{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_53982/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_53982","id":"gutenberg_53982","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53982","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Archaeology & Anthropology","Category: History - Other","Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Ireland -- Periodicals","The Irish Penny Journal"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n      NUMBER 7.        SATURDAY, AUGUST 15, 1840.         VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: REMAINS AT MONASTERBOICE. COUNTY LOUTH.]\n\nTo the observing and imaginative traveller, our island must present a\ngreat number of peculiarities of aspect which will not fail to excite his\nnotice, and impress themselves indelibly upon his mind. The scantiness of\nwood--for its natural timber has nearly all disappeared--and the abundance\nof water, are two of the characteristics that will most strike him; and,\nnext to these, the great extent of prospect usually afforded to the eye in\nconsequence of the undulating character of its surface. Sparkling streams\nare visible everywhere, and shining lakes and noble rivers come into view\nin rapid succession; while ranges of blue mountains are rarely wanting to\nbound the distant horizon. The colours with which Nature has painted the\nsurface of our island are equally peculiar. There is no variety of green,\nwhether of depth or vivid brightness, which is not to be found covering\nit; they are hues which can be seen nowhere else in equal force; and even\nour bogs, which are so numerous, with all their mutations of colour, now\npurple, and anon red, or brown, or black, by their vigorous contrasts give\nadditional beauty and life to the landscape, and assist in imparting to it\na sort of national individuality. Our very clouds have to a great degree a\ndistinctive character--the result of the humidity of our climate; they\nhave a grandeur of form and size, and a force of light and shadow, that\nare but rarely seen in other countries; they are _Irish clouds_--at one\nmoment bright and sunny, and in the next flinging their dark shadows over\nthe landscape, and involving it in gloomy grandeur. It is in this striking\nforce of contrast in almost every thing that we look at, that the\npeculiarity of our scenery chiefly consists; and it appears to have\nstamped the general character of our people with those contrasting lights\nand shades so well exhibited in our exquisite and strongly-marked national\nmusic, in which all varieties of sentiment are so deeply yet harmoniously\nblended as to produce on the mind effects perhaps in some degree\nsaddening, but withal most delightfully sweet and soothing. A country\nmarked with such peculiarities is not the legitimate abode of the refined\nsensualist of modern times, or the man of artificial pleasure and\nheartless pursuits, and all such naturally remain away from it, or visit\nit with reluctance; but it is the proper habitation of the poet, the\npainter, and, above all, the philanthropist; for nowhere else can the\nlatter find so extensive a field for the exercise of the godlike feelings\nof benevolence and patriotism.\n\nYet the natural features of scenery and climate which we have pointed out,\ninteresting as all must admit them to be, are not the only ones that\nconfer upon our country the peculiar and impressive character which it\npossesses. The relics of past epochs of various classes; the monuments of\nits Pagan times, as revealed to us in its religious, military, and\nsepulchral remains; the ruins of its primitive Christian ages, as\nexemplified in its simple and generally unadorned churches, and slender\nround towers; the more splendid monastic edifices of later date, and the\ngloomy castles of still more recent times--these are everywhere present to\nbestow historic interest on the landscape, and bring the successive\nconditions and changes of society in bygone ages forcibly before the\nmind; so that an additional interest, of a deep and poetical nature, is\nthus imparted to views in themselves impressive from their wild and\npicturesque appearance. So perfect, indeed, is this harmony of the natural\nand artificial characteristics of Irish scenery, so comprehensively do\nboth tell the history of our country, to which Nature has been most\nbountiful, and in which, alas! man has not been happy, that if we were\ndesirous of giving a stranger a true idea of Ireland, and one that would\nimpress itself on his mind, we should conduct him to one of our green open\nlandscapes, where the dark and ruined castle, seated on some rocky height,\nor the round tower, with its little parent church, in some sequestered\nvalley, would be the only features to arrest his attention; and of such a\nscene we should say emphatically, This is Ireland! And such a scene is\nthat which is presented by the ruins represented in our prefixed\nillustration.