The newspapers, of course, were filled with reports and\nrumors of all kinds, and the Whiteboy doings in the South of Ireland had\neven the honor of being spoken of, in no very complimentary terms, in\nboth Houses of Parliament.\n\nThese Whiteboy movements, although not confined to one part of the\ncounty Limerick, were remarked as chiefly occurring on that side which\nis bordered by the county Cork. In a little time, they might be said to\nradiate from a particular district, spreading into what, from its\nextent, has been called \"The Yorkshire of Ireland.\" As they increased,\nmore troops were called in, to subdue insurrection and enforce order.\nAll this was in vain. A regular guerilla warfare began to prevail,\nchiefly for the purpose of obtaining the arms of the military and\npolice.\n\nIt became no uncommon event for a sentry, at a country station, to be\nquietly picked out by the steady hand and sure aim of a Whiteboy--the\nshot which gave his death being at once the sole announcement and fatal\nevidence of the tragic deed. The service thus became so desperate that\nthere arose an evident reluctance, on the part of the military, to\ncontinue on such alarming and perilous duty. Desertions became frequent.\nOn the other hand, the police doggedly did their duty. Of a much higher\ngrade than the ordinary rank and file of the army--for no man was\nallowed to enter or remain in the force without an excellent character\nand a certain degree of education--they had a high estimate of their\nduty, and a stubborn determination to perform it. They knew, also, that\nthe peasantry hated them, and that even the thankless gentry, whom they\nprotected, did not bear any affectionate regard for them.\n\nThe Rifle Brigade was on duty, in the disturbed district, at the time\nwhich I have mentioned. The officer in command was Major Eeles, an\nEnglish port-drinking officer of the old school, who had fixed his own\nquarters at The Grove (near Ballingarry,) formerly the seat of Colonel\nOdell, the member for the county, and remarkable as being the father of\nabout twenty sons, by one wife. The most fatiguing and unpleasant office\nwhich the soldiers had to perform was that of night-patrolling. The laws\nof that time were harsh--indeed, like all other Coercion Acts, they had\nbeen expressly framed to put down the disturbances--and provided that\nthe mere fact of a man's being found out of his house, between sunrise\nand sunset, should be punishable with seven years' transportation. This\nsevere enactment put a great check, of course, upon nocturnal predatory\ngatherings, but many an innocent man suffered from the harshness of the\nlaw. A strong feeling of hostility arose against the Rifle corps, for\ntheir activity in apprehending the suspected. This was greatly augmented\nby what, under any circumstances, might be considered an \"untoward\nevent.\" One of the peasantry had been met on the high road after dark,\nand challenged by the patrol. Not giving a satisfactory answer, his\ninstant apprehension was ordered by the officer in command. Attempting\nto escape, he was in the act of jumping across a deep drain which\ndivided the high-road from the bog, when a sergeant drew a pistol from\nhis belt and shot him on the spot.\n\nThe unfortunate man was _not_ a Whiteboy. On the contrary, he had\nsteadily resisted the solicitations of many neighbours who were. He had\nseen better days, and had received rather a good education. Knowing the\nperil of joining the illegal combinations, and daring the danger of\nbeing considered lukewarm in what was called \"the cause of his country,\"\nhe had kept himself aloof from proceedings, which he did not approve of,\nbut scorned to betray. His family had been subjected, for months past,\nto the severe privations which poverty causes everywhere, but\nparticularly in Ireland. His wife had been extremely ill, and on her\nsudden change for the worse, his affection had naturally got the worse\nof his personal fear, and he had ventured out, after dusk, to solicit\nthe aid of the nearest dispensary doctor, when, challenged by the\nmilitary, he sought safety in flight, and had met with his untimely fate\nas I have described.\n\nThose who know anything of the peculiar customs of the South of Ireland,\nmust be aware that the peasantry have especial delight in doing honor to\nthe dead. To celebrate a \"wake\" is, with them, a social duty. They\nusually take that mode of testifying, in a merry mood, their grief for\nthe departed. The unfortunate victim of military impetuosity was carried\nto the nearest public-house on the way-side, and when it was related how\nhe had lost his life, \"curses not loud, but deep,\" most unequivocally\nindicated the popular feeling that he was a murdered man. Nor was this\nfeeling mitigated by the \"justifiable homicide\" verdict of the Coroner's\njury.\n\nEntertaining such opinions, it was not likely that his relatives and\nfriends would solicit as a favor, at the hands of his slayers, \"leave to\nkeep the wake.\" They did not ask it. Perhaps they had little fear that,\nin the present instance, their ancient and time-honoured custom would be\ninterfered with. Accordingly, they _took_ leave, and a numerous\nconcourse of the people assembled, after dusk, on the day of the\ninquest, in the cabin of the deceased.\n\nTo one who loved the picturesque, the scene would have been interesting,\nfor it contained all variety of countenance, costume, and manner. But it\npossessed an intenser and far deeper interest for him who had studied\nthe human heart, its passionate throes, its indignant feelings, its wild\nenergies, its strong convulsions, its lacerated affections. There lay\nthe corpse, a crucifix at its head and twelve mould candles on a table\nat its feet. By the bedside knelt the widow--actually, by an unnatural\nexcitement, rendered temporarily convalescent by the sharp fact that she\nhad lost the husband of her heart. By the corpse, on the opposite side,\nsat their only child, a lad of few years, apparently unconscious of the\nextent of the calamity which thus early had orphaned him. A professional\nKeener (like the \"hired wailing women\" of Scripture) was ranged on\neither side of the deceased, awaiting a full audience for the similated\ngrief, and now and then muttering fragments of their intended Lament.\nAround the humble apartment--for the peasant's cabin consisted of only a\nsingle room--were ranges of stools, three deep, and here and there were\ndeal tables, on which were placed tobacco-pipes, and \"the materials\" for\nthe refreshment and enjoyment which, by a strange contrast with the\nawful occasion which called them together, were considered\nindispensable. Such a thing as a _dry_ Wake would indeed have been an\nanomaly, there and then.\n\nThe friends of the dead man dropped in stealthily, and at intervals--for\nthere was some uncertainty whether the military would permit such an\nassemblage. Before long the room was crowded, all fear of being\ninterfered with gradually vanished, and the party, albeit assembled on a\nmelancholy occasion, soon glided into conversation, smoking, and drink.\n\nThere was no merriment, however, for the circumstances under which they\nmet forbade it--so early in the night. Their conversation was in a\nhushed tone. The comparative stillness every now and then became\npositive when they noticed the voiceless sorrow of the poor widow, as,\npale and emaciated by suffering of mind and body, she knelt by the dead,\nholding his clay-cold hand, and, her eyes fixed upon his comely face,\nnow pallid with the hue of mortality, and placid in repose as that of a\nsleeping infant. At intervals, there rose the melancholy and eloquent\nwail of the Keeners' wild poetry, in the native language of the\nauditors, deeply impassioned, and full of the breathing indignation\nwhich stirs men's minds to such a pitch of excitement that they come\nforth from the listening fitted for almost any deed of daring.\n\nThe Keen told how the dead man had won the hearts of all who knew\nhim--how he had excelled his companions in the sports of youth and the\nathletic exercises of manhood--how, at pattern, fair, or dance, he\nstill maintained his superiority--how his was the open heart and liberal\nhand--how he had won his first love, the pride of their native village,\nand married her--how, when a shadow fell upon their fortunes, that loved\none lightened, by sharing, the burthen, the struggle, and the\ngrief--how, amid the desolation, her gentle smile ever made a soft\nsunshine in their home--how, a victim without a crime, he had fallen in\nthe noon of life--how there remained his young boy to remember, and, it\nmight be, one day to avenge his murder--how every man who was present\nwould protect and sustain the widow and the orphan of him whom they had\nloved so well--and how, come it soon or late, a day would arrive when\nexpiation must be made for the foul deed which had sent an innocent man\nto an untimely grave.\n\nAs the chief Keener chanted this Lament, in the expressive and\nfigurative language of their native Ireland, the hearts of her auditory\nthrobbed with deep and varying emotions--sorrow swelled into the deeper\nsense of injury--wild indignation flushed the cheek of manhood--and hand\nwas clasped in hand with a fierce pressure, in well-understood pledge of\nsorrow for the dead, hatred for his slayers, and stern resolve of\nvengeance.\n\nAbout ten o'clock, the door slowly opened, and a tall man, apparelled in\nthe loose great-coat, or _coat-ca-more_, which forms the principal dress\nof the peasantry in that district, stood for some minutes on the\nthreshold, an interested but unobserved spectator. When he was\nperceived, many rose to offer him a seat, which he declined, and soon\nall voices joined in a common cry of \"Welcome, Captain! A thousand and a\nhundred thousand welcomes!\"\n\nThe stranger returned the salutation cordially and briefly, and advanced\ngravely and slowly to where the dead man lay. He gazed upon the face for\nsome time, and then, laying his hand on that cold, pallid brow, said, in\na tone of deep, concentrated feeling,--\"Farewell, John Sheehan! Yours\nhas been a hard fate, but better than remains for us--to be hunted down,\nlike wild beasts, and sent, after the mockery of a trial, from the homes\nof our fathers, to a far-off land, where even the slavery they doom us\nto is better than the troubled life we linger in, from which caprice or\ncruelty may hurry us in a moment. Farewell, then; but, by the bright\nHeaven above us, and the green fields around, I swear to know no rest\nuntil bitter vengeance be taken for this most wanton and barbarous\nmurther.\"\n\nHis cheek flushed--his eyes flashed--his frame trembled with strong\nemotion as he sternly made this vow, and, when he ceased to speak, a\ndeep \"Amen\" was murmured all around by the eager-eyed men, who hung upon\nhis slightest word with as trusting and entire a faith as ever did the\nfollowers of the Veiled Prophet upon the mystic revelations which\npromised them glory upon earth, and eternal happiness in heaven! The\nwidow, roused from the abstraction of grief by this solemn and striking\nincident, looked the thanks which she then had not voice to utter. When\nthe Stranger laid his hand on the orphan's head, and said: \"He shall be\nmy care, and as I deal by him may God deal by me!\" her long-repressed\ntears gushed forth, in a strong hysteric agony, which was not subdued\nuntil her child was placed within her earnest embrace, and kissed again\nand again--with the widowed mother's solacing thought, there yet\nremained one for whom to live.\n\nTurning from the corpse, the Stranger took his seat among the humble but\nloving people in that lowly cabin. He was of large mould, with a bold,\nquick glance, and an air of intelligence superior to his apparent\nstation. It was singular that his appearance among them, while it\nardently awakened their respectful attention, had chilled and checked\nthe company. After a pause, one of them ventured to hint that the first\nallowance of liquor had been drank out, so that \"there did not remain an\neggshellful to drink the health of the Captain.\" There was a murmur of\napplause at the remark. Thus encouraged, another ventured to suggest\nthat a fresh supply be provided, at the general expense of the\ncompany--the gallantry of the men excepting the fair sex from any share\nin the payment. The necessary amount was speedily collected, and a\nsupply of whiskey (which had not condescended to acknowledge the\nreigning dynasty by any contribution to the excise duties) was procured\nfrom the next _shebeen_--an unlicensed d\u00e9p\u00f4t for the sale of \"mountain\ndew,\"--and placed upon the table.\n\nThe stranger, who had appeared quite unobservant of this proceeding, and\nwho--on the principle that \"silence gives consent\"--had even been\nsupposed rather to sanction than condemn it, suddenly interrupted the\nhilarious arrangements thus commenced. He started up and exclaimed--\"Is\nit thus, and always thus, that I am to find you?--the slaves and victims\nof your besotted senses. Is there anything to be done? I look for the\nman to do it, and find him sunk in drunkenness. Is a secret to be\nkept?--it is blabbed on the highway, to the ruin of a good cause, by the\nman who suffers drink to steal away his reason. When I lie down to\nsleep, I can dream of ruin only, for this subtle devil can tempt the\ntruest into a traitor. And now, with the hour of triumph at hand--the\nrich hope of vengeance near fulfilment--there is not a man among you,\nbound to me as you are, heart and hand, soul and body, who would not\nsurrender the victory and the vengeance, if he were only allowed to\ndrink on until he had reduced himself to a level with the senseless\nbrute. Give me that liquor.\"\n\nHis command was instantly obeyed, for he had rare ascendancy over the\nminds of those who acknowledged him as their leader. Dashing the\nvessel violently on the hard earthen floor, he broke it, and every drop\nof its contents--the \"fire-water\" of the American aborigines--was\nspilled. \"There,\" he cried, \"who serves with me, must obey me. When a\ndeed is to be done, I _will_ have obedience. When the deed is\ndone--drink, if you will, and when you will. But when service is to be\nperformed, you _shall_ be sober.\"\n\nNot a syllable of dissent--not a murmur of discontent fell from the lips\nof those who heard him. Not a gesture--not a look--indicated anger at\nwhat he had done.\n\n\"Mark me, my lads,\" he added. \"I have arranged all beyond the chance of\ndefeat. I have contrived to turn the main strength of the soldiers on a\nwrong scent four miles on the other side of Charleville. I have laid my\nplans so that we cannot be disappointed, except through some fault of\nour own. Let us on to Churchtown Barracks. The sergeant, by whose rash\nand ready hand our friend has died, remains there with a handful of his\ncomrades. He was sent thither to escape us. Fools! as if, for those who\nhave a wrong to avenge, any spot can be too remote. Let us seize him,\nand give him the doom he gave the innocent. If they resist, we can fire\nthe barracks, and burn them in their nest. But they will never be so mad\nas to offer resistance to such a force as ours, when we tell that we\nwant only that one man. If they do--their blood be upon their own\nheads. Who joins me? Who will follow to the cry of 'On to Churchtown?'\nNow is the long-desired hour of revenge. Will any lag behind?\"\n\nEvery man present repeated the cry--\"On to Churchtown!\" Some of the\nwomen also joined in it.\n\nThe Whiteboys and their leader left the cabin. An ancient crone, almost\na reputed witch, and certainly known to be by far the oldest woman in\nthe district, hobbled after them as far as the door, and threw her shoe\nafter them--\"for luck!\"\n\nMany a \"God speed them\" was breathed after that company of avengers by\nyoung and fair women. What Lord Bacon has called \"the wild justice of\nrevenge,\" and what America recognizes in the unseen but omnipotent\nincarnation of Judge Lynch, was necessarily the rule of action when\ninjured Right took arms against tyrannic Might. Is it surprising that\nsuch should be the case? If wrongdoers cannot always be rewarded, \"each\naccording unto his works,\" within and by the law, why should not their\nimpunity be broken down by the rational sense of justice which abides in\nthe minds of men?\n\nForth on their mission, therefore, did the Whiteboys speed. Hurrying\nacross the bog, they reached a farm which was almost isolated amid the\nblack waste from which it had been indifferently reclaimed. They drew\nmuskets, pistols, and pikes from the turf-rick in which they had\nbeen concealed. Some of them brought old swords, and scythe-blades\nattached to pike-handles (very formidable weapons in the hands of\nstrong, angry men), from hiding-places in the bog itself. Stealthily,\nand across by paths unknown to and inaccessible to the military, that\nwild gang, \"with whom Revenge was virtue,\" pushed forward for the attack\non Churchtown Barracks.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE LEADER.\n\n\nStealthily and in silence the Whiteboys proceeded to the scene of\nintended operation. Not a word was spoken--not a sound heard, except the\nnoise of their footsteps whenever they got on the high road. As much as\npossible they avoided the highway, the course which would the soonest\nbring them to the appointed place. It would seem as if their leader had\nbound them together, by some spell peculiarly their own, to yield\nimplicit and unquestioned obedience to his imperious will. It strongly\nillustrated the aphorism--\n\n    \"Those who think must govern those who toil.\"\n\nWhoever knows how lively and mercurial is the natural temperament of\nthe peasantry in the South of Ireland, must be aware of the difficulty\nof restraining them from loud-voiced talking in the open air; but now\nnot one of that large and excited gathering spoke above his breath.\nTheir leader commanded them to be silent, and to them his will was law.\n\nWho was that leader? The question involves some mystery which it may be\nas well to unveil before proceeding with the action of this narrative.\n\nWho, and whence was that leader? His birth would have secured him a\n\"respectable\" station in society, if his wild passions, and the strong\npressure of Circumstance (that unspiritual god), had not so far\n\n    \"Profaned his spirit, sank his brow,\"\n\nthat the ambition which, under better auspices, might have soared to the\nhighest aims, was now directed no farther than to establish an unstable\ndominion over a few wild, uncultivated peasants, who, like fire and\nwater, might be excellent servants, but with any opportunity of\ndomination would probably prove tyrannic masters. He who would rule the\nrude peasantry of Ireland, must make up his mind to be governed by them\nin turn, whenever _his_ wishes and aims and actions fall short of\n_theirs_. They will go with him while his desires and designs run\ntogether with their own, but they will speedily leave him behind, or\nforce him with them, if they find him less eager than themselves. Even\nunder the regular discipline of the army the same may be observed. In\nbattle an Irish regiment cannot, or rather will not, understand any\norder to retreat. They repudiate all strategy which even _appears_ to\nwithdraw them from\n\n    \"The triumph and the vanity,\n    The rapture of the strife,\"\n\nand show, by the gallant impetuosity with which they plunge into the\nattack, that their proper action is assault. If so under the harsh\nrestrictions of military discipline, what must it be when freed from\nthat coercion?\n\nThe leader of the Whiteboys in 1822--the veritable CAPTAIN ROCK, whom I\nhave introduced at the Wake of the slain John Sheehan--was no common\nman. His birth had been respectable, his education good, his fortune had\nbeen ample, his mind was affluent in varied and vigorous resources; he\nhad formerly won favor and fame from the world's opinion, and few men in\nany country could compete with him in the personal advantages which\nspring from manly beauty of form and feature, activity of body, and a\nstrength of frame which literally defied fatigue and over-exertion.\n\nThe father of John Cussen was \"a gentleman of independent fortune,\" in\nIrish parlance; that is, had succeeded to a pretty good estate, and\nwould have been in easy, if not affluent circumstances, could he have\nrealized any thing like the nominal amount of his rent-roll. But there\nwere two difficulties, at least. Irish estates have had a fatal facility\nin becoming subjected to such things as mortgages, which relentlessly\nabsorb certain annual amounts in the shape of interest, and Irish\ntenants have been apt to cherish the idea that they perform their duty\ntowards society in general, and themselves in particular, by paying as\nlittle rent as possible. Still, though Mr. Cussen's property had\ngradually come under the pressure of these two causes, it yielded an\nincome sufficient for his moderate wants. His children had died, one by\none, in the very bloom and promise of their youth, until, out of a\nnumerous family, only one son survived.\n\nThis youth, possessing a mind more active and aspirations more ambitious\nthan most of his class, disdained the ordinary routine of every-day\nlife. It was not difficult to persuade his father to permit him to go\ninto the world--the military and naval service, from its danger, being\nthe only profession which that doting parent positively forbade him to\nthink of. The lad, after wavering for some time, determined to become a\nsurgeon, and proceeded to pursue his studies in Dublin.\n\nIt would be tedious to narrate into what a circle of extravagance, while\nthus engaged, the young man became gradually involved; it would be\npainful to trace his downward lapse from folly to vice. Sufficient\nto say that, by the time he received his diploma as a surgeon (having\npassed his examinations with unexpected and even distinguished success),\nhe had contrived to involve himself so deeply that his paternal property\nhad to be additionally mortgaged to relieve him from heavy involvements.\nHis father, who might have repudiated the creditors' claims, admitted\nthem, without a murmur. Eager to snatch him from the haunts and the\nsociety by which he had embarrassed his means and injured his health,\nand looking on the military service as a good school of discipline, even\nif it were not free from peril, his father overcame all personal\nscruples, forgave the past, and looking hopefully at the future,\nsuccessfully employed his influence to obtain for him an appointment as\nsurgeon to one of the regiments which, just then, had been ordered to\nBelgium, as the re-appearance of Napoleon, and his triumphant progress\nfrom Elba to Paris--his eagle \"flying from steeple to steeple until it\nalighted on the tower of Notre Dame\"--had awakened the fears and enmity\nof Europe, bringing once more into action\n\n                                    \"All quality,\n    Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.\"\n\nIt was John Cussen's fortune to reach the scene of warfare in time to\nwitness the deadly struggle at Waterloo. But it was his hap, also, to do\nmore than witness it. He performed an act of heroism on the field,\nwhich not only gained him high and merited praise, but had powerful\ninfluence upon his future prospects.\n\nMilitary discipline very properly provides that the surgeons of a\nregiment shall not take part in any engagement on the field. The lives\nof so many may depend upon the skill of even a single surgeon that it\nwould be inconvenient, to say the best of it, if, when his aid were\npromptly required, during an encounter, it were found that he had\nallowed his ardor to carry him into the actual peril of the strife.\n\nCussen was sufficiently near to witness the greater part of the contest\non the day of Waterloo. It was not without difficulty that his quick\nIrish spirit could control the almost overwhelming desire to plunge into\nthe middle of the contest--which, on that day, had more single\nencounters than any since Poictiers and Agincourt. As he stood outside a\ntent which had been placed for the use of the medical staff, in the rear\nof the British position, he observed an English officer, on an\nunmanageable charger (bearing him along with an impetuous speed, which,\nhaving received a severe wound in the bridle-arm, he could neither\ncontrol nor check), followed by a French cuirassier, who had nearly\novertaken him. Another moment and the uplifted sabre would have struck\nthe helpless man to the ground. Cussen rushed forward, literally tore\nthe Frenchman from his saddle, by main strength, and, wresting the\nsword from his hand, gave him a death-wound. Quick as thought, turning\nfrom the fallen foe and bounding forward with an agility which he had\nacquired on his native hills, Cussen followed the swift horse, and\nsucceeded, by a strong and overmastering grasp, in checking its speed.\nIn its rider, he recognized his own Colonel, whose life he had thus\ndoubly saved, and received a grateful assurance that his service should\nnot be forgotten.\n\nHaving dressed the Colonel's wounds, Cussen resumed his position in the\nrear.--But inaction was terrible to one whose spirit had been awakened\nto the excitement before him--for \"quiet to quick bosoms is a bane.\"\nNearer and nearer became his involuntary approach to that part of the\nplace in which the contest was hotly proceeding. At last, unable any\nlonger to resist the passionate impulse, he mounted on one of the many\nwar-steeds which were wildly galloping over the battle-field, caught the\neye of the officer whom he had rescued, rushed forward to join the\n_m\u00eal\u00e9e_, and bravely fought side by side with him, when the \"Up, Guards,\nand at them!\" of Wellington urged on the soldiers to that last terrific\ncharge which shook the imperial diadem from the brow of the first\nNapoleon.\n\nA gallant deed, even though it violate the strict rules of military\ndiscipline, is not considered a very heinous offence by any commander.\nSo, while his Colonel hailed John Cussen as preserver, the brief lapse\nof duty as a surgeon was forgiven, in consideration of his chivalry as a\nsoldier.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.\n\n\nThe war ended. Napoleon fell. St. Helena received the imperial exile. On\nthis lonely rock, far out in the Atlantic, the chained Prometheus\nsuffered a punishment worse than death--Sir Hudson Lowe being the\nvulture which continually struck, to prey upon, his heart.\n\nThe conclusion of the war influenced the fortunes of others besides its\ngreatest victim. The battalion in which Cussen had served was reduced,\nand, with many others, his occupation was gone. While yet uncertain what\ncourse to pursue, he received an invitation from his late Colonel, very\nurgently pressing him to visit the veteran at his country seat in\nHampshire; and thither he proceeded.\n\nCussen, it may here be stated, was what old crones (who are good judges\nof such things, knowing \"a hawk from a hernshaw\") would simply and\nexpressively describe as \"a very personable man.\" He was in the spring\nof early manhood. He had the advantage, whatever _that_ might be, of\ngentle blood; he had received a good education; he had distinguished\nhimself in the greatest battle of the age; above all, he had saved the\nlife of the gallant officer whose guest he was. What wonder, therefore,\nif, before he had been quite a month at Walton Hall, the bright eyes of\nMiss Walton beamed yet more brightly when they met his admiring glances.\n\nThe lady was young--not decidedly lovely, perhaps, but that most\ncharming of all charming creatures, a thoroughly English beauty. She\nmight not immediately dazzle, but she was sure always to delight. It was\nimpossible to see and not admire her. Besides, she had been largely\nendowed with intellect by bounteous nature, and had also been well\neducated, carefully rather than brilliantly. With an undeniable dash of\nromance in her character, she was so pure in heart and thought, that the\nvery novelty of _such_ purity threw such a spell of enchantment upon the\nfevered passion of John Cussen, that literally, for the first time in\nhis life, his soul was subdued into a tenderness which contrasted\nstrangely, but not unpleasantly, with the wild tumults--rather of sense\nthan soul--which, in former days, he had been wont to dignify with the\nname of Love.\n\nWhen he ascertained such to be the state of his own feelings, he became\nvery anxious to learn whether Alice Walton was affected in like manner.\nHer impressions appeared to be very much as he desired, for, kissing\nthat fair cheek, which\n\n    \"Blushed at the praise of its own loveliness,\"\n\nand whispering hope to her anxious ear, he proceeded to explain to her\nfather all that he felt--to solicit his sanction for the love which, but\njust confessed to each other, had suddenly been matured by that\nconfession into a passion at once deep and ardent.\n\nAlice Walton was an only child. What other result, then, can be\nanticipated than the usual one--the favorable reception of the avowal\nmade by Cussen? Affection raises few difficulties where the happiness of\nthe beloved is felt to be deeply involved. It is questionable whether,\non that evening, a happier group could have been found anywhere within\nthe limits of \"merry England.\" The old soldier, pleased with the\nopportunity of keeping his gallant preserver with him while also\nsecuring the happiness of his daughter;--the young man exulting in his\nconquest, proud of the personal and mental endowments of his lady-love,\nand firmly resolving never to give her any cause to repent having\nyielded to the trusting affection which her guileless nature had formed\nfor him;--the maiden herself, with the daydream of love making an almost\nvisible atmosphere of joy around her heart, softly yielded to glad and\ngenial anticipations of a happy future. Well is it that Woman's heart\ncan thus luxuriate in imagination, for, in many cases, the romance of\ntheir love is far brighter than the reality ever proves to be.\n\nSome arrangements which were to be made respecting his family property,\nand a natural desire personally to communicate his favorable prospects\nto his father, required that Cussen, now an accepted suitor, should\nproceed to Ireland for a short time.\n\nImagine the parting. The endearing caresses--the gentle beseechings for\nfull and frequent letters--the soft promises as to faithful\nremembrances--the whispers of that mutual affection upon which a few\nbrief months would put the seal--and the \"Farewell,\" which, though dewed\nwith tears, had not very much of real sorrow in it, so sweetly did it\nrealize the expressive lines of the poet, of the parting, though sad,\nwhich\n\n    \"Brought the hope that the morrow\n    Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again!\"\n\nCussen arrived in Ireland just in time to see his father die, and to\nlearn that old involvements, and the early extravagance in which himself\nhad rioted, had reduced their estate to a nominal income. The greater\npart of its produce had been swallowed up by interest payable to the\nmortgagees, who, from time to time, had advanced money on the property.\nIn this dilemma, Cussen did, from impulse, what, had he acted simply on\ncalculation only, would have been the very best thing for him. Without\nloss of time, he frankly communicated with Colonel Walton on this\nunpromising condition and aspect of his affairs and prospects--assured\nhim that, when he sued for his daughter's hand, he had not the least\nidea that he was so near the condition of a ruined man--that his father,\nwhen discharging the liabilities in which his early extravagance had\ninvolved him, had never breathed a syllable of the price at which they\nwere to be swept away--that, almost beggared as he now was, he felt\nhimself, in a worldly point of view, anything but a match for Alice--and\nthat, while, with a breaking heart, he absolved her from the tender vows\nwhich she had made, he still cherished a hope that even yet, pass a few\nyears, he might be able to achieve a position, by the exercise of his\ntalents, which, once again, would permit him, on a more equal footing\nthan at present, to solicit a renewal of their betrothal. The Colonel\nwas brief and decisive. He thanked Cussen for his frank and honourable\nconduct, assuring him that Alice, as well as himself, fully appreciated\nhis motives; declared that for his daughter's sake, as well as his own,\nhe was unwilling to relinquish the intended alliance with his preserver\nand friend; and liberally gave the kindest promises of such full and\nimmediate assistance as would speedily relieve the estate from its\nencumbrances--should it indeed be thought expedient to retain it, the\nreversion of the invaluable Walton Hall property inalienably belonging\nto Alice.\n\nBefore, by the fulfilment of this promise, Cussen's brighter prospects\ncould be realized, \"the tenth wave of human misery swept\" over his\nheart. There came a sad reverse. I am acquainted with all the details,\nbut they are too melancholy to be related here. Let it be sufficient to\nsay that Alice Walton and her father met with a sudden and tragic doom.\nBy an accident, the origin of which was suspected, but never\nascertained, their residence was consumed by fire--father and daughter\nperishing in the flames. The estate passed, in due course of law, to the\nnext of kin, with whom Cussen had no acquaintance, and upon whom he had\nno claim. In due course of law, also, the mortgages on Cussen's own\nproperty were foreclosed. He was a ruined man.\n\nThe cup of misery overflowed. Very bitter did Cussen find the draught.\nHopes blighted--the golden promise of his young manhood wholly\ndestroyed--station utterly lost--Poverty with her feet upon his\nhearthstone--all that made the value of life swept away at once. Amid\nthe maddening whirl of such contending emotions as this desolation\ncaused, no wonder if even his strong mind and large frame bowed beneath\nthe shock.\n\nMonths passed by, and bodily health was in a measure restored. But the\nmind did not recover its elastic spring. Sunk in the torpor of despair,\nJohn Cussen was a broken man. Then came the reaction, after a time, and\nthen he awoke to the sad reality of life. Better far had he continued\nunconscious or despairing. He might have been miserable, but he would\nhave been unstained by guilt. Gradually, he found a Lethe for his sad\nthoughts, by passing \"the Rubicon of the cup.\" At first, while this was\nbeing done in secret, the neighboring gentry made many efforts to\narrange his affairs, liberate him from his more pressing pecuniary\ninvolvements, and give him the opportunity of realizing an adequate\nincome by the practice of his profession. Each proffered kindness was\nrejected. He sat, another Timon, with his household gods shivered around\nhim.\n\nThis could not long continue--for man cannot live without society. By\ndegrees Cussen returned to the haunts and the companionship of man. Had\nhe kept within the pale of his own class, perhaps all might still have\nbeen well. But a change had passed over and darkened his mind. He\nfancied that scorn sat upon the lip and glanced from the eye of every\none more wealthy than himself, and thus Pride guided the arrow which\nPoverty barbed. He shunned the society of those to whom, in all save\nwealth, he had been equal, at the very least, and he found a consolation\nin the company of those who, remembering his birth (and in no place is\nthat memory so well retained as in Ireland), would have considered him\nas their superior, even if, like them, he had to till the earth for a\nbare subsistence. Thus, by a slow but certain process of deterioration,\nJohn Cussen--once the pride of the order of fashion and wealth in his\nnative country--gradually became the associate of the ignorant and\nexcitable peasantry.\n\nMixing with these poor people,--then, as ever, dissatisfied with their\ncondition, and eagerly anxious for any change which seemed to promise\nbetter days and brighter fortunes,--Cussen soon became thoroughly\nidentified with their feelings. Hating oppression, believing that the\npeasantry were greatly wronged by absentee landlords, oppressive\nmiddlemen, and an exacting \"Church as by law established,\" he allowed\nhimself to be seduced into the secret and illegal association of the\nWhiteboys. The homage which they paid to his birth and education, gave\nhim more satisfaction than, at first, he ventured to own, even to\nhimself. His pride was soothed by finding himself yet looked up to by\nany class. The energy of his character returned (in part), and assuming\nstrong and unquestioned command over the disaffected peasantry, he\nbecame one of their most powerful leaders. Quick in mental resources,\nsuperior in physical strength, his influence over his followers was very\ngreat. Entire obedience was yielded to his commands, and (as in the\npresent instance, when he undertook to lead the attack upon Churchtown\nBarracks) his presence was deemed sufficient to insure the success of\nany enterprise, however daring. In all this, however, it is scarcely\ndoubtful that John Cussen's actions were those of a man whose mind had\nlost its balance. Sorrow and suffering had touched his brain, and\nperhaps _this_ was the vent which prevented actual insanity.\n\nThere was \"method in his madness,\" however, for when he entered upon\nthis wild and secret career, he took care that the movements which he\npersonally guided should be remote from that part of the country in\nwhich he was best known. He strictly forbade any of his troops to\nindulge in drink, whenever their co-operation was required, and on all\nexpeditions which he personally led (chiefly for the purpose of\nobtaining fire-arms from the houses of country gentlemen) he suited his\nattire to that of his companions, and so complete was the disguise, that\nnone could recognize John Cussen as the dreaded Captain Rock, who\nscattered terror wherever he moved.\n\nThe remarkable fidelity which the Irish peasantry make it at once a\nmatter of duty and pride to pay to their leaders against the law, was\nCussen's chief protection. His secret was well kept. None of the gentry\nof the county had the slightest suspicion that Cussen, in whom many of\nthem still professed to take an interest, was in any way mixed up--far\nless as a leader--with the Whiteboy movements which caused them so much\nalarm.\n\nSuch was John Cussen, whom we left leading a goodly company of\nWhiteboys to the attack on Churchtown Barracks, a military position of\nmuch strength and some importance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE ATTACK ON CHURCHTOWN BARRACKS.\n\n\nThe Whiteboys, and their leader, reached Churchtown Barracks about\nmidnight. All was silent when they arrived, except the measured step of\nthe sentinel. Darkness covered all things as with a pall. But Cussen\nknew every inch of the ground, and the darkness, instead of being an\nimpediment, was rather auxiliary to his purpose. He posted his men in a\nfavorable position, and, within ten minutes of their arrival, everything\nwas ready, and every one fully instructed as to his particular line of\naction, and was prepared for the manner of the attack.\n\nChurchtown Barracks, in the centre of a very disturbed district, had\nformerly been the residence of a private gentleman. When life and\nproperty had become insecure, afraid of the doom of Major Going, he had\nfled the country. Major Going, who had been not only agent to the great\nCourtenay estates (Lord Devon's), but also a magistrate, had made\nhimself unpopular in both capacities. He _would_ have the rent duly\npaid at the appointed day, and he sometimes went out of his way, from\nexcess of zeal, to show his vigilance as a dispenser of justice, under\nthe law. After many warnings, which only made him more exacting and more\nsevere, he was assassinated. His successor, a gentleman named Hoskins,\nfollowed the same track--dignified by the name of \"the path of\nduty,\"--and shared the same doom. Not without warning, for, weeks before\nthat doom was inflicted, he had heard even his own laborers chaunt the\nWhiteboy doggerel--\n\n    \"Hoskins and Going\n      Are nearly one,--\n    Hoskins is GOING,\n      And Going is GONE!\"\n\nThe noon-day assassination of two such active magistrates, and the\nincrease of predial insurrection in the counties of Cork and Limerick,\nso imperatively called for the allocation of a large and permanent\nmilitary force at places in or near the disturbed localities, that the\nIrish Government gladly occupied Churchtown House, at a high rent, as\ntemporary barracks. For some months previous to the night when Cussen\nand his men appeared before it, several companies of infantry, and two\ntroops of cavalry, had been stationed at Churchtown, whence, on the\nrequisition of a magistrate, detachments might be detailed for duty, in\nmore or less force, as circumstances might appear to require.\n\nWith the strategy of a clever leader, Cussen had contrived to render the\nplace comparatively defenceless, by having notices sent to the officer\nleft in command, that there was to be a midnight assemblage of Whiteboys\non the other side of Charleville, and that an attack, to obtain arms,\nwas to be made on a gentleman's residence not far beyond. A strong\ndetachment of infantry and cavalry was sent off, to arrest the midnight\nconclave, and to defend the house which was to be the object of attack.\n\nThe notice which thus put the authorities on the _qui vive_ came from a\nschoolmaster, who was deeply involved in the conspiracy of the\nWhiteboys, and was also in the pay of Government, as a spy. He had\nrepeatedly given information to the military. It had been remarked,\nhowever,--but more as a matter of curiosity than suspicion,--that while\nthey rarely gained anything but fatigue from sallies made at his\ninstigation, they never had been successful, but that outrages were\npretty sure to be committed, at the same time, in a quarter opposite to\nthat which he had suggested. In truth, he was a Whiteboy to the\nbackbone, and a traitor to the authorities who employed him. But, like\nmost of the peasantry of Limerick county, he was so very plausible in\nmanmer, stolid in countenance, and impenetrable in well-acted simplicity\nof speech and act, that his fidelity was not distrusted by the\nmagistracy or the military. The police did not think well of him.\n\nThe military force at Churchtown was large enough to be under the\ncommand of a Field Officer. On this occasion Major White, to whom that\nresponsible post had been intrusted, deemed the information sufficiently\nimportant to place most of his men on active duty. There remained in the\nbarrack a few dragoons, a score of infantry, and one subaltern officer.\n\nHastily as Churchtown House had been converted into a military station,\ncare had been taken to make it assume something of a garrison\nappearance. A stone wall had been erected all around the building,\ninclosing sufficient space as a barrack-yard, in which the soldiers\nmight attend drill, and go through their exercises. This wall was\nsomewhat more than breast high. As there was a strong gate at each side,\nthe place was considered quite able to resist any Whiteboy attack. But,\nindeed, such an act of daring had never been anticipated. Who could\ndream that those who dreaded the lion's paw would voluntarily rush into\nhis mouth?\n\nHaving arranged his men for the attack, Cussen did not long keep them\ninactive. He gave the word, and a volley of slugs rattled against the\nbarrack windows. The alarm was as immediate as the attack was sudden.\nThe soldiers hastily snatched up their arms, hurried to the windows to\nobserve whence came the assault, and were \"picked out\" by the quick\nsight and sure aim of the assailants, so that some were wounded in their\nvery sleeping-rooms. Moving before the lights in those apartments, the\nsoldiers were palpable objects to the armed men outside.\n\nIn a few minutes, the soldiers were arranged in the barrack-yard,\nstartled at the unexpected peril, and ready for defence. At that\ninstant, while awaiting the orders of their officer, a second volley was\nfired upon them, and with fatal effect. The young subaltern on\nduty--bewildered by the suddenness and manner of this attack--\"lost his\nhead,\" as the saying is, and hurriedly gave the order to \"Fire!\"\nBecoming rather accustomed to the darkness, the soldiers fancied that\nthey saw their assailants outside, partly concealed behind the _front_\nwall. Each soldier aiming at what he imagined to be the head of an\nenemy, a straggling peal of musketry followed. The soldiers shouted, and\nwere about re-loading, when, with fatal precision, a third shower of\nslugs and ball, from the Whiteboys, did tremendous execution among them.\nThe beleaguered soldiers even then had not ascertained from what quarter\ndestruction was thus fiercely poured in upon them.\n\nNotwithstanding, they bore themselves gallantly. Men who had faced\ndeath, in its worst form, on the field of battle, a few years before,\nwere not likely to quail before such foes as they knew must now be\nbefore them. The suspense was worse than the reality, for their\nignorance of the number and position of their assailants, caused doubts\nmore dreadful than would have been the actual knowledge of an\nascertained peril.\n\nWith as little delay as possible, but still only at a venture, the\nsoldiers fired a second time. Their fire was immediately returned. By\nthis time, six soldiers were killed, and ten lay severely wounded on the\nground. Their officer--a gallant youth who had been at school six months\nbefore--was shocked and surprised at seeing his men thus dropping around\nhim, taken in a trap, as it were, and shot at like so many marks.\nFeeling that it was madness to remain in their exposed situation, and\nanxious to give his men a chance for their lives, he ordered them to\nthrow open the gates, and sally out to meet their enemies face to face,\nand die--if die they must--in a contest of man to man and hand to hand.\n\nAccordingly, the much-thinned military array, literally\n\n    \"Few, and faint, but fearless still,\"\n\ndivided itself--but the alarm and surprise were great when they found it\nimpossible to open either of the gates. In fact, aware that these gates\nhad been absurdly constructed and hung to open _out of_, instead of\n_into_, the barrack-yard, and anticipating the attempt to pass through\nthem, Cussen had made one of his few preliminary preparations to\nconsist of the heaping huge masses of rock against them, so as to\nprevent their being opened to allow egress to the besieged soldiers.\n\nThis disappointment drove the military to desperation. When another\nvolley from without struck down two more of them, the remnant of the\nparty were quite bewildered, and would have fled back into cover, on the\n_sauve qui peut_ principle, if their officer, as a last resource, had\nnot ordered them to scale the walls, and boldly meet rather than\nfearfully retreat from the imminent peril.\n\nAs with one impulse, rushing forward, they rapidly crossed the front\nwall. Here was a new cause for wonder. They found that they had hitherto\nbeen wasting their fire. Cussen, to baffle his opponents, had placed his\nmen behind each _side_ wall, while, as a decoy, he had made them put\ntheir hats on that in _front_. Thus, while the fire of the Whiteboys was\nmasked, that of the military was thrown away upon the range of hats in\nfront, which were easily mistaken for men behind the parapet. It was a\nclever strategy.\n\nWhen the soldiers dashed over the barrack-wall, they discovered the\ntrick. The Whiteboys then rushed round from their concealment. A\nstruggle ensued. Both parties were highly infuriated--one with triumph,\nthe other with rage. The contest, though destructive, was not of many\nminutes' continuance. Desperate as was the bravery of the soldiers, the\noverpowering force and courage of their opponents were resistless. The\nsoldiers had no alternative but to demand quarter. At that word, Cussen\ninstantly gave orders that the contest should cease. Scarcely any of his\nparty had even been wounded, while, on the other side, the young officer\nwas the only one unharmed. The sergeant who had shot Sheehan (as related\nin the first chapter) was mortally wounded, and lay in the barrack-yard,\nwrithing in agony.\n\nBy this time, the barrack had been set fire to, and the flames raged\nfiercely. Dismayed, defeated, and surrounded by their opponents, the\nsoldiers were grouped together on one side. Some twenty or thirty\nWhiteboys had gathered around the dying sergeant, watching his agonies\nwith fiendish joy. \"In with him! in with him to the fire! Burn him--burn\nthe murderer alive!\" were exclamations which burst from their lips, and\nmade the doomed man shudder as he heard. Cussen stood a little aloof\nfrom all; one might have almost taken him for an unconcerned looker-on,\nas he carelessly stood with his arms folded, a close-fitting skull-cap\nof dark fur upon his head, and a narrow slip of crape concealing the\nupper part of his face. When the Whiteboys seized the sergeant, with the\navowed intent of casting him into the flames, the young officer\naddressed Cussen, and earnestly entreated him to prevent so dreadful a\ndeed. \"My men have fallen,\" he said, \"but I do not know why they were\nattacked. For the love of heaven, do not allow this wretched man to\nsuffer such a death, in cold blood. Besides, he has a mortal wound. If\nthey want his death, a few hours, at the farthest, will gratify them. Do\nnot let him perish thus.\"\n\nCussen answered: \"My men came here for revenge upon that man, and I can\nscarcely prevent their taking it to the fullest. He deserves his death.\nBlood for blood! When he shot an innocent, unoffending man, as if he\nwere a dog, he drew this vengeance on himself. Still, it need not be\npushed to the extremity they call for. A life for a life is all that can\nreasonably be required. But--what cries are those?\"\n\nTurning round, he saw that the flames had now reached the stables in\nwhich the horses of the dragoons were. The poor animals were driven\nalmost to madness by fear, and their dreadful cries came shrilly and\nfearfully upon the ear, filling with awe the breasts of those wild men,\nwho, while human agony appealed in vain, shuddered at this painful\nmanifestation of deep suffering by the brute creation. Help was out of\nthe question, as the flames spread too rapidly for assistance to be\nrendered. The poor animals were literally burned alive, amid the loudly\nexpressed pity of the beholders.\n\nFrom this tragedy they turned to the wounded sergeant. He had breathed\nhis last while this scene had engaged their attention. They would not\nbe cheated out of their revenge. With a yell of triumph, they cast his\ncorpse into the flames, amid a thousand execrations.\n\nThey thus had accomplished their work. Cussen turned to the young\nofficer and said: \"You are free; but you must pledge me your word that\nif you have any personal knowledge of me, or think that you have, you\nwill never take advantage of it.\" This pledge the officer firmly\ndeclined giving. Cussen paused for a few seconds, and replied that it\ndid not matter: he would draw off his men. Giving the word, they marched\noff in good order--were soon out of sight, and the smoking ruins and\ndiminished force remained as evidence of that night's tale of ruin.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE ATTACK ON ROSSMORE.\n\n\nThe news that Churchtown Barracks had been burned down, and the greater\nportion of its military defenders killed, spread, like wildfire, through\nall parts of the kingdom. Magisterial and military inquiries did no more\nthan ascertain the facts, but the persons remained undiscovered. Many\nwere arrested on suspicion, but the actual perpetrators escaped. The\npolicy used was to collect them from distant points, so that domiciliary\nvisits from the patrols and the police in the neighbourhood where the\noutrage had been committed found the peasantry within their own\nhabitations. Thus suspicion was diverted and detection almost\nimpossible--except by treachery.\n\nViewed through the magnifying glass of public rumor, the affair at\nChurchtown appeared very great. In the dearth of more interesting\nintelligence, it was such an event as the wonder-workers of the Press\ndelighted to snatch up as an especial theme for record and remark. The\nLondon newspapers especially gloated over it. Day after day their\ncolumns were filled with \"important particulars of the massacre at\nChurchtown, where the Irish rebels, in overpowering numbers, killed a\nregiment of infantry and two troops of cavalry, burned the barracks to\nthe ground, and barbarously threw the soldiers' wives and children into\nthe flames, in which they were all consumed by the devouring element.\"\nThe affray was repeatedly mentioned in Parliament, where the changes\nrung upon it produced quite a _variorum_ edition of horrors.\n\nThe Executive offered large rewards for such information as might lead\nto the apprehension and conviction of the offenders. Though the required\nknowledge was scattered among hundreds of the peasantry--hunger-stricken\nmen, who often wanted even salt to their potatoes--not one was found to\nenrich himself by the \"blood-money.\" Two descriptions of persons are\nheld in utter hatred and contempt in Ireland;--the man who, for lucre,\nturns from the ancient faith of his fathers, and he who becomes a \"stag\"\n(informer) to save his own neck, or gain the wages of treachery. Of the\ntwo, the informer is considered more harshly than the apostate, who may\nrepent, and in the fulness of time return (even on his death-bed) to the\nfaith he has forsaken; but once that a man becomes a traitor to his\ncolleagues, he does what cannot be undone by any contrition, and may be\npunished, but cannot be atoned for by Death. It is a strange condition\nof society, lamented by O'Connell, Sheil, and others, that, in any\ncases, while the Irish peasantry would pity, and even shield the\nmurderer, (finding or making excuses for his crime,) they will not,\nthey cannot pardon or excuse the informer.\n\nUp to this time, Cussen had escaped suspicion of any participation in\nthe Whiteboy proceedings. Latterly, whether from distaste for the low\ncompanionship into which he had fallen, or from a desire to elude\nsuspicion, he had made a point of frequenting society of a better order.\nOn one of these occasions, while he was spending the evening at the\nhouse of Mr. F. Drew, Drewscourt, near Charleville,(in which, by the\nway, the writer of these Sketches was born,) the affair of Churchtown\nbecame a subject of conversation. Cussen took no part in the dialogue,\nbut when all had retired, except Mr. Drew--a very shrewd but eccentric\nman--he spoke freely upon the subject, and having drank rather more than\nwas good for him, got thrown off his guard so much as, in the excitement\nof the moment, to give a minute account of everything which had passed\non the memorable night in question. With fearful energy he narrated all\nthe details, and at the close, when he told how the mutilated body of\nthe sergeant had been cast into the flames,\n\n    \"Even in his glance, the gladiator spoke.\"\n\nThe impression which his statement and his manner made upon his listener\nwas (as Frank Drew told me afterwards) that Cussen must have been a\nprincipal in the frightful scenes which he so vividly described, or\nmust have had his information direct from an eye-witness and\nparticipant. As the communication had been unguardedly made, and was\nprotected by the seal of that confidence which exists between guest and\nhost, the suspicion never found words until after it was too late to\nharm Cussen.\n\nThe Churchtown insurgents remained undetected. Emboldened by success,\nCussen determined to make a bold attempt to obtain arms. His followers\nstrongly urged him to obtain fire-arms by attacks on the houses of\ncountry gentlemen who were known to have provided themselves with large\nmeans of defence.\n\nCastletown Conyers (about three miles from Drewscourt) was the country\nmansion of a gentleman of large property, not far from the boundary of\nLimerick county. Mr. Conyers, an old gentleman whose loyalty and fears\nwere on a par, was living, when the predial disturbances broke out, in a\nremote part of the county, and, having incontinently taken fright, had\napplied to the Government for protection, and had a corporal and six of\nthe Rifle Brigade quartered in his house as a defensive force. Thus\ngarrisoned, the place might be considered a stronghold;--for, in\naddition to the military force, Mr. Conyers had procured two or three\ncases of Birmingham fowling-pieces, a few kegs of powder, a large bag of\nflints (this was before the general use of percussion caps), and a\nhundred weight of sheet lead, to be cast into bullets.\n\nThis formidable supply of arms and ammunition had reached Castletown\nunder strong military escort from Limerick, and report spoke of it as\neven more considerable than it really was. With these munitions of war,\nand the soldiers and the servants of the house, Castletown was one of\nthe most formidable places the Whiteboys could have thought of\nattacking. Yet, with that characteristic, but calculating boldness,\nwhich gave him eminence with his followers,\n\n    \"For those who THINK must rule o'er those who TOIL,\"\n\nCussen determined to invest this fortilage. The arms and ammunition were\nwhat he wanted, for no one could harbor enmity against the owner of\nCastletown, a harmless, neutral character, whose house was open to the\npoor; while his wife, a matron of the olden school (she was half-sister\nto Sir John Fitzgerald, now M. P. for Clare), was beloved throughout the\ndistrict, for her kindness and charity.\n\nCussen well knew that his party, numerous but badly armed, would have\nbut small chance of success in an ordinary attack upon Castletown, well\ndefended as it was. He determined to win by strategy what he could\nscarcely gain by force. He usually preferred such exploits as could be\nachieved rather by mental ingenuity than mere physical effect. To figure\nas the contriver gratified him, and encouraged his followers' belief\nthat, no matter what the difficulty, his sagacity could bring it through\nwith success.\n\nAbout a mile from Castletown, and yet more remote from other large\nhouses--for it was in a part of the country half-bog, half-mountain--was\nRossmore, the residence of Mr. John Shelton, owner of a considerable\nproperty. Long confined to his chair by gout, which had deprived him of\nthe power of walking, he had not taken any part in the county\nproceedings, as a magistrate. Nor, while other resident landlords were\nsoliciting assistance to protect their dwellings, had Mr. Shelton joined\nin the entreaty. Isolated by habits and local situation, from the gentry\nof the district, he believed that the Whiteboys would not obtrude on the\nobscurity of one who felt that, as a good landlord, he did not deserve\nill at the hands of any one. Of his large family there were then\nresiding with him a son aged about eighteen, and two daughters some\nyears older. As Mr. Shelton was my own uncle, I can speak confidently as\nto the details which I give.\n\nAbout ten o'clock, on a fine evening in March, 1822, the peaceful\ninhabitants of Rossmore House were disturbed by a Whiteboy visit. The\ndoors were speedily forced in, front and rear. The helpless\nhousehold offering no resistance, the intruders proceeded to make\nthemselves quite \"at home.\" One division sat down in the servants' hall,\nthrew wood and turf on the fire, and commanded the trembling female\nservants to cover the long table with provisions. Others ranged through\nthe adjacent apartments in search of arms. More loudly called out for\nyoung Charles Shelton. The plan of Cussen was to take this lad to\nCastletown a prisoner, and threaten to shoot him in sight of the\ngarrison there, unless all the arms and ammunition were given up. The\ntwo families were on such friendly terms, besides being related, that\nCussen made sure of Mr. Conyers making any sacrifice rather than see his\nneighbor's son killed. But, in very truth, (as I afterwards knew,)\nwhatever Mr. Conyers might have felt, the military force at Castletown\nwould rather have permitted the murder than part with the means of\ndefence--the catastrophe at Churchtown being in their minds.\n\nCharles Shelton, who slept in an upper and remote apartment, did not\nimmediately hear the tumult below. His elder sister, Alicia, who had\nhigh spirit and much self-possession, heard the clamour--readily\nsurmised the extreme danger of her brother--hastily arose, throwing a\nshawl over her night dress--ran to her brother's room, the door of which\nshe locked, securing the key--and then went down boldly to face the\ndanger, if necessary.\n\nWhile she stood near the door of the servants' hall, regarding what was\ngoing on, but herself unseen, Cussen came in from the back-yard, having\nkept aloof from the confusion until then. He was just in time. The\nfrightened servants, in compliance with loud demands for drink, had\nplaced the whiskey-jar upon the table. Knowing that success, and even\nsafety depended on such indulgence being abstained from, he broke the\njar with the fowling-piece he carried.\n\nHis men looked at each other, then at him, but his stern looks awed\nthem. One or two merely muttered a regret that \"such prime stuff\" should\nbe wasted.\n\nCussen then, as if anxious to avoid all chance of recognition, returned\nto the back of the house. He wore a close-fitting skull-cap, with a slip\nof crape in front, and could see whatever occurred. His followers were\nmore or less disguised, and all, except Cussen, had white shirts over\ntheir garments--hence the name Whiteboy.\n\nPerceiving the power of his leadership, Alicia Shelton determined not to\nwaste words or time in entreaties on the men, but to appeal at once to\nCussen. She managed to leave the house without being noticed--found\nCussen outside, leaning on his fowling-piece, in a thoughtful and\nabstracted mood. To throw herself on her knees before him--to implore\nhim for the love of Heaven to save her brother's life--was the\nimpulsive action of a moment. He turned away, not even looking upon her,\nand then--the present peril giving her new energy and courage--she\nseized him by the coat-skirt and earnestly said, \"You want to take my\nbrother to Castletown. There they will see him torn to pieces before\nthey will surrender their arms. You must know that it will be an idle\nattempt. Then, in their disappointment, your men will kill him. Save\nhim--save my brother, if you have a human heart. I know that you will do\nit, and I will bless you if you do.\"\n\nShe sank on the ground before him. He felt that she was speaking the\ntruth. Besides, he was moved by her entreaty. Raising her from the\nground, he said, in a kind and soothing manner, \"Lady! I am afraid that\nwe must have your brother's company, but no harm shall reach him with my\nconsent.\"\n\nHer convulsive grasp still held him. Striving to extricate himself, he\ngot into the moonlight, and then, for the first time, he had a view of\nher features. She was very handsome; and now, with her dark hair\ndishevelled, her eager glance, her graceful attitude, her earnest tone,\nher light attire, she looked a Pythoness.\n\nCussen gazed long and anxiously on the still kneeling suppliant. Some\nold memory may have passed through his mind in that brief space--a wave\nin life's vast ocean. Perhaps some resemblance of form, feature, or\nvoice brought back a glimpse of bygone days of happiness and love. There\nstill was something tender in that troubled heart. He passed his hands\nacross his eyes, as if he would clear them from a mist, and then with a\ngentle courtesy, as if they were in a ball-room, raised Miss Shelton\nfrom the ground.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"whatever I can do to aid you, I will do. They have not\nyet found your brother. If he be concealed, keep him so, and I will make\nsome pretext to draw off my men. They must have whatever arms are in the\nhouse; but they shall be content with that.\"\n\nMiss Shelton would have expressed her warm gratitude, but Cussen did not\nwait to be thanked. He turned away then. While she yet lingered, with\nclasped hands to heaven, he suddenly returned, politely raised his cap\nfrom his head for a moment, took one of her hands in his, pressed his\nlips to it, with the gallant air of a cavalier, and then withdrew.\nAlmost before Alicia Shelton had regained her own apartments, Cussen had\ngiven his men the word to retire. He led them into the belief that the\nmilitary and police were approaching, and this made them hastily retreat\nand disperse, taking with them all the arms in the house except a small\npair of pistols which Captain Shelton had picked up and brought away\nwith him from Waterloo. They are now in my own possession.\n\nBefore Miss Shelton had risen from her earnest thanksgiving for her\nbrother's safety, Captain Rock and his force had departed. She then\nventured into her father's room, from whence his bodily ailments did not\nallow him to move, and was happy to learn that he had not heard the\ntumult which had prevailed in the more distant part of the house. Thus\nterminated a night of terror.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTHE TRIAL.\n\n\nMuch alarm was created, through the county of Limerick, by the attack\nupon Mr. Shelton of Rossmore. The neighbouring gentry argued from it,\nand not without cause, that if a gentleman whose advanced years and\nbodily ailments had kept him aloof from the actual exercise of his\nmagisterial functions, were thus singled out, there was little hope for\nescape for those who had made themselves marked men, by determined and\nacknowledged resistance to and denunciation of the Whiteboys\nAccordingly, zeal being now quickened by fear for personal safety, it\nwas resolved that neither trouble nor expense be spared to discover the\npersons implicated in this last affair. Many circumstances tended to\nestablish a conviction that the leader of the Whiteboys must be some one\ngreatly superior to those whom he commanded. The brief conversation\nwhich had been held with the officer at Churchtown, and Miss Shelton at\nRossmore, almost proved that one and the same person had commanded on\nboth occasions,--that he was a man of education and gentle bearing,--and\nthat it was necessary, above all, if the insurrectionary conspiracy was\nto be put down, to strike at him, its life and soul.\n\nWeeks passed by, and though many were suspected, and several taken into\ncustody by the police, no clue to the discovery of the veritable Captain\nRock was yet discovered. At last, one of the persons apprehended on\nsuspicion--faint-hearted as a weak woman, and far less faithful--let\nfall some words which first excited suspicion against John Cussen. No\nnotice appeared to be taken of them at the time, but the prisoner, who\nwas kept in solitary confinement for some time, was gradually worked\nupon by promises of large payment in the event of the conviction of the\nactual leader of the Whiteboys. He vacillated between cupidity and fear\nof his own personal safety. At last, he _stagged_--that is, he gave\nsome information, on the solemn promise that his having done so should\nnever transpire, that he should not be required to give any evidence in\npublic, and that he should immediately be conveyed out of the country\nfor safety.\n\nAt first, the magistrates hesitated to believe that John Cussen could be\nconcerned in the outrages which had spread alarm far and near, and\ndirected particular inquiries to be made respecting his habits, way of\nliving, haunts, occupation, and companions. They ascertained, from this\nscrutiny and espial, the fact of his frequent absences from home at\nnight; they obtained proof of his having been seen, within the\nprohibited hours, in remote places where outrages had been committed;\nand the conviction came upon their minds that Cussen, and none other,\nwas the much-dreaded and long-concealed Captain Rock.\n\nOrders were given to arrest him, and also to search his house. Among his\npapers were found some documents which could scarcely have been in\npossession of any but a leader of the disaffected. They were\ninsufficient of themselves, however, to fix him as such.\n\nThe police and the military, charged with the warrant to arrest Cussen,\nreceived strict injunctions to avoid unnecessary violence. It was\nanticipated, from his determined character and great personal strength,\nthat he would resist any attempt to make him a prisoner. Contrary to\nexpectation, he surrendered himself without struggle or hesitation. He\nwas found sitting t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate with old Frank Drew, at Drew's Court,--the\nsame to whom he had spoken so freely about the particulars of the attack\non Churchtown Barracks,--and when he heard the measured tread of the\nmilitary, as they came up the avenue, he paused in his conversation, and\nexclaimed, \"They have come for me.\"\n\nIn custody his deportment, equally devoid of effrontery and fear, was\napparently that of an innocent man, and impressed very many with the\nidea that he was unjustly suspected. The magistrates, who knew better,\nbut were compelled to conceal the source of their information, even\nincurred some blame, from public opinion, for having apprehended and\ndetained him.\n\nThe difficulty was--how to prove that John Cussen was identical with\nCaptain Rock. In accordance with his compact with the authorities, the\ncraven who had given the clue had been quietly shipped off to England.\nThe most liberal offers were secretly made, on the part of the\nGovernment, to induce some of the other prisoners to turn king's\nevidence, but without avail. They knew, one and all, what share Cussen's\nhad been in the Whiteboy movements; but they were fully aware, also,\nthat to appear in evidence against him would, in effect, be equivalent\nto the signing of their own death-warrant. They continued faithful to\nhim--and from higher motives, perhaps, than that of personal fear. For\nhe was a man who possessed the power of winning hearts, and there were\nmany--very many of his followers, who had become so warmly attached to\nhim that they would have laid down their own lives to protect his from\nharm.\n\nIt was believed that Miss Shelton, if she was so minded, could have\nrecognized his figure, his features, and the very tone of his voice. She\nwas strongly urged to do so, in order \"to promote the ends of justice;\"\nbut, grateful for the service which he had rendered to her brother, and\nremembering his personal courtesy to herself, she invariably declined\ndoing so, and, to avoid all compulsion or persuasion in the matter, was\nsecretly preparing to pay a visit to her elder sister, who had married\nan English gentleman, and resided at Bath. On her repeated refusal to\nassist the Crown, it was determined that, by means of a stratagem, she\nshould be trepanned into identifying him.\n\nAccordingly, Major Eeles, Captain Johnstone, and another officer of the\nRifle Brigade, made a morning-call at Rossmore, and, as if by accident,\nasked Miss Shelton and her sister whether they would not like to see the\nbarrack at Ballingarry, which they had repeatedly promised to visit. A\nparty of six or seven was made up on the instant. The horses were\nordered out, and very soon the party reached the barrack, in which\nCussen was detained until his final removal to the county-prison of\nLimerick. That such a person was there, was unknown to all the visitors.\nAccompanied by some of the officers' wives, whom they knew, the ladies\nfrom Rossmore entered the room occupied by Cussen, heavily ironed and\nclosely guarded. As they were passing through it, Cussen was purposely\nprovoked, by one of his guards, to speak loudly--angrily, indeed--to\nsome taunting remark. Alicia Shelton, recognizing the peculiar and\nunforgotten tone, seized her sister's arm, with a sudden impulse, and\nexclaimed--\"It is the very man!\" and would have fallen, but for support\nimmediately rendered.\n\nCussen started at her exclamation, looked at her, \"more in sorrow than\nin anger,\" rose from his chair, raised his hat, and courteously saluted\nthe party. Miss Shelton, who avoided a second glance at him, restrained\nher feelings, and did not again open her lips; but what she had\ninvoluntarily said, slight as it was, sealed his fate--and he knew it.\nSo did the officers who had planned the trick.\n\nGovernment had directed that Cussen's trial should immediately take\nplace. This was before Alicia Shelton had been betrayed into a\nrecognition of the prisoner. She considered herself bound in honour not\nto give evidence to the detriment of one who had conferred a signal\nfavour on herself. But, on the night of the attack, Cussen had also been\nseen and heard by her younger sister, whose bed-room window overlooked\nthe back-yard, and who had witnessed the occurrence between them. Not\nconsidering herself bound by any personal ties of gratitude, and\nsomewhat selfishly recollecting her own alarm rather than her brother's\nsecured safety, Susanna Shelton declared that, for her part, she had no\nscruples in performing what she believed to be an act of justice to\nsociety. In addition, two of Cussen's followers, to save their own necks\nfrom the halter, promised, almost at the last moment, to turn king's\nevidence--but as there was no certainty of their remaining in the same\nmind, when put into the witness-box (or, rather, as it actually was,\nupon the table in the Court), not much reliance was placed upon _them_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Assizes being several months distant, it was resolved not to wait,\nand a special Commission was sent down for the immediate trial of all\npersons in custody under the Insurrection Act. At the same time, a\nmessenger from the Castle of Dublin arrived at Rossmore with a _subp[oe]na_\nto enforce the attendance of Miss Shelton and her sister, as witnesses\non Cussen's trial, and they were taken away to Limerick, in a\npost-chaise, escorted by a troop of dragoons. Apartments and all\nsuitable accommodation had been provided for them at Swinburne's--then\nthe principal hotel in \"the fair city of the Violated Treaty.\"\n\nThe trial is not forgotten by those who were present. The court-house of\nLimerick was crowded to the very roof. I am proud to say, as an\nIrishman, that among that large audience, there was not even one female.\nIrish propriety, by a conventional arrangement rather understood than\nexpressed, very properly prohibits the appearance of any of the fair sex\nin a Court of Justice, except where necessarily present as a party, or\ncalled upon as a witness. I write of what was the rule some thirty years\nago--matters may have changed since. On arraignment, Cussen pleaded \"Not\nGuilty.\" After a long, fatiguing, and nearly inaudible speech--from Mr.\nSergeant Goold--who had been eloquent, but, in his old age, had become\nthe greatest proser, for a small man, at the Irish Bar--the evidence was\ngone into. The case had been skilfully got up, but, though no moral\ndoubt could exist as to the prisoner's participation, if not leadership,\nin many Whiteboy offences, it may be doubted whether the proofs would\nhave sufficed for a conviction in ordinary times. The two informers, on\nwhose evidence much reliance had been placed, told their story volubly\nenough, but when the usher's wand was handed to them, that they might\npoint at the prisoner in identification, each shook his head and\naffected never before to have seen him.\n\nCussen's equanimity was undisturbed throughout the early part of the\ntrial. When Mr. Sergeant Goold, in stating the case, alluded to the\nattack on Churchtown, the prisoner said that, in the copy of the\nindictment with which he had been served, there was no charge against\nhim save for certain transactions alleged to have taken place at\nRossmore, and he desired to know whether it was purposed, or indeed\nwhether it was legal, to state a case or give evidence out of the\nrecord? There was considerable sensation at this inquiry. The Judge\nreplied that Counsel ought to confine himself to the charge in the\nindictment, and admitted that the prisoner had exercised no more than\nhis undoubted right in checking the introduction of irrelevant matter.\nThe Crown Counsel had only to bow and submit to the opinion and reproof\nof the Judge. The prisoner appearing disposed to speak again, the Judge\nasked whether he had any more to say? \"Only this, my lord,\" said he,\n\"that if it be my _right_, as prisoner, to check the introduction of\nirrelevant topics, having a tendency to prejudice me with the jury, it\nsurely was _your duty_, as Judge, to have done so--particularly as mine\nis a case of life and death.\"\n\nThis was a well-merited reproof, given with a certain degree of dignity,\nand (for the Judge was a man of enlarged mind) did no injury to Cussen.\n\nWhen Miss Shelton appeared on the table, Cussen appeared startled, for\nhe had been given to understand that she had positively refused to\nappear against him--indeed, it had been reported that she had even gone\nto England to avoid it. Compelled to give her testimony, she detailed,\nin the plain and forcible language of truth, under what circumstances\nshe had seen Cussen at Rossmore--what peril her brother had been\nthreatened with--what supplications she had made in his behalf--how\npromptly the favour she had solicited had been granted--how kind the\nprisoner's words and demeanour to herself had been. She took occasion to\nadd that her appearance as a witness was against her own desire. She was\nthen asked to turn round and say whether she then saw the person who had\nacted as she had described. Not without great delay and\nhesitation--urged, indeed, by an intimation of the personal consequences\nof her contumacy--did she obey, but, at last, she did identify the\nprisoner, saying, \"That is the man who saved my brother's life, at my\nentreaty, and stood between myself and outrage worse than death.\" Cussen\nrespectfully acknowledged her evident feeling in his favour by making\nher a low bow as she went down.\n\nHer sister, who was cast in a coarser mould of mind and body, exhibited\nno scruples, but gave her evidence with an undisguised antipathy towards\nthe accused. The missing links, supplied by her testimony, made up a\nstrong chain of evidence which, every one felt, it would be difficult\nfor Cussen to beat down, in any manner. It was expected, almost as a\nmatter of course, that he would trust to proving, by an _alibi_, the\nimpossibility of his having been the person who was present on the\noccasion referred to by the witness. Every one who saw him in the dock,\nwhere his bearing was equally free from bravado and fear, anticipated\nsome very ingenious, if not successful defence. He very slightly\ncross-examined the witnesses for the prosecution, and then only on\npoints which bore on his personal conduct. He declined availing himself\nof the open assistance of counsel--though he had consulted eminent legal\nauthorities on various technical points, while in prison. But for the\nplace in which he stood, fenced in with iron spikes, and surrounded by\nthe police, one might have thought him merely interested, as a\nspectator, in the circumstances evoked by the evidence, rather than one\nwhose life depended on the issue. Cool, deliberate, and self-possessed,\nhe entered on his defence.\n\nIt was of the briefest;--only a simple negation of the charge--a denial\nthat, even with all probability of its being true, there was legal\nevidence of such a breach of the law as involved conviction and\npunishment--a regret that his identity should have been mistaken by the\nyounger Miss Shelton, who, had he really been the person at Rossmore,\nhad never, even on her own showing, been so close to him as for her to\ndistinguish his features--an expression of gratitude to Alicia Shelton\nfor her evident disinclination to injure one who she believed had\ntreated her with kindness--a strong disclaimer of imputing wilful error\nto _her_, though he considered her sister not free from censure for her\nundisguised avidity in seizing upon every circumstance to convict him--a\nreckless assertion that, come what might, he had outlived the desire of\nexistence, and was prepared for any fortune. Such was the substance of\nhis address, delivered in a manner equally free from bravado and dread.\nHe concluded by declaring that, already prejudged by public opinion (the\nnewspapers, from the first, having roundly proclaimed that he, and none\nother, was or could be the true Captain Rock), and with the undue weight\ngiven to slight and evidently prejudiced evidence, he felt that his\nprospect of acquittal was small.\n\nMr. Sergeant Goold then arose to speak to the evidence for the Crown,\nand was interrupted by Cussen, who asked the Judge whether, when no\nevidence was called for the defence, the prisoner was not entitled, by\nhimself or counsel, to the last word to the jury? Mr. Sergeant Goold\nanswered that the Crown, in all cases, was entitled to the last speech,\nand appealed to the Judge for confirmation of the assertion. Cussen\nagain addressed the Judge, and said that, in civil suits, the practice\nwas certainly not to allow the plaintiff the last speech when the\ndefendant did not call witnesses, for he had himself been a juryman, in\nthe other court, when such a circumstance had occurred. The Judge's\ndecision was that, if he pleased to insist upon it, the counsel for the\nCrown might desire and exercise the right of speaking to the evidence,\neven when, as in the present instance, the accused had called no\nwitnesses, nor even made a defence. But, his Lordship added, perhaps\nunder the circumstances, Mr. Sergeant Goold would not exercise the\nright. Goold grumbled, and fidgeted, and muttered unintelligible\nsentences about his duty, and finally, gathering up his papers, quitted\nthe Court in a huff, with the air of a person mightily offended.\n\nThe Judge then summed up the evidence, and charged the jury very\nminutely--dwelling, more than was anticipated, on the remote probability\nthat the younger Miss Shelton might have been mistaken as to the\nidentity of the accused. But, said he, even if she were so situated that\nrecognition of his person were even impossible, there is the evidence of\nher sister, given with a reluctance which was creditable to _her_\nhumanity, gratitude, and womanly feeling, which undoubtedly declared\nthat the prisoner in the dock, and none but he, was the leader in the\nattack upon her father's house on the night named in the indictment.\n\nThe jury retired, and after a long deliberation, returned a verdict of\n\"Guilty.\" Perhaps, of all persons in the court, the prisoner was\napparently the least moved by this announcement. His cheek did not\nblench, his lips quiver, nor his limbs tremble. He was called upon to\ndeclare whether he had anything to say why the sentence of the law\nshould not be passed?\n\nCussen, drawing himself up to his full height, declared, in a sonorous\nvoice, which filled the Court, and in the same collected manner which\nhad characterized him during the whole trial, that nothing which he\ncould say was likely to mitigate the sharp sentence of the law. \"I have\nhad a fair trial,\" said he, \"as from the excited state of the country,\nand the fears and feelings of the jury, I could reasonably expect. It is\nevident, from the time they have spent in deliberating on their verdict,\nthat some of the jury, at least, had doubts in my favour. But,\" he\nadded, \"I make no calculation upon that, for I am aware that you, my\nlord, even while you comply with the formula of asking me whether I have\nanything to say against my sentence, have no alternative but to\npronounce it. For my own part, I have faced death on the battle-field,\ntoo often and too boldly, to dread it in any shape. And for the\nignominy, I hold with the French philosopher, whose writings your\nlordship is familiar with, that it is the crime, and not the punishment,\nwhich makes the shame. My lord, I stand, as it were, on the threshold of\nanother world. My path is already darkened by the fast-advancing\nshadows of the grave. Hear me declare, then, that even if I were the\nCaptain Rock whom your jury declare me to be, my death, nor the death of\nhundreds such as I am, cannot and will not put an end to disaffection\narising from laws oppressive in themselves, and rendered even more so by\nbeing harshly and partially administered. The spirit of the people is\nall but broken by long-continued and strong oppression. Between\nmiddlemen and proctors they have been driven almost into despair.\nExactions, for rent and tithes, press increasingly upon them. Whatever\nlittle property they may have possessed has gradually melted away. Their\ncattle, under distraint for rent, crowd the pounds. Their miserable\ncabins are destitute of fuel and food. They feel their wrongs, and have\nunited with the energy of despair to avenge them. Cease to oppress these\nmen, and the King will have no better subjects. So much for them. A\nconcluding word for myself. My lord, I have not called evidence, which I\nmight have done, to show that my general character is that of a man\nindisposed towards bloodshed and cruelty. It may be too late to hear\nthem now--but for the sake of others I would stand before the world as\none who is not the blood-stained ruffian which the learned counsel for\nthe Crown has proclaimed me to be. I would tell _him_, were he here,\nthat whatever else I have done, I have never been publicly branded by\nthe Legislature as a liar. My lord, I have done.\"\n\nThis bold attack on Mr. Sergeant Goold, who, three years before, had\nbeen publicly reprimanded by the House of Commons for having\nprevaricated, when giving evidence before the Limerick Election\nCommittee, was received with applause.\n\nThe Judge intimated that he was ready to hear evidence as to Cussen's\ncharacter, on which several gentlemen of high standing in the county\ncame forward and bore testimony greatly in his favour. The sentence of\ndeath was then pronounced, with the usual formalities.\n\nBut Cussen's hour was not at hand. A memorial to the Government, from\nAlicia Shelton, strongly setting forth the humanity which the convict\nhad manifested towards herself, was immediately forwarded. With it went\na petition, signed by several who had been interested with Cussen's\nconduct on the trial, and believed that to execute their leader was the\nleast likely way of conciliating the Whiteboys. In due course, the Judge\nwho had presided at the trial was called upon to state his opinion. It\nwas said that, viewing the case as it came out in the evidence, and\nwithout touching on the suspicion or presumption that Cussen had been\nguilty of other breaches of the law, the report of the Judge was\nstrongly in his favour. At all events, the Government complied with the\nurgent solicitations in Cussen's behalf, and commuted the sentence of\ndeath into transportation for life.\n\nAs Cussen had heard his death-doom without any apparent emotion, his\nreception of the mitigation of punishment was wholly devoid of\nexultation. He requested that the prison authorities would convey his\nthanks to Alicia Shelton and the others who had interested themselves in\nhis favour.\n\nIt was said that an intimation was made to him, on the part of the\nExecutive, promising him a full pardon if he would give them a clue to\nthe Whiteboy organization, which they greatly desired to put down. It\nwas reported, also, that, in his reply, he declared himself incapable of\nbetraying any confidence which had been reposed in him,--that family\ncircumstances must prevent his desiring to remain in Ireland, on any\nterms,--and he trusted there was a Future for every man who desired to\natone for the Past. This was the nearest approach he ever made to an\nadmission that he had been involved in the Whiteboy movements. The\n\"family circumstances\" to which he alluded consisted of his having been\nprivately married to a Miss Fitzgibbon, with whom he lived so unhappily,\nthat even an enforced residence in New South Wales appeared a lesser\nevil than to remain with her in Ireland.[7]\n\n     [7] The friend who has given me this information respecting Mrs.\n     Cussen, says that when she lived in Limerick, not long ago, her\n     means appeared ample. Her father, who had been a rich\n     cattle-dealer, grazier and farmer, near ----, had probably left her\n     in easy circumstances. He was a Mr. Fitzgibbon, and very little\n     indebted to education. He sent his daughter to a first-rate\n     boarding-school, and permitted her, when grown to womanhood, to\n     invite her former preceptor and a few more \"genteels\" to an evening\n     party--the first ever given in his house. The young lady was\n     somewhat affected, and, to show her education, used big words. Her\n     father, who heard her say to the servant \"Biddy, when the company\n     depart, be sure and extinguish the candles,\" inquired what was the\n     meaning of the word \"extinguish.\" It means _to put out a thing_,\n     said she. In the course of the evening the pigs got upon the lawn,\n     which was overlooked by the drawing-room window, and made a\n     terrible noise. Old Fitzgibbon, determined to be genteel among his\n     daughter's fine guests, went to the head of the stairs, and loudly\n     called out, \"Biddy, go at once and extinguish the pigs from the\n     front of the house!\"\n\nThis, however, did not transpire until some time after he had quitted\nthe country.\n\nHe was transmitted to the convict-ship at Cove, on board of which the\nnarrator of this story, then a lad, had the curiosity to visit him. Of\ncourse, no conversation arose as to the question of his guilt or\ninnocence. When Cussen learned that his youthful visitor was related to\nMiss Shelton, he manifested some interest, inquired after her health,\nbegged she would accept his thanks for the favourable manner in which\nshe had given her evidence, and said that she had strongly reminded him\nof a lady whom he had formerly known, and whose death had led to the\ncircumstances which had brought him to his present position.\n\nThe impression which remains on my mind, after the lapse of so many\nyears, is very much in favour both of Cussen's appearance and manners.\nHe was neatly dressed, and looked very unlike what might have been\nanticipated--considering that he was the veritable Captain Rock. His\nvoice was low--\"an excellent thing\" in man as well as in woman. There\nwas no appearance of bravado in his manner. The two turnkeys from\nLimerick jail, who were in charge of him, spoke very highly of his\ngentle disposition and uniform civility. They declared, such was their\nconviction of his truth, that if, at any time, he had desired to leave\nthem for a week, with a promise to return by a particular day and hour,\nthey were certain he would not break his parole.\n\nOn reaching Spike Island, he was attired in the convict costume,--and\nthe humiliating livery of crime appeared a great annoyance to him for a\nday or two. After that, he showed no feeling upon the matter. The\n\"authorities\" at Spike Island, who were much prejudiced against him, at\nfirst, speedily came to treat him with as much kindness as their rough\nnature and scanty opportunities permitted them to show.\n\nWithin three weeks of his conviction, John Cussen was _en route_ for\nBotany Bay. During the voyage, a dangerous epidemic broke out among the\nconvicts and the crew. The surgeon of the ship was one of the first\nvictims. The commander, who had heard the report of the trial at\nLimerick, recollected that one of the witnesses had stated how\ngallantly Cussen had fought at Waterloo, when an army-surgeon, and asked\nhis prisoner whether he thought himself capable, in the existing\nemergency, of taking medical charge of the ship. Cussen replied in the\naffirmative, but positively declined doing anything so long as he wore\nthe convict-dress. His desire being complied with, he was released from\nhis irons, intrusted with the care of the sick, and succeeded in\nmitigating their sufferings by the remedies he applied. The disease was\nchecked, so that the mortality was much less than was expected, and this\nfavourable result was mainly attributable to Cussen's skill. On arriving\nin New South Wales, this was so favourably represented to the\nauthorities, that a ticket of leave was immediately given to him.\nProceeding up the country, he took a small sheepwalk, and was getting\non prosperously, when a party of bush-rangers attacked and devastated\nhis little place. He immediately devoted himself to a contest with this\npredatory band--long the terror of the colony--and did not rest until he\nhad so completely routed them, that the leaders were apprehended and\nexecuted, while the rest, one by one, came in and delivered themselves\nup to justice.\n\nThe result was that, for this public service, Cussen received a pardon\n(the only condition being that he must not return to Ireland), within\ntwo years after his arrival in the Colony. He practiced for some time,\nas a surgeon, at Sydney, and having realized about five thousand pounds,\nproceeded to the United States. One of his first acts, after arriving in\nNew York, was to send to Ireland for the son of John Sheehan (the man\nwho had been shot on suspicion of Whiteboyism), now doubly orphaned by\nhis mother's death. He adopted him, in fulfilment of his promise at the\nWake, as related in the first chapter. His own wife and daughter, whom\nhe had liberally supplied with funds from New South Wales, declined\nrejoining him there or in America, and were actually residing in\nLimerick a few years ago. Cussen eventually settled in one of the\nWestern States, where his capital at once enabled him to purchase and\ncultivate a large tract of land. He has been heard of, more than once,\nby those who knew his identity, as a thriving and influential citizen,\nunder a slightly changed name.\n\nThe fact that Cussen had led the attack upon Churchtown Barracks was not\n_positively_ ascertained for several years after his departure from\nIreland. In a death-bed confession, one of the party avowed it. To this\nday, however, very many of the people in the County of Limerick, who\nwere well acquainted with Cussen, will not believe that he ever could\nhave participated in such a cold-blooded massacre. They appeal, in proof\nof the gentleness of his nature, to the kind feelings which he exhibited\nduring the attack on Rossmore.\n\nIt is clear, at all events, that by the conviction of Cussen, the\nWhiteboys lost a leader. The confederation was speedily broken up, for\nwant of its CAPTAIN ROCK. Nor, since that time, have the disaffected in\nIreland been able to obtain the assistance of any one so competent for\ncommand as was JOHN CUSSEN. His successors, from time to time, have been\nbold, ignorant men, at the highest not more than one degree above the\npeasantry whom they contrived to band together as United Irishmen,\nRibbonmen, or Whiteboys. The peasantry were taught, too, that the\nredress of grievances is not likely to be brought about by illegal\nconfederations--that agitation _within_ the law, may virtually place\nthem _above_ the law,--and that he who commits a crime gives an\nadvantage to the antagonist. This was the great principle which\nO'Connell always endeavoured to enforce. We have seen the last of the\nWhiteboys, and I have told the story of the undoubted CAPTAIN ROCK, the\nwill-o'-the-wisp of Irish agrarian disturbances.\n\n\n\n\nA NIGHT WITH THE WHITEBOYS.\n\n\nIn connection with the leadership of John Cussen, an incident occurred\nwhich may be related here, as a sort of appendix to his own adventures.\nIt is only a trifle in its way, but illustrates the manner in which,\neven after he had quitted the country, he was regarded by his former\nadherents.