\n\nPassing along the great northern road from Drogheda to Dundalk, and about\nfour miles from the former, the traveller will find himself in an open\npastoral country, finely undulating, thinly dotted with the cottages of\nthe peasants, and but little adorned by art. On one side, to his left, he\nwill see a little group of ruins, with a lofty but shattered round tower,\ngiving index of their age and character. These are the ruins of the long\nsince celebrated religious establishment of Monasterboice, one of the most\ninteresting groups of their kind in Ireland. They consist of two small\nchurches, a round tower, and three most gorgeously sculptured stone\ncrosses, standing in the midst of a crowd of tombs and head-stones of\nvarious ages. Both the churches are of great antiquity, though, as their\narchitectural features clearly show, of widely separated ages--the larger\none exhibiting the peculiarities of the ecclesiastical structures of the\ntwelfth century, and the smaller those of a much earlier date. Both are\nalso simple oblongs, consisting of a nave and choir; and the round tower\nappears to be of coeval architecture with the earlier church.\n\nThe tower, which is of excellent construction, is built of the slatey\nlimestone of the surrounding hills, and is divided into five stories by\nbelts of stone slightly projecting. The upper story has four oblong\napertures, and the lower ones are each lighted by an aperture having an\nangular top. The doorway, which faces the south-east, has a semicircular\narch, and is constructed of chiselled freestone: it is of the usual height\nof five feet six inches, by one foot ten inches in breadth, and is six\nfeet from the present surface of the ground. The circumference of the\ntower is fifty-one feet, and its height is one hundred and ten; but its\noriginal height was greater, as a considerable portion of its top has been\ndestroyed by lightning.\n\nIn these churches and this tower Monasterboice has nothing which may not\nbe found in many other early religious foundations in Ireland; but in the\nmagnificence of its sculptured stone crosses it may be said to stand\nalone. They are the finest of their class in the country; but, as we shall\nmake them the subjects of distinct notices, with illustrations, in our\nfuture numbers, it is not necessary for us to enter into a more particular\ndescription of them here.\n\nMonasterboice, or, as it is called in the Irish language,\nMainistir-buite--that is, the monastery of Buite, or Boetius--owes its\norigin to a celebrated bishop and abbot of this name who flourished about\nthe close of the fifth century, and who is said to have been a disciple of\nSt Patrick: according to our ancient annalists, he died on the 7th of\nDecember 522. Of its subsequent history but little is preserved, beyond a\nfew scattered records of the deaths of several of its abbots and\nprofessors anterior to the twelfth century, of whom the celebrated poet,\nantiquary, and historian, Flann, was the most distinguished, and whose\ndeath is thus recorded in the Annals of the Four Masters:--\n\n\u201c1056. Flann of the Monastery, lecturer of Monasterboice, the last\nfountain of knowledge of the Irish, in history, poetry, eloquence, and\ngeneral literature, died on the fourth of the calends of December (28th\nNovember), of whom it was said,\n\n    \u2018Flann of the great church of sweet Buite,\n    The piercing eyes of his smooth head were modest;\n    The godly man of Meath was he of whom we speak;\n    The last professor of the country of the three Finns was Flann.\u2019\u201d\n\nA considerable number of historical poems by this distinguished man have\ndescended to our times, of which a list is given in O\u2019Reilly\u2019s Irish\nWriters; but his more valuable remains are his Synchronisms of the Irish\nKings, with the Eastern and Roman Emperors, and of the Christian\nProvincial Kings of Ireland, and the Kings of Scotland of the Irish race,\nwith the Chief Monarchs of Ireland. Of these works, which are of\ninestimable value to the Irish and Scottish historian, perfect copies are\npreserved in the MS. Book of Lecan, in the Library of the Royal Irish\nAcademy.