\n\nAbout twelve months after the conviction and transportation of Captain\nRock, which eventually led to the breaking up of the Whiteboy\norganization--though, here and there, a few branch Ribbon lodges\nremained--I was on a visit to my uncle, the self-same owner of Rossmore,\nmentioned in the previous story, and father of its heroine. Rossmore\nHouse is situated within a short distance of Castletown Conyers, and, by\ntaking a short cut across the fields, this distance might be reduced to\na mile. Having spent the day at Castletown, I was returning to Rossmore\nby the short cut, late in the evening--too late, indeed, as I had been\nwarned, from the chance of meeting some of the prowlers who haunted the\nby-roads towards the small town. I had no fear, however, and though it\nwas after twelve o'clock, there was a beautiful full moon, which, as the\nold song says, \"did shine as bright as day.\" I had got on a narrow\nby-road which ran between two bogs, and was speeding home with as little\ndelay as possible. All at once, I heard the dull heavy tramp of feet, in\na measured tread, and thought that it probably was the police-patrol\ntaking its rounds. As some of the police were quartered at my uncle's, I\nentertained no apprehension on account of being found out of doors at an\nuntimely hour, as my person was known to these peace-preservers. I\nwalked on, therefore, at my ease, loitering a little to allow myself to\nbe overtaken, in order that I might have an escort home.\n\nThe party came up, and when I turned round to recognize and speak to\nthem, I was considerably alarmed to find that I was in the midst of a\nlarge assemblage of rough-and-ready countrymen, wrapped up in large blue\n_coateens_, every man of them with a huge bludgeon in his hand. Knowing\nthat the best plan was to put as bold a front on it as I could, I\naccosted them with the usual \"Good evening, boys.\" They did not\ncondescend to return the greeting, but gathered together in groups,\nconversing in Irish, which I did not understand--the acquisition of that\nancient and sonorous language having been a neglected branch of my\neducation. From their vehement action, their constant references to\nmyself by gesture, and the repetition of my name, I perceived that they\nknew who I was, and were speaking about me. Under such circumstances, I\nthought, with Falstaff, that the better part of valour was discretion,\nand I prepared to effect my escape from such unpleasant companionship,\nby slipping off as quietly as I could.\n\nThe intention, however excellent, was not to be borne out in execution.\nBefore I had taken fifty steps, I felt two or three large, rough, hairy,\nsinewy hands on the collar of my coat, and the cold muzzle of a pistol\nunder my left ear, with a threat, strengthened by a tremendous oath,\nthat, if I dared move one inch farther, the contents of the pistol\nshould be lodged in my brain. I did not move, having a strong idea that\nthe threat would be carried into execution,--not a remarkably pleasant\nanticipation for any one, far less for a lad of fourteen.\n\nAfter some delay, a man, who appeared to be a kind of leader, asked me\nmy name, and whether I was not a nephew of \"the old fellow at Rossmore.\"\nI said that I was. \"Then,\" said he, \"you are the cousin of that fine\nyoung lady whose swearing was the means of our Captain being sent across\nthe sea?\" I answered that he was quite correct, and that I certainly was\nthe lady's cousin. \"Then,\" said he, \"as we cannot lay hands on _her_,\nfor she cut away to England when the trial was over, for fear of our\njust revenge, I think we must have _your_ blood instead.\" As I had a\nvery strong objection to suffering, vicariously, even for a woman and a\ncousin, I remonstrated against the design, alleging, truly enough, that\nit was hard I should answer for any one's sins but my own; that the\nlady, as was well known, had given evidence against Captain Rock, under\ncompulsion; and that, after he was sentenced to death, she never rested\nuntil she had obtained a remission of the sentence of death passed upon\nhim.\n\nWhat I said evidently made an impression on my audience--on such, at\nleast, as knew English. To the rest it was duly interpreted; after\nwhich, still leaving me in charge of the hirsute giant with the great\npistol, the party retired a little way to hold consultation respecting\nme. This I knew, because the rough gentleman, who held the pistol to my\near, grew a little communicative, telling me that they had all been to\nthe fair of Bruree, where they had indulged pretty freely in strong\nliquors, and that he thought it likely, as they had made up their mind\nto take my life, that they were then only deliberating in what manner to\ncarry out their intention. \"It is an easy death enough,\" said this Job's\ncomforter, \"to be strangled by a handkerchief, squeezed round the throat\nto a proper tightness; it is as good a way as any other to put a man\ninto a deep bog-hole like that on the side of the road there; but,\" he\nadded, \"for doing the thing genteelly, and making sure of quick work and\nlittle pain, I certainly would prefer a pistol like this, with a decent\ncharge of canister powder, and a brace of bullets or a couple of\nslugs at the top to make all right.\"\n\nThe conference by the way-side lasted so long, that I grew heart-sick\nwith anxiety. I could see, by their unrestrained movements, that some of\nthe party were disposed to wreak upon my person their revenge against my\ncousin, and that some were recommending a milder process. Presently, the\ndecision appeared to be made--whatever it might be. The same man who had\nalready spoken to me, came up again, and with him the rest of that\nprecious conclave. \"My lad,\" said he, laying his hand upon my shoulder,\n\"Do you know what we have made up our minds to do?\" I answered, that I\ndid not know. \"Some of us,\" said he, \"think that, as you have met us to\nnight, and may know some of us again, the best thing we could do would\nbe to put you out of the way at once. And some of us thinks that if we\ntook your word, (though you're only a bit of a boy,) not to mention that\nyou have seen us, we might do worse than let you go home, though that\nhome is the nest which _she_ came out of.\"\n\nI fancied, from his manner, that I had not much cause to apprehend the\nmore deadly alternative; and, therefore, I answered, as boldly as I\ncould, that I was quite willing to give my word not to mention that I\nhad seen any of them, nor, at any time or place, attempt to recognize\nthem. \"While you are deciding,\" I added, \"recollect that this suspense\nbetween life and death is not the most pleasant thing in the world.\nAnd, for God's sake,\" said I, \"rather put this hairy gentleman's brace\nof bullets through my head at once, than leave me shivering another half\nan hour in the cold.\" There was a laugh at what I said; those who did\nnot speak English eagerly required it to be translated for them, and\nthen the laugh grew louder, for _all_ enjoyed it. \"Faith,\" said the\nleader, \"You're a bold lad to jest in that way, with the muzzle of a\npistol against your ear. Make your mind easy; we would not hurt a hair\nof your head now. Go your way, and keep your promise. No matter when you\nmeet any of us, don't let on that you have ever seen us before. And if\nyou should ever fall in with bad company, in a by-way, on a night like\nthis, just whisper '_Barry More_' into the ear of any of the party, and\nyou may pass through them as safely as if you were walking in a\ndrawing-room.\" This said, I had to shake hands, one by one, with each of\nthe party; and they further insisted, with a pertinacity which would not\nbrook denial, that half-a-dozen of them should escort me within a\nstone's throw of my uncle's house.\n\nA few weeks after this rencontre, I saw a man at work in one of my\nuncle's fields, who seemed not quite a stranger to me. I took care that\nthe recognition, if any, should come from him. Accordingly, though I\nmade the usual remark that it was a fine day, and asked some questions\nas to the prospects of the crops, I did not seem as if I had ever seen\nhim before. However, he had less discretion, for he said, \"That was a\nnarrow escape you had, down by the bog, that night, sir.\" I asked what\nhe meant? \"Oh!\" said he, \"I do not mind talking to you about it now, for\nwe have your word not to tell on us, and I know very well--for we have\nfriends in every house, who tell us what passes--that not even to your\nuncle did you say a word about what happened that night. We tried to\nfrighten you a bit, sir, but you stood up better than we expected. I had\nmade up my mind, from the first, that not a hair of your head should be\ntouched; but it was not quite so easy to get the rest of the boys to my\nway of thinking. They had not the cause that I had for wishing you\nwell.\"\n\nI told him, what was the plain truth, that I had no recollection of any\nparticular cause why _he_, more than any of the rest, should have\nprotected me. \"Ah, sir,\" said he, \"people who do a kindness forget it,\nif the true vein be in them, sooner than those they do the kindness to.\nYou may remember, sir, that about ten years ago, when you were a child,\nthe Master here was very angry with me for having neglected my work, by\nwhich the Mistress's garden was quite spoilt, and turned me off, when I\nhad not the chance of getting work anywhere else, and owed a quarter's\nrent for the little cabin and potatoe garden, and was entirely broke,\nhand and foot,--aye, and almost heart, too. At that time, sir, you were\nto the fore, with the kind word, which you ever had, to turn away the\nMaster's anger, and you got the Mistress to interfere; and when the\nMaster took me on to work again, it was yourself, sir, that ran down to\nmy little cabin and told me the good news, and sat down at the table,\nwith the children, without any pride, and eat the roasted potato and the\nsalt, and drank the butter-milk out of the same piggin with them. From\nthat hour, sir, if laying down the lives of me and mine would prevent\ninjury to one hair of your head, we would have done it. And that's the\nreason why your life was safe the other night, and they all granted it\nwhen I told them the ins and outs of the story.\"\n\nI saw little more of my champion, for I left that part of the country\nsoon after, and have not been there since.\n\n\n\n\nBUCK ENGLISH.\n\n\nSome eighty years ago, there appeared, in that city of Ireland which is\ncalled \"the beautiful,\"[8] a remarkable character, generally known as\nBuck English. This name--to which he answered--had been given him, it\nwas said, on account of his fashionable appearance, manners and\npursuits, and because his accent clearly indicated that he came from\nEngland. At all events, in the year 1770, Buck English was a principal\nin the fashionable society of Cork--its observed of all observers, its\nglass of fashion, if not its very mould of form.\n\n     [8] \"The beautiful city called Cork.\"--_Irish Song._\n\nBuck English had abundance of money, that great test and framer of\nrespectability, and spent it freely. No man knew whence it came.\nInquiries had been cautiously ventured upon by inquisitive people, but\nthe only result arrived at was that rarely, if ever, did any remittance\nreach him through a banker. He frequently performed actions which might\nbe called generous; but the real objects for benevolence, he used to\nsay, were those who struggled to maintain appearances--who bore the\narrow in their breast, and did not complain--who would rather die than\nask for help; for, as there is no energy like that of despair, there is\nno pride like that of poverty. Gratitude sometimes _would_ speak out;\nfor parties whom his timely, unsought aid had rescued from ruin, meeting\nhim accidentally in public, could not be restrained from breathing\nblessings on the benefactor whose name they knew not; and the occasional\noccurrence of such things--which really were _not_ got up for\ndisplay--seemed to authorize the conjecture that Buck English was\nbountiful in many other instances which were not known. This belief,\ngenerally received, operated so much in his favour, that many who would\nhave probably disdained intimacy with one whose personal history was\nunknown, and who, therefore, might be an adventurer, did not hesitate to\nreceive him at their houses--a concession which others, of more\nunquestioned station and means, vainly endeavoured to obtain. When\nstamped \"sterling\" by the select, no fear of his readily passing into\ncurrency with all the rest.\n\nHence, the conclusion may be arrived at, that Buck English was what a\nfacetious friend calls a \"populous character.\" He might have turned the\nsharp corner of five-and-thirty, and did not look older, even at his\nworst. Now, whatever five-and-thirty may be for a lady,--forcing on her,\nI fear, the brevet-rank of \"a certain age,\" with Byron's\ninterpretation,--it is the very prime of manhood. Thus, in this\nrespect, Buck English was as fortunate as others. There was a drawback,\nit must be confessed--for who can be perfection? This was the\ncircumstance of his possessing features which, except under particular\nexcitement, might be pronounced very ordinary. One might have excused\nthe compressed lips, the sallow cheek, and the sharp face; but the\nexpression of the eyes was not always favourable. It appeared as if they\nwere almost always anxiously on the watch. At times, when strongly\nexcited, while the cheeks remained colourless, and no word breathed from\nthe lips, the passion which created a heart-quake in the man did not\nallow its presence to be seen, except that it made the eyes\nflash--conveying the impression that their possessor must be rather\ndangerous under the influence of strong and deep emotions. It was not\noften that such manifestations were allowed to become apparent, for Buck\nEnglish had powerful self-command.\n\nNotwithstanding the absence of what is called \"good looks,\" he had\nsucceeded in gaining the favourable opinion of Mary Penrose, a young\nlady who had recently succeeded to a very considerable property in the\nvicinity of Cork. Indeed, it was somewhat more than merely her\nfavourable opinion. I will even admit--on the understanding, of course,\nthat it remain an inviolable secret--that Buck English had made a strong\nimpression on the young lady's mind; so much so, that, at the especial\nperiod at which this narrative introduces her, she was deliberating\nwhether she should frankly admit to him, or deny for a little time\nlonger, that he was master of the heart which fluttered--ah, how\nanxiously--within the soft citadel of her bosom.\n\nShe had met him that evening at a _rout_ (so they called their\nfashionable parties in those days), and he had ventured to insinuate,\nrather more boldly than on any previous occasion, how much his happiness\ndepended upon her. On the point of making a very gentle confession,\n(have you any idea how admirably blushes can convey what language dare\nnot breathe?) a movement towards the retired part of the saloon in which\nthey sat, apart from the dancers, startled the lady, while the\nexclamation, \"Mary Penrose!--where _can_ she be?\" informed her that\ninquiries were being made for her. So, withdrawing her hand from that of\nher suitor, and making an effort to appear calm and unembarrassed, she\nawaited the advent of the lady who had spoken. Presently came up her\n_chaperon_, a woman of high birth and scanty means, who _condescended_\nto reside with her. This personage--a mixture of black velvet and\nbugles, pearl-powder and pretence--gravely regarding Buck English, whom\nshe did not like (because she thought it probable that he might succeed\nwith Miss Penrose, and thereby make her own occupation \"gone,\" like\nOthello's), said, with a low courtesy, \"I am sure, sir, that, had you\nknown what a pleasure you have been depriving Miss Penrose of, you\nwould scarcely have detained her here. Mary, my dear, only think who has\narrived!--who but your cousin Frank! He has been in the rooms half an\nhour, and has been anxiously looking for you everywhere.\"\n\nBefore a reply was made the cousin made his appearance, and was received\nrather formally by Mary. However, Frank Penrose was an Irishman and a\nlawyer, and therefore not very likely to be put down or taken aback by a\ncold reception. He was introduced to Buck English, but the greeting\nbetween the gentlemen was by no means cordial. Buck English saw a rival;\none, too, whom it was said Mary Penrose's father had been desirous to\nhave as a husband for his only child; while cousin Frank, to whom the\n_chaperon_ had previously communicated the intimacy between the young\nlady and the dashing stranger, saw at a glance that it would have been\nquite as well, perhaps, if he had not left her so much in the way of\nbecoming heart-stricken.\n\n\"Shall I lead you down to supper?\" he said. \"You know, Mary, that you\nand I have a hundred things to talk about.\"\n\n\"I am sorry, Frank,\" she answered, \"that I cannot take the arm which you\noffer me gallantly. I had promised my partner, before you came, to avail\nmyself of the advantage of his escort. Madame, I have no doubt, will be\nhappy under your protection, and you can unburthen your mind to her.\"\n\nThus it happened that Mary Penrose retained the arm of Buck English,\nwhile Frank was handed over to the dowager.\n\n\"Confound the fellow!\" said he, _sotto voce_, glancing at his rival. \"On\nwhat a very familiar footing he has established himself with Mary. Can\nit be that she, who used to be so hard to please, is smitten with such a\nface?\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" said the _chaperon_. \"It was not the countenance, but the\nmind of Othello, that the bright Venetian was enamoured of. When the\nmanners are agreeable and the intellect quick, the accident of a homely\nface speedily becomes of no importance. Perhaps it may even help to\nthrow a woman off her guard.\"\n\n\"It is a pity,\" continued Frank, \"that I have delayed my return so long.\nI thought that your letters had exaggerated, if not invented, the\ndanger. Assist me in deposing this gentleman, and my gratitude shall be\nmore than a name. I have always made so certain that Mary was to be my\nwife, that this over-security had led me to neglect her. At all events,\nI can tell you that this Mr. English shall not snatch such a prize from\nme without a struggle. I confess I do not like him.\"\n\n\"Naturally enough. He is a rival, and apparently on the way to become a\nsuccessful one.\"\n\nBy this time they had reached the supper-table. Frank Penrose behaved\nwith distant politeness to Buck English, who, as usual, was the centre\nof conversation. As the hour advanced, Mary said to her cousin,\n\"Can you tell me what o'clock it is, Frank? I have been so careless as\nto let my watch run down.\"\n\nFrank, with a smile, answered, \"Two months ago I could have done so; but\none of the knights of the road met me in a lonely part of Kilworth\nMountain, when last I was going from Cork to Dublin, and relieved me of\nall care of purse or watch.\"\n\nThere was a smile at the cool manner in which the young lawyer related\nhis loss, and then followed inquiry into the circumstances.\n\n\"A very commonplace highway robbery, I do assure you,\" said Frank. \" All\nI have to say is, that I was encountered, as I rode on a lonely part of\nthe road, by a gentleman who, taking me quite unprepared, put a pistol\nto my heart, demanding my cash and other portable property. As I had a\nfoolish desire not to part with it quite so easily, I threw myself off\nmy horse, and closed with my antagonist. His pistol went off in the\nstruggle, without doing me any injury, and I drew my sword. My enemy,\nwho proved himself a better master of that weapon than I was, succeeded\nin disarming me; forced me to surrender money, watch, and a few rings;\nmounted on my horse, and rode off, but speedily returned, with the\npolite assurance that as he never saw a gentleman in distress without\nwishing to relieve him, he trusted I would accept a few pieces from\nhim, as he presumed I did not intend remaining on the bleak mountain all\nnight, and he knew, from experience, how disagreeable it was to be in a\nstrange inn without money. He handed me five guineas, kindly adding\nthat, if I wanted more, _his_ purse--alas! it had been _mine_--was\nentirely at my service.\"\n\n\"Would you know the man again?\"\n\n\"No. His face was partly covered with crape.\"\n\nSupper ended, Miss Penrose and the rest of the ladies retired, escorted\nto their carriages by the gentlemen, who then returned (it was the evil\nfashion of the time) to drink their healths in a brimming bumper. One\nglass led to another, with the usual result--the libations were not to\nthe Goddess of Concord. By accident, the name of Mary Penrose was\nmentioned, with a congratulatory allusion to the good terms on which\nBuck English evidently was with her. Frank Penrose started from his\nchair, and angrily declared that his cousin's name should not be bandied\nabout at a public table, and in conjunction, too, with that of a person\nof whom no one knew anything, and who, he could assert, was not\nacceptable to her family. He was about speaking further, when he was\npulled down by his friends, who strenuously urged him to keep silent.\n\nBuck English remained so quiet under the intentionally offensive\nallusion to himself, that some of the company began to think him\ndeficient in courage. The Irish way of answering an insult, in\nthose days, was to throw a glass full of wine in the offender's face,\nand follow that up by flinging the decanter at his head. After a pause,\nFrank Penrose, whom nobody could restrain, repeated the insult in other\nand harsher words. This broke up the party. As they were leaving the\ntable, Buck English leant across, and said, very quietly, \"Mr. Penrose,\nfor the lady's sake, I would not mix up her name with a midnight brawl\nin a tavern, but you are aware that your words must be withdrawn or\natoned for?\"\n\n\"Take them as you please,\" said Penrose. \"I stand by them.\"\n\n\"Then,\" answered the other, \"I name Captain Cooper as my friend. Whom\nshall he meet on your part, and where?\"\n\nPausing for a minute, during which he considered his course of action,\nPenrose said that in two days he expected a friend whose services he\ncould command on such a business, and hoped the delay would not be\ninconvenient. His antagonist intimated his assent by a distant bow, and\nthus, in far less time than I have been writing about it, was appointed\na meeting for life or death. The outward show of civility was maintained\nduring the short time that they remained in the room, though feelings of\ndeadliest enmity rankled beneath that smooth surface.\n\nAs they were retiring, Penrose and English again were together, and the\nlatter took advantage of this contiguity to ask at what time his friend\nshould call upon Mr. Penrose's second?\n\n\"At ten on Thursday morning, at Daly's club-house.\"\n\n\"Very well, and for whom shall he inquire?\"\n\n\"Let him ask for Mr. D'Arcy Mahon, the barrister.\"\n\nAt that name, English shrunk or swerved as from a blow.\n\n\"D'Arcy Mahon!\" he repeated.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Penrose. \"Have you any objection to the gentleman?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\nOn that they separated.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat evening, on returning home, Mary Penrose applied herself, in the\nsolitude of her chamber--the young heart's confessional--to serious\nthought upon that beleaguered and endangered Sebastopol, the state of\nher affections. It was evident that her cousin was piqued at the idea of\nher having a preference for English, and that his arrival was likely to\nbring the affair to an issue. Mary paused for some time in doubt as to\nthe course she should pursue. She had a regard for her cousin Frank; but\nshe confessed to herself, with conscious blush and sigh, that she had\nother and more cherished feelings for English. It is proverbial how a\nwoman's deliberations, in an affair of the heart, invariably end; and\nso, having made up her mind in favour of Buck English, by far the most\ndelightful companion--although not quite the handsomest--fate had thrown\nin her way, she retired to rest.\n\nAs she was unloosing the golden beauty of her luxuriant tresses,\nglancing now and then at a flower given to her by _him_, and carefully\nput into a watervase on her dressing-room table, Mary Penrose heard a\nfaint tap at the window. Withdrawing the curtain, she saw, in the pale\nmoonlight, the face of him who, even then, was occupying her thoughts.\nHe held up a note in his hand, which he placed upon the window-sill, and\ndisappeared as suddenly as he had come before her.\n\nOpening the casement, she took the _billet_, and eagerly read it. In the\nstrongest and most beseeching words, it urged her to speak with the\nwriter for a few minutes;--hinted that this would be the last time they\nwould ever meet;--and plainly declared that it related to an affair of\nlife-and-death emergency. The urgency of this appeal, as well as her\nnatural desire to see one in whom, now more than ever, she felt a deep\ninterest, prevailed, and Mary Penrose, throwing a large shawl over her\nhastily-adjusted attire, quitted her chamber, silently proceeded down\nstairs, and opened the hall-door, at which she found English waiting.\nLight of body and active of limb, he had found little difficulty in\nascending to Mary's window, by means of the thick ivy which luxuriantly\ncovered the front of the house, and his descent had been yet more easily\naccomplished.\n\nWhen alone with Mary in one of the apartments in which she had\nfrequently received him as a visitor, Buck English appeared overwhelmed\nby emotion. Quickly recovering himself, he addressed her in this\nmanner:--\"I have to thank your kindness, Miss Penrose, for thus giving\nme the opportunity of taking leave of you. I am a dishonoured man, or\nshall be, and most publicly, too, if to-morrow sees me near this place.\nAfter you had retired this evening, your cousin Frank fixed a personal\nquarrel upon me, which I endeavoured to avoid by acting and speaking\nwith the greatest forbearance. I named the friend who would act for me\nin a matter so unpleasant, and your cousin asked for a slight delay\nuntil the arrival of the gentleman who would perform the like offices\nfor him. The person whom he named is D'Arcy Mahon,--one of the few men\nin this country, under existing circumstances, who must not see me,\nbecause I have the very strongest motives for avoiding him. Our meeting\nwas fixed for Thursday, but I have just heard of Mr. Mahon's arrival,\nnot an hour ago, which is two days earlier than Frank expected him.\"\n\n\"I need not assure you,\" said Mary, \"how very much grieved I am that\nthere should be any difference between two persons whom I esteem so\nmuch--between yourself and Frank. But I know that Mr. Mahon is a most\nhonourable man, and more likely to pacify than irritate any parties who\nare placed in his hands with hostile feelings to each other.\"\n\n\"There lives not the man,\" replied English, somewhat haughtily, \"who can\nsay that I have at any time shrunk from giving or seeking the\nsatisfaction which, in our strangely-constituted state of society,\ngentlemen must sometimes require or grant. But it is impossible that I\ncan meet D'Arcy Mahon--whose high character I appreciate and esteem--on\nany terms, or under any circumstances, without his instantly and fatally\nrecognizing me as one whom he has met before, under a darker and\ndifferent aspect of affairs.\"\n\n\"You astonish and alarm me!\" said Mary. \"Will you not remove the veil\nfrom this mystery?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, after some deliberation. \"It is a sad confidence, but\n_you_ are entitled to it. You have heard of a person who is generally\nknown as Captain Spranger?\"\n\nMary said that she certainly had heard of the terror of travellers, the\nhead of a band of highwaymen, who had infested the South of Ireland for\nthe previous two years.\n\n\"The same. That man, outlawed as he is, with a price upon his head, I\nhave reason to know is the younger son of one of the first commoners in\nEngland. Evil example and youthful impatience of control alienated\nhim from his friends early in life, and sent him abroad upon the world,\nin different countries and among many grades of society, but not always\nin companionship with those by whom he could profit, in mind, body, or\nestate. At the close of many wanderings he found himself in Ireland, and\naccidentally became the companion or guest of a party of smugglers, who\nwere banded together in the county of Waterford, and who, by their\naudacity and success, had challenged the notice of the Executive.\nUnfortunately, at the very period when the Englishman's love of wild\nadventure had thrown him into the society of these smugglers--as it had\noften led him to spend a night in a gipsy encampment--at that very time\ntreachery had betrayed the band, who were surrounded by a strong\nmilitary force before they knew they were in danger. To fight their way\nthrough this armed array, was what the smugglers determined on at the\nmoment. Unwilling to remain and be captured, the chance-visitor of the\nnight joined in the sortie, and made a dash for freedom. Some effected\ntheir escape without hurt, a few were wounded, some were captured. The\nEnglishman was among the prisoners. The Assizes were at hand, and as it\nwas thought fit to make an example, as it is called, the trial of the\nsmugglers was hurried on. The evidence against the Englishman was\nconclusive. He was found in armed array against the military, and in\ncompany with notorious law-breakers. What could he do? Pride made him\nconceal his name, he was indicted under that of Spranger (which he had\nnever borne), was tried and convicted. When brought up to receive\nsentence in the assize court of Clonmel (where, for some reason, the\ntrial took place), he thought he saw the opportunity for a bold effort.\nLight, active and strong, he vaulted out of the dock. The crowd\ninstantly opened to conceal him, for there is a strong sympathy for\npersons accused of such breaches against the revenue law as he was\nbelieved to have committed. Even while he was crouching down in the\nmidst of the crowd, a great-coat, such as the peasantry wear, was thrown\naround him by one; another bestowed upon him a cap made of fox-skin; and\na third whispered him to keep quiet, as, if he did not betray himself,\nhis disguise was sufficient to defy suspicion and detection.[9]\n\n     [9] Such an escape as this was actually made from the dock, during\n     the Clonmel assizes, by the bold and notorious Buck English, who\n     afterwards found his way into the first society in Cork city and\n     county. Indeed, the actual life of this man was parallel in many of\n     its leading points to that of \"Paul Clifford,\" the hero of Bulwer's\n     brilliant fiction. The term \"Buck\" was usually bestowed on any\n     fashionable bravo, in Ireland, who wore dashing attire, and\n     indulged in all sorts of extravagances of expenditure and excess.\n     There was \"Buck Sheehy\" of Dublin, as well as our own, \"Buck\n     English\" of Cork. Indeed, there were sufficient of the _genus_ in\n     Dublin to form the majority of the \"Hell-fire Club,\" who once set\n     fire to their club-room, and remained in it until the flames\n     actually burned the hair from their heads and the clothes from\n     their bodies. This was done to decide the punishments of a future\n     state! Most of the \"Bucks\" were men of family, education, and\n     wealth. Several peers were members of the community. At one time\n     (the author of \"Ireland sixty years ago,\" relates) there were three\n     noblemen, brothers, so notorious for their outrages, that they\n     acquired singular names, as indicative of their characters. The\n     first was the terror of every one who met him in public places--the\n     second was seldom out of prison--the third was lame, yet no whit\n     disabled from his Buckish achievements. They were universally known\n     by the names of \"Hell-gate,\" \"Newgate,\" and \"Cripplegate.\" There\n     were two brothers, one of whom had shot his friend, and the other\n     stabbed his coachman. They were distinguished as \"Kill-Kelly\" and\n     \"Kill-coachy.\" This reminds one of the Irish traveller, who said he\n     had been to _Kill-many_ and was going to _Kill-more_.\n\n\"Incredible as it may appear--but I perceive that you have already heard\nsomething of this affair--Spranger remained in the court-house during\nthe whole day, while a strict out-of-doors' search was made for him, and\nfinally walked into the street, unchallenged, with the rest of the\ncrowd, when the trials ended. He was literally alone, unfriended,\npenniless, in a strange country. The men who had supplied him, on the\nimpulse of the moment, with the means of baffling detection, kept their\neyes upon, and speedily came in his way, giving him the further aid of\nshelter and food. What need I more say than that those men, who lived\nagainst the law, succeeded in enrolling their guest among them.\nRecklessness and utter want, in the first instance, and the fear of\nbeing given up to the Government in the other, were his motives. Coupled\nwith this, too, was a strong sense of injury at having been convicted,\nwithout crime, upon appearances. Not then, but many times afterwards,\ndid he feel convinced that the Executive had brought him to trial only\nupon obvious and palpable facts. But, long before he came to take this\nview of the question, he had become leader of the band--now avowedly\nassociated for plunder, smuggling having been broken up, and the name\nand the daring of Captain Spranger are sufficiently notorious throughout\nthe country now.\n\n\"When he had completely identified himself with them, so as to obtain\ntheir unquestioning obedience, Spranger availed himself of the privilege\nof sometimes leaving them for a short time--continuing, however, to\nregulate their movements, and participate in their gains--one of them\nalways remaining with him to act as his servant, but actually as an\nunsuspected channel of communication with the band. Thus this captain of\nmen beyond the pale of the law, has resided, at different times, in the\nprincipal cities in the South of Ireland. His last resting-place was\nhere in Cork, where, under a name rather given to him by common consent\nthan assumed by him, and with ample pecuniary means at his command, he\ncontrived to be received into the best society. But he had tired, long\nsince, of the ruffianly association which he headed. One hope\nremained--that of offering his sword to one of the foreign States with\nwhom he had formerly performed military service, and thus resuming the\ncondition to which he was born. But, while taking measures to do this,\nhe met, and became deeply enamoured of the loveliest and most engaging\nof her sex, and delayed his departure--his exile--from a reluctance to\nquit the heaven of her smiles. Perhaps he even presumed to hope--to\ntrust--that, under better circumstances, he might even have ventured to\nhope that his suit would not have failed.\"\n\nHere he paused, to mark how Mary had borne this relation. Her face was\ncovered with her hands--but he could hear that she was sobbing. He\ncontinued:--\n\n\"You know, Mary, I perceive, that he who relates this story is the same\nSpranger whose name has made many a cheek pale, many a bold heart\ntremble. D'Arcy Mahon was one of the counsel employed against me at\nClonmel, and he knows every feature of mine so well that he could not\nfail to recognize me. He would identify me, also, as Captain Spranger.\nIf I remain, he meets me to-morrow. Shame, disgrace, perhaps even death\nwould follow. 'Tis true that circumstances have made me what I am, but\nthere is a Future, in action, for all who are willing to atone for past\nmisconduct. I go forth to try and regain the position I have forfeited.\nNot in this country, nor yet in my own, can I hope to do this. But there\nother lands where Reputation and Fortune may be won, and in one of them\nI shall make the effort. To have known _you_--to find this wasted heart\ncapable, even yet, of appreciating the beauty and purity of your mind,\nwill console me in my long and distant exile. Farewell!\"\n\nHe bent on his knee to take and kiss that delicate hand. Did it really\nlinger in his? He looked upon that face of beauty. Did those violet eyes\nsmile upon him through the dew which diamonded their long, dark fringes?\nHe heard a low, earnest whisper. Did it tell him to retrieve the past,\nnor doubt, while doing so, of the due reward a loving heart will bestow?\nDid it softly say that he, and none but he, should hold that hand in\nmarriage? Did it entreat him to write often--always hopingly? A long,\nlong kiss on those ripe lips, on that damasked cheek, on that fair brow,\nand Buck English was away, as suddenly as he had come.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow improbable! How unfeminine! How utterly at variance with all the\nconventionalities of society! No doubt. But it is _true_.\n\nAs for Mary's avowed love for such a person as--even on his own\nshowing--English was, why seek to put it to the test of every-day\nthought?\n\n    \"Why did she love him! Curious fool, be still;\n    Is human love the growth of human will?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe morning after the interview between Mary and her lover, considerable\nanxiety was caused in the minds of his acquaintance by the fact of his\ndisappearance, and the report that he had met with some fatal accident.\nHis horse had returned home riderless, and a hat and glove, known to\nhave been worn by him, were found on the banks of the Lee, about two\nmiles from Cork, a place where he was fond of riding at all hours. It\nwas believed that he had been drowned. The authorities took possession\nof and examined his effects, which were never claimed. There was not one\nline of writing among them, giving the slightest clue to his station in\nlife, family, or identity. In a short time, he passed out of the memory\nof most of those who had known him.\n\nIt was noticed that Mary Penrose appeared very much unconcerned at the\nloss of one for whom she was believed to have felt some partiality. She\nwas abused, of course, by her own sex, (and the more so, as she was very\nhandsome,) for being \"a heartless coquette.\" A few months later, when\nshe had attained her legal majority, and with it full possession of her\nproperty, she unequivocally astonished her cousin Frank, by declining\nhis proffered hand. Ere the year was ended, her estates were in the\nmarket, and their purchase-money invested in foreign securities. This\ndone, Mary bade a long farewell to the land of her nativity and the\nfriends of her youth. Nor did any definite account of her subsequent\nlife ever reach Ireland.\n\nIn the fulness of time, there came rumours (which were credited) that\nsomebody very like Buck English had obtained rank and reputation in the\nGerman service, and that, eventually retiring to a distant province of\nthe Empire, he had turned his sword into a ploughshare, and cultivated,\nwith much success, a large estate which he had purchased there. It was\nadded that a lady, whose personal description tallied with Mary\nPenrose's appearance, was the wife of this person; that they lived very\nhappily with their numerous children around them; that their retainers\nand dependents almost adored them for their constant and considerate\nkindness; and that, though they ever condemned crime, they united in\nquestioning whether he who committed it might not have been led into it\nby Circumstance rather than Desire.\n\n\n\n\nECCENTRIC CHARACTERS\n\n\n\n\nTHE BARD O'KELLY.\n\n\nFor many years, an individual, calling himself \"The Bard O'Kelly,\"\nwandered through the South of Ireland, subsisting on the exacted\nhospitality and the enforced contributions of such as happened to be so\nweak as to dread being put by him into a couplet of satirical doggerel,\nand thus held up to public scorn as wanting in liberality. An Irishman,\nbe it known, will not submit to an imputation upon his generosity;\nrather than have _that_ questioned, he will give away his last sixpence,\nthough the gift leave him without food. O'Kelly was shrewd enough to\nknow this, and like the ale which Boniface so much praises in Farquhar's\ncomedy, he \"fed purely upon it\"--in fact, it was meat, drink, clothing\nand lodging to him.\n\nUntil he published his \"poems,\" no one knew on what very slight grounds\nhis Bardship rested. His book--a thin, ill-printed octavo, called \"The\nHippocrene,\"--appeared, with a dedication, by permission, to \"the most\nnoble and warlike Marquis of Anglesea,\" and underneath the inscription\nis the quatrain,\n\n    \"_O dulce decus_! thou art mine,\n      What can I more or less say?\n    _Presidium_! pillar of the NINE,\n      Illustrious chief ANGLESEA!!\"\n\nIn order, also, that the world might know what manner of man his\nbardling was, he had put his portrait as a frontispiece, and, with that\ncharacteristic modesty which indicated that _he_ certainly had kissed\nthe Blarney Stone, had engraved beneath it,--\n\n    \"Sweet bard! sweet lake! congenial shall your fame\n    The rays of genius and of beauty claim;\n    Nor vainly claim: for who can read and view,\n    And not confess O'KELLY'S pencil true?\"\n\nThe lake here alluded to, is that of Killarney. In the year 1791,\nO'Kelly wrote what he called \"a Poem\" on the romantic scenery of\nKillarney. It was written, but not published--recited by the bard, as\nthe Iliad and Odyssey are said to have been by \"the blind old man of\nScio's rocky isle,\"--handed about in manuscript among friends, like much\nof the verse of the present day, when (because every third man is an\nauthor) hard-hearted booksellers refuse to purchase valueless\ncopyrights, or even to publish them, save at the sole expense and risk\nof the writers.\n\nSo, in 1791, was written, not published, the Bard's \"Killarney,\"--a\npoem which (as _he_ was wont to speak of it) \"has all the depth of the\nlake it immortalizes, with the clearness, freshness, and sparkling flow\nof its waters!\" It may be thought a little egotistical for O'Kelly thus\nto praise his own writings--but, surely, a man is the best judge of his\nown merit, and best acquainted with his own talents. I put it to every\nman of sense--that is, to every person who completely coincides with my\nopinion,--whether, if a man does not think and speak well of himself, it\ncan possibly be expected that any one else will? No; O'Kelly's\nself-praise was only a flourish to remind people what a genius they had\namong them--a Laputan flap to make the Irish world quite aware of the\nfact of his immeasurable merit.\n\nThere was a rumour--but I hate scandal--that the Bard (being a poet, and\nlame to boot, like the Grecian) had an ambition to be the new Tyrt\u00e6us of\nthe Irish Rebels, in 1798. He has been seen to smile, rather\nassentingly, at \"the soft impeachment,\" although, no doubt, while the\ninsurgents were liable to punishment, he had very _capital_ reasons for\ndenying it. While the Civil War was raging, he went to the north-east of\nIreland, and, his enemies say, with rebellious designs. But his own\nassertion,\n\n     (\"And truths divine came mended from _his_ lips,\")\nwas, that the sole object of his tour was to compose a poem on the\nsublimities of the Giant's Causeway. Such a composition was written--for\nI have read it. But the greatest and best of men--from Socrates down to\nO'Kelly--have been subjected to suspicion and persecution, and it\nhappened that when the Bard showed himslf in the north, he was taken up\nby the King's forces, and summarily committed to prison on suspicion\nthat his visit was occasioned by a desire to discover a snug\nlanding-place, on the Antrim coast, for the French--who, at that time,\nwere about invading Ireland.\n\nBad news travels very quickly. It soon was noised about Kerry, that the\nBard had been taken up. As a story, like a snow-ball, increases as it\ntravels, it was even added that the Bard had been--_hanged_!\n\nOn this, a wretch named Michael M'Carthy--a Macroom man was this\nBathyllus to the Hibernian Maro--constituted himself heir-at-law and\nresiduary legatee to the Bard's poetical effects, and, not having the\nfear of Apollo's vengeance before his eyes, had the barefaced audacity\nto publish eight hundred and forty lines of \"Killarney,\" mixed up with\ncertain versicles of his own, under the imposing name of \"Lacus\nDelectabilis.\"\n\nThe Bard O'Kelly heard of this audacious appropriation at the very hour\nwhen his trial was coming on, and it took such effect upon his spirits\nthat, to use his own figurative language, he \"did not know at the time,\nwhether he was standing on his head or his heels.\"\n\nBrought for trial before a military tribunal, quick in decision and\nsharp in execution, there was so much presumptive evidence against him,\nthat he was convicted without much delay, (his judges were in a hurry to\ndine,) and sentenced to be hanged early the next day.\n\nThe emergency of the case restrung his shattered energies. Recovering\nthe use of his tongue, he made a heart-rending appeal to the Court\nMartial; narrated the vile plagiarism which had been committed on his\nbeautiful and beloved Killarney; recited a hundred lines of that\nsonorous composition, and concluded a very energetic harangue, by\nrequesting \"leave of absence,\" for a few weeks, in order that he might\nproceed to Kerry, there to punish M'Carthy, for his dire offence against\nall the recognized rules of authorship. He even tendered his own bail\nfor his reappearance to be hanged, as soon as, by performing an act of\nsignal justice towards the plagiarist, he had vindicated that fame\nwhich, he said, was of more value to him than life.\n\nThe manner and matter of this extraordinary address--such as never,\nbefore nor since, was spoken in a Court of Justice--were so\nextraordinary that the execution of the sentence was postponed. When\nthe Civil War was over, the Bard was liberated. \"It was a great triumph\nfor my eloquence,\" was his usual self-complacent expression, in after\nlife, when speaking of this hair-breadth escape. To this day, however,\nthere are some who hint that the Court considered him _non compos\nmentis_--too much of a fool to be a traitor and conspirator--and were\nmerciful accordingly.\n\nWhen O'Kelly returned home, he did not annihilate M'Carthy in the\nbody--he did so in spirit: he lampooned him. Finally, the plagiarist\nmade a public apology; and an armistice was effected by the aid of\ncopious libations of the \"mountain-dew,\" the favourite Hippocrene of\nIrishmen.\n\nThe Bard's trip to the Giant's Causeway gave him a wonderful inclination\nfor travelling. As itinerary rhyme-spinner, he continued to keep body\nand soul together ever since, in a manner which nothing but the\nbrilliant invention of a verse-making Milesian could have dreamed of.\nUnder the face of the sun no people so keenly appreciate, and so\nundeniably dread, satire as the Irish do. Few, it may be added, have\ngreater powers in that line--and this without being imbued with less\ngood-nature or more malice than other people. They particularly shrink\nfrom any imputation on their open-handed and open-hearted hospitality.\nThe Bard O'Kelly knew that this sensitive feeling was the blot which he\nwas to hit. And on the results of this knowledge, he contrived to\nlive well--to obtain raiment, money, lodging, food, and drink, during\nthe vicissitudes of about forty years.\n\nHe committed himself to a pilgrimage from place to place, through\nIreland, always fixing his headquarters at the residence of some country\ngentleman. Here he would abide for a week--a fortnight--or even a month,\nif he liked his quarters, and thought his intrusion would be tolerated\nso long. During his stay, his two horses, his son (for, being Irish, he\nhad got married very soon), and himself, always lived \"in clover.\" His\nvaledictory acknowledgment, by which he considered that he repaid the\nhospitality extended to him, was a laudatory couplet! If there were, or\nif there seemed to be, the slightest want of cordiality in his reception\nor entertainment, he would immediately depart, giving the delinquent to\nimmortal infamy in a stinging couplet. When he had written a few score\nof these rhymes he used to get them printed (ballad-wise) on octavo\nslips of whity-brown paper, and each new page was added to its\npredecessor, by being pasted into a sort of scrap-book. This collection\nhe called his \"Poetic Tour,\" and he had only a single copy of it; and to\nthis, which he promised to have printed in a regular book, at some\nfuture period, every one who entertained him was expected to subscribe\nfrom a crown to a guinea--_subscriptions payable in advance_. To this\nrule he had permitted only one exception. This was early in the present\ncentury, when the Chevalier Ruspini, (a tooth and corn extractor,) who\ntravelled in Ireland as \"Dentist to the Prince of Wales,\" subscribed, in\nthe name of his Royal master, for fifty copies of the work; and, on the\nstrength of this, managed to dine, on three several occasions, with\nO'Kelly--being the only instance on record of his Bardship having ever\nplayed the host.\n\nI knew O'Kelly personally, when I was a lad, having met him, for the\nfirst time, at Drewscourt, in the county of Limerick, whither he came,\npurposely, to remain one day _en passant_, but did us the honour of\nstaying for a fortnight. He made his first appearance at dinner-time,\nand his knife and fork were wielded as effectively as if he had not used\nthem during the preceding month. Until I saw O'Kelly feed, I had never\nrealized the description of Major Dalgetty's laying in \"provend\" not\nonly to make good the dinner he should have eaten yesterday, but to\nprovide for the wants of to-day and to-morrow. In the course of the\nevening he exhibited other manifestations of industry and genius. He\ncomplained of labouring under a cold, which he undertook to cure by a\npeculiar process. This was no less than by imbibing about a dozen\ntumblers of hot and strong whiskey-punch, without moving from his seat.\nThis, he assured us, was \"a famous remedy for all distempers; good,\"\nadded he, \"for a cure, and magnificent as a preventive.\" He\ncondescended to inform us that, well or sick, this quantity was his\nregular allowance after dinner--when he could get it.\n\nHe was loquacious in his cups. The subject of the Royal visit to\nIreland, in 1821, having been broached, O'Kelly produced a printed\naccount of his own interview with the monarch. This, he told us, had\nappeared in a newspaper called the Roscommon Gazette, and it was not\ndifficult to guess at whose instance it had gained publicity. The\naccount which he read for us was rather an improved edition, he said, as\nhis friend, the Roscommon editor, had ruthlessly cut out some of the\nadjectives and superlatives. What he read was to this effect,\naccompanied with his own running commentary of explanation and remark:--\n\n     \"'THE BARD O'KELLY AND THE KING.'\"\n\n\"You see, gentlemen, that I put myself first. Genius (he pronounced it\n_janius_) before greatness any day!\n\n     \"When his Most Gracious Majesty King George the Fourth--whom God\n     and Saint Patrick preserve!--paid his loving subjects a visit in\n     August, 1821, the most eminent men of Ireland resorted to the\n     metropolis to do him honour. Among them, was our distinguished and\n     illustrious countryman, the Bard O'Kelly. Without _his_ presence,\n     where would have been the crowning rose of the wreath of Erin's\n     glory? And it is very creditable to His Majesty's taste, that his\n     very first inquiry, on entering the Vice-regal lodge, in Ph[oe]nix\n     Park, was after that honour to our country, our renowned Bard, to\n     whose beautiful productions he had subscribed, for fifty copies,\n     many years ago.\n\n\"Yes, gentlemen, he knew all about me. As he had inquired for _me_, I\nthought I could not do less, in course of common civility, than indulge\n_him_ with the pleasure of a visit. But you shall hear:--\n\n     \"When the Bard reached Dublin, and heard of His Majesty's most kind\n     and friendly inquiries, he sent a most polite autograph note,\n     written with his own hand, to Sir Benjamin Bloomfield, announcing\n     his own arrival, wishing His Majesty joy on _his_, and requesting\n     Sir Benjamin to appoint a day, mutually convenient to the many\n     important engagements of the Poet and the Monarch, when an\n     interview between these distinguished personages should take place.\n     With that true politeness and chivalrous courtesy which adorn and\n     distinguish the Bard, he notified that, the King being a stranger,\n     the Bard was willing to waive ceremony, and wait upon him, to\n     present a copy of his highly poetical poems, for fifty copies of\n     which the Chevalier Ruspini had subscribed, on behalf of His\n     Majesty, when Prince of Wales.\n\n\"Indeed, they were to have been dedicated to him, but, as yet, I have\nnot had but the one copy, which I have made up from the slips which have\nbeen separately printed, from time to time. Kind gentlemen, reading\nalways makes me drouthy;--may-be, one of ye will mix a tumbler for\nme?--not too strong of the water;--christen the spirit, but don't drown\nit. Ah, that will do! What a flavor it has!\n\n\n     \"An answer was immediately sent by three servants in royal livery,\n     requesting, if perfectly agreeable to O'Kelly, that he would do His\n     Majesty the favour of a friendly visit, the next day at four\n     o'clock.\n\n\n\"So I sent word to say that I'd be with him punctual. The next day I\ndressed myself very neat, put on my other shirt, gave my coat a brushing\n(a thing I don't often do, as it takes the nap off the cloth),\nbrightened the brass buttons with a bit of chamois leather, went over\nthe seams with a little vinegar and ink, polished my boots, so that\nyou'd see your likeness in them like a looking-glass, had myself\nelegantly shaved, and to the King I went. But you shall hear:\n\n\n     \"To this proposition the Bard politely assented, and went to the\n     Castle of Dublin, at the appointed hour, the next day. There he\n     sent his card to the King, with his compliments; and Sir Benjamin\n     Bloomfield immediately came down the Grand Staircase, and, with a\n     most gracious message from His Majesty, handed him a fifty-pound\n     bank-note, as the royal subscription to his admirable poems.\n\n\n\"I won't deny that the sight and touch of the money were mighty\npleasant; but I said nothing. It was a larger sum than ever I had at any\none time before, for _my_ riches have always been of the head, rather\nthan of the purse. I put the bank-note into my waistcoat-pocket,\nfastened it safely there with a pin I took out of my cuff, and\nthen--mind, not until _then_--I told Sir Benjamin----But I'll read it:\n\n\n     \"O'Kelly (with that noble disregard for lucre which always\n     distinguished our eminently patriotic, poetic, high-minded, much\n     accomplished, and generous-hearted countryman) immediately told Sir\n     Benjamin, that he would rather relinquish the money than abandon\n     the anticipated pleasure of a personal interview with his\n     Sovereign.\n\n\n\"Mind--I had the fifty pounds snug in my pocket all the while. You may\nbe certain that I wouldn't have spoken that way _before_ fingering the\ncash.\n\n\n     \"On this most disinterested and loyal determination having been\n     mentioned to His Majesty, he was so delighted with it, that he\n     desired the Bard to be ushered instantly into the Grand Hall of\n     Audience. This was done, and there the Most Noble the Marquis of\n     Congynham had the honour of introducing His Majesty to the Poet.\n\n\n\"Wasn't it a grand sight! There was the King on his throne, and all the\ngreat officers of State standing around him. In one hand the King held a\nsceptre of pure gold, and the other was stretched out to receive my\nbook. On his head he wore a crown of gold, studded all over with jewels,\nand weighing half a hundred weight, at the very least. On his breast, in\nthe place where a diamond star is usually represented in the portraits,\nHis Majesty wore a bunch of shamrock, the size of a cauliflower. Now\nyou'll hear what occurred:--\n\n\n     \"Compliments being exchanged, the King descended from his throne,\n     and had the pleasure of introducing the Marchioness of Conyngham,\n     and all the other Ladies of the Bedchamber, to the Bard. His\n     Majesty, then--returning to his throne, and insisting that the Bard\n     should occupy an arm-chair by his right side--said, \"Mr.\n     O'Kelly\"----\"O'KELLY, without the _Mister_, if you please,\" said\n     the Bard, \"Your Majesty would not say Mr. Shakspeare or Mr.\n     Milton.\" \"True enough,\" said the King, \"I sit corrected: I beg your\n     pardon, O'Kelly. I should have known better. Well, then, O'Kelly, I\n     am quite sure that I shall be delighted with your beautiful poems,\n     when I've time to read them.\" To this the Bard replied, \"Your\n     Majesty never spoke a truer word. I believe they'd delight and\n     instruct any one.\" At this intelligent, and most correct\n     observation, his Majesty was pleased to smile. He then added, \"I'm\n     sorry to see, by your iron leg, that you are lame.\" O'Kelly, with\n     that ready wit for which he is as remarkable as he is for his\n     modesty, instantly replied, \"If I halt in my leg, I don't in my\n     verses, for\n\n         \"If God one member has oppressed,\n         He's made more perfect all the rest.\"\n\n     It is impossible for words to describe the thunders of applause by\n     which this beautiful extempore impromptu was followed.\n\n\n\"I knew, well enough, that something smart would be expected from a man\nlike me; so I went prepared with several impromptus, to be introduced\nwhen the occasion would allow.\n\n\n     \"His Majesty then said, \"It is really remarkable that you, and my\n     friend Walter Scott, should both be lame.\" The Bard replied, \"And\n     Lord Byron also.\" His Majesty then observed, \"It is a wonderful\n     coincidence--the three great poets of the three kingdoms.\" At the\n     request of the Marquis of Conyngham, the Bard then made the\n     following extemporaneous epigram on the spot, off hand, on this\n     interesting subject:\n\n\n\n    'Three poets for three sister kingdoms born,\n\n\"That's England, Ireland, and Scotland:--\n\n    'One for the rose, another for the thorn,\n\n\"You know that the rose and thistle are the national emblems of England\nand Scotland:\n\n    'One for the shamrock,\n\n\"That's poor old Ireland,--\n\n      'which shall ne'er decay,\n    While rose and thorn must yearly die away.'\n\n\n     \"His Majesty was quite electrified at the ready wit displayed in\n     this beautiful impromptu, and took leave of the Bard in the most\n     affectionate and gracious manner. It is whispered among the\n     fashionable circles, that O'Kelly has declined the offer of a\n     Baronetcy, made to him by command of the Sovereign.\"\n\n\n\"Indeed,\" said the Bard, in conclusion, \"the King and me were mutually\npleased with each other. I'd have had myself made a Baronet, like Scott,\nbut I have not the dirty acres to keep up the dignity. 'Tis my private\nnotion, if the King had seen me first, I'd have had ten times the money\nhe sent me. Well, he's every inch a King, and here's his health.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou may judge, from what he printed and what he spoke, whether the\nmodesty of the Bard was not equal to his genius. It is a fact, I\nunderstand, that he actually made his way to an audience with George\nthe Fourth; he must have rather astonished his Majesty. In his later\nyears the Bard fluctuated between Cork and Limerick (in the last-named\ncity of \"beautiful lasses,\" he had a daughter very well married),[10]\nand, wherever he might be, was open to algebraic donations of strong\ndrink--that is, \"any _given_ quantity.\"\n\n     [10] The saying in Ireland, when the locality of good-looking\n     people is to be indicated, is--\"Cork lads and Limerick lasses.\" In\n     Lancashire, there is something like this in the familiar manner in\n     which the natives speak of \"Wigan _chaps_, Bolton _fellows_,\n     Manchester _men_, and Liverpool _gentlemen_.\"\n\nSuch a fungus as the Bard O'Kelly could only have been produced in and\ntolerated by a very peculiar state of society. Out of Ireland he would\nhave starved--unless he followed a different vocation. He was partly\nlaughed at, partly feared. Satire was his weapon. His manners, attire,\nand conversation, would scarcely be endured now in the servants' hall;\nyet, even as lately as twenty years ago, he forced his way into the\ncompany of respectable people--aye, and got not only hospitality from\nthem, but _douceurs_ of wearing apparel and money. One comfort is, such\na person would have little chance in Ireland now.\n\nThe Bard O'Kelly died about fifteen years ago, having lived in clover\nfor more than forty years, by the fears of those whom he made his\ntributaries. Until he published, in 1831, the world took it for granted,\nthat even as _he_ said, he had some poetic talent. The list of\nsubscribers to his volume had between seven and eight hundred names,\nincluding ladies, peers of the realm, and members of Parliament. The\n\"Bard's\" want of ability was companioned by want of principle--for two,\nat least, of the poems which he published as his own, were written by\nothers. One, commencing, \"My life is like the summer rose,\" is the\ncomposition of R. H. Wilde, a distinguished American man of letters; and\nanother, beginning \"On beds of snow the moonbeams slept,\" has been\n_conveyed_ from the early poems of a writer named--Thomas Moore. There\nis cool intrepidity in pilfering from a poet so universally known as\nMoore. When Scott visited Ireland, he was waited on by O'Kelly with the\nsame \"extempore impromptu\" he had inflicted on George IV., years before,\nand (Lockhart relates) compelled the Ariosto of the North to pay the\nusual tribute--by subscribing to his poems.\n\nThere are scores of Irishmen now in New York, who were personally\nacquainted with O'Kelly, and can testify to the accuracy--I might even\nsay the moderation, of my description of him.\n\n\n\n\nFATHER PROUT.\n\n\nThose who have perused that polyglot of wisdom and wit, learning and\nfun, wild eccentricity and plain sense, 'yclept \"THE PROUT PAPERS,\"\nwhich originally appeared in _Fraser's Magazine_, during the editorship\nof Dr. Maginn, may feel some curiosity respecting the individual whose\nname has thus been preserved (not unlike the fly in amber) through all\nliterary time. They would naturally think, after admiring the rare\nfacility of versification, the playfulness, the fancy, the wit, the\nimpetuous frolic, the deep erudition which distinguishes the said\n\"Papers,\" that Father Prout must have been a wonderful man, gifted in an\nextraordinary manner.\n\nWhat is there in the language more spirited than the Prout translations\nfrom B\u00e9ranger? As was said of Goethe's Faust, translated by Anster, the\nfact was _transfused_ into our vernacular. What wondrous flexibility is\ngiven to the old Latin tongue, by the versions of Moore into that\nlanguage! What charming mastery of learning, as exhibited in the\ntranslations of \"The Groves of Blarney\" into a variety of tongues! What\ngrave humour in treating that original song as if it were only a\ntranslation! Two wits--who not only belonged to Cork, but had seen a\ngreat many _drawings_ of it in their time--were the perpetrators of this\nliterary mystification. Frank Mahony and Frank Murphy--a priest and a\nlawyer. On their own hook, to use a common phrase, they have done\nnothing worth particular mention; but some plants, we know, produce\nflowers, while others yield fruit.\n\nFor a long time, in England, the full credit of the Fraserian articles\nwas given to Father Prout. Then set in a spring-tide of disbelief, and\nthe very existence of such a man was doubted. Erroneous doubt! for I\nhave seen him--spoken to him--dined with him. The Father Prout, however,\nof real life was very different from him of the Prout Papers. He was\nparish-priest of Watergrass-hill, midway between the city of Cork and\nthe town of Fermoy--a locality known as the highest arable land in\nIreland. Prout was one of the old priests who, when it was penal for a\nCatholic clergyman to exist in Ireland, picked up the elements of his\neducation how he could, completed it at a foreign university, and came\nback to Ireland, a priest, to administer the consolations of religion to\nthe peasantry of his native land. Sometimes, the Catholic priest\nevidenced to the last, in conduct and manners, that his youth had been\npassed in countries in which social civilization had extended further\nthan in Ireland. Sometimes, the learning and the polish which had been\nacquired abroad were forgotten at home--as the sword loses its\nbrightness from disuse--and, living much among the peasantry, the priest\nlost a part of the finer courtesy of the gentleman, and assumed the\nroughness of the bulk of his parishioners. Wherever there was a resident\nProtestant landowner, the Priest of the olden time instinctively formed\nfriendly relations with him--for, at that time, the priestly order was\nnot invariably supplied from the peasantry, and tolerance was more\ndeclared and practiced by members of all persuasions, in Ireland, at\nthat time than it is now. Prout was literally a \"round, fat, oily man of\nGod.\" He had a hand small as a woman's, and was very proud of it. He had\nan unconquerable spirit of good-humour, and it was utterly impossible\nfor any one to be in his company for ten minutes without feeling and\nbasking in the sunshine of his buoyant and genial good-nature. Of\nlearning he had very little. I do not know what his share might have\nbeen half a century before, when he was fresh from Douay or the\nSorbonne, but few traces were left in his latter years. In the society\nof his equals or his superiors, Prout could keep up the shuttlecock of\nconversation as well as any one, and in the fashion of the place and\nclass, but he was equally at home amid the festivities of a country\nwedding, or the genialities of the hospitable entertainment which\nfollowed the holding of a country Station at a rich farmer's domicile.\n\nWhat the world has received as \"The Reliques of Father Prout,\" owes\nnothing to the little _padrone_. He had a strong sense of the humourous,\nand, when the fancy seized him, was not very particular how or where he\nindulged it.\n\nProut, residing only nine miles from Cork, frequently visited that city,\nwhere he had a great many acquaintances, at all times glad to see him.\nIn one Protestant family with which he was intimate, there were several\nvery handsome daughters, full of life and high spirits, who especially\ndelighted in drawing out the rotund priest. He had repeatedly urged them\nto \"drop in\" upon him, some day; and when the spirit of fun was strong,\nearly on a Sunday morning in June, they ordered out the carriage, and\ndirected their Jehu to drive them to Watergrass-hill.\n\nNow, though that terminus was only nine (Irish[11]) miles distant, the\ngreater part of the way--certainly all from Glanmire--was terribly\nup-hill. The result was that, instead of reaching Father Prout's about\nten o'clock, as they had anticipated, they did not draw up at his door\nuntil an hour and a half later, and were there informed that \"his\nReverence had be off to last mass.\" They determined to follow\nhim, partly from curiosity to see in what manner divine worship was\nperformed in a Catholic chapel.\n\n     [11] Irish miles are longer than English, in the proportion of 11\n     to 14. A traveller complained to the chaise-driver of the\n     narrowness of the way. \"Oh, then,\" said the man, \"why need you be\n     angry with the roads? Sure, we make up in the length for the scanty\n     measure we get in the width.\"\n\nThe chapel in which Father Prout officiated was by no means a building\nof pretension. At that time the roof was out of repair, and, in wet\nweather, acted as a gigantic shower-bath. The floor, then, consisted of\nbeaten earth, which was somewhat of a puddle whenever the rains\ndescended and the winds blew. The Cork ladies soon found the chapel,\nentered it, and (accustomed to the rich churches of their own\npersuasion) gazed in wonder on the humble, unadorned place of worship in\nwhich they stood. It may literally be said \"in which they stood,\" for\nthere were no pews, no chairs, not even a solitary stool.\n\nPresently the chapel began to fill, and \"the pressure from without\"\ngradually drove the ladies nearer and yet nearer to the altar. At length\nFather Prout entered in his clerical attire, and commenced the service.\nIn Catholic churches the priest officiates, during the early part of the\nservice, with his face to the altar, and his back to the congregation.\nThus, it happened that Prout never saw his Cork friends until the time\nwhen he turned round to the congregation. Then he beheld them,\nhandsomely and fashionably attired, standing up (for the floor was too\npuddled to allow them to soil their vesture by kneeling, as every one\nelse did), the gazed-at by all beholders, looking and feeling the\nreverse of comfortable.\n\nFather Prout immediately looked at his clerk, Pat Murphy,--an original\nin his way,--caught his eye and his attention, and gently inclining\ntowards him, whispered, \"send for three chairs for the ladies.\" Pat, who\nwas a little deaf, imperfectly caught his master's words, and turned\nround to the congregation and roared out, \"Boys! his Reverence says,\n'Three cheers for the ladies.'\" The congregation, obedient and gallant,\ngave three tremendous shouts, to the surprise of the ladies and the\nhorror of the priest. There was a good deal of merriment when the\nmistake was explained, but to his dying day Father Prout was reminded,\nwhenever he visited Cork, of the \"Three cheers for the ladies.\"\n\nPat Murphy, his clerk, was quite a character. He affected big words, and\nwas mortally offended whenever any one called him _clerk_ or _sexton_.\n\"I pity the weakness of your intellectual organization,\" he would\ncontemptuously exclaim. \"If you had only brains enough to distinguish B\nfrom a bull's foot, you would appreciate my peculiar and appropriate\nofficial designation. The words 'clerk' and 'sexton' are appellations\nwhich distinctify the menial avocations of persons employed in heretical\nplaces of worship. My situation is that of Sacristan and my responsible\nduty is to act as custodian of the sacred utensils and vestments of\nthe chapel.\"\n\nMurphy had an exaggerated idea of the abilities of his principal, and\nstoutly maintained that if the Pope knew what was good for the Church,\nhe would long since have elevated Father Prout to the episcopal dignity.\nHis chief regret, when dying, was, that he did not survive to see _this_\nconsummation.\n\nSometimes Pat Murphy would condescend to enter into a _viv\u00e2 voce_\ncontroversy with one of the \"heretics,\" (as he invariably designated the\nProtestants,) on the comparative merits of the rival churches. His\ninvariable wind-up, delivered gravely and authoritatively, as a\nclincher, to which he would permit no reply, was as follows:--\"I\ncommiserate your condition, which is the result of your miserable\nignorance. Unfortunate individual! out of the New Testament itself I can\nprove that your religion is but a thing of yesterday. With you\nProtestants the Apostle Paul had not the most distant acquaintance,\nwhereas he corresponded with us of the Holy Roman Church. You doubt it?\nKnow you not that, from Corinth, he wrote an Epistle to the _Romans_,\nand if the Protestants were in existence then, and known to him, why did\nhe not as well send an Epistle unto _them_?\"\n\nFather Prout was short and rotund. His Sacristan was tall and thin.\nImmemorial usage permits the clerical cast-off garments to descend, like\nheirlooms, to the parish clerk. Pat Murphy, in the threadbare\ngarments which erst had clothed the rotundity of Father Prout, was a\nludicrous looking object. The doctrine of compensation used to be\ncarried out, on such occasions, with more truth than beauty. The waist\nof the priest's coat would find itself under Murphy's arms, the\nwristbands would barely cover his elbows, and the pantaloons, sharing\nthe fate of the other garments, would end at his knees, leaving a wide\ninterval of calf visible to public gaze. On the other hand, by way of\nequivalent, the garments would voluminously wrap around him, in folds,\nas if they were intended to envelope not one Pat Murphy, but three such\nexamples of the mathematical definition, \"length without breadth.\" On\none occasion I had the double satisfaction of seeing Father Prout, like\nSolomon, in all his glory, with Pat Murphy in full costume. It happened\nin this wise:\n\nThere was pretty good shooting about Watergrass-hill, and the officers\nof an infantry regiment, who were quartered at Fermoy, at the period to\nwhich I refer, had made Prout's acquaintance, while peppering away at\nthe birds, and had partaken of a capital impromptu luncheon which he got\nup on the moment. Prout, it may be added, was in the habit of receiving\npresents of game, fish and poultry from his friends in Cork, (the\nmail-coaches and other public conveyances passing his door several times\nevery day,) and as long as Dan Meagher, of Patrick-street, was in the\nwine-trade, be sure that his friend, Father Prout, did not want good\nsamples of the generous juice of the grape. Of course, he also had a\nsupply of real _potheen_. Cellar and larder thus provided for, Prout was\nfond of playing the host.\n\nA great intimacy speedily sprung up between Prout and his military\nfriends, and he partook of numerous dinners at their mess in Fermoy\nBarracks. At last, determined to return the compliment, he invited them\nall to dine with him at Watergrass-hill. One of my own cousins, who\nhappened to be one of the guests, took me with him--on the Roman plan, I\npresume, which permitted an invited guest to bring _his shade_. I was a\nyoungster at the time, but remember the affair as if it were of\nyesterday.\n\nIf there was any anticipation of a spoiled dinner, it was vain. Prout,\nwho was on intimate terms with all his neighbours for half a dozen miles\nround, had been wise enough to invoke the aid of the Protestant rector\nof Watergrass-hill, who not only lent him plate, china, and all other\ntable necessaries, but--what was of more importance--also spared him the\nexcellent cook who, it was said, could compose a dinner, in full\nvariety, out of any one article of food. Each of the officers was\nattended at table by his own servant, and Pat Murphy, in full dress,\nofficiated as servitor, at the particular disposal of Father Prout\nhimself.\n\nThe dinner was excellent,--well-cooked, well-served, and worthy of\npraise for the abundance, variety, and excellence of the viands. There\nwas everything to be pleased with--nothing to smile at.\n\nI beg to withdraw the last four words. There was Pat Murphy, in an\nex-suit of Prout's, looking such a figure of fun, that, on recalling the\nscene now, I wonder how, one and all, we did not burst into a shout of\nlaughter when he first was presented to view. He looked taller, and\nscraggier, and leaner than usual--his clothes appearing greater misfits\nthan ever! Prout, who kept his countenance remarkably well, evidently\nsaw and enjoyed the ludicrous appearance of his man. On the other hand,\nthe man, taking on himself the duties of Major Domo, ordered the other\nattendants about in all directions, muttering curses between his teeth\nwhenever they did not do exactly as he commanded. But everything went\noff gaily, and Prout's rubicund face became redder and more radiant\nunder the influence of this success.\n\nIn the course of the entertainment, Father Prout, addressing his\nattendant, said, \"Pat, a glass of porter, if you please.\" The liquor was\npoured, and, as it frothed in the glass, Prout raised it to his lips\nwith the words, \"Thank you, Pat.\" Waiting until he had completed the\ndraught, Pat, in a tone of earnest remonstrance, said, \"Ah, then, your\nReverence, why should _you_ thank me for what's your own? It would be\ndecent for these genteels who are dining here, to thank me for the good\ndrink, but you've no right to do anything of the sort, seeing that the\nliquor is your own. It is my supplication that you will not do so again;\nthere is an incongruity in it which I disrelish.\" We had some difficulty\nin not laughing, but contrived to keep serious faces during this\ncolloquy.\n\nThe liberality of the little Padre had provided us with three courses,\nand just as Pat Murphy was in the act of relieving a noble roasted\nhaunch of mutton, before his master, by a dish of snipe, he happened to\nlook out of the window and see one of his own familiar associates\npassing along the street. Hastily flinging down the dish, he threw up\nthe window, and, kneeling down, with his long arms resting on the sill,\nloudly hailed his friend, \"Where are ye going, Tom?\" The answer was that\na dance was expected in the neighbourhood, and at which, of course, Pat\nwould be \"to the fore.\" Now, the said Pat, very much like Ichabod Crane\nin figure, had a sort of sneaking desire, like him, to be wherever\npretty women were to be seen. \"No,\" said Pat, \"I do not anticipate to be\nrelieved in any thing like proper time from attendance here this\nevening. His Reverence, who has been ating and drinking, with remarkable\navidity, on the military officers down in Fermoy, is hospitable to-day,\nand entertains the whole squad of them at dinner. To see them _ate_,\nyou'd think they had just got out of a hard Lent. 'Tisn't often, I dare\nsay, that they get such a feast. There's the mutton sent by Chetwood of\nGlanmire; and the poultry by Cooper Penrose of Wood-hill; and the\nlashings of game by Devonshire of Kilshanneck; and the fruit by Lord\nRiversdale of Lisnegar--that is, by his steward, for 'tis little his\nLordship sees of the place that gives him a good six thousand a\nyear;--and the barrel of porter from Tommy Walker of Fermoy; and the\nwine from red-faced Dan Meagher of Cork; and everything of the best.\nDepend on it, the officers won't stir until they have made fools of all\nthe provender. By-and-bye, that the poor mightn't have a chance of the\nleavings, they will be calling for grilled bones, and devilled legs and\ngizzards. No, Tom, my mind misgives me that I can't go to the dance this\nevening. Here's the officers, bad 'cess to them, that are sedentary\nfixtures until midnight.\"\n\nThis oration delivered,--and every one had been silent while Pat Murphy\nwas thus unburthening his mind,--he arose from his knees, closed the\nwindow, and resumed his place behind Father Prout, with \"a countenance\nmore of sorrow than of anger,\" calm and unconcerned as if nothing had\noccurred out of the ordinary routine. At that moment, Prout threw\nhimself back on his chair, and laughed until the tears rolled down his\ncheeks, and thus encouraged, the company followed his example, and\nlaughed also. When the mirth had subsided, it was almost renewed by the\nsolemn countenance of Pat Murphy, grave rather than severe--a sort of\ndomestic Marius sitting, in sad contemplation, amid the ruins of\nCarthage.\n\nFather Prout had rather a rough set of parishioners to deal with. He\ncould be, and was, very much of the gentleman, but it pleased him to\nappear plain and unpolished to those among whom his lot was cast. At\ntimes, when nothing else would do, he would address them, in an\nexhortation, very much in the spirit of Swift's \"if you like the\nconditions, down with the dust!\" At such times, Rabelais, \"in his easy\nchair,\" would have smiled, and Swift himself would have hailed Prout as\na congenial spirit.\n\nI have a memorandum of one of these sermons. The object was to collect\nsome arrears of \"dues\" from certain non-paying parishioners,\n(constituting rather a large portion of his congregation,) and I have\nbeen told that the discourse was much to this effect:\n\n\n\n\nFATHER PROUT'S SERMON.\n\n\nSomewhere in the Scriptures it is written, that whoever gives to the\npoor lends to the Lord. There are three reasons why I don't tell you\nexactly where this may be found. In the first place, poor creatures that\nyou are, few of you happen to have the authorized Douay edition, printed\nand published by Richard Coyne of Dublin, and certified as correct by\nArchbishop Troy, and the other heads of the Church in Ireland--few\namong you, I say, have _that_, though I know that there is not a house\nin the parish without a loose song-book, or the History of the Irish\nRogues. In the second place, if ye had it, 'tis few of ye could read it,\nignorant haythens that ye are. And in the third place, if every man-jack\nof ye did possess it, and could read it, (for the Church still admits\nthe possibility of miracles,) it would not much matter at this present\nmoment, because it happens that I don't quite remember in what part of\nit the text is to be found;--for the wickedness of my flock has affected\nmy memory, and driven many things clean out of my head, which it took me\na deal of trouble to put into it when I was studying in foreign parts,\nyears ago. But it don't matter. The fault is not mine, but yours, ye\nunnatural crew, and may-be ye won't find it out, to your cost, before ye\nhave been five minutes quit of this life. Amen.\n\n\"He who gives to the poor.\"--Ye are not skilled in logic, nor indeed in\nanything that I know except playing hurley in the fields, scheming at\ncards in public-houses for half gallons of porter, and defrauding your\nclergy of their lawful dues. What is worse, there's no use in trying to\ndrive logic into your heads, for indeed that would be the fulfilment of\nanother text that speaks of throwing pearls before pigs. But if ye _did_\nknow logic--which ye don't--ye would perceive at once that the passage I\nhave just quoted naturally divides itself into two branches. The first\ninvolves the _giving_; that is, rationally and syllogistically\nconsidered, what ye ought to do. And the second involves the _poor_;\nthat is, the receivers of the gifts, or the persons for whom ye ought to\ndo it.\n\nFirst, then, as to the giving. Now it stands to reason that, as the\nScripture says in some other place, the blind can't lead the blind,\nbecause maybe they'd fall into the bog-holes, poor things, and get\ndrowned. And so, though there really is wonderful kindness to each other\namong them, it is not to be expected that the poor can give to the poor.\nNo, the givers must be people who have something to give, which the poor\nhave not. Some of ye will try and get off on this head, and say that\n'tis gladly enough ye'd give, but that really ye can't afford it. Can't\nye? If you make up your minds, any one of you, to give up only a single\nglass of spirits, every day of your lives, see what it will come to in\nthe course of a year, and devote _that_ to the Church--that is to the\nClergy--and it will be more than some of the well-to-do farmers, whom I\nhave in my eye at this blessed moment, have had the heart to give me\nduring the last twelve months. Why, as little as a penny a day comes to\nmore than thirty shillings in the year, and even that insignificant\ntrifle I have not had from some of you that have the means and ought to\nknow better. I don't want to mention names, but, Tom Murphy of the Glen,\nI am afraid I shall be compelled to name you before the whole\ncongregation, some day before long, if you don't pay up your lawful\ndues. I won't say more now on that subject, for, as St. Augustine says,\n\"A nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse.\"\n\nNow, the moral of the first part being clearly shown, that all who _can_\ngive _ought_ to give, the next branch is _to whom_ should it be given?\nThe blessed text essentially states and declares \"to the poor.\" Then\nfollows the inquiry, who's \"the _poor_.\" The whole matter depends on\n_that_.\n\nI dare say, ignorant as ye are, some of you will think that it's the\nbeggars, and the cripples, and the blind travellers who contrive to get\nthrough the length and breadth of the country, guided by Providence and\na little dog tied to their fingers by a bit of string. No, I don't want\nto say one mortal word against that sort of cattle, or injure them in\ntheir honest calling. God help them. It's their trade, their estate,\ntheir occupation, their business to beg--just as much as 'tis Pat\nMulcahy's business to tailor, or Jerry Smith's to make carts, or Tom\nShine's to shoe horses, or Din Cotter's to make potheen, and my business\nto preach sermons, and save your souls, ye heathens. But these ain't\n\"the poor\" meant in the text. They're used to begging, and they like to\nbeg, and they thrive on begging, and I, for one, wouldn't be the man to\ndisturb them in the practice of their profession, and long may it be a\nprovision to them and to their heirs for ever. Amen.\n\nMay-be, ye mean-spirited creatures, some among you will say that it's\nyourselves is \"the poor.\" Indeed, then, it isn't. Poor enough and\nniggardly ye are, but you ain't the poor contemplated by holy Moses in\nthe text. Sure 'tis your nature to toil and to slave--sure 'tis what\nye're used to. Therefore, if any one were to give anything to _you_, he\nwould not be lending to the Lord in the slightest degree, but throwing\naway his money as completely as if he lent it upon the security of the\nland that's covered by the lakes of Killarney. Don't flatter yourselves,\nany of you, for a moment, that you are \"the poor.\" I can tell you that\nyou're nothing of the sort.\n\nNow, then, we have found out who should be the givers. There's no\nmistake about _that_--reason and logic unite in declaring that every one\nof you, man, woman and child--should give, and strain a point to do it\nliberally. Next, we have ascertained that it's \"the poor\" who should\nreceive what you give. Thirdly, we have determined who are _not_ \"the\npoor.\" Lastly, we must discover who _are_.\n\nLet each of you put on his considering cap and think.--Well, I have\npaused that you might do so. Din Cotter is a knowledgeable man compared\nwith the bulk of you. I wonder whether he has discovered who _are_ \"the\npoor.\" He shakes his head--but there is not much in _that_. Well, then,\nyou give it up. You leave it to me to enlighten you all. Learn, then,\nto your shame, that it's the Clergy who are \"the poor.\"\n\nAh! you perceive it now, do you? The light comes in through your thick\nheads, does it? Yes, it's I and my brethren is \"the poor.\" We get our\nbread--coarse enough and dry enough it usually is--by filling you with\nspiritual food, and, judging by the congregation now before me, its ugly\nmouths you have to receive it. We toil not, neither do we spin, but if\nSolomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed better than we are, instead\nof being clothed in vermin and fine linen, 'tis many a time he'd be\nwearing a thread-bare black coat, white on the seams, and out at the\nelbows. It's the opinion of the most learned scholars and Doctors in\nDivinity, as laid down before the Council of Trent, that the translation\nis not sufficiently exact in regard of this text. And they recommend\nthat for the words \"the poor,\" we should substitute \"the clergy.\" Thus\ncorrected, then, the text would read \"he who gives to the Clergy, lends\nto the Lord,\" which, no doubt, is the proper and undiluted Scripture.\n\nThe words of the text are thus settled, and you have heard my\nexplanation of it all. Now for the application. Last Thursday was a week\nsince the fair of Bartlemy, and I went down there to buy a horse, for\nthis is a large parish, and mortification and fretting has puffed me up\nso, that, God help me, 'tis little able I am to walk about to answer\nall the sick calls, to say nothing of stations, weddings, and\nchristenings. Well, I bought the horse, and it cost me more than I\nexpected, so that there I stood without a copper in my pocket after I\nhad paid the dealer. It rained cats and dogs, and as I am so poor that I\ncan't afford to buy a great coat, I got wet to the skin, in less than no\ntime. There you were, scores of you, in the public houses, with the\nwindows up, that all the world might see you eating and drinking as if\nit was for a wager. And there was not one of you who had the grace to\nask, \"Father Prout, have you got a mouth in your face?\" And there I\nmight have stood in the rain until this blessed hour (that is, supposing\nit had continued raining until now), if I had not been picked up by Mr.\n'Mun Roche, of Kildinan, an honest gentleman, and a hospitable man I\nmust say, though he is a Protestant.[12] He took me home with him, and\nthere, to your eternal disgrace, you villains, I got as full as a tick,\nand 'Mun had to send me home in his own carriage--which is an\neverlasting shame to all of you, who belong to the true Church.\n\n     [12] Created Lord Fermoy in 1855.\n\nNow, I ask which has carried out the text? You who did not give me even\na poor tumbler of punch, when I was like a drowned rat at Bartlemy, or\n'Mun Roche, who took me home, and filled me with the best of eating and\ndrinking, and sent me to my own house, after that, in his own elegant\ncarriage? Who best fulfilled the Scripture? Who lent to the Lord, by\ngiving to his poor Clergy? Remember, a time will come when I must give a\ntrue account of you:--what can I say then? Won't I have to hang down my\nhead in shame, on your account? 'Pon my conscience, it would not much\nsurprise me, unless you greatly mend your ways, if 'Mun Roche and you\nwon't have to change places on that occasion: _he_ to sit alongside of\nme, as a friend who had treated the poor Clergy well in this world, and\n_you_ in a certain place, which I won't particularly mention now, except\nto hint that 'tis little frost or cold you'll have in it, but quite the\ncontrary. However, 'tis never too late to mend, and I hope that by this\nday week, it's quite another story I'll have to tell of you all.--Amen.\n\n\n\n\nIRISH DANCING-MASTERS.\n\n\nFive-and-twenty years ago, when I left Ireland, the original or\naboriginal race of country dancing-masters was nearly extinct. By this\ntime, I presume, it has almost died out. Here and there a few may be\nseen,\n\n\n     \"Rari nantes in gurgite vasto,\"\n\n\nbut the light-heeled, light-hearted, jovial, genial fellows who were\nactual Masters of the Revels in the district to which they respectively\nbelonged, are nowhere.\n\nThere used to be as much pride (and property) in a village\ndancing-master as in a village schoolmaster, in my young days, and I\nhave heard of \"many accidents by flood and field,\" caused by attempts to\nremove a dancing-master or a pedagogue, of high reputation, from one\ndistrict to another. In such cases, the very abduction being the\nstrongest possible compliment to his renown, the person who was \"enticed\naway by force,\" always made a point of offering no resistance, and would\npassively and proudly await the result. Indeed, care was always taken\nthat such removal should be actual preferment, as, to ameliorate his\ncondition, the residence provided for him in the new village, township,\nor barony, was always better than that from which he was removed.\n\nAs a general rule, the abduction, of schoolmasters was a favorite\npractice in Kerry--where every man and boy is supposed to speak\nLatin[13]--while stolen dancing-masters did not abound in the\nneighbouring counties of Cork and Limerick. The natural inference is\nthat the County Kerry-men preferred the culture of the head, while the\nothers rather cared for the education of the heels.\n\n     [13] There are full grounds for this assertion. Classical learning\n     has flourished in Kerry (under a hedge) from time immemorial. I\n     recollect an illustrative anecdote. Two poor scholars who were\n     travelling through Kerry, came to a farm-house, when faint with\n     hunger, and foot-sore with walking; they went in, and modestly\n     wanted \"a drink of water,\" which was given them. On leaving the\n     house, where they had expected something better than this scant\n     hospitality, one of them exclaimed, \"Ah, Pat, that's not the way\n     that a farmer's wife would trate a poor scholar in our part of the\n     world. 'Tis the good bowl of milk she'd give him, and not the\n     piggin of cold water. She's a _malus mulier_.\" The other responded,\n     \"Say _mala_--it must be so to agree with the feminine _mulier_.\n     Don't you know that _malus mulier_ is bad Latin?\" \"Hold your\n     tongue,\" was the answer: \"whatever it is, it is only too good for a\n     niggard like _her_.\"\n\nTo have a first-rate hedge-schoolmaster was a credit to any parish. To\nhave engrossed the services of an eminent _ma\u00eetre de danse_ was almost a\nmatter of considerable pride and boasting, but to possess _both_ of\nthese treasures was indeed a triumph.\n\nThere was more pride, perhaps, in having a schoolmaster of great\nrepute--more pleasure in owning a dancer of high renown. The book-man\nwas never known to dance, and the village Vestris was rarely able to\nwrite his name. Thus they never clashed. One ruled by day, and the other\nhad unquestioned sovereignty in the hours between dusk and dawn.\n\nSuch a being as a youthful dancing-master I never saw--never heard of.\nThey were invariably middle-aged men, at the youngest; but professors of\n\"the poetry of motion,\" who were about seventy, appeared the greatest\nfavourites. It was dreaded, perhaps, that the attraction of youth and\ngood dancing combined would be too much for the village beauties to\nresist. On the same system, in all probability, it was a _sine qu\u00e2 non_\nthat the dancing-master should be married.\n\nThe Irish peasantry used to have a sort of passion for dancing. Hence\nthe necessity for a teacher. On stated evenings during the winter, no\nmatter what obstacles wet weather or dirty roads might present, a large\ncompany of pupils, from the age of ten to forty years, would assemble,\nin some roomy barn, possessing a smooth and hard floor of\nclosely-pounded clay, to receive instructions in the saltatory art.\nSometimes, when the teacher was ambitious, he would flourishingly open\nthe proceedings with what was called \"a bit of a noration,\"--the oratory\nprincipally consisting of sesquipedalian words and mythological\nallusions, being composed by the schoolmaster--utterly unintelligible,\nbut sounding largely, and delivered in an _ore rotundo_ manner and with\n\"a laudable voice,\" as if the dancing-master really understood the words\nhe uttered. Not taking particular pains to follow \"copy,\" and frequently\nputting in words of his own when those written down for him had slipped\nout of his memory, these orations were amusingly absurd. They invariably\ncommenced with an allusion to Miriam dancing before Moses, after the\npassage of the Red Sea, (on which occasion, no doubt, was first heard\n\"the piper who played before Moses,\" familiarly named in Irish\ncolloquy,) and, passing down, through Homer and the classics, always\nended with a warm eulogy on the antiquity of the dance.\n\nIn those days, the favourite exhibitions were the jig, the reel, the\nhornpipe, and the country-dance. The last-named was considered\ndreadfully genteel--too aristocratic, in fact, for the multitude--and\nwas learned and practiced (as courting and kissing often are) on the\nsly! The reel was countenanced--and no more. It was rather Scotch than\nIrish. Every one was expected to be able to go that laborious piece of\namusement called \"The Sailor's Hornpipe,\"--faint vestiges of which are\nextant, to this hour, in nautical scenes,--as represented on the stage.\nWords cannot describe the evolutions of this remarkable dance, when\nexhibited with all the scientific varieties of which it was\ncapable. The shuffles, cross-shuffles, jumps, hops, leaps, cuttings,\nslides, and so on, which were introduced, I am unable to describe. The\nmanner in which \"heel-and-toe\" was employed and varied, some abler\nhistorian may record.\n\nThat the hours passed away on swift pinions at these dancing academies,\nmay well be imagined. There was any quantity of flirtation at all times,\nand about half the marriages in the country owed their origin to these\n_r\u00e9unions_. It is creditable to the proverbial good conduct of my\ncountrywomen, that loss of character rarely, if ever, resulted from\nthese free-and-easy meetings.\n\nThe real glory of the evening, however, was when the dancing-master,\nafter a world of solicitation, would \"take the flure,\" in order to give\nhis admiring pupils a touch of his quality. On such an occasion, the\ndoor of the house would be lifted off its hinges, and placed in the\ncentre of the floor. Abandoning the little _kit_ (a small-sized violin)\nwhich was his companion at all other exhibitions, he would allow a blind\npiper to \"discourse most excellent music,\" and, on the door, would\ncommence that wondrous display of agility, known, in my time, as \"cover\nthe buckle;\"--a name probably derived from the circumstance that the\ndancing-master, while teaching, always wore large buckles in his shoes,\nand by the rapidity of motion with which he would make his \"many\ntwinkling feet\" perpetually cross, would seem to \"cover\" the appendages\nin question. The great effort was to exhibit all varieties of steps and\ndances, without once quitting the prostrate door on which the exhibitor\ntook his stand. The jumps, the \"cuttings\" in the air, the bends, the\ndives, the wrigglings, the hops--these were all critically regarded by\nhis audience, and sometimes rewarded with such exclamations as \"That's\nthe way,\"--\"now for a double cut,\"--\"cover-the-buckle, ye divel,\"--\"Oh,\nthen, 'tis he that handles his feet nately.\" At the conclusion, when he\nliterally had danced himself almost off his legs, he would bow to the\ncompany, and--if he were very much a favourite, or had eclipsed all\nformer displays--one of the prettiest girls in the room would go round,\nplate in hand, and make a collection for him. How the ten-penny and\nfive-penny bits would tumble in, on those occasions--particularly if the\nfair collector could be induced to announce, with a blush and a smile,\nthat she would take an extra donation on the usual terms, which meant\nthat, for five shillings into the plate, any gallant swain might brush\nthe dew from her own coral lips, on that occasion only and by particular\ndesire. Can you doubt, for a moment, that the likely \"boy\" who had been\nsitting by her side all the evening, making babies on her eyes (as the\nsaying is), and with his arm round her waist, just to steady her in her\nseat, would jump up and fling his crown-piece into the treasury--though\nthe pecuniary sacrifice would probably involve his being obliged to\ndispense, for a few weeks more, with \"the new Carline hat\" on which his\ndandyism had set its mind, for his Sunday adorning!\n\nIt was difficult for \"an outsider\" to become a spectator of the peculiar\nmodes of teaching adopted and practiced by these masters. At a small\nextra rate, they would undertake to give instructions in that\n\"deportment,\" of which the late Mr. Turvey-drop was such an illustrious\nexemplar. I never witnessed anything of this sort, but have conversed on\nthe subject with some who did. From what I could learn, the whole course\nof tuition in this particular branch must have been ludicrous in the\nextreme. Besides lessons in standing, walking, sitting, and even leaning\nwith grace and ease, more recondite points were considered. Such were\n\"how to slide out of a room backwards\" (on the chance, no doubt, of some\nof the rustics having to appear at Court, before Royalty)--\"how to\naccept a tumbler of punch from a gentleman,\" touching the liquid with\nher lips, so as to leave a kiss within the cup, as Ben Jonson\nadvises,--\"how to refuse a kiss,\" and yet not destroy the hope of its\nbeing accepted, a little later in the evening,--and, above all, \"how to\ntake a kiss,\" in the most genteel and approved manner of politeness!\nThese instructions, super-added to a lesson that was called\n\"the Grecian bend\" (which was nothing less than a coquettish way of\nleaning forward, with the eyes cast down, while listening to soft\nnonsense from a favoured swain), were peculiar and private. The only way\nin which the male sex could obtain a glimpse at such Eleusinian\nmysteries was by taking a recumbent position on the roof of the house,\ncarefully removing a small portion of the thatch, and using eyes and\nears in that situation to the best advantage. If detected by the irate\nmaidens, the spy would run a fair chance of a scratched face and\nwell-boxed ears.\n\nAs might be expected, the country dancing-master sometimes had stupid\nand refractory pupils. There was a common method of giving them\ninstruction, which, for its practical simplicity, may be worth relating.\nWhen the pupil would persist in _not_ recollecting which foot was to be\nused, at particular periods, the dancing-master would take a rope made\nof twisted hay, called a _suggaun_, and fasten it around one of the\ndelinquent's ankles. He would then take a similar bracelet of twisted\nwillow, denominated a _gad_, and put this on the other. Then, instead of\ndirecting the pupil to the particular use or motion of the right leg or\nthe left, he would exclaim, \"Rise upon _suggaun_,\" or \"Sink upon _gad_,\"\nand in this manner convey his instructions beyond a possibility of\nmistake by even the most stupid!\n\nOf course, where there was large company of young people, full of life\nand spirit, under pupilage to a not young instructor, a variety of\npractical jokes would be perpetrated, at his expense, every now and\nthen. They were almost invariably of a good-natured kind. One, which\nmight be considered as to \"be repeated every night until farther\nnotice,\" generally came off towards the end of the evening. A joyous,\nlight-hearted damsel would suddenly start up, while the music was\nplaying, and, placing herself before the dancing-master, with that\nparticular description of curtsy called \"a bob,\" silently challenge him\nto dance with her. Now, under all circumstances, except actual inability\nto move, the gentleman so challenged has nothing to do but pick up the\ngauntlet, and \"take the flure.\" Then, challenger and challenged would\ncommence an Irish jig--a dance so violent that, writing in the dog-days\nas I do, the very recollection of it makes me feel as if the barometer\nwas some two hundred in the shade. When the damsel had pretty well tired\nherself, one of her fair friends would take her place, and so on until a\nround dozen or so had had their turn. All this time, the doomed victim\nof a man had to continue dancing--and the point of honour was to do so,\nwithout giving in, as long as strength and wind lasted. The company\nwould gather round, forming a ring for the performers, and the word\nwould be, \"On with the dance\" (as it was, at Brussels, on the eve of\nWaterloo), until, at last, some male spectator would pityingly dash\ninto the circle, take the tired man's place, and permit the breathless\nand exhausted victim to totter to a seat, gasping out a protest, as he\ndid, that he could have held out for half an hour longer, and wondered\nwhy any gentleman should interfere with another gentleman's _divarshun_.\n\nIn the preceding story of \"The Petrified Piper,\" mention is made of a\ndancing-master commonly known as \"Ould Lynch.\" He was an original, in\nmany respects, and, like many of his profession, was in a constant\nflutter of faded finery and actual poverty. He was so much a character\nthat my father took rather a fancy to him, and had him often at the\nhouse, as a teacher of dancing, in the well populated town of Fermoy. He\nhad small chance of earning what would keep life and soul together. But\nhe was a quiet, unassuming man, better educated than most of his class,\nand full of anecdote. One social virtue he eminently possessed:--he was\none of the best backgammon players I ever saw, and (I speak it\nmodestly,) was very fond of me as a pupil.\n\nLynch was a County Limerick man, on the confines of \"the Kingdom of\nKerry,\" and informed me that, in the parish where he was brought up, the\nnatives had a passion for backgammon, and were wont, on high-days and\nholidays, to hold tournaments (on their favourite game) with the\ninhabitants of the next parish, in Kerry. Unfortunately, one day\nwhen a great trial of skill was appointed to come off, it turned out\nthat no backgammon box was forthcoming. Both parties had contrived to\nforget it. To send for the necessary implements would have been a waste\nof time, when the combatants had \"their souls in arms,\" and were \"eager\nfor the fray.\" In this dilemma, a lad who had a decided genius for\nexpedients suggested a plan by which, without delay, their mutual wishes\ncould be realized. Under his advice, one of the meadows was fixed upon\nas the scene of action. The turf was removed at intervals, so as to make\nthe place present the semblance of a backgammon board, and substitutes\nfor men were readily found in the flat stones and slates with which the\nground abounded. The great difficulty was--the dice! They could\nextemporize board and men, but how to raise the bits of ivory? The lad\nwas not to be baffled. He proposed that two men, one selected from each\nparty, should sit on the ditch opposite each other, with \"the board in\nthe centre, with their respective backs turned _from_ the combatants,\nand, in turn, should call out the numbers, as if they had been actually\nthrown by dice! This brilliant idea was acted upon. A halfpenny was\nthrown up to decide who should have first play, and the men on the ditch\nalternately called out, at will, any of the throws which might have\nbeen actually cast had the dice themselves been \"to the fore.\"\n\nSuch primitive practice, I venture to say, had never before been applied\nto the noble _science_ of backgammon. I use the word advisedly, because,\nwith skill and judgment, what is called bad luck does not very\nmaterially affect the game. The art is to conquer, despite bad throwing.\n\nLynch succeeded a worthy named Hearne--a _nom de guerre_, his enemies\naverred, for the less euphonious one of Herring. Whatever his name, the\nman was quite a character. He fancied himself a poet, and was\nparticularly fond of taking his favourite pupils aside to communicate to\nthem in a confidential manner, _sotto voce_, the latest productions of\nhis muse,--it being expected that, a little later in the evening, the\nfavoured individuals should delicately draw him out and solicit him to a\npublic recital of his verses. After a good deal of pressing on their\npart, and a show of resistance on his, (which every one understood,) the\nlittle dancing-master would mount on a table, deliver a flourishing\npreface in prose, and then go through the recitation, in a manner which\nset description at defiance. At the conclusion of this feat, which was\nduly encored, Hearne was wont to distribute copies of his composition\nprinted on whity-brown paper, and the tribute of a five-penny bit was\nexpected in acknowledgment of the same--simply, as he said, \"to pay for\nthe printing.\" He had such a peculiar system of orthography--spelling\nthe words by the sound--that I venture, with all due diffidence, to put\nforward his claim to take precedence of the interesting and worthy\nfounders of the newspaper-nondescript, _The Fonetic Nuz_, at which the\nLondoners laughed heartily a dozen years ago. By some accident, I have\npreserved a copy of one of Hearne's poetical compositions, in which his\nown mode of spelling is carefully preserved, and I subjoin it as a\ncuriosity,--a specimen of what emanated, some thirty years ago, from one\nwho belonged to the peculiar class (of which Grant Thorburn is the head)\nworthy of being called The Illiterate Literati!\n\n\n     \"_A few lions addressed in prease of Mr. Jon Anderson, Esquire, by\n     his humble servant, and votary of the Muses, Wm. Ahearne, profesor\n     of dancing._\n\n\n    \"Who lives in this Eaden wich lyes to the easte\n      Of Fermoy ould bridge and its pallasades;\n    He is the best man on the Blackwater's breast,\n      As thousans from povirty he has razed.\n\n    \"There's no grand Pear in all Urop this day,\n      With him can compare most certinly,\n    In bilding a town of buty and sweay\n      As Fermoy and its gay sweet liberty.\n\n    \"Now, weagh well the case betwin him and those\n      Who travel the globe and fair Itly,\n    After skroozhing their tinnants hard when at home,\n      And spinding their store most foulishly.\"\n\nThe most original idea in these \"few lions,\" is the geographical\ninformation that Italy is _not_ a part of the globe. In the pen-ultimate\nline, the poet may have hinted a little sly satire at the \"at home\" in\nhigh life, where the crushing of hundreds into a space where tens can\nscarcely sit in comfort is esteemed a great feat.\n\nA wealthy attorney, named Henley, who had been kind to Hearne, was the\nobject of an eulogistic \"pome.\" It ran somewhat thus:\n\n    There is a barrister of great fame\n      In Fermoy, I do declare,\n    Who administers strict justas\n      Without bribery or dessate.\n    May God prolong your days,\n      Your Court to reglate,\n    And force sly roges and villines\n      To pay their dews and rates.\n\n\n\n\nCHARLEY CROFTS.\n\n\nIn the immortal \"Maxims of O'Doherty,\" written by the late Dr. Maginn,\nmention is made of a dinner at the late Lord Doneraile's, in the South\nof Ireland, in which a reproof was administered to his Lordship's\nmeanness in the article of--tippling. He says, \"My friend, Charley\nCrofts, was also of the party. The claret went lazily round the table,\nand his Lordship's toad-eaters hinted that they preferred punch, and\ncalled for hot water. My Lord gave in, after a humbug show of\nresistance, and whiskey-punch was in a few minutes the order of the\nnight. Charley, however, to the annoyance of the host, kept swilling\naway at the claret, on which Lord Doneraile lost all patience, and said\nto him, 'Charley, you are missing quite a treat; this punch is so\nexcellent.' 'Thank ye, my Lord,' said Charley, 'I am a plain man, who\ndoes not want trates; I am no epicure, so I stick to the claret.'\"\n\nThis free-and-easy gentleman, of whom I have some personal recollection,\nbelonged to a class of which, I suspect, he was the very latest\nspecimen. Charley Crofts, who had acquired no book-learning, because he\nwas born to a large landed property, was of a respectable family in the\nwest of the county Cork, and, even in his decline, was highly honoured\nby the multitude, as coming from \"the good ould stock.\" Brought up, but\nnot educated, by his mother, Charley entered the world with very\nflattering prospects. He had a good property, good looks, good temper,\nand (what he most prized) good horses. Cursed with an easy disposition,\nhe had never learned how to utter the monosyllable \"No,\" but had\nunfortunately learned how to sign his name--his friends kindly giving\nhim very frequent opportunities of practicing that autograph, by\nobtaining it, across narrow slips of stamped paper, ('yclept \"bills\" and\n\"promissory notes\") underneath the words \"_Accepted, payable at the Bank\nof James Delacour, Mallow_.\" In the long run, these autographs ruined\nhim--as, bit-by-bit, all his property went to meet the sums to which\nthey pledged him, and Charley Crofts found himself, at the age of\nthirty, without home or money. He had preserved one thing, however--his\npersonal character. He had committed a great many of the frailties of\nhis sex and youth, but the shadow of a disreputable or doubtful action\nnever rested on his name. He could proudly say, like Francis the First,\nafter the battle of Pavia, \"All lost, except honour.\"\n\nThe result was that, in his poverty, he was as highly thought of as in\nhis affluence, and was ever a welcome guest in the first houses of his\nnative county.\n\nLike the rest of his class, (I mean the estated Irish gentlemen of the\nlast century,) Charley Crofts had learned to drink deeply. He used to\nnarrate, with great glee, an incident connected with his entrance into\nvivacious habits. His mother, having occasion to leave their country\nresidence, in order to transact some business in Cork, left her hopeful\nson in full possession of the house and full command of the servants,\nfor the fortnight she intended being absent. Charley, who was then in\nhis sixteenth year, determined that he would hold no powerless sceptre\nof vice-royalty, and invited sundry acquaintances to visit him, which\nthey did. As a hogshead of fine claret was always on tap, there was no\ndifficulty in obtaining an adequate supply of drink. One day, however, a\nguest happened to express a desire to vary the post-prandial proceedings\nby the introduction of a few bottles of port. Now, it happened that Mrs.\nCrofts possessed (and was known to possess) some remarkably fine port\nwine, which she carefully kept locked up, reserving it for \"State days\nand holidays.\" Charley had been left the key of the cellar, and,\nconsidering that his hospitality was especially appealed to, by the hint\nabout the port, went down and had a supply brought up. That afternoon's\nperformance went rather hard against the port. Indeed, so much of it was\ndrank that Charley Crofts was puzzled how to account for it, without\nmaking full confession. A few days after his mother's return, she asked\nhim to accompany her to the cellar, to provide a suitable location for a\nsupply of sherry which she expected from Cork. The first thing which\nattracted her notice was the remarkable diminution in the stock of her\nvalued and nearly unique port wine. Catching her eye, Charley\nanticipated her inquiry, by remarking that, in her absence, a remarkable\nthunder-storm had penetrated to the cellar and broken a quantity of the\nbottled wine. Taking up two or three of the bottles, and fully aware\nthat it would be useless to repine or get angry over the mischief done,\nshe drew her hopeful son's attention to them, and only said, \"A dreadful\nstorm, indeed! It has actually drawn the corks out of the necks of the\nbottles, instead of bursting them in the usual way!\"\n\nFor the last five-and-thirty years of his life, Charley Crofts may be\nsaid to have literally _lived all around_. He had a number of tried\nfriends, who were glad to have him as their guest and boon companion,\nfor a month at a time. He could tell a good story, knew the private\nhistory of every family in the county, was undoubted authority on\nhorseflesh and every subject connected with the sports of the field, and\ncould take any quantity of wine without its apparently affecting him.\nNature had endowed him with great muscular power, immense physical\nstrength, a temper which nothing could cloud, and a mode of expression\nso terse as sometimes to be almost epigrammatic. He was exactly\nqualified for the shifting sort of life upon which he had fallen.\n\nWhen I met him, the brighter portion of his career had passed. He was\nbut the wreck of what he once had been, I was assured by every one; but\none may judge, from the ruin, what the structure had been in its pride.\nNumerous anecdotes were afloat as to his sayings and doings, but it is\ndifficult to realize their effect in our days, unless you could imagine\nthe person on whom they were affiliated. Though I fear that I shall fail\nin the attempt, I shall endeavour to record two or three.\n\nAs a four-bottle man, who could drink every one else under the table,\nCharley Crofts was not so much of a favourite with wives as with their\nhusbands. They knew, by experience, that with Charley Crofts in the van,\na wet evening might be looked for--in the dining-room.\n\nMr. Wrixon, of Ballygiblin, near Mallow, (father of Sir W.\nWrixon-Becher, who married Miss O'Neill, the eminent actress,) had only\na small hereditary property when he succeeded to vast estates, on\ncondition that he superadded the name of \"Becher\" to his own patronymic.\nAs plain Mr. Wrixon, with a small property, he had lived unnoticed, but\nhis circle of friends immensely increased when he became Mr.\nWrixon-Becher, and a man of \"Ten Thousand a Year.\" Soon after, he\nmarried an English lady, with some fortune, much pride, a fair share of\nbeauty, and a decided abhorrence of the drinking habits of her husband's\nfriends. She had heard of, and had been cautioned against, the vivacious\nenormities of Charley Crofts, and had actually declared to her husband\n(in private, of course) that whenever Mr. Crofts took a seat at her\ntable, she would immediately relinquish hers.\n\nOne day, when Wrixon had been out with the Duhallow hounds, and the run\nhad been quick and long, the only man who was in with him \"at the\ndeath,\" was Charley Crofts, and under the circumstances--the rain\nbeginning to fall heavily, Crofts' place of sojourn being at least ten\nmiles distant, and Ballygiblin at hand,--Wrixon felt that he _must_\ninvite Charley home, or rest under the imputation of behaving in an\nunsportsmanlike and inhospitable manner.\n\nSo, he told Charley that half a dozen other good fellows were to take\n\"pot-luck\" with him that day, and that he must insist on Charley's\njoining them. Without any pressing or denial, the invitation was\naccepted.\n\nNow, Charley Crofts knew, just as well as if he had been present when\nthe affair was discussed, how and why it was that, of all the houses in\nthe barony of Duhallow, the mansion of Ballygiblin was the only one to\nwhich he had not a general invitation. Wrixon, the moment he reached\nhome, turning over his companion to the friendly custody of a mutual\nacquaintance, who was to form one of the party that day, hastened to\n\"his lady's chamber,\" where he found his wife dressed for dinner, and\n(as her glass told her) looking remarkably well. A few well-expressed\nand well-timed compliments on her appearance, a congratulation or two on\nher exquisite taste in dress, a half-hint and half-promise as to the\nkilling effect of a set of pearl in contrast with her ebon looks, and\nmore \"blarney\" of the same sort, made the lady so very gracious that the\nhusband ventured to communicate under what circumstances he had been\ncompelled to invite Charley Crofts to her table. The lady took them, as\nthey sometimes do in French courts of justice, as \"extenuating\ncircumstances,\" and consented to receive the dreaded Charley. This done,\nshe found her way into the drawing-room, where the guests waited upon\nher--the most subdued and quiet of them being Charley Crofts. At first,\nwith his grave air and grave attire, she thought that he might have been\na clergyman.\n\nAs the only stranger in the party, Charley had to escort Mrs. Wrixon to\nthe dining-room, to sit next her, to perform the duties of carving for\nher, to supply her with a little of the small change of conversation.\nNobody could behave more decorously, more unlike the lady's fearful\nanticipations of the dreaded guest. Now and then, when addressed by his\nfriends, a quaint remark or a satiric witticism would make her smile,\nand convince her that the dangerously seductive companionable character\nof her guest had not been undeservedly obtained. On the whole, she had\nevery reason to think him very much of a gentleman, and graciously\nsmiled on him when she quitted the table.\n\n\"You have conquered her, by Jove,\" exclaimed Wrixon. \"Not yet,\" said\nCharley, \"but in a fair way for it.\" The wine went round. The\nconversation branched off into its usual channels, and settled, at last,\nupon a meet of the hounds which was to take place on Mr. Wrixon's\nproperty, at which all the company present would attend.\n\nIn the middle of the discussion, one of the footmen duly announced that\nhis lady was waiting for them, with tea and coffee, in the drawing-room.\nHeretofore, in that house, such an announcement had always been a mere\nmatter of form. Not so now. Charley Crofts started up and proceeded to\nobey the summons. \"Nonsense!\" they all exclaimed. \"Don't turn milksop.\nNo one ever goes to tea or coffee in this house.\" \"Say what you may,\"\nsaid Charley, \"the lady shall not have to complain of my want of\npoliteness.\"\n\nIn the drawing-room, sooth to say, no gentleman had been expected, and\nMrs. Wrixon was taking a solitary cup of tea. She was an admirable\nmusician, and was playing \"Gramachree\" (that saddest of all Irish airs)\njust as Charley reached the door. Now, music was among the things which\nhe thoroughly understood and appreciated, and the moment that he heard\nher exquisite execution on the harp he paused, spell-bound, listening\nwith rapt attention and delight, while the pathos of the air drew tears\nfrom eyes all unaccustomed to the melting mood. When she had concluded,\nshe turned round, saw the effect which she had produced, and (need I say\nit) was flattered at that proof of her skill.\n\nQuickly recovering himself, Charley Crofts informed her that he had the\npleasure of accepting the invitation she had sent into the dining-room.\nTea was accordingly provided, and the conversation naturally fell upon\nmusic. Charley happened to be a first rate flutist, and having mentioned\nin what a delightful manner the flute and harp went together, either to\naccompany the voice or without, Mrs. Wrixon sent for her husband's\nflute, and allowed him to show her how correctly he had spoken.\nPresently, she even sang to the double accompaniment, and her husband\nand his friends, curious to know how Crofts was getting on, having now\nadjourned from their wine, found him thus engaged.\n\nMeanwhile, in intervals of from three to five minutes, Charley Crofts\nhad gulphed down successive, and almost countless, cups of tea. Again\nand again had the tea-pot been replenished--and emptied. At last, quite\ntired out, Mrs. Wrixon said, half in sport, half in earnest, \"I am sure,\nMr. Crofts, that I never gave you credit for being such a determined\ntea-drinker. As my hand is rather tired, may I beg that you will help\nyourself?\"\n\n\"Madam,\" said Charley, with imposing gravity, \"I am a plain man. I do\nnot prefer tea to other liquids. You were so good as to send for us to\ntea. I always obey a lady's summons when I can, and came hither. I am\naccustomed, for years past, to take a certain quantity of fluid after\ndinner. I care not what that fluid may be, so that I have my _quantum_.\nAle, punch, wine, or, as now, even this tea. I can help myself to the\nother liquids, but tea has no flavor unless it be poured out by a lady's\nfair hand!\"\n\nMrs. Wrixon, perceiving that she was fairly caught, exclaimed, \"Well,\nMr. Crofts, I think that I must leave you to take what you please in the\ndining-room, but whenever you want a little music you can have it here,\nand I only hope my husband will treat you so well that you will\nfrequently give me the pleasure of seeing you under this roof.\"\n\nThis was the manner in which Charley Crofts conquered Madam Wrixon, the\nproud, high-bred lady. Good friends they continued unto her dying day,\nand Charley would rather hear her play the harp, as she only could play\nit, (he fancied,) than assist at the broaching of the finest pipe of\nclaret that ever was smuggled over from Bordeaux.\n\nMr. Wrixon, albeit a man of unbounded generosity, had one _leetle_\ndrawback. He would give sumptuous entertainments; he paid the chief\nexpenses of the Duhallow Hunt; he indulged his wife in all luxuries of\nattire and adornment; he had a passion for beautiful horses and costly\nequipages; he was liberal in his charities; he acted as banker for many\nof his poorer friends who were of the lackland genus; he seemed to fling\nmoney away, though, indeed, he was by no means a spendthrift; but the\none little \"blot\" in his tables (I mean, in his character) was a\nfeverish anxiety to economize on such mere trifles as _cream and\nbutter_!\n\nSo it was, however. His friends were at once amused and rendered\nuncomfortable by it. It interfered with the perfection of their tea and\ncoffee, and always prevented their taking a desired quantity of\nbread-and-butter. To allude to this matter, to show the slightest\nconsciousness of Mr. Wrixon's peculiar idiosyncrasy, in this respect,\nwas what his friends never ventured upon. They were not the less anxious\nto have it removed.\n\nThey determined that Charley Crofts should be the amputator. The next\nday, at a very early breakfast, preparatory to their taking the field\nwith the fox-hounds, a lively party assembled at Mr. Wrixon's table, in\nunexceptionable red coats, enviable buckskins, irreproachable top-boots,\nand the ordinary skull-caps covered with black velvet, which, from time\nimmemorial, formed the costume of the members of the Duhallow Hunt;\n\"the most sportingest set of gentlemen,\" I once heard a peasant say\n\"that mortial eyes did ever look upon.\"\n\nThe breakfast included all that should constitute the matutinal meal of\na party of keen sportsmen about to cross the country at break-neck\nspeed--all, except cream and butter, of which, as usual, there was a\n_minimum_ supply, very much short of what might be expected from a dairy\nof over twenty milch cows. Charley Crofts, as this was his first visit,\nmight be supposed to be in ignorance of his host's feelings upon that\npoint. At all events, he acted as if he were.\n\nThe cream and butter were placed close by Mr. Wrixon--the supply for a\nparty of nine or ten consisting of a very small ewer-full of the former,\nand two or three _pats_ of the latter, each about the size of a\npenny-piece. As if it were a matter of course, Charley, having put the\nneedful quantities of tea into his cup, filled it up with the entire\ncontents of the cream-ewer, and, at the same time, put all the butter\nupon his plate. Mr. Wrixon, startled by such invasion of his favourites,\nfeebly desired one of the servants to bring \"a _little_ more cream and a\n_little_ more butter.\"\n\nBy the time the fresh supply was on the table, Charley Crofts had\nemptied his cup and eaten his toast. He lost no time in appropriating\nthe prized articles, as before, chatting away with his usual\n_nonchalance_, as if he had done nothing uncommon. Mr. Wrixon, sitting\nlike one astonied, watched the disappearance of the second supply, and\nordered a third replenishment, which went the way of the preceding.\nRising in his chair, he addressed the butler and exclaimed, \"John,\ndesire that _all_ the cream and butter in the dairy be brought up, I\nthink we shall have need of the whole of it.\" Turning to Crofts, he\nemphatically said, \"I have heard of eating bread-and-butter, but\nCharley, _you eat butter and bread_.\" By this time the laugh which arose\ngave him the pleasant information that he was _sold_. From that hour he\nwas as liberal with his cream and butter, as he previously had been with\nevery other article in his mansion. He never was able to ascertain\nwhether Charley Crofts had been put up to the trick, or had simply hit\nthe nail by accident.\n\nCharley Crofts did not confine his visits to the gentry in his native\ncounty of Cork. In the decline of his fortunes--indeed, as long as he\nwas able to do anything--he always was possessor of a gem or two in the\nway of horseflesh. For many years, his income was almost wholly derived\nfrom the sale of horses, out of which he obtained a large profit, and it\nwas known that any animal which he sold or vouched for might be depended\non. In the way of business, having disposed of a fine hunter to one of\nthe family, who was sportingly inclined, he had to pass a few days at\nthe house of Mr. Lyons, of Croom, in the county of Limerick. This old\nman had acquired a vast fortune by following the business of a grazier,\nand had invested large sums in the purchase of landed estates. His sons,\ndetermined to cut a figure in the county, indulged in all manner of\nexcess and extravagance. At the time of Charley Crofts' visit, they\nissued cards for a splendid _d\u00e9jeuner \u00e0 la fourchette_, to which the\nleading people of the district were invited. As Charley Crofts was on\nintimate terms with everybody who had pretensions to notice, the Lyons\nfamily, in solemn conclave assembled, determined that it would be a\nsagacious and politic move to get him to officiate as a something\nbetween Major Domo and Master of the Ceremonies at the intended\nfestival. Desiring no better fun, he cheerfully consented.\n\nThe attendance on the gala day was what the newspapers would describe as\n\"full and fashionable.\" Many went from curiosity, to see in what manner\nthe _parvenu_ would attempt \"to ape his betters\"--_i.e._, themselves.\nSeveral attended, because they owed money to old Lyons (who did a little\nin _bills_ after abandoning _beef_), and did not like to affront him by\nnot accepting his invitation. A good many went, because they had heard\nthat \"all the world and his wife\" would be present, and a jovial day\nmight be anticipated.\n\nThanks to Charley Crofts' _surveillance_, the entertainment, well got\nup, went off admirably.\n\nAmong the more aristocratic guests was the Lady Isabella Fitzgibbon,\nsister to that Earl of Clare who was the schoolfellow and friend most\ntenderly and lastingly loved by Byron. At that time she was a fine young\nwoman. She is now a stern old maid--like the odd half of a pair of\nscissors, of no use to herself or any body else. Lady Isabella affected\nto look down, with some degree of superciliousness, upon the\nmillionaire's hospitality. Having probably laid in a good supply of\nmutton chops or beef steaks before she went out, she pointedly neglected\nthe delicacies of the season, which were abundantly supplied, and merely\ntrifled with a lobster-salad. Old Lyons, who had a great respect for\ngood feeding, and particularly for substantials, turned round to her, as\nshe sat by his side, the image of aristocratical\ndon't-care-a-pin-for-all-the-world-ativeness, and kindly said, \"Ah,\nthen, my lady, why don't you take some of the good beef and mutton, the\ncapons and the turkeys, and don't be after filling your stomach with\nthat cowld cabbage!\"\n\nThe high-born _dama_ nearly fainted at what she considered the vulgar\ngood-nature of her host. Soon after, when she had recovered from the\nshock, she said that she thought she would have a little bread and\nbutter. Immediately opposite her, and within reach of Old Lyons, was a\ncrystal bowl in which floated sundry little _pats_ of that delicious\nbutter for which the county Limerick is famed. Lyons made several vain\nefforts to spear one of these with a fork, at last, finding that it was\nimpossible to make the capture in that manner, he raised up his\ncoat-sleeve, tucked up the wrist-band of his shirt, and plunging his\nhand into the bowl, with the exclamation, 'Ha, you little jumping\nJennies, I am determined to have you now,\" secured two pieces of the\nbutter, which he triumphantly deposited on his noble guest's plate, with\nthe words, \"There, my lady, when I took the matter _in hand_, I knew I\nmust succeed.\"\n\nCharley Crofts departed this life some twenty years ago. The close of\nhis career was passed in Cove, where he lived upon an annuity provided\nby the liberality of some of his former friends. His health had failed\nhim, suddenly, a few years before, and he who had been wont \"to set the\ntable in a roar,\" for nearly forty years, subsided into a querulous\nvaletudinarian. He published his Autobiography, shortly before his\ndeath, and it deserves mention as one of the dullest of its class, as\nfar as I recollect, (it is a long time since I yawned over it,) the\nsubject matter chiefly consisted of fierce personalities directed\nagainst sundry relatives who, he said, had cheated him out of his\nproperty.\n\nTo the very last, Charley Crofts could give graphic narratives of his\nformer career and companions, but the moment he attempted to _write_\nthem down, their spirit wholly evaporated.\n\n\n\n\nIRISH PUBLICISTS.\n\n\n\n\nHENRY GRATTAN.\n\n\nThe history of Ireland's independence, from the rise of the Volunteers\nuntil the treacherous sacrifice of nationality by the passing of the Act\nof Union--an interval of twenty years, yet crowded with events and\neminent characters--can best be read in the lives of the illustrious men\nwho asserted, vindicated, and carried that independence. Looking back at\nthe brief but brilliant period in which they shone, truly did Curran\nspeak of them, to Lord Avonmore, as men \"over whose ashes the most\nprecious tears of Ireland have been shed.\"\n\nAmong this noble and gallant array of public virtue and genius HENRY\nGRATTAN stands conspicuous and pre-eminent. To condense a memoir of him\ninto the space which I have here reserved would be a vain attempt. Let\nme sketch him in his youth. The child, Wordsworth said, is father of the\nman, and this was particularly true as regards Grattan.\n\nHenry Grattan, stated by most of his biographers to have been born in\n1750 (the year in which Curran entered into earthly existence), was four\nyears older, his baptismal register in Dublin bearing date the 3d of\nJuly, 1746. His father, a man of character and ability, was Recorder of\nDublin for many years, and one of the metropolitan parliamentary\nrepresentatives from 1761 to his death in 1766. The well-known patriot,\nDr. Lucas, was senatorial colleague and opponent of the elder Grattan,\nwho, although nominally a Whig, was actually a Tory,--was the law\nofficer of the Corporation, which Lucas undauntedly opposed,--and on all\nessential, political, and legislative points, sided with the Government\nof the day.\n\nThe Grattan family were of considerable and respectable standing in\nIreland, and Henry Grattan's grandfather and grand-uncles had enjoyed\nfamiliar intimacy with Dean Swift and Dr. Sheridan. Henry Grattan's\nmother was a daughter of Thomas Marlay, Chief Justice of Ireland, who\nalmost as a matter of course in those days, was to be found on the side\nof the Government, but administered justice fairly, and on some few\noccasions showed a love for and pride in his native Ireland. Grattan's\nmother was a clear-headed, well-informed woman. On both sides,\ntherefore, he had a claim to hereditary talent.\n\nAt ordinary day-schools, in Dublin, Henry Grattan received his\neducation. John Fitzgibbon, afterwards the unscrupulous tool of the\nGovernment and the scourge of Ireland (as Lord Chancellor Clare), was\nhis class-mate at one of these seminaries. Grattan rapidly acquired the\nnecessary amount of Greek and Latin, and in 1763, being then 17 years\nold, entered Trinity College. Here, among his friends and competitors,\nwere Foster (afterwards Speaker of the House of Commons), Robert Day,\nwho subsequently adorned the Bench. In the University there was\nparticular rivalry between Fitzgibbon and Grattan; the first was well\ngrounded in classics and science, but almost wholly ignorant of modern\nliterature. Both obtained the highest prizes in the University,--Grattan\ngetting premium, certificate, or medal at every examination.\n\nBefore he had completed his twentieth year, Grattan had declared his\npolitical opinions. They were patriotic--they were Irish--they were\nopposed to the principles and practice of his father, and strongly\nidentical with those of Dr. Lucas, his father's constant and bitter\nopponent. Lucas was a remarkable man. He it was who, immediately after\nthe accession of George III., introduced a bill for limiting the\nduration of the Irish Parliament to seven years--the custom being, at\nthe time, that a new Parliament should be chosen when a new monarch\nascended the throne, and last during his lifetime. It took seven years'\nperseverance to effect this change--upon which the English Cabinet\nthrice put a veto. A fourth and final effort succeeded, the limitation\nbeing eight years. It was Lucas who, following in the steps of Swift,\nboldly attacked bad men and bad measures in the newspapers, and thus\nasserted the Liberty of the Press--that which Curran so earnestly\ndesired to be preserved when, addressing his countrymen, he said, \"Guard\nit, I beseech you, for when it sinks, there sink with it, in one common\ngrave, the liberty of the subject and the security of the Crown.\" It was\nLucas who strenuously denied the right of a British Parliament to govern\nIreland, who asserted his country's right to legislative independence,\nwho insisted on her claim for self-government. For this, the law was\nstrained against him,--for this, Dublin grand juries ordered his\nwritings to be publicly burned by the hands of the common hangman--for\nthis, a venal House of Commons voted that he wrote sedition and was an\nenemy of his country--for this, the Speaker was ordered to issue a\nwarrant for his arrest and imprisonment in gaol--for this, the Lord\nLieutenant was solicited to denounce him by Proclamation--for this, the\nCorporation of Dublin disfranchised him--for this, he had to fly his\ncountry and secure life and comparative liberty by eleven years of\nenforced exile. On his return, in 1760, that very city of Dublin from\nwhich he had fled for his life elected him for one of its\nrepresentatives, Grattan's father being his colleague. As such, the\nelder Grattan, who was a courtier, opposed the Septennial Bill.\n\nHenry Grattan, a patriot from his childhood, ardently adopted Dr. Lucas'\nviews in favour of Ireland's independence. The result was that, in\n1765-6, Henry Grattan was at variance with his father. The death of the\nelder Grattan took place in 1766, and it was then discovered how much he\nresented his son's assertion of liberal politics. He could not deprive\nhim of a small landed estate, secured to him by marriage settlement, but\nbequeathed from him the paternal residence of the family for nearly a\ncentury. Thus Henry Grattan had to enter the world, not rich in worldly\nwealth, and with his soul saddened by the marked and public posthumous\ncondemnation by his father. No wonder that, as he declared in one of his\nletters at the time, he was \"melancholy and contemplative, but not\nstudious.\" No wonder that, solitary in the old home, he should sadly\nsay, \"I employ myself writing, reading, courting the muse, and taking\nleave of that place where I am a _guest_, not an _owner_, and of which I\nshall now cease to be a _spectator_.\" His household Gods were shattered\non his hearth, and he sat, cold and lonely, among their ruins. Yet, even\nthen, he dreamed that fortune, smiling upon him, would enable his old\nage to resign his breath where he first received it. Never was that\ndream fulfilled. Not even did he die\n\n    \"'Midst the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed,\n    As if each brought a new civic crown for his head;\"\n\nbut his spirit departed, fifty-four years later, in the metropolis of\nthe haughty land which had crushed the independence and broken the\nnationality of\n\n    \"His own loved island of sorrow.\"\n\nAt the age of twenty-one, Henry Grattan went to London to study the law.\nAt that period, as at present, it is indispensable for every one who\ndesires to be admitted to the Irish bar, that he shall have \"studied\"\nfor two years at one of the Inns of Court in London. Perhaps this, as\nmuch as anything else, shows how completely the English habit has been,\nand is, to treat Ireland as a mere _province_. Candidates for admission\nto the Scottish bar are not required to pursue this _nominal_ course of\nstudy in another country. Nominal it is, for the requirement does not\ninvolve the acquisition, in the most infinitesimal degree, of any\nknowledge of the principles or practice of the law. All that is\nnecessary is that the future barrister shall have eaten twenty-four\ndinners in the Hall of his London Inn of Court (three at each term)\nduring two years, and a certificate of this knife-and-fork\npractice--which is facetiously called \"keeping his Terms\"--is received\nby the Benchers of the Queen's Inn in Dublin, as proof that the\ncandidate has duly qualified himself by study! There is no examination\nas to his knowledge of law--two years in London, and a somewhat lesser\namount of legal feeding in Dublin, being the sole qualification for the\nIrish Bar!\n\nIn Michaelmas Term, 1767, being two months past his majority, Henry\nGrattan entered his name, as student, on the books of the Middle Temple\nin London. Although he intended to live by the practice of the law, he\ndevoted little attention to its study. Black-letter, precedents, and\ntechnicalities he cared little for. The broad principles of\njurisprudence attracted his attention; but he mastered them, not as an\nadvocate, but as a future law-maker. In fact, nature had intended him\nfor a politician and statesman, and his mind, from the first, followed\nthe bias which \"the mighty mother\" gave. As late as August, 1771, when\nhe had been four years in the Temple, he wrote thus to a friend: \"I am\nnow becoming a lawyer, fond of cases, frivolous, and illiberal; instead\nof Pope's and Milton's numbers, I repeat in solitude Coke's\ninstructions, the nature of fee-tail, and the various constructions of\nperplexing statutes. This duty has been taken up too late; not time\nenough to make me a lawyer, but sufficiently early to make me a dunce.\"\nIn the same letter he said, \"Your life, like mine, is devoted to\nprofessions which we both detest; the vulgar honours of the law are as\nterrible to me as the restless uniformity of the military is to you.\"\n\nDuring the four years of his English residence, varied by occasional\nvisits to Ireland, Mr. Grattan's heart certainly never warmed to the\nprofession which he had chosen. The confession which I have just quoted\nwas made only a few months before he was called to the Irish bar in\nHilary Term, 1772. Yet he was a hard reader, a close student, an early\nriser, and a moderate liver. To afford the means of enlarging his\nlibrary, he avoided expensive amusements and practiced a very close\neconomy. In November, 1768, these saving habits became matter of\nnecessity rather than of choice, when his mother died so suddenly that\nshe had not time to make, as she had purposed, a formal disposition of\nher reversion to a landed property which she had meant to leave her son.\nIt passed, therefore, to another branch of the family, leaving Grattan\nsuch limited resources that it now was necessary for him to follow a\nprofession.\n\nHow, then, did Grattan employ his time in England? We have his own\nregretful confession, that it was not, for the first four years, in the\nstudy of the law. Shortly after his first visit to London, he lost one\nof his sisters; and deep sorrow for her death, and a distaste for\nsociety, drove him from the bustle of the metropolis to the retirement\nof the country. He withdrew to Sunning Hill, near Windsor Forest, amid\nwhose mighty oaks he loved to wander, meditating upon the political\nquestions of the day, and making speeches as if he already were in\nparliament. Mrs. Sawyer, his landlady, a simple-minded woman, knew not\nwhat to make of the odd-looking, strange-mannered young man, and\nhesitated between the doubt whether he was insane or merely eccentric.\nWhen one of his friends came to see him, she complained that her lodger\nused to walk up and down in her garden throughout the summer nights,\nspeaking to himself, and addressing an imaginary \"Mr. Speaker,\" with the\nearnestness of an inspired orator. She was afraid that his derangement\nmight take a dangerous character, and, in her apprehension, offered to\nforgive the rent which was due, if his friends would only remove her\neccentric lodger.\n\nSeventy years after this (in 1838) Judge Day, who lived to almost a\npatriarchal age, and had been intimate with Grattan in London, wrote a\nletter, in which, describing him at college, \"where he soon\ndistinguished himself by a brilliant elocution, a tenacious memory, and\nabundance of classical acquirements,\" he proceeds to state that Grattan\n\"always took great delight in frequenting the galleries, first of the\nIrish, and then of the English House of Commons, and the bars of the\nLords.\" His biographer records that this amateur Parliamentary\nattendance had greater attractions for him than the pleasures of the\nmetropolis, and that he devoted his evenings in listening, his nights in\nrecollecting, and his days in copying the great orators of the time.\nJudge Day also has remembered that Grattan would spend whole moonlight\nnights in rambling and losing himself in the thickest plantations of\nWindsor Forest, and \"would sometimes pause and address a tree in\nsoliloquy, thus preparing himself early for that assembly which he was\ndestined in later life to adorn.\"\n\nSuch was Grattan's self-training. So did he prepare himself for that\ncareer of brilliant utility and patriotism which has made his name\nimmortal.\n\nEvents of great moment took place in England during Grattan's sojourn\nthere. The contest between John Wilkes and the Government was then in\nfull course, leading to important results, and encouraging, if it did\nnot create, the publication of the fearless and able letters of Junius.\nAt that time, great men were in the British Senate, and Grattan had the\ngood fortune to hear their eloquence, to watch the deeds in which they\nparticipated. The elder Pitt, who had then withdrawn from the Commons,\nand exercised great power in the Upper House, as Earl of Chatham, still\ntook part in public business. There, too, was Lord North--shrewd, obese,\ngood-tempered, and familiar. There was Charles James Fox, just\ncommencing public life, alternately coquetting with politics and the\nfaro-table--his great rival, Pitt, had not then arisen, nor his eminent\nfriend Sheridan, but Edmund Burke had already made his mark, Barr\u00e8 was\nin full force, as well as Grenville, and the great lawyers Loughborough\nand Thurlow had already appeared above the horizon, while Lords Camden\nand Mansfield were in the maturity of fame. Then, also, flourished\nCharles Townshend, who would have deserved the name of a great\nstatesman but for his mistake in trying to obtain revenue for England\nby taxation of America. There was the remarkable man called\n\"Singlespeech\" Hamilton, from one brilliant oration which was declared\nby Walpole to have eclipsed the most successful efforts even of the\nelder Pitt. In the Irish Parliament, too, which he always visited when\nin Dublin during the Session, were men of great eminence and ability,\nwith some of whom--Flood, Hutchinson, and Hussey Burgh--not long after,\nGrattan was himself to come into intellectual gladiatorship. In both\ncountries, therefore, he became familiar with politics and politicians.\nWhat marvel if he deviated from the technicalities of the law into the\nwider field of law-making and statesmanship?\n\nHow closely he observed the eminent persons who thus came before his\nnotice, may be judged from the character of Lord Chatham, which was\nintroduced in a note to \"Barataria,\"(a satirical _brochure_ by Sir\nHercules Langrishe), as if from a new edition of Robertson's History of\nAmerica. Many persons, at the time, who looked for it in Robertson, were\ndisappointed at not finding it there. _Apropos_ of Langrishe; it may be\nadded that he it was who said--that the best History of Ireland was to\nbe found \"in the continuation of _Rapin_,\" and excused the swampy state\nof the Ph[oe]nix Park demesne by supposing that the Government neglected\nit, being so much occupied _in draining the rest of the kingdom_.\n\nGreatly admiring the nervous eloquence of Lord Chatham, it is evident\nthat Grattan's own style was influenced, if not formed by it. He could\nnot have had a better model. Grattan, out of pure admiration of the man,\nreported several of his speeches for his own subsequent use. Writing\nabout him many years later, he said, \"He was a man of great\ngenius--great flight of mind. His imagination was astonishing. He was\nvery great, and very odd.[14] He never came with a prepared harangue; his\nstyle was not regular oratory, like Cicero or Demosthenes, but it was\nvery fine, and very elevated, and above the ordinary subjects of\ndiscourse. He appeared more like a pure character advising, than mixing\nin the debate. It was something superior to that--_it was teaching the\nlords, and lecturing the King_. He appeared the next greatest thing to\nthe King, though infinitely superior. What Cicero says in his 'CLARIS\nORATORIBUS' exactly applies: '_Form\u00e6 dignitas, corporis motus plenus et\nartis el venustatis, vocis et suavitas et magnitudo._' 'Great subjects,\ngreat empires, great characters, effulgent ideas, and classical\nillustrations formed the material of his speeches.'\"[15]\n\n     [14] This refers more particularly to the year 1770.\n\n     [15] Grattan used to say that nothing ever was finer, in delivery\n     and effect, than Chatham's appeal, on the American question, to the\n     bishops, the judges, and the peers:--\"You talk of driving the\n     Americans: _I might as well talk of driving them before me with\n     this crutch_.\"\n\nUntil he permanently and finally took up his residence in Dublin,\nGrattan was greatly prejudiced in favour of England. In August, 1771, he\nwrote to a friend that he would return to Ireland that Christmas, \"to\nlive or die with you,\" and added, \"It is painful to renounce England,\nand my departure is to me the loss of youth. I submit to it on the same\nprinciple, and am resigned.\" At that time he was twenty-five years old.\n\nIn his letters to his friends at this time, he commented on Irish\npolitics so forcibly as to show that he was a close observer. Alluding\nto the means used by the Viceroy (Lord Townshend) to corrupt the\nlegislature, he said, \"So total an overthrow has Freedom received, that\nits voice is heard only in the accents of despair.\" This sentence very\nprobably suggested the concluding part of Moore's beautiful lyric, \"The\nharp that once through Tara's halls,\"\n\n    \"Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,\n      The only throb she gives,\n    Is when some heart indignant breaks,\n      To show that still she lives.\"\n\nEarly in 1772, Grattan was called to the Irish bar--not from any\npredilection for the profession, but from the necessity of eking out his\nlimited means by the exercise of his talents. It is recorded that having\ngone the circuit, and failed to gain a verdict in an important case\nwhere he was specially retained, he actually returned to his client half\nthe amount of his fee--fifty guineas. A man who could act thus, was\nclearly not fitted for the profession, nor destined to arrive at wealth\nby its means.\n\nAt that time the rising talent of Ireland was decidedly liberal, and in\nfavor of progress. Grattan was thrown into familiar intimacy with this\nsociety, and his own opinions were influenced, if not determined, by the\nCatholic spirit of their avowed principles. Lord Charlemont, Hussey\nBurgh, Robert Day, (afterwards the Judge,) Dennis Daly, and Barry\nYelverton--men whose names are familiar to all who have read the history\nof Ireland's later years of nationality--were his familiar friends.\n\nGrattan wished for the lettered ease of literary retirement, but his\nnarrow means did not permit him to live without labour. He said, \"What\ncan a mind do without the exercise of business, or the relaxation of\npleasure?\" He took to politics as a relief from the demon of _ennui_. He\nattended the debates in Parliament. He said \"they were insipid; every\none was speaking; nobody was eloquent.\" He had become a lawyer, as he\nsadly confessed, \"without knowledge or ambition in his profession.\" He\nwould fain have gone into retirement, but complained that, in his too\nhospitable country, \"wherever you fly, wherever you secrete yourself,\nthe sociable disposition of the Irish will follow you, and in every\nbarren spot of that kingdom you must submit to a state of\ndissipation or hostility.\" He said that his passion was retreat, for\n\"there is certainly repose, and may be a defence, in insignificance.\"\n\nHe was destined for better things. He had married Henrietta Fitzgerald,\nwho claimed descent from the Desmond family, (actually from that branch\nof which that Countess of Desmond, who died at the age of 162, was the\nfoundress,) but had, as her own dowry, the far greater wealth of youth,\nbeauty, virtue, talent, and devoted affection. The union was eminently\nhappy. Mrs. Grattan became the mother of thirteen children, and it is\nknown that on many occasions, but especially in the troublous times of\n1798 and 1800, (the rebellion and the betrayal of Ireland by her\nparliament,) Grattan frequently consulted and acted on the advice of his\nwife, which invariably was to do what was right, regardless of personal\nconsequences. After his marriage, he went to reside in the county\nWicklow, where, almost from early youth, he had been enamoured of the\nbeautiful scenery, and even then spoke of Tinnahinch, which he\nsubsequently purchased, as a place which might be \"the recreation of an\nactive life, or the retreat of an obscure one, or the romantic residence\nof philosophical friendship.\" \"Here,\" said his son, \"he mused in when\nmelancholy, he rejoiced in when gay; here he often trod, meditating on\nhis country's wrongs--her long, dreary night of oppression; and here he\nfirst beheld the bright transient light of her redemption and her\nglory.\" Here, too, in the moments of grief he wept over her divisions\nand her downfall. The place continues a family possession, and,\nidentified as it is with the name of Grattan, should never be allowed to\npass into the possession of any others.\n\nGrattan's wife, highly gifted by nature, and with her mind cultivated\nand enlarged by education, urgently pressed him to embark in political\nlife. She knew, even better than himself, what his mental resources\nwere, how patriotic were his impulses, how great his integrity, how\nundaunted his courage. She interested his friends in his behalf, and, at\nlast, on the death of Mr. Caulfield (Lord Charlemont's brother), Grattan\nwas returned to Parliament for the borough of Charlemont, and on the\n11th of December, 1775, in his thirtieth year, Henry Grattan took his\nseat as member for Charlemont. On the fourth day after he made a\nspeech--a spontaneous, unstudied, and eloquent reply--and it was at once\nseen and admitted that his proper place was in Parliament. From that day\nthe life of Grattan can be read in the history of Ireland.\n\nWhat he did may be briefly summed up. He established the Independence of\nIreland, by procuring the repeal of the statute by which it had been\ndeclared that Ireland was inseparably annexed to the Crown of Great\nBritain, and bound by British acts of Parliament, if named in them--that\nthe Irish House of Lords had no jurisdiction in matters of appeal--and\nthat the _dernier resort_, in all cases of law and equity, was to the\npeers of Great Britain.\n\nFor his great services in thus establishing Ireland's rights, the\nParliament voted him \u00a350,000. He considered that this was a retainer for\nthe future as well as a mark of gratitude for the past, and henceforth\ndevoted the remainder of his life--a period of nearly forty years--to\nthe service of his country.\n\nGrattan's last act, as an Irish legislator, was to oppose the Union,\nwhich destroyed the nationality _he_ had made--his last act, as a public\nman, was to hurry to London, in his seventy-fifth year, under the\ninfliction of a mortal disease, to present the petition in favour of the\nIrish Catholics, and support it, at the risk of life, in Parliament.\n\nGrattan's great achievements were all accomplished in early life, while\nthe \"_purpurea juventus_\" was in its bloom, while the heart was in its\nspring. Great men, of all shades of political and party passion have\nbeen eager and eloquent in his praise. Byron, speaking of Ireland,\nranked him first among those\n\n    \"Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war,\n    And redeemed, if they have not retarded, her fall.\"\n\nMoore, who knew him well, said,\n\n    \"What an union of all the affections and powers,\n      By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,\n    Was embraced in that spirit--whose centre was ours,\n      While its mighty circumference circled mankind.\"\n\nFaithfully too, as well as poetically, did he describe his speeches as\nexhibiting\n\n    \"An eloquence rich, wherever its wave\n      Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through,\n    As clear as the brook's 'stone of lustre,' and gave,\n      With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.\"\n\nLord Brougham said that it was \"not possible to name any one, the purity\nof whose reputation has been stained by so few faults, and the lustre of\nwhose renown is dimmed by so few imperfections.\" After describing the\ncharacteristics of his eloquence, he added, \"It may be truly said that\nDante himself never conjured up a striking image in fewer words than Mr.\nGrattan employed to describe his relation towards Irish independence,\nwhen, alluding to its rise in 1782, and its fall, twenty years later, he\nsaid, 'I sat by its cradle--I followed its hearse.'\"\n\nSydney Smith, in an article in the _Edinburgh Review_, shortly after\nGrattan's death, thus bore testimony to his worth:--\"Great men hallow a\nwhole people, and lift up all who live in their time. What Irishman does\nnot feel proud that he has lived in the days of Grattan? who has not\nturned to him for comfort, from the false friends and open enemies of\nIreland? who did not remember him in the days of its burnings, wastings\nand murders? No government ever dismayed him--the world could not bribe\nhim--he thought only of Ireland: lived for no other object: dedicated to\nher his beautiful fancy, his elegant wit, his manly courage, and all the\nsplendour of his astonishing eloquence. He was so born, so gifted, that\npoetry, forensic skill, elegant literature, and all the highest\nattainments of human genius, were within his reach; but he thought the\nnoblest occupation of a man was to make other men happy and free; and in\nthat straight line he kept for fifty years, without one side-look, one\nyielding thought, one motive in his heart which he might not have laid\nopen to the view of God or man.\"\n\nThe man to whom tributes such as these were voluntarily paid, must have\nbeen a mortal of no ordinary character and merit.\n\n\n\n\nDANIEL O'CONNELL.\n\n\nDaniel O'Connell, at one period called \"the member for all Ireland,\" was\nborn, not at, but near Derrynane Abbey, in Kerry, on the 6th of August,\n1775, and died at Genoa on the 15th of May, 1847. He had nearly\ncompleted his seventy-second year. For nearly forty years of that\nextended period he had been a public man--perhaps the most public man in\nIreland. For at least a quarter of a century his reputation was not\nmerely Irish--nor British--nor European--but unquestionably\ncosmopolitan.\n\nFallen as we are upon the evil days of Mediocrity, it may not be useless\nto dwell upon the conduct and the character, the aims and the actions,\nof one who, think of him as we may, candour must admit to be one of the\ngreat men of the age,--one of the very few great men of Ireland's later\nyears.\n\n\"Some men are born to greatness--some achieve greatness--and some have\ngreatness thrust upon them.\" Daniel O'Connell stands in a predicament\nbetween the two latter postulates. He certainly was the artificer of his\nown fame and power, but, as certainly, much of it arose out of the force\nof circumstances. When he launched his bark upon the ocean of politics,\nhe may have anticipated something--much of success and eminence, but he\nnever could have dreamed of wielding such complete and magnificent power\nas was long at his command. Strong determination, great ability, natural\nfacility of expression, the art of using strong words without committing\nhimself, and a most elastic temperament, (\"prepared for either fortune,\"\nas Eugene Aram said of himself)--all these formed an extraordinary\ncombination, and yet all these, even in their unity, might have been of\nlittle worth, but for the admitted fact that circumstances happily\noccurred which allowed these qualities a fair scope for development.\nMany poets, I dare swear, have lived and died unknown--either not\nwriting at all, or writing but to destroy what they had written. Noble\norators have lived and died, \"mute and inglorious,\" because the\nopportunity for display had never been given. In truth, we may say, with\nPhilip Van Artevelde,\n\n    \"The world knows nothing of its greatest men.\"\n\nIt is the curse of Authorship that until the grave fully closes upon his\nashes, the fame of the writer is scarcely or slightly acknowledged. When\nthe turf presses upon his remains, we yield tardy justice to his merits,\nand translate him, as a star, into the \"heaven of heavens\" of renown.\nBut the Orator, on the other hand, has _his_ claims admitted from the\ncommencement--he may make his fame by one bold effort--he may win\nadmiration at one bound, and each successive trial, while it matures his\npowers, increases his reputation. He lives in the midst of his fame--it\nsurrounds him, like a halo: he is the observed of all observers,--he has\nconstant motive for exertion--he breathes the very atmosphere of\npopularity, and has perpetual excitement to keep up his exertions. Of\nthis there scarcely ever was a more palpable example than O'Connell.\nOriginally gifted with all the attributes of a popular if not a great\norator, he advanced, by repeated efforts, to the foremost rank, because\nthe public voice cheered him--the public opinion fostered him. Had he,\nfor three or four years, spoken to dull or cold audiences, the world\nwould probably have lost him as an orator. He might, indeed, have been a\ngreat forensic speaker, but of that eloquence which placed seven\nmillions of Irish Catholics in a situation where, without being branded\nas rebels, they might openly demand \"justice for Ireland,\" the chance\nis, the world have known nothing. What man, before this man, had ever\nsucceeded in awakening at once the sympathy of the old and of the new\nworld? Few men so well out-argued the sophistry of tyranny. Far above\nthe crowd must he be, who, at one and the same time, affrighted the\nRussian autocrat by his bold invectives, and was appealed to as the\ncommon enemy of misrule, by the unhappy victims of the\n\"Citizen-King\"--who not only asserted the rights of his fellow slaves in\nIreland, but hesitated not, at all times and in all places, to express\nhis\n\n                  \"Utter detestation\n    Of every tyranny in every nation!\"\n\nO'Connell was often denounced as a \"Dictator.\" What made him one? The\nexclusive laws which kept him humiliated in his native land. The wrongs\nof Ireland made him what he was, and Misrule carefully maintained the\nlaws which made those wrongs. Had Ireland been justly governed, there\nwould not have been occasion for such \"agitation\" as Mr. O'Connell kept\nup. If the \"agitator\" was indeed the monster which he was represented to\nbe, Misrule is the Frankenstein which made him so. The wrongs of Ireland\nand the tyranny of evil government goaded him into action, and gave him\npower. Misrule sowed the wind, and reaped the whirlwind.\n\nIt has been strongly asserted, and as strongly denied, that a long line\nof ancestry gave O'Connell an hereditary right to take part in the\npublic affairs of his native land, as if he, and all of us, did not\ninherit that right as an heir-loom derived from the first principles of\nnature. The tradition of his house was that the O'Connell family were\nentitled to rank among the most ancient in Ireland, antiquarians having\navowed that his surname was derived from Conal Gabhra, a prince of the\nroyal line of Milesius--that they originally possessed immense estates\nin the county of Limerick, and removed to the barony of Iveragh, in the\nwestern extremity of Kerry, where they enjoyed the almost regal office\nof Toparchs;--that, in the time of Elizabeth, their then chief, Richard\nO'Connell, made submission of his lands to the British crown;--that the\nrebellion of 1641 removed the sept O'Connell to the County Clare, by\nforfeiture (a certain Maurice O'Connell it was who forfeited his\nproperty in the Civil Wars of 1641, and received the estates in Clare as\na partial indemnity; his uncle, Daniel O'Connell of Aghgore, in Iveragh,\ntook no share in the Civil War, and thus preserved his estate);--that\nthe Clare branch of the family supported James II., and, on the triumphs\nof the Orange party, had to seek in foreign lands the distinctions from\nwhich the Penal Laws excluded it in its own.\n\nOne of these, a certain Daniel O'Connell, who subsequently was created\nCount of \"the Holy Roman Empire,\" disqualified, by his religion, from\nholding military or civil rank in his own country, entered the French\nservice in 1757--when he was only fourteen years of age. He served in\nthe seven years' war--at the capture of Port Mahon, in 1779, and was\nseverely wounded at the grand sortie on Gibraltar in 1782--remained\nfaithful to Louis XVI., until fidelity was of no further use--emigrated\nto England--was there appointed, in 1793, Colonel of the 6th Irish\nBrigade--retained that command until the corps was disbanded--returned\nto France, at the Restoration, in 1814--was there and then restored to\nhis rank of General and Colonel-Commandant of the regiment of Salm, and\nnamed Grand Cross of the Order of St. Louis--refused to take rank under\nLouis Philippe--and died in 1834, aged ninety-one, a military patriarch,\nfull of years and honours, holding the rank of General in the French,\nand being oldest Colonel in the English service. Count O'Connell was\ngrand-uncle to \"the Liberator.\"\n\nIt may not be generally known that the military tactics of Europe at the\npresent day have emanated from Count O'Connell. The French Government\nresolved, in 1787, that the art of war should be thoroughly revised, and\na military board, consisting of four general officers and one colonel,\nwas formed for that purpose. Count O'Connell, who then commanded the\nRoyal Suedois (or Swedish) regiment, was justly accounted one of the\nmost scientific officers in the service, and was named as the junior\nmember of that board. The other members soon discovered how correct and\noriginal were the views of their colleague, and unanimously confided to\nhim the _redaction_ of the whole military code of France. So well did he\nexecute this important commission, that his tactics were followed in the\nearly campaigns of revolutionized France, by Napoleon--and finally\nadopted by Prussia, Austria, Russia and England.\n\nTo Morgan O'Connell, father of \"the Liberator,\" descended none of the\nproperty originally held by the family. His elder brother, Maurice,\nsucceeded to a large portion, (that which eventually was bequeathed to\nDaniel,) and it had the peculiarity of being free from all chiefry,\nimposts, or Crown charge--an unusual thing, and occurring only in the\ninstance of very remote tenure. This portion was held under what was\ncalled Shelburne leases--renewable for ever, and first granted _before_\nthe enactment of the Penal laws, and therefore not \"discoverable;\" that\nis, not liable to be claimed from a Catholic holder by any Protestant\nwho chose to claim them.\n\nDaniel O'Connell's father became a petty farmer and a small shop-keeper\nat Cahirciveen. At that time he was simply known as \"Morgan\nConnell,\"--there being some to this day who wholly deny the right of the\nfamily to the prefix of \"O.\" The Irish proverb says:\n\n      By Mac and O,\n      You'll always know\n    True Irishmen, they say;\n      For if they lack\n      The O or Mac,\n    No Irishmen are they.\n\nThe same doubters have contended that the independence realized by\nMorgan O'Connell was gained, not by farming nor by shop-keeping, but by\nextensive smuggling. But it was gained in some manner, and with it was\npurchased a small estate at Carhen, within a mile of Cahirciveen, where\nhis years of industry had been passed, and not far from Derrynane. It\nwas at Carhen that Daniel O'Connell was born, on the 6th August,\n1775--the very day (he used to say) on which were commenced hostilities\nbetween Great Britain and her American colonies.\n\nDaniel O'Connell's grandfather was the third son of twenty-two children.\nHe died in 1770, leaving as his successor his second son, Maurice (John,\nthe eldest, having predeceased him). This gentleman was never married,\nand it was on his death, in 1825, that the \"Agitator\" succeeded him as\nowner of the Derrynane estate. Morgan O'Connell (father to the\n\"Liberator\") died in 1809, and left two other sons, who are also\nhandsomely provided for--John, as owner of Grena, and James of Lakeview,\nboth places near Killarney.\n\nI trust that I have not travelled out of my way to give this sketch of\nthe descent of the family connexions of O'Connell. It shows that, at any\nrate, _he_ is not the _novus homo_--the mere upstart, without the\nadvantages of birth and fortune, which he was often represented to be.\nAt the same time, no O'Connell need be ashamed of what honest industry\naccomplished--that much of the landed property which O'Connell's father\ninherited, held by John O'Connell of Grena, was purchased from the\nprofits of his business as a farmer and general shop-keeper.\n\nFrom the first, Maurice O'Connell, of Derrynane, attached himself to his\nnephew Daniel, whom he educated. The earliest instructions in any branch\nof learning which the future \"Liberator\" received, were communicated to\nhim by a poor hedge-schoolmaster, of a class ever abounding in Kerry,\nwhere every man is said to speak Latin. David Mahony happened to call at\nCarhen when little Daniel was only four years old, took him in his lap,\nand taught him the alphabet in an hour and a half. Some years later, he\nwas regularly taught by Mr. Harrington--one of the first priests who set\nup a school after the repeal of the laws which made it penal for a Roman\nCatholic clergyman even to live in Ireland. At the age of fourteen he\nwent abroad with his brother Maurice to obtain a good education.\n\nSeventy years ago, the policy, or rather the impolicy of English\ndomination actually prohibited the education of the Catholics within\nGreat Britain and Ireland. They were, therefore, either compelled to put\nup with very limited education, or forced to go abroad for\ninstruction,--rather a curious mode of predisposing their minds in\nfavour of the English laws. Mr. O'Connell was originally intended for\nthe priesthood, and was educated at the Catholic seminary of Louvain,\nnext at St. Omer, and, finally, at the English college of Douay, in\nFrance. But, at that time, there were fully as many lay as clerical\npupils at that college.\n\nAt St. Omer, Daniel O'Connell rose to the first place in all the\nclasses, and the President of the College wrote to his uncle, in\nIreland--\"I have but one sentence to write about him, and that is, that\nI never was so mistaken in all my life as I shall be, unless he be\ndestined to make a remarkable figure in society.\"\n\nThe two brothers commenced their homeward journey on the 21st of\nDecember, 1793--the very day on which Louis XVI. was guillotined at\nParis. During their journey from Douay to Calais, they were obliged to\nwear the revolutionary cockade, for safety. But, as good Catholics, they\nwere bound to abhor the atrocities perpetrated, at that time, by the\nJacobins, in the sacred name of liberty, and when they stood on the deck\nof the English packet-boat, indignantly tore the tri-colour from their\nhats, and flung them, with all contempt, into the water. Some French\nfishermen, who saw the act, rescued the cockades, and flung imprecations\nagainst the \"aristocrats\" who had rejected them. At the same time, when\nan enthusiastic Irish republican, who had \"assisted\" at the execution of\nLouis, exhibited a handkerchief stained with his blood, the young\nstudents turned away and shunned him, in disgust and abhorrence. Not\nthen, nor at any period of his career, was O'Connell an anti-monarchist.\nIt is said that, during the trial of Thomas Hardy, at London, (October,\n1794,) for high treason, he was so much shocked at the unfair means used\nby the Crown lawyers to convict the accused--means foiled by eloquent\nErskine and an honest jury--that he resolved to place himself as a\nchampion of Right against Might, and identify himself with the cause of\nthe people. While he was on the Continent, that relaxation of the Penal\nlaws took place which allowed the Catholic to become a barrister. It is\nprobable that _this_ was the immediate cause of his becoming a lawyer. A\nyoung man of his sanguine temperament was likely to prefer the bar, with\nits temporal advantages,--its scope for ambition,--its excitement,--its\nfame, to the more secluded life of an ecclesiastic. Accordingly, I find\nthat he entered as a law-student at Lincoln's Inn, in January, 1794--eat\nthe requisite number of term-dinners there, for two years--pursued the\nsame qualifying course of \"study\" at King's Inn, Dublin, and was called\nto the Irish bar, in Easter term, 1798, in the 23d year of his age.\n\nThe Rebellion was in full fling at the time, and (in order, no doubt, to\nshow his \"loyalty\" as a Catholic) he joined what was called \"the\nlawyers' corps,\" associated to assist the Government in putting down\nrevolt.\n\nThe period of his admission was singularly favourable. Catholics had\njust been admitted to the Irish bar--to the minor honours of the\nprofession; although it was hoped, and not extravagantly, that, in time,\nall its privileges would be thrown open to them. It was impossible to\nsay what was Mr. O'Connell's ambition at the time; however high, he\ncould not have had a dream of the elevation which he subsequently\nreached. He must have felt, however, that he had a wide field for the\nexercise of his abilities. His ostensible ambition, for many years, was\nto become a good lawyer. During what is called \"the long vacation,\" and\nat other periods when he could spare time, he resided a good deal with\nhis uncle in Kerry, where he pursued the athletic sports in which,\nalmost to the close of his career, he delighted to participate. On one\noccasion, while out upon a hunting expedition, he put up at a peasant's\ncabin, sat for some hours in his wet clothes, and contracted a typhus\nfever. In his delirium he often repeated the lines from Home's tragedy\nof Douglas:\n\n    \"Unknown I die--no tongue shall speak of me.\n    Some noble spirits, judging by themselves,\n    May yet conjecture what I might have proved,\n    And think life only wanting to my fame.\"\n\nHis son has preserved a letter, written in December, 1795, when he was\nin his twenty-first year, in which he communicates his views to his\nuncle Maurice, of Derrynane. A passage or two may be worth quoting, to\nshow with what earnestness he devoted himself to the career upon which\nhe was then preparing to enter. He says, \"I have now two objects to\npursue--the one, the attainment of knowledge; the other, the acquisition\nof all those qualities which constitute the polite gentleman. I am\nconvinced that the former, besides the immediate pleasure which it\nyields, _is calculated to raise me to honour, rank, and fortune_ [how\nprophetic were the young man's aspirations!]; and I know that the latter\nserves as a general passport or first recommendation; and, as for the\nmotives of ambition which you suggest, I assure you that no man can\npossess more of it than I do. I have, indeed, a glowing, and--if I may\nuse the expression--an enthusiastic ambition, _which converts every toil\ninto a pleasure, and every study into an amusement_.\"\n\nHe adds, in the same honourable spirit, \"Though nature may have given me\nsubordinate talents, I never will be satisfied with a subordinate\nsituation in my profession. No man is able, I am aware, to supply the\ntotal deficiency of abilities, but every body is capable of improving\nand enlarging a stock, however small, and, in its beginning,\ncontemptible. It is this reflection that affords me most consolation. If\nI do not rise at the bar, I will not have to meet the reproaches of my\nown conscience. * * * Indeed, as for my knowledge in the\nprofessional line, that cannot be discovered for some years to come; but\nI have time in the interim to prepare myself to appear with greater\n_\u00e9clat_ on the grand theatre of the world.\"\n\nAs a barrister, he naturally took the Munster circuit, and here his\nfamily connexion operated very much in his favour. In the counties of\nClare, Limerick, Kerry and Cork, he had relatives in abundance, and\nbeing, I believe, the first Catholic who had gone that circuit, he\nnaturally engrossed a considerable portion of the business which the\nCatholics had previously, _ex necessitate_, distributed among the\nbarristers of a contrary persuasion. He succeeded, moreover, in\nestablishing the reputation of being a shrewd, clever, hard-working\nlawyer, and briefs flowed in so abundantly, that he may be cited as one\ninstance, amid the ten thousand difficulties of the bar, of great\nsuccess being immediately acquired. There was nothing precarious in this\nsuccess: he was evidently a shrewd, clever, long-headed lawyer, and\nwhile the Catholics gave him briefs, because of his family and religion,\nthe Protestants, not less wise, were not backward in engaging his\nassistance--not that they much loved the man, but that his assistance\nwas worth having, as that of a man with a clear head, a well-filled\nmind, strong natural eloquence, and, from the very first, a mastery over\nthe art of cross-examining witnesses.\n\nO'Connell's friends scarcely anticipated, from what his youth had been,\nthe success which met him on his first step into active manhood. He held\nhis first brief at the Kerry Assizes, in Tralee. Between a country\ngentleman named Brusker Segerson and the O'Connells there long had been\na family feud. Brusker accused one of the O'Connell tenants at Iveragh,\nof sundry crimes and misdemeanors, which judge and jury had \"well and\ntruly to try and determine.\" Young O'Connell had his maiden brief in\nthis case. Brusker, knowing the young lawyer's inexperience, anticipated\na triumph over him, and invited a party of friends to witness the \"fatal\nfacility\" with which the accused would be worsted. But it happened not\nonly that the accused was the acquitted, but there was a general\nopinion, from the facts on the trial, that Brusker Segerson's conduct\nhad been oppressive, if not illegal. Brusker turned round to his friends\nand soundly swore that \"Morgan O'Connell's _fool_ was a great lawyer,\nand would be a great man.\" Henceforth he always employed O'Connell--but\nwith the distinct and truly Irish understanding that the hereditary and\npersonal feud between them should in no wise be diminished!\n\nOne of O'Connell's earliest displays of acuteness was at Tralee, in the\nyear 1799, shortly after he had been called to the bar. In an intricate\ncase, where he was junior counsel (having got the brief more as a family\ncompliment than from any other cause), the question in dispute was as\nto the validity of a will, which had been made almost in _articulo\nmortis_. The instrument was drawn up with proper form: the witnesses\nwere examined, and gave ample confirmation that the deed had been\nlegally executed. One of them was an old servant, possessed of a strong\npassion for loquacity. It fell to O'Connell to cross-examine him, and\nthe young barrister allowed him to speak on, in the hope that he might\nsay too much. Nor was this hope disappointed. The witness had already\nsworn that he saw the deceased sign the will. \"Yes,\" continued he, with\nall the garrulousness of old age, \"I saw him sign it, and surely _there\nwas life in him at the time_.\" The expression, frequently repeated, led\nO'Connell to conjecture that it had a peculiar meaning. Fixing his eye\nupon the old man he said,--\"You have taken a solemn oath before God and\nman to speak the truth and the _whole_ truth: the eye of God is upon\nyou; the eyes of your neighbours are fixed upon you also. Answer me, by\nthe virtue of that sacred and solemn oath which has passed your lips,\n_was the testator alive when he signed the will_?\" The witness was\nstruck with the solemn manner in which he was addressed, his colour\nchanged--his lips quivered--his limbs trembled, and he faltered out the\nreply--\"_there was life in him_.\" The question was repeated in a yet\nmore impressive manner, and the result was that O'Connell half\ncompelled, half cajoled him to admit that, after life was extinct, a\npen had been put into the testator's hand,--that one of the party guided\nit to sign his name, while, as a salvo, for the consciences of all\nconcerned, a living fly was put into the dead man's mouth, to qualify\nthe witnesses to bear testimony that \"there was life in him\" when he\nsigned that will. This fact, thus extorted from the witness, preserved a\nlarge property in a respectable and worthy family, and was one of the\nfirst occurrences in O'Connell's legal career worth mentioning. Miss\nEdgeworth, in her \"Patronage,\" has an incident not much different from\nthis; perhaps suggested by it. The plaintiffs in this case were two\nsisters named Langton, both of whom still enjoy the property\nmiraculously preserved to them by the ingenuity of O'Connell; they were\nconnexions of my own (Sarah Langton, the youngest, was married to my\ncousin, Frank Drew, of Drewscourt), and I have often heard them relate\nthe manner in which he had contrived to elicit the truth.\n\nIt is no common skill which can protect innocence from shame, or rescue\nguilt from punishment. Nothing less than an intimate knowledge of the\nfeelings of the jury, and the habits and characteristics of the\nwitnesses, can enable an advocate to throw himself into the confidence\nof a jury composed of the most incongruous elements, and to confuse,\nbaffle, or detect the witnesses. There is no power so strong as that of\ngood cross-examination; and I never knew any man possess that power in\na more eminent degree than O'Connell. The difficulty is to avoid asking\ntoo many questions. Sometimes a single query will weaken evidence, while\na word more may make the witness confirm it. Some witnesses require to\nbe pressed, before they bring out the truth--others, if too much\npressed, will turn at bay, and fatally corroborate every thing to which\nthey already have sworn. It is no common skill which, intuitively as it\nwere, enables the advocate to perceive when he may go to the end of his\ntether,--when he _must_ restrain. The fault of a young barrister is that\n_he asks too many questions_. It is a curious fact, that, from the first\nmoment he was called to the bar, O'Connell distinguished himself by his\ncross-examinations. If he was eminent in a criminal trial, he was no\nless so in civil cases. Here he brought all his legal learning to bear\nupon the case, and here, too, he had the additional aid of that\neloquence which usually drew a jury with him.\n\nJohn O'Connell gives an anecdote which illustrates his father's success\nin the defence of his prisoners. It had fallen to his lot, at the\nAssizes in Cork, to be retained for a man on a trial for an aggravated\ncase of highway robbery. By an able cross-examination, O'Connell was\nenabled to procure the man's acquittal. The following year, at the\nAssizes for the same town, he found himself again retained for the same\nindividual, then on trial for a burglary, committed with great\nviolence, very little short of a deliberate attempt to murder. On this\noccasion, the result of Mr. O'Connell's efforts rose a disagreement of\nthe jury; and, therefore, no verdict. The Government witnesses having\nbeen entirely discredited during the cross-examination, the case was\npursued no farther, and the prisoner was discharged. Again, the\nsucceeding year, he was found in the criminal dock; this time on a\ncharge of piracy! He had run away with a collier brig, and having found\nmeans for disposing of a portion of her cargo, and afterwards of\nsupplying himself with some arms, he had actually commenced cruising on\nhis own account, levying contributions from such vessels as he chanced\nto fall in with. Having \"caught a tartar,\" whilst engaged in this\nprofitable occupation, he was brought into Cove, and thence sent up to\nCork to stand his trial for \"piracy on the high seas.\" Again Mr.\nO'Connell saved him, by demurring to the jurisdiction of the Court--the\noffence having been committed within the jurisdiction of the Admiralty,\nand, therefore, cognizable only before an Admiralty Court. When the\nfellow saw his successful counsel facing the dock, he stretched over to\nspeak to him, and, raising his eyes and hands most piously and fervently\nto heaven, he cried out--\"Oh, Mr. O'Connell, may the Lord spare you--_to\nme_!\"\n\nHere let me give my opinion, that the disqualification of his\nreligious tenets, which kept him in a stuff gown while his juniors in\nstanding, and inferiors in talent, were strutting about with all\nprofessional honour, was _not_ much detriment to O'Connell's\nadvancement. Here was a man, confessedly at the head of his profession,\nyet excluded from its honours by unjust and intolerant laws--it became,\ntherefore, a practice to consider him a martyr for the sake of his\nreligion, and he got many and many a brief because such was the feeling.\nHis disqualification as a Catholic gained him business as a Barrister.\n\nThe Union failed to make Ireland happy--because the chains of the\nCatholics were still allowed to gall them, instead, as Mr. Pitt\ncontemplated, of being removed with the least possible delay. George\nIII. threw himself between Ireland and justice. Relief was expected from\nMr. Fox, and might, perhaps, have been granted, but the death of that\nstatesman, almost immediately succeeded by an Anti-Catholic Ministry,\nsounded the knell to the hopes of the people of Ireland. It was at this\ntime that Mr. O'Connell came forward as a politician; he had personal\nreasons for doing so, because, now being in the enjoyment of a very\nexcellent practice at the bar, he found numerous vexations arising from\nthe privileges enjoyed by men less talented, less qualified than\nhimself, but who enjoyed the advantages which religious and political\n\"ascendency\" gave them.\n\nThe Catholics at last threw themselves into an attitude of defence.\nO'Connell's first decided step[16] was the taking part in the proceedings\nof a meeting of Catholics, held in Dublin in May, 1809. Then, for the\nfirst time for over a hundred years, Catholics literally \"spoke out.\"\nTheir daring appeared to draw strength for their despair. What was\ncalled \"the Catholic Committee\" was formed, and this, strongly against\nO'Connell's advice, violated the law by assuming a _representative_\ncharacter. Lord Killeen (eldest son of the Earl of Fingal, a Catholic\npeer), and some others of the leaders, were prosecuted by the\nGovernment. They were defended by O'Connell, and Ireland then witnessed\nthe almost unprecedented circumstance of Catholic agitators being\nacquitted by a Protestant jury in Dublin.\n\n     [16] O'Connell's first public speech was against the Union. It was\n     made on January 13, 1800, at a Catholic meeting in Dublin, in\n     unequivocal condemnation of that measure. The resolutions that day\n     adopted were drawn up by O'Connell, and assumed an antagonistic\n     position.\n\nThe Catholic Committee, however, became alarmed, and broke up. Then was\nformed the Catholic Board, at which it was a matter of dispute whether\nEmancipation might not be purchased by allowing the Crown to pay the\nCatholic clergy, and giving the head of the Church of England a veto on\nthe appointment of Catholic bishops in Ireland. Feeble and vacillating,\nthe greater portion of the Catholic nobility held aloof from the\nstruggle, in which O'Connell took the popular side. Later in the day,\n\nThe late Duke of Richmond (Viceroy of Ireland) put down the Catholic\nBoard by means of his Attorney-General Saurin. The members of that\nBoard, as some small acknowledgment for the services of their colleague,\nvoted Mr. O'Connell a piece of plate, of the value of 1000_l._ The Board\nbeing put down, the Catholic cause would have fallen but for the\nintrepidity of O'Connell, who assumed the leadership at once, and\npublished a letter, continued annually for a long time, in which he\nstated the wrongs of Ireland, with her claims for relief, and suggested\nthe mode of action. This annual message had the motto, from Childe\nHarold,\n\n            \"Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not,\n    Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow.\"\n\nMr. Saurin is said to have seriously contemplated prosecuting O'Connell\nfor sedition because of this motto from \"Childe Harold.\"\n\nThe Catholic Board was suppressed, it is true, but there remained a\nthousand modes of action by which the spirit of patriotism might be kept\nalive in Ireland. Aggregate and other public meetings were instantly\nheld, and at one of these Mr. O'Connell, in 1815, designated the\nCorporation of Dublin as a \"beggarly corporation.\" A member of that\n\"beggarly\" and bankrupt body took upon himself to play the bravo in its\ndefence. This man was a Mr. D'Esterre, and is understood to have had a\npromise of patronage from the Corporation (in the shape of a good\nberth), if he humbled the pride of O'Connell. It is more charitable than\nreasonable to hope that the Corporation were not so ruffianly as to hold\nout this hope to D'Esterre, because he was notoriously the best shot in\nDublin; and yet, such \"honourable\" assassination is exactly what such a\nbody would reward, if they did not suggest it.\n\nD'Esterre paraded the streets of Dublin with a horse-whip in his hand,\nand vowed vengeance against O'Connell. He did not meet him; but he\nafterwards challenged him. O'Connell refused to apologize--met the\nchallenger, and mortally wounded him. D'Esterre, as I have said, was a\ncrack shot, and O'Connell was not; but it sometimes happens that the\npracticed duellist suffers the penalty which he has inflicted upon\nothers.\n\nD'Esterre had been an officer of marines, and it has been stated, and\nalways believed, that he constituted himself the Champion of the\nCorporation, not only in the hope, but with a direct promise of\nobtaining a lucrative appointment, provided that he \"silenced\"\nO'Connell. The odds were five to one in his favour--for he was cool and\ndetermined, and could snuff a candle with a pistol shot at twelve paces.\nHis skill, his coolness, availed not. At the first shot he fell, and his\ndeath speedily followed.\n\nSoon after, Sir Robert Peel (the then Irish Secretary) fastened a\nquarrel upon Mr. O'Connell, who again placed himself in the hands of his\nfriends. A hostile meeting was appointed--the authorities in Dublin\ninterfered--the parties were bound over to keep the peace--they agreed\nto meet on the Continent, but the duel was ultimately prevented by the\narrest of Mr. O'Connell, in London, on his way to Calais. He was held to\nbail before the Chief Justice of the King's Bench, not to fight Mr.\nPeel; and since that time declined any further meetings of the sort.[17]\nIt would have been well if, when he determined to avoid duels, O'Connell\nhad also resolved to abstain from language offensive to men of honour\nand men of feeling. His chief fault, during his last thirty years, was\nthe application of epithets towards his political opponents, which\nappear to have been culled rather in the market of Billingsgate, than in\nthe flowery garden of Academe!\n\n     [17] It was the late Dr. England, Catholic Bishop of Charleston, S.\n     C., who then resided near Cork, who pointed out to O'Connell the\n     conjoint sin and folly of duelling, and induced him to promise that\n     he would never again appeal to arms. It was reported, at the time,\n     that O'Connell had lingered in London, when Peel expected him at\n     Calais, awaiting news of his wife's health (he had left her ill in\n     Dublin), and that another public character had declined a challenge\n     on the plea of his daughter's illness. The late Chief Justice Burke\n     thus commemorated the double event:\n\n     \"Two heroes of Erin, abhorrent of slaughter, Improved on the Hebrew\n     command; One honored his wife, and the other his daughter, That\n     'their days might be long on the land.'\"\n\nFor several years after the duel with D'Esterre, O'Connell was almost\nalone in the struggle for Emancipation. His practice steadily increased,\nand his legal knowledge, ability and tact, united with wondrous art in\nthe examination of witnesses, and great influence with juries (by the\nunion of a species of rhetoric consisting of common sense, humour, and\nrough eloquence, cemented together by a good share of \"Blarney\"), soon\nmade him a very successful barrister. Whenever a Catholic victim was to\nbe defended or rescued, whether an Orange oppressor was to be assailed\nand punished, O'Connell was in the van. The Catholics readily took him\nas their champion, and he won their gratitude by his services, and\ngained their personal attachment by a good humour which nothing could\ndaunt, and a plain, straightforward, affectionate manner of eloquence\nwhich went directly home to their hearts. To this hour it is a moot\npoint whether the Irish had greater admiration for his talents,\ngratitude for his services, confidence in his fidelity, or attachment\nfor his person.\n\nHe continued increasing in influence for many years. From 1815, until he\nrelinquished most of his practice in 1831, the annual income from his\nprofessional pursuits cannot have averaged less than from \u00a36000 to\n\u00a38000--an immense sum for a lawyer to make in Ireland. No man could make\nsuch an income, except one who was at once an excellent Nisi Prius\npleader, as well as a good Crown lawyer. He united the highest\nqualifications of both. He could wield at will immense power over a\njury, and argue with a success rarely equalled, so as to reach the\nunderstanding of a judge. Hence, he had the most extraordinary\nversatility. You would see him at one o'clock joking a jury out of a\nverdict in the Nisi Prius court, or familiarly laying down cases for the\ninformation of the judge; and, the next hour, you might behold him in\nthe Crown court, defending an unhappy man accused of murder, and\nexercising a caution and prudence in his unparalleled cross-examination\nof witnesses which would alike surprise and please. No man could more\nreadily get the truth from a witness, or make him say only just as much\nas suits the particular point he had in view.\n\nIn 1821, when George the Fourth visited Ireland, Mr. O'Connell made \"his\nfirst appearance, by particular desire,\" in the part of a courtier. He\npresented a laurel crown to the monarch on his departure, and eulogized\nhim to the seventh heaven as \"a real friend of old Ireland,\" anxious to\nsee her\n\n            \"Great, glorious, and free,\n    First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea.\"\n\nHe did more than this. He sacrificed his feelings, as a Catholic, in\norder to conciliate the Ascendency party. Intent on conciliation, he\neven dined with the Dublin Corporation, and drank their charter toast of\nintolerance,[18] \"The pious, glorious and immortal memory.\" Concession\nwas vain. The leopard would not change his spots; and, throwing away the\nscabbard, O'Connell drew the sword, and threw himself, body and soul,\ninto the stormy battle of Agitation.\n\n     [18] This celebrated toast, the drinking or refusal of which, for\n     many years, was the great test of (political) Protestantism in\n     Ireland, was drank on the knee, and ran thus: \"The glorious, pious,\n     and immortal memory of the great and good King William, Prince of\n     Orange, who saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money and wooden\n     shoes. He that don't drink this toast, may the north wind blow him\n     to the south, and a west wind blow him to the east; may he have a\n     dark night, a lee shore, a rank storm, and a leaky vessel to carry\n     him over the ferry to hell; may the devil jump down his throat with\n     a red-hot harrow, that every pin may tear out his inside; may he be\n     rammed, jammed, and damned into the great gun of Athlone, and fired\n     off into the kitchen of hell, where the Pope is roasted on a spit,\n     and basted with the fat of Charles James Fox, while the Devil\n     stands by pelting him with Cardinals!\"\n\nIn 1823, O'Connell, finding how little was to be anticipated from George\nIV. (who, as king, forgot the promises he made when Prince of Wales),\norganized a great plan for uniting his Catholic countrymen into an array\nagainst the laws which excluded them from the enjoyment of their civil\nand rights. He had great difficulty in arousing the languid energies of the\nIrish people, so hopeless had they been for a long time. At last, the\nCatholic Association assumed a \"local habitation and a name.\" The\nsubscription to the somewhat aristocratical Catholic Board had been five\npounds a year--one fifth of that amount was the payment to the\nAssociation; and, at last, the Catholic Rent was instituted on the basis\nof admitting contributions of a shilling a-year. Every subscriber to\nthis small amount thereby became a member of the Association, and crowds\neagerly joined it, on these terms, from all parts of Ireland. Here were\nagitation and combination. Here was money, the very sinews of war. Here\nwas a fund, large in amount, annually augmenting, applicable to a\nvariety of purposes connected with the assertion of the Catholic claims\nand the defence of Catholics, who thought themselves individually\nwronged or injured by their Orange masters. Here, with O'Connell at\ntheir head, was a band of leaders, most of them in the practice of the\nlaw, who had station, influence, audacity, courage, integrity, and the\nart of moving the multitude by voice or pen. The Government speedily\nfeared, and felt, it to be an _imperium in imperio_.\n\nArmed with a vast numerical combination, strong in the possession of\nlarge funds, headed by able and fearless men, the Association assumed\nthe duty of standing between the people and the mal-administration\nof the law. Every local act of tyranny, intolerance and oppression was\nexposed, if it were not visited with exemplary punishment. The\ncomplaints of the people were heard, through the influence of the\nleaders, within the very walls of the Imperial Parliament. A brilliant\narena was opened for Catholic talent, for the Association held its\ndiscussions like a regular legislative assembly, and its debates were\nspread abroad, all over the kingdom, on the wings of the press. Of the\nwhole system O'Connell was the motive power--the head--the heart. His\ninfluence was immense.\n\nSuch an array could not be beheld by any government with indifference.\nIt was determined to put down the Association by act of Parliament. In\n1825, O'Connell formed one of a deputation to England, to make\narrangements for an adjustment of the Catholic claims--committed the\nerror of consenting to take Emancipation clogged with \"the wings\" (that\nis, to State payment for the Catholic clergy, and confiscation of the\n40s. elective franchise), but finally admitted his mistake, and his\nerror of judgment was forgiven by his countrymen. The Association was\nsuppressed. O'Connell, whose policy was to baffle rather than to\ncontest, and whose boast ever was that he agitated \"within the law,\"\nallowed the Catholic Association to dissolve itself, but continued the\nagitation by \"aggregate meetings\" in nearly every county of Ireland, and\nby the establishment of a new Catholic Association, formed ostensibly\nfor purposes of charity alone. The Government could do nothing against\nthis.\n\nIn 1826, when a general election took place, O'Connell brought into\nunexpected operation the forces which he commanded. He started popular\ncandidates in several Irish counties, and defeated the former members,\nwho had always voted against the Catholics. The lesson was a striking\none, but the Executive in Downing-street heeded it not, and declared\nunmitigated and perpetual enmity against the Catholics. On the other\nhand, the Association pledged itself to oppose every candidate connected\nwith the government. In 1828, a vacancy occurred, by Mr. Vesey\nFitzgerald (who himself had always voted for Catholic Emancipation)\nhaving accepted a seat in the Duke of Wellington's Cabinet, and then\nO'Connell ventured the bold experiment of contesting the representation\nof Clare. He was returned after a most severe contest--forced\nWellington, by that election to concede Emancipation--claimed his seat\nunder that concession--was refused by Manners Sutton, the Speaker--was\nre-elected for Clare[19]--since sat for Waterford, Kerry, Dublin,\nKilkenny, and Cork--made the best speech upon the Reform Bill--supported\nthe Melbourne ministry when the contest between them and Peel came\non--invariably maintained the most liberal principles, and supported the\nmost liberal measures--diminished, if he did not conquer, the dislike\nwhich England and Scotland felt towards him as a Catholic and Irish\nagitator--and had a parliamentary influence greater than any man ever\nbefore possessed, being able to count on the votes of _forty_ members,\nwho formed what is called the joints of his \"tail.\"\n\n     [19] Mr. Grattan says, at an expense of \u00a320,000--an amount which\n     seems incredible, as there was only a brief shadow of opposition.\n\nHad O'Connell's labors as an agitator ceased when they achieved\nEmancipation, no reputation could have stood higher. But, from 1829, he\nattempted to make \"Repeal\" his party-cry. In April, 1834, he moved for\nthe Repeal of the Union. Thirty-eight members voted _with_, and five\nhundred and twenty-three _against_ him. Only _one_ English member\nsupported him--Mr. James Kennedy, who sat for the small borough of\nTiverton.\n\nThe influence of O'Connell continued great, with the Government, as well\nas in Ireland, while the Whigs were in office. But the Melbourne\nministry broke up in the autumn of 1841, and \"Othello's occupation\" was\ngone when they went over to the opposition benches. In 1843, it is true,\nhe made renewed, important and remarkable attempts to excite Ireland--to\nagitate (within the law) against the government of which Sir Robert Peel\nwas the head, but he was prosecuted, and the Monster Trials, lasting\ntwenty-five days, and ending in his conviction and imprisonment, first\ntaught his countrymen that he was not infallible nor invulnerable. His\nconviction was subsequently annulled by the House of Lords, on appeal,\nbut the iron had entered into his soul, and when he resumed his seat in\nParliament he evidently was breaking. Then followed the revolt against\nhis supremacy by the vigorous and more decided \"Young Ireland\" party,\nand, with failing health and defeated aims, he went to the\nContinent--his desire being to visit that imperial and Papal Rome of\nwhich he had long been the energetic and obedient servant. He died\nbefore he accomplished his pilgrimage; but his heart rests in the\nEternal City.\n\nHere it can scarcely be out of place to glance at O'Connell's success as\na Parliamentary orator.\n\nIn the British Parliament, where oratorical success is usually very\ndifficult, Irishmen have generally shown themselves not merely good, but\neven eloquent speakers. Edmund Burke may challenge mention alongside of\nthe great Chatham--and will have a more permanent place of honour,\nbecause his speeches, admirable even as compositions, now belong to the\nstandard classics of the Anglo-Saxon race. Sir Philip Francis (the\nreputed author of \"The Letters of Junius\") was not inferior, in power\nand effect, to the younger Pitt. Richard Brinsley Sheridan and George\nCanning nobly maintained the national credit, as transcendently eloquent\nmen. Lord Wellesley and Henry Grattan occupy a first position as great\norators. In later days, assuredly Daniel O'Connell and Richard Lalor\nSheil have not been surpassed by any of their rivals. Whenever Irish\nparliamentary eloquence is spoken of, William Conyngham Plunket cannot\nbe overlooked. He was, perhaps, the very best speaker in the British\nParliament at any time. He had few of the ordinary characteristics of\nIrish eloquence. Wit he possessed in a high degree, but was chary in its\nuse. Pathos he rarely ventured upon--though there are some incidental\ntouches at once tearful and tender. He relied on clear arrangement of\nfacts, logical closeness of reasoning, strong earnestness, remarkable\nsagacity, and the exercise of tact and common sense which a spirit at\nonce strong and ardent had disciplined and exercised. His manner, also,\ngrave and almost austere, added weight to his words of power. He\nsucceeded Grattan in the leadership of the Catholic party in Parliament,\nand his speech (in 1821) converted nine votes from hostility to justice.\nIt was on this occasion, alluding to the great departed who had joined\nin the discussions relative to Ireland's claims for civil and religious\nliberty, that he said--\"Walking before the sacred images of the\nillustrious dead, as in a public and solemn procession, shall we not\ndismiss all party feelings, all angry passions, all unworthy prejudices?\nI will not talk of past disputes; I will not mingle in this act of\nnational justice anything that can awaken personal animosity.\"\n\nIt was not, however, in the English legislature, but during the last\ntwenty years of the Irish Parliament, that Irish eloquence was in its\nzenith. On one hand were Fitzgibbon and Scott (afterwards Lords Clare\nand Clonmel), Connolly, Cavendish, and Arthur Wolfe. On the other side\nwas such an array of talent, patriotism, and eloquence as, in the same\nperiod of time, has never been surpassed--never equalled. There were\nHussey Burgh and James Fitzgerald, Flood and Grattan, Curran and Barry\nYelverton, Plunket and Saurin, Parnell and Denis Daly, Brownlow and\nSaxton Perry, Foster and Ponsonby, Goold and Peter Burrowes,\nsilvery-tongued Bushe and honest Robert Holmes. Most of these were\nlawyers, and made an exception to the general rule that the eloquence of\nthe Bar and of the Senate are so different in character as to seem\nalmost incompatible in practice. In Ireland, during her last days of\nnationality, the great cause for which they were contending, appeared to\nhave animated the members of the bar with a spirit which disdained all\nnarrow limits of conventionality, and elevated them above the ordinary\nroutine of common life. We read, in Holy Writ, how one of the seraphim\ntouched Isaiah's lips with fire, and, with little effort of the\nimagination, we may well believe that Patriotism, in like manner,\ntouched the lips of Irishmen, during that hard struggle for the very\nexistence of their nation, at once hallowing and purifying the words\nwhich fell from them. But such eloquence was only a flash amid darkness,\ntoo brilliant to stay, and force and fraud were evil spirits superior,\nat that time, to Truth, Virtue, and Eloquence. The day may come when\nIreland shall once again be a nation,--may the Past then and forever be\na lesson and a warning.\n\nIt is singular that, in the Irish Parliament, nearly all the great\nspeakers have been lawyers. With few exceptions, men of law have not\nsucceeded in the English Parliament. Lords Mansfield, Lyndhurst and\nBrougham, with Romilly and Follett, are the chief exceptions. Camden,\nThurlow, Eldon, Gifford, Cottenham, Truro, St. Leonards, Erskine,\nScarlett, Stowell, Tenterden, Best, and a great many more did not\nmaintain, in Parliament, the reputation they had won at the bar. Three\nIrishmen, however, albeit members of the legal profession, have taken\nthe lead in the British Senate, even in our own time. These were\nPlunket, O'Connell, and Sheil.\n\nOf Plunket and Sheil there may be another occasion and opportunity of\nspeaking. It is of O'Connell that I would record a few impressions now.\nIt must be remembered that when he entered Parliament, in 1829, he had\nentered into his fifty-fifth year. Plunket was at least ten years\nyounger when he too entered the British House of Commons. Sheil was\nlittle more than thirty-six when he took his seat. It was feared by his\nfriends and hoped by his enemies that, like Erskine and other great\nadvocates, O'Connell would fail in Parliament. True it was that Grattan\nwas fifty-nine before he first spoke in the English House of\nCommons--but Grattan was one in ten thousand. Besides, he was all his\nlife a parliamentary speaker, which is very different from being a\nlawyer in full practice also--the essentials for success at the bar and\nin the Senate being far apart. Grattan himself, speaking of his great\nrival, Flood, who had greatly distinguished himself in the Irish, and as\ngreatly failed, in the English Parliament, said \"he forgot that he was a\ntree of the forest, too old and too great to be transplanted at fifty.\"\n\nO'Connell's opponents confidently anticipated his failure. He is too\nmuch of a mob-orator, was the cry of one set. He will never please so\nrefined an assembly as the British House of Commons; he is too much of a\nlawyer, said another section of ill-wishers, and we know how perpetually\nlawyers fail in the House. His accent is dead against him, lisped a few\nothers, and will be laughed at as vulgar. One of his most violent\nantagonists was Lord Eldon, before whom he had appeared, in an appeal\ncase before the Lords, when he visited London in 1825 (on the memorable\noccasion of \"the Wings\"); but this Chancellor, inimical as he was,\nturned round to Lord Wynford (then Sir W. D. Best), when the speech was\nended, and said, \"What a knowledge of law!--how condensed, yet how clear\nhis argument!--how extremely gentlemanly, and even courtierly is his\nmanner. Let him only be in the House once, and he will carry every thing\nbefore him.\" Many even of O'Connell's own friends doubted whether he\ncould accommodate himself to the manners, fashion, habits, and\nrestrictions of that very artificial assemblage, presumed to contain\n\"the collective wisdom of the nation,\" but the slightest doubt on the\nsubject does not appear to have cast its shadow into his own mind. To\nhim, as to Lady Macbeth, there was no such word as--fail! Like Nelson,\nhe did not know what fear was.\n\nHis putting up for Clare Election, in 1828, was one of the boldest\nmeasures ever ventured on--short of raising the banner of revolt against\nthe government. It compelled Wellington and Peel to concede Catholic\nEmancipation--a concession ungracious and ungrateful, since it was\nclogged with a clause, the result of personal spite, prohibiting\nO'Connell, because he had been elected in 1828, from taking the oaths\ncontained in the Relief Bill of 1829. That prohibition sent him back to\nClare for re-election, and he entered Parliament with his mind not\nunnaturally angry at the injustice for which _he_ had been singled out\nas a victim.\n\nHe took his seat, and, almost immediately, it was perceived that he was\nnot to be trifled with. Nature had been bountiful to him. In\nstature tall, and so strongly built that it was only by seeing, when a\nman of ordinary height was by his side, how much he over-topped him.\nPhysical vigour and mental strength were well combined in him. Then, his\nvoice--a miraculous organ, full of power, but not deficient, either, in\nmellow sweetness. His glance told little--but his lips were singularly\nexpressive, as much so as the eyes are to ordinary mortals. Add to this,\na full consciousness of power--a conviction that he had been the main\nagent for opening Parliament to his hitherto prohibited\nco-religionists--that Ireland looked to him, and not without cause, for\na great deal more--that he virtually represented, not the men of Clare\nonly, but was \"Member for all Ireland,\"--that he was a tactician,\ntrained by thirty years of public life,--that he had also the practiced\nskill in handling all the available points of an argument which his\nprofessional career had given him,--and that he then looked upon\nEmancipation only as an instalment. Put all these together, and it will\nbe seen, at once, that the man in whom they were embodied could scarcely\nfail to make himself felt, dreaded, and much observed.\n\nIn the first twelvemonth--that is, from his re-election in 1829, until\nthe meeting of the new Parliament in November 1830--O'Connell\ndisappointed a great many by playing what may be called a waiting game.\nIt was expected that he would be perpetually speaking, upon all\noccasions, and, in that case, attempts would have been made to laugh, or\ncough, or clamor him down. He voted regularly, and always on the right\nside. In 1831, when the Grey ministry were in power, O'Connell, now\nstrengthened by a strong and compact body of Irish members pledged to\nwork with and under him (their return was the result of the General\nElection), took the station in the Legislature which he maintained for\nnearly fifteen years. During the prolonged struggle for Parliamentary\nReform, one of the most impressive speeches in advocacy of the measure\nwas O'Connell's. On all great occasions his voice was heard and his vote\ngiven. It cannot be asserted that he invariably spoke and voted as now,\nwhen we read the events of those days as history, it may dispassionately\nbe thought he should have done; but he was undoubtedly an indefatigable,\nearnest, eloquent member of Parliament, through whose pertinacity and\ntact many concessions were made to Ireland which were calculated to\nserve her. The geniality of his nature was as unchecked in the Senate as\nit had been at the Bar, or in the Catholic Association. He was eminently\na good-tempered man, and this availed him much in the House of Commons,\nwhere, if it so please him, a man can readily make himself and others\nuncomfortable by the exhibition of even a small portion of ill-temper.\nSometimes he laughed at his opponents, but so good-naturedly that they\nalso enjoyed the jest. Such was his cut at John Walter, proprietor of\nthe _Times_, who had remained on the ministerial benches after his Tory\nfriends had quitted them. He removed, speedily enough, when O'Connell\npointed to him as--\n\n\n     \"The last rose of summer, left blooming alone.\"\n\n\nSo, when Lord Stanley (now Earl of Derby) separating from the Whigs,\nstarted a party of his own, which was lamentably small, O'Connell quoted\nagainst him a couplet from a familiar poet--\n\n    \"Thus down thy side, romantic Ashbourne, glides\n    The Derby dilly, carrying six insides.\"\n\nAnd so, pre-eminent over all was his parody on Dryden's celebrated\ncomparison. Three Colonels (Perceval, Verner, and Sibthorpe) represented\nSligo, Armagh, and Lincoln. The two first were smooth-faced and\nwhiskerless as a maiden. Sibthorpe is \"bearded like a bard.\" O'Connell,\nalluding to them in the House, thus hit them off, amid a general roar,\nin which the victimized trio could not refrain from joining--\n\n    \"Three Colonels in three distant counties born,\n    Sligo, Armagh, and Lincoln did adorn.\n    The first in matchless impudence surpassed,\n    The next in bigotry--in both the last.\n    The force of nature could no further go,\n    To beard the third she shaved the other two.\"\n\nLike other politicians, O'Connell did not escape without occasional\npersonal passages at arms. In one of these, with Mr. Doherty, then Irish\nSolicitor-General, in May, 1830, O'Connell may be said to have come off\nsecond-best. He had attacked Doherty for his conduct as Crown lawyer in\nwhat was called the Doneraile conspiracy. The whole of the Tory party\nsided with Doherty, who made a forcible defence, attacking his assailant\nin turn, and the Whigs did not very warmly support O'Connell, who had\nthen only been a few months in Parliament. This _rencontre_, which took\nplace while \"The Duke\" was Premier, raised Doherty to the Chief\nJusticeship of the Common Pleas in Ireland--and led to Peel's offering\nhim a seat in the Cabinet in 1834, and a Peerage in 1840. O'Connell used\nto say, and with truth, that _he_ had placed Doherty on the Bench.\n\nOn another occasion O'Connell was far more successful. This was the\ncelebrated Breach of Privilege case.\n\nVictoria ascended the throne in June, 1837. Shortly after there was a\nGeneral Election, and a great many of the members returned were\npetitioned against. The Tories had raised a large fund to defray the\ncost of these proceedings, and it was called \"The Spottiswoode\nSubscription,\" as Spottiswoode, the Queen's printer (a patent\nlife-office of much emolument), acted as its treasurer. Angry debates\narose in the House of Commons on this subject, and personalities were\nso much and so tumultuously bandied to and fro, that Mr. Abercrombie,\nthe Speaker, threatened to resign if they were repeated,--as if,\ngrasping Scotchman as he was, he _could_ ever have brought himself to\nresign the \u00a36,000 a-year attached to the office!\n\nThe controverted elections were duly referred to the usual Election\nCommittees, ballotted for out of the members then in the House. These\ncommittees were duly sworn, as juries are, to do justice between man and\nman. But it was unhappily notorious that when the majority were Whigs,\nthey almost invariably decided against Tory members, and _vice vers\u00e2_.\nAs ill luck would have it, the majority of the decisions went to unseat\nLiberal members. As parties were nearly balanced in Parliament, at that\ntime--indeed the Whigs remained in office merely because there was a new\nand inexperienced sovereign who would have been puzzled how to act on a\nchange of ministry--the Liberals complained of the decisions of the\nElection Committees.\n\nOn February 23, 1838, Lord Maidstone, who had been elected for\nNorthamptonshire, and was the eldest son of the intolerant Earl of\nWinchelsea, who fought a duel on the Catholic Relief Bill, with\nWellington, in 1829, drew the attention of the House of Commons to a\nBreach of Privilege. He complained that, two days before, at a public\ndinner given at the Crown and Anchor Tavern, Mr. O'Connell had declared\nthat in the Election Committees \"Corruption of the worst description\nexisted, and above all there was the perjury of the Tory politicians.\"\nAlso, that he \"was ready to be a martyr to justice and truth; but not to\nfalse swearing, and therefore, he repeated, that there was foul perjury\nin the Tory Committees of the House of Commons.\"\n\nWhat followed I saw, and can never forget. O'Connell, who had been\nreading (or appearing to read) a newspaper while Lord Maidstone was\naccusing him, keenly arose, sternly looked around the House, folded his\narms, and, in his deepest tones and most impressive manner, said, \"Sir,\nI did say every word of that--every word of that; and I do repeat that I\nbelieve it to be perfectly true. Is there a man who will put his hand on\nhis heart and say that it is not true? Such a man would be laughed to\nscorn.\"\n\nMaidstone then gave notice of a motion condemnatory of O'Connell, and\nthe discussion was adjourned until the following Monday. Maidstone moved\nthat O'Connell's speech was an imputation on the whole House, and that\nhe be censured for it as a breach of privilege. O'Connell replied in a\nspeech of great power, in the midst of which he was self-designated \"The\npensioned servant of Ireland,\" and plainly declared that whenever an\nElection Committee was appointed, it was known that the decision would\nbe exactly according to the political majority of its members; and\nrepeating that he had spoken only the truth, and would stand by his\nwords. The Agitator then retired.\n\nA great many members spoke,--the Whigs making a lukewarm defence for\nO'Connell, instead of admitting and lamenting the truth of his remarks.\nThe Tories clamoured for a heavy censure. In a House of 517 members, out\nof 658, a majority of _nine_ were for the censure. Next Daniel\nCallaghan, member for Cork city, Edmund Burke Roche, member for Cork\ncounty, W. D. Gillon for Falkirk, and J. P. Somers for Sligo, severally\nand seriously declared that, each and all, they adopted Mr. O'Connell's\nwords and sentiments! It was then carried by 298 to 85 (Lord John\nRussell voting in the majority) that the words were \"a false and\nscandalous imputation on the House.\"\n\nNext, on the motion that O'Connell be reprimanded in his place, an\nexciting debate ensued. Mr. Callaghan repeated his endorsement of\nO'Connell's imputation, and his words were taken down by the Clerk of\nthe House, on the motion of Mr. Hume, who called on the Speaker to\nnotice his contumacy. But the Speaker was mute. Next day, Mr. Roche also\nrepeated his full adherence to O'Connell's charge. The vote of censure\nwas carried by a majority of twenty-nine.\n\nO'Connell duly attended in his place, was gravely reprimanded by the\nSpeaker (his own particular friend!), and said, when the farce was\nover, \"Galileo remarked 'the world does move, after all.' And so,\ndespite the censure of this House, I repeat all I said before. The\nsystem I condemn reminds one of the Judge in Rabelais who decided cases\nby throwing three dice for the plaintiff and two for the defendant. I\nhad rather take the dice-box and say 'seven's the main,' than take my\nchance on an Election Committee of this House. I express no regret for\nwhat I have said. I have retracted nothing. I will retract nothing. I\nhave told the truth.\"\n\nSo saying, having bearded the House by strongly repeating his\naccusation, he sat down. It was considered that he had gained a victory,\nand the conclusion of all was a total change and reform in the system of\nParliamentary election committees.\n\nBut it was in Ireland--whether in the Catholic Association, at an\nAggregate Meeting, at a public dinner, or in a court of law--that\nO'Connell was to be seen \"in all his glory.\" In Ireland his influence\nwas extraordinary--not only for its vast extent, but for its\ncontinuance. No other public man, no matter what the country or the age,\nhas maintained his popularity, as O'Connell did, for nearly forty years.\nI think that this may be partly attributed to the belief, long and\nwidely entertained by his followers, almost unbroken to the last,\nencouraged by himself, and generally borne out by circumstances, that he\nwas above the law, that the law could not reach _him_, that he \"could\ndrive a coach and six through any Act of Parliament.\"\n\nIn February, 1831, he was indicted and tried (with Tom Steele and\nBarrett, of _The Pilot_ newspaper) for holding political meetings which\nthe Viceroy's proclamation had forbidden. They pleaded guilty, but as\nthe law under which they were tried was allowed to expire before they\nwere brought up for judgment, his prophecy, that the law could not reach\nhim, was fulfilled. In 1843 he was less fortunate. Three months in\nprison!--_that_ destroyed the _prestige_.\n\nThis man was eminently endowed by nature with the bodily and mental\nqualifications for a Tribune of the People. In stature he was lofty, in\nfigure large. His bold, good-natured face was an advantage--as were his\nmanly appearance and bearing. His voice was deep, musical, sonorous and\nmanageable. Its transitions from the higher to the lower notes was\nwondrously effective. No man had a clearer or more distinct\npronunciation--at times, it even went to the extent of almost\nsyllabizing long words. How lingeringly, as if he loved to utter the\nwords, would he speak of \"Cawtholic E-man-cee-pa-tion!\" He rather\naffected a full Irish accent, on which was slightly grafted something of\nthe Foigardism which, in his youth, had attached itself to him when he\nstudied in France. No one who noticed his capacious chest could wonder\nthat O'Connell was able to speak longer than most men without pausing\nto take breath. When making a speech, his mouth was very expressive; and\nthis has been noticed as the characteristic of that feature, in Irish\nfaces. In his eyes (of a cold, clear blue) there was little speculation,\nbut the true Irish expression of feeling, passion and intellect played\nabout his lips. Looking at him, as he spoke, a close observer might\nalmost note the sentiment about to come from those lips, before the\nwords had utterance--just as we see the lightning-flash before we hear\nthe thunder-peal.\n\nHis eloquence was eminently characteristic. Irishmen, in general, have\n\"the gift of the gab,\"--that is, the power of expressing their\nsentiments in public with ease to themselves and to their hearers. It\ngives them little trouble to make a speech; and this faculty and this\nfacility arise, very probably, from the political circumstances of their\ncountry as much as from anything else. In England there is no necessity\nwhy a man should have decided political opinions. In Ireland no man dare\nbe neutral. Persons may disagree, and do; but they unite in despising\nand condemning the unhappy wight who does not belong to any party. An\nIrishman, in Ireland, _must_ be a partisan. Being so, there is no\nearthly reason why, attending any public meeting, he should not be\ninduced to take part in the proceedings, and make a speech. Oratory is a\nvery catching thing,--listening begets the desire to be listened to, in\nturn; and, once that a man has heard his own voice in public, depend on\nit, he will be anxious to hear it again.\n\nSelf-possession, which is \"half the battle\" in public life, is an\nessential in public speaking. However, it is not _the_ essential. There\nmust be a copious flow of words--a happy and rapid selection of\nlanguage--an earnestness of manner--a knowledge of human character--and,\nabove all, a considerable degree of information, with a certain portion\nof the \"imagination all compact,\" which breathes fervour and poetry into\nthe spoken speech. Great is the orator's power. He can touch the human\nheart--he can move the secret springs of action--he can sway the popular\nwill as he pleases--he can comfort the afflicted, infuse hope into the\noppressed, alarm the oppressor, and make ill-directed Power and Might\ntremble on their lofty thrones.\n\nIreland has been particularly profuse in her contribution of eminent\norators. Burke, Canning, Plunket, Grattan, Sheil, Wellesley and Curran,\nstand pre-eminent on the roll; but I doubt whether O'Connell, when the\nlength of his reign is considered, as well as the great extent of his\ninfluence, derived chiefly from his power as a speaker, was not greater\nthan any of these great orators. He had less wit than Canning--less\nimagination than Curran--less philosophy than Burke--less rhetoric than\nSheil--less pure eloquence than Plunket--less classical expression\nthan Wellesley--less pathos than Grattan; but he had more power than any\nof them. There was wonderful force in his language. And when addressing\nan Irish audience, there was such an alternation of style--now rising to\nthe loftiest, and now subsiding to the most familiar--that he carried\nall hearts with him, and those who listened seemed as if under the spell\nof an enchanter, so completely did he move them as he pleased. Judging\nby their _effect_, O'Connell's speeches must be considered as among the\nbest, if not the very best, of the time and country.\n\nO'Connell's versatility as a speaker was wonderful. He was \"all things\nto all men.\" In a Court of Law he would often joke a jury into his view\nof the case, and when this did not succeed, would convince them by\nsubtle argument, bold declamation, and a natural eloquence. At a\npolitical meeting, where he had to address a multitude, they would\nalternately smile or get enraged, as he jested with or excited their\nfeelings. In Parliament, which he did not enter until he was fifty-four\nyears old, he generally was more calm, more careful, more sudued, more\nsolicitous in his choice of words, and more vigilant in restraining the\nmanner of delivering them.\n\nThe great secret of his power, as a speaker, was his earnestness. He\never had a great object in view, and he always applied himself, with a\nstrong and earnest mind, to achieve that object. Whenever he pleased,\nhe could rise to the greatest height of eloquence; but he preferred,\nwhen speaking to the people, to use language which each of them could\nunderstand. He varied his speeches, too, with badinage and jokes, which,\nthough merely humourous, made his audience smile, and keep them in good\ntemper with each other, with themselves, and with him. The Irish, who\nthronged to listen to him, went to be amused as well as to be harangued.\nNor did he disappoint them. I may illustrate what I mean by giving an\nexample of one of his familiar illustrations.\n\nIn 1827, during the time of what was called \"The New Reformation,\" in\nIreland, O'Connell made a speech at the South Chapel, in Cork. It\ncontained the following passage, after a very elaborate denial of the\nassumed conversions which the \"New Reformation\" gentry had boasted\nof:--\"They remind me, gentlemen, of a Frenchman who waited on Lord\nKenmare, and offered to drain the lakes of Killarney, which would\nrestore a great quantity of arable land. Lord Kenmare happened to think\nthat he had land enough, and civilly declined having his property\ndeprived of the beautiful lakes, its proudest ornament. The Frenchman,\nhowever, being one of those who\n\n    'Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame,'\n\npersisted in his fancy, and accordingly rose at break of day to drain\nthe lake. And, boys, how do you think he was doing it? Why, he was\nbaling it out with his hat! (Great laughter.) Now, there are seven\nmillions of Catholics in Ireland--the New Reformation folk do not boast\nof more than six or seven conversions, or perversions, in the week--so\nthat, allowing (which is impossible, where there are bright eyes and\nwarm hearts such as flash and throb around me, in this large assembly)\nthat the Catholics of Ireland will not increase in the meantime, there\nmust, at this rate, be a million of weeks elapse before all of them are\ndrained out by conversion. (Cheers.) Boys, these Reformation gentry\nremind me mightily of the Frenchman baling out the Lake of Killarney\nwith his hat!\"\n\nIt was with pleasant, homely jokes like this--yet each having a tendency\nto work out the argument--that O'Connell was wont to amuse the Irish. In\npoint of wit, I doubt whether O'Connell's little Frenchman be not as\noriginal a character as Sydney Smith's far-famed Mrs. Partington.\n\nO'Connell's friends lamented, and with ample cause, at his aptness to\nabuse the license of public speech. He was very fond of bestowing\nnicknames on his opponents, and of applying offensive epithets to\nthem.[20] As early as July, 1808, at a meeting of the famous Catholic\nBoard, he had commenced that sort of speaking--which lowers him who\nadopts it rather than those against whom it is levelled. He then said\n\"the present administration are the personal enemies of the Catholic\ncause; yet if the Catholics continue loyal, firm, and undivided, they\nhave little to fear from the barren petulence of the ex-advocate,\nPercival, or the frothy declamations of the poetaster, Canning--they\nmight with equal contempt despise the upstart pride of the Jenkinsons,\nand with more than contempt the pompous inanity of that Lord\nCastlereagh, who might well be permitted to hate the country that gave\nhim birth, to her own annihilation.\" In the same vulgar spirit he spoke\nof Cobbett as \"a comical miscreant,\" and declared that the Duke of\nWellington was \"a stunted corporal,\" and maintained that Disraeli, whose\nJewish descent is well known, must be a lineal descendant of the\nimpenitent thief who was crucified, when the great sacrifice of\nSalvation was consummated at Calvary.\n\n     [20] O'Connell had high judicial authority for the use of bad\n     language. Sir Archibald Macdonald (who was Chief Baron of the\n     English Court of Exchequer, from 1793 to 1813) once told Mr.\n     Fletcher Norton, afterwards Speaker of the House of Commons, that\n     he was a \"lazy, indolent, evasive, shuffling, plausible, artful,\n     mean, confident, cowardly, poor, pitiful, sneaking, and abject\n     creature.\"\n\nOnce only, as far as my memory serves, O'Connell gave a nickname, with\npoint and wit in the application. He was denouncing the present Earl of\nDerby, who was then a member of the House of Commons, and filled the\noffice of Chief Secretary of Ireland. In some way Stanley had taken\nofficial notice of the \"sayings and doings\" of O'Connell, whereupon the\nAgitator declared that, from that time, he must be called \"Shave-beggar\nStanley.\" Amid roars of laughter (for this was at a public meeting in\nDublin), O'Connell proceeded to justify the _nom de guerre_. It was the\ncustom, he said, that barbers' apprentices should learn their business\nby shaving beggars, who, as the job was done for nothing, could scarcely\ncomplain if a blunt razor gave them pain, or an unskilful hand cut the\nskin, as well as the beard. So, he added, with British statesmen. They\nwere first sent over to Ireland, to get their hand in, and when that was\naccomplished they were considered to have sufficient dexterity to be\nplaced in office in England. He argued, by analogy, that the political,\nlike the actual \"shave-beggar,\" gave a good deal of pain, and inflicted\nmany cuts, which the Irish, like the pauper shavelings, were compelled\nto submit to, without complaint. From that day until the day he left\nIreland, Lord Stanley was always spoken of, by the Irish Liberals, with\nthe prefix of \"shave-beggar\" to his surname!\n\nTwo things, through life, O'Connell strenuously affirmed and inculcated.\nFirst, that the man who committed outrage supplied the enemy with a\nweapon to be used against the country. Second, that Ireland would never\nbe prosperous until the Union was repealed.\n\nHe did not join the United Irishmen in 1798,--not because he, like them,\nhad not an aspiration for the political independence of his country,\nbut because he disapproved of _their_ mode of striving for it, by force.\nFrom first to last he was opposed to violence. The \"Young Ireland\"\nschism, at Conciliation Hall, which so much annoyed him, during the last\neighteen months of his career, was caused by his resistance to the\ndoctrine of \"physical force.\"\n\nAs to the Union--it is only just to say, that O'Connell's first public\neffort was against that measure. His maiden speech, delivered on January\n13th, 1800, at a Catholic meeting, in Dublin, unequivocally condemned\nthe Union. The Resolutions adopted by the meeting, drawn up by\nO'Connell, declared the proposed incorporate Union to be, \"in fact, an\nextinction of the liberty of Ireland, which would be reduced to the\nabject condition of a province, surrendered to the mercy of the Minister\nand Legislature of another country, to be bound by their absolute will,\nand taxed at their pleasure by laws, in the making of which Ireland\nwould have no efficient participation whatever!\" During the struggle for\nEmancipation, as well as from that era until his death, O'Connell always\ndeclared that he would not be satisfied with less than \"the Repeal.\" He\nnever cushioned, never concealed that such was his object. I mention\nthis, because it has been said that, \"having got Emancipation, he ought\nnot to have gone for Repeal.\" As a matter of _policy_, perhaps, Ireland\nwould now be better off if the Repeal agitation had not taken place;\nbut it is indisputable that from 1800 to 1846, O'Connell declared that\nhe would not be satisfied with less than \"the Repeal.\"\n\nHere it may be well to notice the _questio vexata_ of the famous\n\"O'Connell Rent.\" The amount has not been exactly ascertained, but it is\nbelieved to have varied from 10,000_l._ to 20,000._l_ a year. It\ncommenced after Emancipation was granted, and was continued until 1846,\nwhen, from the pressing wants of the Irish, it was announced that Mr.\nO'Connell wished it to be discontinued until they could better afford to\npay it. Here it may be best to give Mr. O'Connell's own apology, in a\nletter to Lord Shrewsbury, in 1842. He said, \"I will not consent that my\nclaim to 'the Rent' should be misunderstood. That claim may be rejected,\nbut it is understood in Ireland. My claim is this:--For more than twenty\nyears before Emancipation, the burthen of the cause was thrown upon me.\nI had to arrange the meetings--to prepare the resolutions--to furnish\nreplies to the correspondence--to examine the case of each person\ncomplaining of practical grievances--to rouse the torpid--to animate the\nlukewarm--to control the violent and inflammatory--to avoid the shoals\nand breakers of the law--to guard against multiplied treachery--and at\nall times to oppose, at every peril, the powerful and multitudinous\nenemies of the cause. To descend to particulars: At a period when my\nminutes counted by the guinea--when my emoluments were limited only\nby the extent of my physical and waking powers--when my meals were\nshortened to the narrowest space, and my sleep restricted to the\nearliest hours before dawn; at that period, and for more than twenty\nyears, there was no day that I did not devote from one to two hours\n(often more) to the working out of the Catholic cause; and _that_\nwithout receiving, or allowing the offer of any remuneration, even for\nthe personal expenditure incurred in the agitation of the cause itself.\nFor years I bore the entire expenses of a Catholic agitation, without\nreceiving the contributions of others to a greater amount than\nseventy-four pounds in the whole. Who shall repay me for the years of my\nbuoyant youth and cheerful manhood? Who shall repay me for the lost\nopportunities of acquiring professional celebrity; or for the wealth\nwhich such distinction would ensure?\"\n\nThere is considerable force in this. But O'Connell's character, out of\nIreland, would have stood higher, had he not received \"the Rent.\" It was\noften alleged, by his adherents, as a set-off, that Grattan had also\nbeen remunerated by his countrymen. But the cases were not parallel. In\n1782, Grattan, almost single-handed, had achieved the Independence of\nIreland, by obtaining the recognition of the principle that \"the Crown\nof England is an Imperial Crown, but that Ireland is a distinct Kingdom,\nwith a Parliament of her own, the sole Legislature thereof.\" He had\naccomplished a bloodless Revolution. He had thrown himself into\npolitical life, abandoning the profession on which rested nearly his\nwhole worldly dependence. A grant of \u00a3100,000 was proposed to him in the\nIrish Parliament, \"to purchase an estate, and build a suitable mansion,\nas the reward of gratitude by the Irish nation, for his eminent services\nto his country.\" It was intended as a mark of national gratitude to a\nnation's Liberator. So unanimous was the feeling that, on the part of\nthe Viceroy, a member of the Government offered \"as part of the intended\ngrant to Mr. Grattan, the Viceregal Palace in the Ph[oe]nix Park\n[Dublin], to be settled on Mr. Grattan and his heirs for ever, as a\nsuitable residence for so meritorious a person.\" Grattan's own impulse\nwas to refuse the grant. His services had been rendered without\nexpectation or desire of reward. But his private fortune was so\ninadequate to his public position that he must retire from politics or\nbecome a placeman under the Crown. The grant would give him an\nindependent position. He consented to accept half of the proffered\namount (\u00a350,000), and determined under no circumstances to take office.\nHe was, ever after, the retained servant of the nation. Yet, high as he\nstood, he did not escape contumely. Even Henry Flood, his rival,\npublicly said, in a Parliamentary controversy, \"I am not a mendicant\npatriot, who was bought by my country for a sum of money, and then sold\nmy country to the Minister for prompt payment.\"\n\nO'Connell's \"Rent\" was estimated as yielding from \u00a310,000 to \u00a320,000 a\nyear--thrice the amount, probably, that he could have realized at the\nbar, had he not devoted his time to politics. It was duly paid for\nnearly twenty years. Thus O'Connell received, in this annuity from his\nparty, about five times as much as the Irish Parliament had given to\nGrattan. Besides, since 1825, when Derrynane became his by the death of\nhis uncle, O'Connell's landed property was not less than \u00a34,000 a year.\nThe most potent objection to \"the Rent\" was that, collected year after\nyear, it rendered its recipient liable to the imputation of keeping up\nAgitation in order to collect the Rent.\n\nWhen O'Connell's uncle died, in 1825, at a very advanced age, (he was\nseveral years past ninety,) the news reached O'Connell when he was on\ncircuit, at Limerick. He hastened to Kerry, to attend the funeral, and\ndid not again appear in court until the trials were proceeding in Cork.\nI had taken my seat, as a reporter, on the very day he made his\nappearance, attired in full mourning. Setting immediately under him, I\nheard one of the counsel congratulate him on his accession to his\nuncle's large estate. \"I had to wait for it a long time,\" said\nO'Connell. \"If this had happened twenty years ago, what would I now have\nbeen? A hard-living, sporting, country gentleman, content with my lot.\nAs it is, I have had to struggle. I have succeeded; and look how bright\nare now the prospects of Ireland! I thank God that I had to struggle,\nsince it has placed them as they are now.\"\n\nTo sum up the character of O'Connell's _political_, essentially\ndifferent from his _forensic_, eloquence, I need not say more than that\nhe put strong words into fitting places. No man had a greater or more\nfelicitous command of language; no man cared less how his words were\nmarshalled. Many of his speeches are models of the truest eloquence, and\nperhaps he was the first Irishman, of modern days, who made a decided\nhit in the Commons, as a sound and eloquent speaker, entering that House\nat the mature age of fifty. Powers such as his commanded\nattention;--but, in general, he spoke better in Ireland, among his own\npeople, than in England. Yet who can forget his magnificent oration in\nfavour of the Reform Bill? Who can forget the later, and briefer, but\nnot less stirring speech, which he delivered, as a member of the\nAnti-Corn-law League, on his first visit to London, after the reversal\nof the Monster-Meetings' sentence of imprisonment.\n\nIn sarcasm O'Connell was unequalled. I shall give an instance of quiet\nsarcasm which I think inimitable. In his domestic relations O'Connell\nwas peculiarly happy. His marriage with his cousin Mary, was one of pure\naffection on both sides, and their love continued to the last, as warm\nas it had commenced in their youthful days.[21] John O'Connell, in 1846,\nwriting of his mother, who was not long dead, said, with as much beauty\nas truth, \"We can say no more than that doubting, she confirmed\nhim--desponding, she cheered him on--drooping, she sustained him--her\npure spirit may have often trembled, indeed, as she beheld him exposed\nto a thousand assaults, and affronting a thousand dangers; but she\nquailed not, she called him not back. She rejoiced not more in his\nvictories over them, than she would have heartily and devotedly shared\nwith and soothed him in the sufferings, in the ruin, that might have\ncome upon him had he failed and been overthrown.\" On the other hand, the\nMarquis of Anglesey, in 1831, as Viceroy of Ireland, had O'Connell\nprosecuted for an imputed breach of the law. The Marquis had seduced the\nfirst wife of the late Lord Cowley, and married her after he was\ndivorced from his wife, and Lady Cowley (then Mrs. Henry Wellesley) from\nher husband. O'Connell, commenting, at a public meeting in Dublin, on\nLord Anglesey's conduct to him said, \"This prosecution has cost my wife\nwhat none of _my_ transactions ever cost her--a tear for me. Does Lord\nAnglesey know the value of a _virtuous_ woman's tear?\"\n\n     [21] In 1802, O'Connell married his cousin, the daughter of Dr.\n     O'Connell, of Tralee. By this lady he had four sons and three\n     daughters. Two of the sons are now [1855] in Parliament. Maurice,\n     the eldest, was a barrister, but never distinguished himself either\n     as a lawyer or a politician. Morgan was for some time in the\n     Austrian service, and distinguished himself as a gallant officer.\n     His \"affair of honour\" with Lord Alvanley showed cool determination\n     and honourable feeling. Mr. John O'Connell, who tried to take his\n     father's place in Conciliation Hall, as Repeal Leader, has\n     displayed little of the talent and tact which distinguished the\n     Liberator. The youngest son, Daniel, is a very commonplace person.\n     It is usually said, that the children of a great man rarely arrive\n     at eminence, and the limited talents of O'Connell's sons keep up\n     the proverb in full force, as far as he and they are concerned:\n\n     'Few men achieve the praise of their great sires, But most their\n     sires disgrace.'\n\nO'Connell's attempts at authorship were not very successful. His letters\nto the \"Hereditary bondsmen\" were diffuse and declamatory. They were\nfull of repetitions, putting the points of a case in a variety of\nphases, but they were by no means equal to the force, power, and nervous\neloquence of his speeches. He was eminently an extemporaneous speaker,\nand, like Fox, appeared to more advantage as an orator than a writer.\nYet many of his letters contain true eloquence. He hit hard, and could\nbe terse when he pleased. Who can forget the alliterative satire of the\nthree words \"base, bloody, and brutal,\" as applied to the Whigs?\n\nHis only substantive and independent work was Vol. I. of \"A Memoir on\nIreland, Native and Saxon,\" published early in 1843. This book was\ndedicated to the Queen, in order, as the Preface stated, \"that the\nSovereign of these realms should understand the real nature of Irish\nhistory; should be aware of how much the Irish have suffered from\nEnglish misrule; should comprehend the secret springs of Irish\ndiscontent; should be acquainted with the eminent virtues which the\nIrish have exhibited in every phasis of their singular fate; and, above\nall, should be intimately acquainted with the confiscations, the\nplunder, the robbery, the domestic treachery, the violation of all\npublic faith, and of the servility of treaties, the ordinary wholesale\nslaughters, the planned murders, the concerted massacres, which have\nbeen inflicted upon the Irish people by the English Government.\" This\none sentence will sufficiently indicate the character of the work.\nO'Connell further stated, in his preface, that \"there cannot happen a\nmore heavy misfortune to Ireland than the prosperity and power of Great\nBritain.\" He endeavoured to justify this assertion, by adding that\n\"justice to Ireland\" had never been granted except when Great Britain\nwas in difficulties. The work brought the \"proofs and illustrations\" of\nBritish misrule in Ireland down to the Restoration. A second volume was\nto have carried them down to the present period, but it never was\npublished. Nor has Literature nor History sustained any\nloss,--unless it was much superior to the first volume. The seven\nopening chapters, rapidly sketching the history of English dominion in\nIreland from 1172 to 1840, are not devoid of a certain degree of\neloquence, but is anti-English to a degree. The historical \"proofs and\nillustrations,\" are simply statements from partisan writers, with\nconnecting comments by O'Connell.\n\nIt was as a lawyer that O'Connell achieved his first distinctions. His\nsuccess at the bar was assurance to his countrymen of his general\nability. But, of late years, Mr. O'Connell was so exclusively before the\npublic as a legislator, that he was forgotten as a barrister. Yet, in\nthe opinion of many, (among whom are those who have known him long and\nwell,) it was in the latter character that the peculiar idiosyncrasy of\nthe man was fully developed--that his very rare and peculiar talents\nwere fully displayed.\n\nMany men have obtained eminence at the Irish bar, but it has been for\nsome one peculiar merit. Thus, Harry Deane Grady was remarkable for the\nknowing manner in which he conducted a cross-examination. By that he\nalternately wheedled and frightened a witness into admissions which were\nas opposite to his evidence in chief as light is from darkness. Thus,\nChief Justice Bushe, while at the bar, was distinguished for that\nclassic eloquence by which admiring juries were seduced, and admiring\njudges were delighted. Pity that his elevation to the bench should have\nextinguished this noble oratory. Thus, Curran was renowned for \"that\nsarcastic levity of tongue\" which solicited a contest with those\nelevated in rank above himself. Thus, Shiel was remarkable for\nintroducing a style of speaking--full of antithetical\nbrilliancies--which reminds us of the flashing speeches of the most\ndistinguished advocates of France. Thus, Serjeant (now Judge) Perrin was\nalmost unrivalled in threading through the intricacies of an excise\ncase. Thus, George Bennett won fame by his clear and plausible method of\nstating a case. Thus, Devonshire Jackson (now a Judge) was excellent in\ntaking exceptions to the form of an indictment. Thus, the late Recorder\nWaggett (of Cork) put that seeming of right into a case, by which\ntrusting jurymen are so often deceived. But there was only one man at\nthe Irish bar who, more or less, united the excellencies of all whom I\nhave named. He was as good at cross-examination as Harry Grady--he could\nrise with the occasion, and be eloquent as Bushe--he could sport the\nbiting sarcasm of Curran--he even ventured on the antitheses of Shiel\n(though he seldom meddled with such sharp-edged weapons)--he was a match\nfor Perrin in the excise courts--he could state a case plainly and\nplausibly as Bennett--he was as good a lawyer as Jackson, and could\nappeal to \"the reports\" with as much success--and, like Waggett (against\nwhom, in the Munster Courts, he was often pitted), he could show his\ncase to be one of the utmost _seeming_ right, his client, like the late\nQueen, of virtuous memory, to be clear as \"unsunned snow.\" The man who\ncombined all these apparently dissimilar qualifications--the man whom\nuniversal consent named as the best general lawyer in Ireland--the man\nto whom Orange clients invariably ran with their briefs (a confidence\nequally honourable to clients and lawyer), was O'Connell.\n\nBy far the best account of O'Connell, in his different phases as a\nlawyer, is that in the \"Sketches of the Irish Bar.\" Its essence is\ncontained in the little sentence--\"Every requisite for a barrister of\nall work is combined in him; some in perfection, all in sufficiency.\"\n\nAn anonymous writer in an English paper has given this reminiscence of\nO'Connell: \"I recollect at the spring assizes of I think it was '27,\nwalking into the county court-house of Limerick. O'Connell was retained\nin a record then being heard, and with him on the same side was his son\nMaurice, who was bred to his father's profession, though he has since\nceased to follow it. It was a cold day, and both wore huge cloth cloaks:\nthe Agitator's right arm was thrown very affectionately round his son's\nneck, who, seemingly used to these public exhibitions of paternal\nfondness, took it very composedly. There was a rough-and-ready looking\npeasant at the moment under examination: in lieu of the ordinary box\nused in most English courts, he was seated in a chair in the centre of\nthe table between the fires of the counsel on either side; his shaggy\nhair and unshorn beard, his shirt collar open, the knees of his small\nclothes in the same free and easy state, and one stocking fallen so as\nto leave a portion of his embrowned and hirsute leg bare; he had the\nchair partially turned round, so as to present a three-quarter front to\nO'Connell, who was _raking_ him with a cross-examination, which elicited\nlaughter from every person in the court, including the witness himself,\nwho, with his native freedom, impudence, and humour, was almost a match\nfor the Agitator. The Agitator's face was beaming with fun, and he\nseemed very well disposed to show off, as if conscious that his auditors\nexpected something from him. The country fellow, too, appeared to think\nthere were laurels to be earned in the encounter, for he played away\nwith all his might, and though he failed repeatedly in his attempts to\nbe witty, he was always sure to be impudent. He waxed gradually more\nfamiliar, until at length he called the learned counsel nothing but\n'Dan;' it was, 'Yes, Dan,' or 'No, Dan,' or 'Arrah, you're not going to\ncome over me so easily, Dan.' Dan, to do him justice, enjoyed the joke,\nand humoured the witness in such a manner as at length to throw the\nfellow off his guard, and lead him into a maze of contradictions\nnotwithstanding his shrewdness. O'Connell showed the utmost\nadroitness, and a thorough knowledge of the Irish peasant character,\nwhich is perhaps in no place so well acquired as in a provincial court.\nI cannot this moment recollect any single repartee which is worth\nrepeating, but it was the manner, the brogue, the laughing eye, the\ngeneral and humourous tone of the whole examination, and perhaps the\nvery spectacle of O'Connell himself trying legally to entrap and upset\nthe veracity of one of his own \"fine peasantry,\" which gave that\npeculiar interest and pleasantry to the scene. Nothing could surpass the\nseeming enjoyment which the country people took in the examination; and\nas the Agitator would throw off now and again one of his broad flashes\nof humour in the \"keen encounter of their wits,\" and the witness would\nfire back some jocular effort at equivocation, you'd hear buzzed around,\n'Bravo, Dan,' 'Dan's the boy,' or some such phrase of approbation, which\nit was out of the question to suppress. Blackburn,[22] then, I think, the\nAttorney-General, was on the bench, having taken the circuit for some\njudge who was unwell; and though a dark and stern man, he was compelled\nto give way to the general fit of pleasantry in which the whole court\nindulged.\"\n\n     [22] Afterwards Chief-Justice of the Queen's Bench, whence, in\n     1852, he was raised to the Chancellorship of Ireland, which he\n     retained during the nine months of the Derby Administration.\n\nO'Connell's business, on circuit as well as in the Dublin, was very\ngreat. On circuit, it was so overpowering that, except on very important\ncases, he could not read his briefs, when employed to defend prisoners.\nThe attorney for the defence used to condense the leading facts, and set\nthem down on a single sheet of foolscap; and O'Connell would peruse and\nmaster this abstract during the speech of the counsel for the\nprosecution, relying on his own skill in cross-examination of witnesses,\nand his own power with the jury. Like Belial, he \"could make the worse\nappear the better reason,\" as many an acquitted culprit had cause to\nknow and thank him for.\n\nLet me close this sketch with a glance of O'Connell, as I have often\nseen him, in an Irish Court of Law. _There_ he was to be met \"in all his\nglory.\" As I write, the shadows of long years roll away, and every thing\nappears as vivid and life-like as it was at that time.\n\nTo have seen O'Connell in the Law Courts of Dublin, was to have seen him\nnot exactly as himself. Before the judges, and in the capital of the\nkingdom, a certain _etiquette_ is preserved, very decorous and proper,\nno doubt, but very chilling also. It is on circuit that you best can see\nthe Irish bar, as they really are, and it is on circuit, also, that an\nobserver may advantageously study the character of the Irish people.\nLeave the chilling atmosphere of the Four Courts, give the reins to\nimagination, and sit, with me, in the Crown Courts of Cork, as I have\nsat in bygone years. To give something like reality to my sketch, I\nshall write as if I still were in the year 1827, when O'Connell and the\nrest whom I have to name were alive and flourishing.\n\nWhat a difference between this court and that of a circuit court in\nEngland! Look around you:--there stands not a single female in the Irish\ncourt. To attend there, with the chance of having it ever hinted that\ndelicacy requires their absence, would ill suit the modest precision of\nthe fair dames of Ireland. Nor do I think that the course of justice\nsuffers from the absence of the fair sex. What business have ladies in a\ncourt of justice? Do they want information as to the trials?--they can\nsee them reported in \"those best possible instructors,\" the newspapers.\nDo they want to see the manner in which justice is administered?--if\nthey _will_ be so curious, and if that curiosity must be gratified, let\nthem come once and no more. As it is, the English courts have female\nstagers, who attend day after day, and listen to arguments which they\ncannot comprehend. I suspect that their chief design is to show off;\nthey come to see, but they also come \"to be seen.\" The only preventive\nwould be to enforce their attendance; when, if they be true women, the\nspirit of opposition will make them remain at home!\n\nWhatever be the cause, there is a non-attendance of females at the Irish\ncourts of law. The galleries are filled with rough-coated and\nrough-faced folks; some, who have not visited the city since the last\nassizes--some, who have relatives to be tried--some, out on bail, and\nhonourably come to take their own trial--all, even to the mere\nlooker-on, deeply interested in the proceedings; for the Irish, from the\nhighest to the lowest degree, are fond of the _forms_ of justice. Of the\n_reality_ they have hitherto got but little; but they like to see that\nlittle administered with the due formalities of the law.\n\nThe judge enters the court, and takes his seat on the bench. You ask,\nwith astonishment, \"When will the barristers come?\" Why, _there_, do you\nnot see his lordship rise, and make an obeisance to the gentlemen who\nsit in the box above us? These are the barristers. You may seem as\nunbelieving as you choose, but such is the case. The fact is, and I\nshould have mentioned it before, when Irish barristers go on the\ncircuit[23] they do not burthen themselves with wigs or gowns--forensic\nparaphernalia, to which their legal brethren on the English side of the\nChannel attach such infinite importance, that you might fancy they\nthought all wit and wisdom[24] to be attached to _them_. You can scarcely\nimagine a more unformal or unceremonious court than that to which I have\nintroduced you. The attorneys sit round the table, mingled with the\n\"gentlemen of the press,\" the barristers are in the boxes immediately\nover the attornies, and the audience sit or stand where and how they\ncan.\n\n     [23] I write of 1827. I know not what may be the practice now.\n\n     [24] \"The wisdom's in the wig.\"--_Old Song._\n\nThere is a pause--for a great murder trial is to come on--O'Connell has\njust been engaged for the defence--is occupied in the other court, and\nthe judge must wait until he can make his appearance. During this pause\nyou see a familiarity between the bench and the bar which seems strange\nto your English eyes. Yet, after all, what is it? Will the laws be a\nwhit less honestly administered or advocated because the judge and one\nof the lawyers (Chief Baron O'Grady and Recorder Waggett) are laughing\ntogether? Depend on it, that, if the opportunity comes, the judge will\nfling out one of his bitter sarcasms against the barrister, and I know\nlittle of the barrister if he does not retort--if he can!\n\nA bustle in the court. Does O'Connell come? No; but a message from him,\nwith the intimation that the trial may go on, and he will \"drop in\" in\nhalf an hour. The clerk of the peace reads the indictment--the murderer\npleads \"Not Guilty,\" stands in the dock with compressed lips, and\nbursting veins, and withering frown, and scowling eyes--a fit subject\nfor the savage pencil of Spagnaletto.\n\nWhile the indictment is reading, a very dandified \"middle-aged young\ngentleman,\" attired in a blue coat, with enormous brass buttons, a\ncrimson silk neckcloth, and a most glaring pair of buckskins, jumps on\nthe table, makes way across it with a \"hop, step and jump,\" and locates\nhimself in a box directly under the judge. You inquire, who is that\nneophyte?--the answer is, Carew Standish O'Grady, the registrar[25] of\nthe circuit, barrister-at-law, and nephew to the judge. You turn up your\neyes in wonder--the prothonotary of an English court would scarcely\nsport such a fox-hunter's garb.\n\n     [25] It may be noticed that, in New York, the Registrar is called\n     the _Register_--the name of the _book_ being applied to the man who\n     has the _office_ of keeping it.\n\nThe trial commences. Serjeant Goold states the case--advantageously for\nthe prisoner, for the learned Serjeant has so defective an utterance\nthat he is scarcely audible even to the reporters below him. But his\nserjeantcy gives him that precedence at the bar, on account of which the\nchief conduct of Crown prosecutions devolves to him. Meanwhile the Chief\nBaron turns to the High Sheriff, and cracks jokes; his hopeful nephew,\nless ambitious, produces a bag and some salt, and merely--cracks nuts.\n\nThe opening is over--the chief witness (probably an approver or King's\nevidence) is brought on the table--he is sworn, and attempts to baffle\njustice by kissing his thumb instead of the book. There is a dead\nsilence in the court; for it is felt that the moment is awful with the\nfate of a fellow-creature.\n\nHe has just been successful _for_ an Orangeman _against_ a\nCatholic; but what does that matter? The people do justice to his merit;\nso _he_ succeeds, what care they against whom?\n\nAnother pause--a buzz in the court--\"quite a sensation,\" as a dandy\nmight exquisitely exclaim--the prisoner's eyes brightens up with the\ngleam of hope--he sees O'Connell, at last, seated among the barristers.\nWhat! is that O'Connell? that stalwart, smiling, honest-looking man? The\nsame. Never did a public man assume less pretension to personal\nappearance. Yet, if you look closely, you may observe that he does\nanything but neglect the graces. His clothes are remarkably well made,\nthe tie of his cravat is elaborate, his handsome eye-glass is so\ndisposed that it can be seen as well as used, and his \"Brutus\" (for\n'twould be heinous to utter the word \"wig\") gives an air of juvenility\nwhich his hilarious manners fully confirm.\n\nUntil this moment of his entering the court, he knows nothing of the\ncase--he has not yet received a brief. Mr. Daltera (you will remember\nthat the scene is in Cork--the time 1827), the lame attorney, hands him\na bulky brief, (which he puts, unread, into the bag,) and an abstract of\nthe case, written on one sheet of paper. His blue eyes calmly glance\nover this case--he takes in, at that glance, all its bearings, and he\nquietly listens to the evidence of the accomplice. The\ncross-examination commences. Every eye is watchful--every ear on the\n_qui vive_--every man in court stretches forward to see the battle\nbetween \"the Counsellor\" and \"the witness.\" You may see the prisoner\nwith an eager glance of expectation--the witness with an evident sense\nof the coming crisis. The battle commences with anything but\nseriousness; O'Connell surprises the witness by his good humour, and\ninstantly sets him at ease. He coaxes out of him a full confession of\nhis own unworthiness,--he tempts him, by a series of facetious\nquestions, into an admission of his \"whole course of life,\"--in a word,\nhe draws from his lips an autobiography, in which the direst crimes are\nmingled with an occasional relief of feeling or of fun. The witness\nseems to exult in the \"bad eminence\" on which his admissions exalt him.\nHe joins in the laugh at the quaintness of his language,--he scarcely\nshrinks from the universal shudders at the enormity of his crimes. By\ndegrees he is led to the subject of the evidence he has just given, as\nan accomplice,--the coil is wound round him imperceptibly; fact after\nfact is weakened, until, finally, such doubt is thrown upon _all_ that\nhe has said,--from the evident exaggeration of _part_,--that a less\ningenious advocate than O'Connell might rescue the prisoner from\nconviction on _such_ evidence. The main witness having \"broken down,\"\n(as much from the natural doubt and disgust excited in the minds of an\nIrish jury, by the circumstance of a _particeps criminis_ being evidence\nagainst one who may have been more sinned against than sinning,--who may\nhave been seduced into the paths of error by the very man who now bears\ntestimony against him,) the result of the trial is not very difficult to\nbe foreseen. If there is any doubt, the matter is soon made clear by a\nfew _alibi_ witnesses--practiced rogues with the most innocent aspects,\nwho swear anything or everything to \"get a friend out of trouble.\" The\nchances are ten to one that O'Connell brings off the prisoner. If he is\nnot acquitted, he may, at least, be only found guilty on the minor plea\nof \"manslaughter.\"\n\nBut the chances are that he will be acquitted, for few juries ever\nresisted the influence of O'Connell's persuasive eloquence.\n\nSuch is the scene exhibited by one glance backward:--such,\nfive-and-twenty years ago, was constantly occurring in the Irish courts\nof law when O'Connell practiced at the bar.\n\nEven at the risk of being accounted tedious, I cannot conclude this\nsketch without mentioning another anecdote, which, even better than a\nlengthened disquisition, may show that I do not overrate the\nextraordinary ingenuity and quickness for which I give O'Connell such\nample credit. One of the most remarkable personages in Cork, for a\nseries of years, was a sharp-witted little fellow named John Boyle,[26]\nwho published a periodical called _The Freeholder_. As Boyle did not see\nthat any peculiar dignity hedged the corrupt Corporation of Cork, his\n_Freeholder_ was remarkable for severe and satirical remarks upon its\nmembers, collectively and personally. Owing to the very great\nprecautions as to the mode of publication, it was next to impossible for\nthe Corporation to proceed against him for libel;--if they could have\ndone so, his punishment was certain, for in those days there were none\nbut \"Corporation juries,\" and the fact that Boyle was hostile to the\nmunicipal _clique_, was quite enough for these worthy administrators of\njustice. It happened, on the occasion of a crowded benefit at the\ntheatre, that Boyle and one of the Sheriffs were coming out of the pit\nat the same moment. A sudden crush drove the scribe against the Sheriff,\nand the concussion was so great that the latter had two of his ribs\nbroken. There could be no doubt that the whole was accidental; but it\nwas too lucky not to be taken advantage of. Mr. Boyle was prosecuted for\nassault. O'Connell was retained for the defence. The trial came on\nbefore a Corporation jury. The evidence was extremely slight; but it was\nan understood thing that on _any_ evidence, or _no_ evidence, the jury\nwould convict Boyle. Mr. O'Connell (who was personally inimical to the\nCorporation) scarcely cross-examined a witness and called none in\ndefence.\n\n     [26] Boyle died at Limerick, in 1833, of cholera.\n\nHe proceeded to reply. After some hyperbolical compliments on the\n\"well-known impartiality, independence, and justice of a Cork jury,\" he\nproceeded to address them thus:--\"I had no notion that the case is what\nit is; therefore I call no witnesses. As I have received a brief, and\nits accompaniment--a fee--I must address you. I am not in the vein for\nmaking a speech, so, gentlemen, I shall tell you a story. Some years ago\nI went, specially, to Clonmel assizes, and accidentally witnessed a\ntrial which I never shall forget. A wretched man, a native of the county\nof Tipperary, was charged with the murder of his neighbour. It seemed\nthat an ancient feud existed between them. They had met at a fair and\nexchanged blows: again, that evening, they met at a low pot-house, and\nthe bodily interference of friends alone prevented a fight between them.\nThe prisoner was heard to vow vengeance against his rival. The wretched\nvictim left the house, followed soon after by the prisoner, and was\nfound next day on the roadside--murdered, and his face so barbarously\nbeaten in by a stone, that he could only be identified by his dress. The\nfacts were strong against the prisoner--in fact it was the strongest\ncase of circumstantial evidence I ever met with. As a matter of\nform--for of his guilt there could be no doubt--the prisoner was called\non for his defence. He called, to the surprise of every one,--_the\nmurdered man_. And the murdered man came forward. It seemed that\nanother man had been murdered,--that the identification by dress was\nvague, for all the peasantry of Tipperary wear the same description of\nclothes,--that the presumed victim had got a hint that he would be\narrested under the Whiteboy Act,--had fled,--and only returned, with a\nnoble and Irish feeling of justice, when he found that his ancient foe\nwas in jeopardy on his account. The case was clear: the prisoner was\ninnocent. The judge told the jury that it was unnecessary to charge\nthem. But they requested permission to retire. They returned in about\ntwo hours, when the foreman, with a long face, handed in the verdict\n'Guilty.' Every one was astonished. 'Good God!' said the judge, 'of what\nis he guilty? Not of murder, surely?'--'No, my lord,' said the foreman;\n'but, _if he did not murder that man, sure he stole my gray mare three\nyears ago_!'\"[27]\n\n     [27] Mr. Love has \"conveyed\" this incident into his romance of\n     \"Rory O'More.\"\n\nThe Cork jurors laughed heartily at this anecdote, but, ere their mirth\nhad time to cool, O'Connell continued, with marked emphasis, \"So,\ngentlemen of the jury, _though Mr. Boyle did not wilfully assault the\nSheriff, he has libelled the Corporation,--find him guilty, by all\nmeans_!\" The application was so severe, that the jury, shamed into\njustice, instantly acquitted Mr. Boyle.\n\nIt is time to hurry this sketch to a conclusion.\n\nSome words about the man. In person, Mr. O'Connell was well made,\nmuscular, and tall. He looked the man to be the leader of a people. He\nwas fond of field sports, and while at Derrynane Abbey, for four months\nin the year, lived like a country gentleman, surrounded by his numerous\nrelatives, and exercising the wonted hospitality of Ireland. His\nfeatures were strongly marked--the mouth being much more expressive than\nthe eyes. His voice was deep, sonorous, and somewhat touched with the\ntrue Kerry _patois_.\n\nHe was seen to much advantage in the bosom of his family, to whom he was\ngreatly attached, a feeling which was reciprocated with veneration as\nwell as love. His conversation was delightful, embracing a vast range of\nsubjects. He was a great reader--and, even in the most busy and exciting\nperiods of his political life, found (or made) time to peruse the\nperiodicals and novels of the day.\n\nHe was well acquainted with modern poetry, and was fond of repeating\nlong passages from Byron, Moore, Scott, Crabbe, Tennyson, and others. He\nwas a good classical scholar, though I have heard him say that he\ndoubted whether, after the age of twenty-one, he had ever opened a Latin\nor Greek book from choice. French he spoke and wrote extremely well.\nMany of his classical hits, in Court, were good--but few are remembered.\nI shall give one as a sample. In a political trial he charged Saurin,\nthe Attorney-General, with some official unfairness, and Burke, his\ncolleague, chivalrously assumed the responsibility. \"If there is blame\nin it,\" said Burke, \"I alone must bear it.\n\n    'Me, me, adsum qui feci, in me convertite ferrum.'\"\n\n\"Finish the sentence, Mr. Solicitor,\" said O'Connell; \"add\n\n    'Mea _fraus_ omnis.'\"\n\nWhen at home, he lived in the good old Irish style. He kept a\nwell-spread table, and was idolized by the peasantry. His residence,\nDerrynane Abbey, is built on a bold situation, next the Atlantic, and\ncommands a view of the Skelligs. The \"Abbey,\" as it is called, is a\ncomparatively modern edifice, which has received various additions from\nsuccessive residents. It is irregularly built; so much so, indeed, as to\nbe any thing but a model of architecture. It is convenient, and, in the\nwilds of Kerry, that should suffice; for who expects a Grecian dome in\nsuch a place? The real Derrynane Abbey (or rather its ruins) stands on a\nlittle island in the Atlantic.\n\nThere is little statute-law about Derrynane, and nearly all the disputes\nin the neighbourhood were allowed to rest until O'Connell could decide\non them. He used to sit, like a patriarch, upon a huge rock, in view and\nhearing of the tumultuous throbbing of the Atlantic, and there give\njudgment, against which no one presumed to appeal. Already that rugged\nseat is called \"O'Connell's Chair.\"\n\nOn the 15th day of May, 1847, having nearly completed his seventy-second\nyear, Daniel O'Connell departed this life. He had quitted the land of\nhis birth to seek for renewal of health beneath more clement skies,--so,\nbefore him, had Sir Walter Scott. But the great novelist was happier\nthan the illustrious orator; and died, at least, in his own country, and\nin his own house. From the first, it seems that O'Connell entertained no\nhope of completing his pilgrimage. He feared, and I think he felt, that\nhe was not destined to reach Rome, the Eternal City.\n\nThe account of his last days, as given, at the time, by _Galignani's\nMessenger_ (the English journal published in Paris), is full of deep\ninterest. It is from the pen of Dr. Duff, the English physician who\nattended him at Genoa. This gentleman first saw him on the 10th\nMay--just five days before he died. On the first visit, he found that\nthe patient had chronic bronchitis, of some years' standing. The next\nday it was found that congestion of the brain had commenced. On the\n12th, the illness increased; for the patient, like Byron, had almost an\ninsuperable objection to take medicine. Then, for the first time, the\nmind began to waver. On the 13th he became worse, slept heavily during\nthe night, breathed with difficulty, fancied himself among his friends\nin London, and spoke as if among them. On the 14th the words fell,\nhalf-formed, from his lips. Thus he lingered until the next night,\nunable to move or speak, but conscious of the presence of those around\nhim. At half-past nine on that night he died. Had he taken nourishment\nand medicine, he might have lived a few days longer. But not all of him\nis dead--his memory remains, and will long be kept green in the hearts\nof his countrymen.\n\nHad O'Connell lived until the 6th of August, he would have completed his\nseventy-second year. He enjoyed excellent health through the greater\npart of his life, and had every chance of living to extended old age.\nHis family are proverbially long-lived; his uncle Maurice, from whom he\ninherited Derrynane Abbey, was 97 when he died; and O'Connell repeatedly\nsaid that he intended to live quite as long, _if he could_, nor was it\nunlikely that he also might approach the patriarchal age of one hundred\nyears.\n\nHis last words to his physician conveyed a request that, as he was sure\nhe would present the appearance of death before he actually breathed his\nlast, they would not suffer the grave to be closed too promptly over his\nremains. His strong hope was to die in Rome, his last moments soothed\nand sanctified by the blessing of Pope Pius IX. He repeatedly expressed\na desire that his heart should rest (as it does) in one of the Churches\nof the Eternal City. This wish was suggested, it has been said, by the\nrecollection that Robert Bruce had desired his heart to be conveyed to\nthe Holy Land and deposited in the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. He died\nwithout pain, gently as an infant sinks into repose, calmed by the\nconsolations of religion; and, it seemed to his attendants, not only\ncontent to quit mortality, but even anxious to be released. His body was\nembalmed, and is deposited in the Cemetery of Glasnevin near Dublin.\n\nAs to the ability, the mental resources, the vast power of O'Connell,\nthere can be no dispute. Unquestionably he was the greatest Irishman of\nhis time. In estimating the conduct and character of public men, two\nthings, it appears to me, should be considered: the value of their\nlabours and their motive. O'Connell, on starting into life, found that\nhis religion debarred him from many privileges and advantages enjoyed by\npersons of another creed, and he applied himself, earnestly, to remove\nthese disabilities. He succeeded, and in the long and persevering\nstruggle which he headed, acquired vast influence, and a popularity\nwhich helped, with the aid of his own legal knowledge and skill, to\nplace him in the foremost rank of his profession. At the age of\nfifty-four--in spite of the saying that an oak of the forest rarely\nbears transplanting--he entered the British Parliament, where he soon\ntook a prominent position. Thenceforth his constant aim was to coax or\nfrighten the Government into the concessions which were included in the\ndemand for \"Justice for Ireland.\" The threat of Repeal was used for\nthis purpose.\n\nThe question whether he really desired to carry Repeal is difficult to\nbe answered. That Ireland should have laws made for herself, by her own\nlegislature, may or may not have been a desire with O'Connell. But that,\nwhen agitating for the Repeal of the parchment union between Ireland and\nGreat Britain, he had the remotest intention or wish to effect the\n_separation_ of the two countries, no thoughtful observer can imagine.\nSeparation, in O'Connell's eyes, meant a Republic, and O'Connell was\nessentially a Monarchist. He had an antipathy, also, to the exercise of\nphysical force to procure the restitution of a people's rights. In all\nprobability, had he lived during the struggle of the American colonies,\nO'Connell would have sided with those who condemned the Americans as\n\"rebels to their King.\" Truth to say, he was rather an ultra-loyalist.\nThis appeared, in 1821, when, kneeling on the shore, at Dunleary, he\npresented a crown of laurel to George IV.,--in 1832, when he glorified\nWilliam IV. as the \"patriot King\"--in 1837, when he appealed (at the\nelections) in favor of Victoria as \"a Virgin-Queen,\" forgetful that this\ndistinctive epithet, belonging to all unmarried girls of eighteen, would\nbe forfeited, of course, _when she became a wife_!\n\nIt may be conceded, however, that though O'Connell would have shrunk\nfrom seeing Ireland actually separated from England, he was sincere in\nhis exertions to obtain Emancipation, and, subsequently, to wrest other\nrights and privileges from successive administrations. \"Ireland for the\nIrish\" was his favourite cry; but it meant little when uttered by a man\nwho feverishly feared all _real_ agitation, tending to assert and secure\nthe actual independence of the country. With him, \"Repeal,\" if it meant\nanything, meant continuance under the rule of the British Sovereign.\n\"Repeal\" was a capital party cry, but he dreaded it when it was taken up\nby men not less patriotic, though a little less \"loyal\" than himself,\nwho thought that boldness, courage, union, and talent could raise\nIreland from a provincial obscurity into a national independence.\n\nGreat good was undoubtedly performed by O'Connell. His course was often\neccentric, capricious, inexplicable. His abilities were great. He made\nmuch of opportunities. He wielded all but sovereign power over his\ncountrymen for years. He naturally became impatient of contradiction,\nand very impracticable. But, with all his faults, O'Connell was\nessentially a great man.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n\n\nNEW, POPULAR, AND STANDARD WORKS,\n\nPUBLISHED BY\n\nJ. S. 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William Ingraham Kip, D.D., Missionary\nBishop of California. With over 100 Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, 0 75\n\nTHEOLOGICAL ESSAYS. By Frederick Denison Maurice. 12mo, cloth, 1 00\n\nTHE DIVINE CHARACTER VINDICATED; being a Review of Dr. Beecher's\n\"Conflict of Ages.\" By Rev. Moses Ballou. 12mo, cloth, 1 00\n\nTHE NIGHT SIDE OF NATURE; or, Ghosts and Ghost Seers. By Catharine\nCrowe. 1 vol. 12mo, cloth, 1 00\n\nBRONCHITIS AND KINDRED DISEASES, in language adapted to the common\nreader. By W. W. Hall, M.D. 1 vol. 12mo, cloth, 1 00\n\nGRISCOM ON VENTILATION. The Uses and Abuses of Air. 12mo, cloth, third\nedition, 0 75\n\nCHAPMAN'S AMERICAN DRAWING-BOOK. Three Parts published. Each 0 50\n\nCHAPMAN'S DRAWING COPY-BOOKS. Per dozen 1 50\n\n\n=THE NOCTES AMBROSIAN\u00c6;=\n\nWITH PORTRAITS OF WILSON, LOCKHART, MAGINN, HOGG, AND FAC-SIMILES.\n\nEDITED, WITH MEMOIRS, NOTES, AND ILLUSTRATIONS,\nBY DR. SHELTON MACKENZIE,\nEDITOR OF SHEIL'S \"SKETCHES OF THE IRISH BAR.\"\n\n5 _Vols._, 12_mo._, _cloth_. _Price_ $5.00.\n\nThe Noctes were commenced in 1822, and closed in 1835. Even in England,\nthe lapse of years has obscured many circumstances which were well known\nthirty years ago.\n\nDR. SHELTON MACKENZIE, already favorably known as editor of Sheil's\n\"Sketches of the Irish Bar,\" has undertaken the editorship of THE NOCTES\nAMBROSIAN\u00c6, for which a familiar acquaintance, during the last\ntwenty-five years, with the persons, events, and places therein noticed\nmay be assumed to qualify him. He has been on terms of intimacy with\nmost of the eminent political and literary characters treated of in the\n\"NOCTES,\" and his annotation of the text will include personal\nrecollections of them.\n\nBesides this, Dr. Mackenzie has written for this edition a \"History of\nthe Rise and Progress of Blackwood's Magazine,\" with original memoirs of\nthe principal accredited authors of the \"NOCTES,\" viz:--Professor\nWilson, The Ettrick Shepherd, J. G. Lockhart, and Dr. Maginn.\n\nHe will also give the celebrated \"Chaldee Manuscript,\" published in\n1817, instantly suppressed, and so scarce that the only copy which the\neditor has ever seen is that from which he makes the present reprint.\nThere will also be given the three articles, entitled \"CHRISTOPHER IN\nTHE TENT,\" (in August and September, 1819), never before printed, in any\nshape, in this country. The interlocutors in \"THE TENT,\" include the\ngreater number of those afterwards introduced in the \"NOCTES.\"\n\nThe \"Metricum Symphosium Ambrosianum,\"--an addendum to No. III. of \"THE\nNOCTES,\" (and which notices every living author of note, in the year\n1822), will be incorporated in this edition. This has never before been\nreprinted here.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n_Nearly Ready, in Two Volumes._\n\nTHE ODOHERTY PAPERS,\nFORMING THE FIRST PORTION OF THE MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS OF THE LATE\nDR. MAGINN.\nWITH AN ORIGINAL MEMOIR AND COPIOUS NOTES, BY\nDR. SHELTON MACKENZIE.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nFor more than a quarter of a century, the most remarkable magazine\nwriter of his time, was the late William Maginn, LL.D., well-known as\nthe Sir Morgan Odoherty of _Blackwood's Magazine_, and as the principal\ncontributor, for many years, to _Fraser's_ and other periodicals. The\ncombined learning, wit, eloquence, eccentricity, and humor of Maginn,\nhad obtained for him, long before his death, (in 1843), the title of THE\nMODERN RABELAIS. His magazine articles possess extraordinary merit. He\nhad the art of putting a vast quantity of animal spirits upon paper, but\nhis graver articles--which contain sound and serious principles of\ncriticism--are earnest and well-reasoned.\n\nThe collection now in hand will contain his Faceti\u00e6 (in a variety of\nlanguages), Translations, Travesties, and Original Poetry, also his\nprose Tales, which are eminently beautiful, the best of his critical\narticles, (including his celebrated Shakspeare Papers), and his Homeric\nBallads. The periodicals in which he wrote have been ransacked, from\n\"Blackwood\" to \"Punch,\" and the result will be a series of great\ninterest.\n\nDR. SHELTON MACKENZIE, who has undertaken the editorship of these\nwritings of his distinguished countryman, will spare neither labor nor\nattention in the work. The first volume will contain an original Memoir\nof Dr. Maginn, written by Dr Mackenzie and a characteristic Portrait,\nwith fac-simile.\n\n\n_Published by_ J. S. REDFIELD,\n\n110 & 112 _Nassau-street, New York_\n\n\n\n\n_PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION._\n\nTHE CONCLUDING VOLUMES OF\n\nDR. MAGINN'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS,\n\nCONTAINING\n\nTHE SHAKSPERE PAPERS--HOMERIC BALLADS--FRASERIAN PAPERS, ETC.\n\nANNOTATED BY\n\nDR. SHELTON MACKENZIE\n\nEDITOR OF \"SHEIL'S SKETCHES OF THE IRISH BAR\"--\"THE NOCTES AMBROSIAN\u00c6,\"\nETC.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n_Nearly ready, in Two Volumes_,\n\nTHE LIFE\n\nOF THE RIGHT HONORABLE\n\nJOHN PHILPOT CURRAN,\n\nMASTER OF THE ROLLS, IRELAND,\n\nBY HIS SON.\n\nEdited, with Notes, Illustrations, &c.\n\nBY SHELTON MACKENZIE, D.C.L.\n\nThe Life of Curran is identified with the latest years of Ireland's\nnationality. He was known, tried, and trusted as a true Patriot. During\nthe Reign of Terror, in 1798, got up by the Government of that day in\norder to betray the Irish Parliament into a parchment Union with Great\nBritain--sinking the country from a Kingdom to a Province--Curran\nmanifested an independence and fearlessness, as advocate for the\naccused, during the State Trials, which endeared him to the people from\nwhose ranks he sprung. To use the words of Thomas Davis (who resembled\nhim in many things) he was \"a companion unrivalled in sympathy and wit;\nan orator, whose thoughts went forth like ministers of nature, with\nrobes of light and swords in their hands; a patriot, who battled best\nwhen the flag was trampled down; and a genuine earnest man, breathing of\nhis climate, his country, and his time.\"\n\nHe was the centre of the flashing wits, the renowned orators, the\nbrilliant advocates, and the true patriots of Ireland's last days of\nindependence. The Biography by his Son, rich as it is in personal\ndetails, is capable of great improvement by the addition of numerous\nfacts, anecdotes, and traits of character, relating to Curran and his\ncontemporaries, which have transpired since its publication in 1819. Dr.\nShelton Mackenzie, who has long been preparing for this task, undertakes\nto enrich the present edition by collecting and introducing these\ndesirable illustrations. The work, thus completed, will in truth be a\nrecord not only of Curran and his eminent associates, but of the\nstirring and troublous times in which they lived. It will thus combine\nBiography and History, with Anecdote, unusually copious and \"racy of the\nsoil.\"\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\n Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained\n except in obvious cases of typographical error:\n\n     \"...making a cave look as insignificant as a\n      rabbit-(burrrow -->) burrow.\"\n\n     \"...but his feelings might thus be (embod ed -->) embodied in\n      words:\"\n\n     \"...he was so very plausible in (manmer -->) manner,...\"\n\n     \"...when the Bard showed (himslf -->) himself in the north,...\"\n\n     \"...Marquis of (Congynham -->) Conyngham...\"\n\n     \"...more careful, more (sudued -->) subdued...\"\n\n Bold printed text has been formatted as =text=.\n\nThe oe ligature is represented with [oe] in this text.","title":"Bits of Blarney","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":99721}