\n\nThe notices in our Annals of the other distinguished men connected with\nMonasterboice are of little interest; but as they have never been properly\ncollected together, we think them worthy of publication, for the use of\nthe Irish topographical historian, to whom we trust our Journal will\nbecome a valuable repertory of authorities:\n\n722. Ailchon, of Monasterboice, died.\n\n769. Cormac, the son of Ailliolla, Abbot of Monasterboice, was drowned in\nthe Boyne.\n\n786. Dubdainber, the son of Cormac, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n800. Cuanna, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n836. Flaithri, Abbot of Monasterboice, a Bishop and Anchorite, died.\n\n844. Muireadhach, the son of Flann, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n853. Radgus, the son of Maicniada, Abbot of Monasterboice, was drowned in\nthe Boyne.\n\n864. Colga and Aodh, two Abbots of Monasterboice, died this year.\n\n875. Maolpatrick, the son of Ceallach, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n881. Dunadach, the son of Cormac, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n887. Fothaidh, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n922. Muireadhach, the son of Donall, Abbot of Monasterboice, chief\nbeadsman to all the men of Bregia, youths, clerks, and the stewart of\nPatrick\u2019s people, from Sliabh Fuaid (the Fews Mountain) to Leinster, died.\n\n933. Maolbrigid, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n965. Dubdaboirenn, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n1004. Donall, the son of Macniadha, Abbot of Monasterboice, a Bishop and\nHoly Senior, died.\n\n1039. Macniadha, a Bishop, and Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n1059. Donall, the son of Eodhossa, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\n1067. Echtigern, the son of Flann, Aircinneach of Monasterboice, died.\n\n1117. Eogan, the son of Echtigern, Abbot of Monasterboice, died.\n\nThese notices, extracted from the Annals of Ulster, and of the Four\nMasters, will show the great antiquity of the Abbey of Monasterboice, as\nwell as the distinguished rank which it held among the religious\nestablishments of Ireland previous to the occupation of the ancient\nkingdom of Meath by the English, after which period it disappears from\nhistory.\n\nThe following records from the same authorities relate to its general\nhistory:--\n\n968. Monasterboice and Lan Lere were plundered on the Danes by Donall,\nKing of Ireland, and he burned three hundred and fifty of them in one\nhouse.\n\n1097. The _Cloictheach_ (viz. round tower belfry) of Monasterboice,\ncontaining books and several other valuables, was burned.\n\nThis last notice, and many others of the kind which occur in our Annals,\nare of great value in showing the original uses of our round towers, as\nset forth in Mr Petrie\u2019s Essay on the Round Towers of Ireland, now in\ncourse of publication.\n\nIn concluding these notices of a spot so long the abode of the piety, art,\nand learning of remote times, we may add, that in its present deserted and\nruined state it is a scene of the deepest and most solemn interest; and\nthe mind must indeed be dull and earthly in which it fails to awaken\nfeelings of touching and permanent interest. Silence and solitude the most\nprofound are impressed on all its time-worn features; we are among the\ndead only; and we are forced, as it were, to converse with the men of\nother days. In all our frequent visits to these ruins we never saw a\nliving human being among them but once. It was during a terrific\nthunder-storm, which obliged us to seek shelter behind one of the stone\ncrosses for an hour. The rain poured down in impetuous torrents, and the\nclouds were so black as to give day the appearance of night. It was at\nsuch an awful hour, that a woman of middle age, finely formed, and of a\nnoble countenance, entered the cemetery, and, regardless of the storm\nraging around, flung herself down upon a grave, and commenced singing an\nIrish lamentation in tones of heart-rending melancholy and surpassing\nbeauty. This wail she carried on as long as we remained; and her voice\ncoming on the ear between the thunder-peals, had an effect singularly wild\nand unearthly: it would be fruitless to attempt a description of it. The\nreader, if he know what an Irishwoman\u2019s song of sorrow is, must imagine\nthe effect it would have at such a moment among those lightning-shattered\nruins, and chanted by such a living vocal monument of human woe and\ndesolation.\n\nWe subsequently learned on inquiry that this poor creature\u2019s history was a\nsad one; she was slightly crazed, in consequence of the death of her only\nson, who had been drowned; and her mania lay in a persuasion, which\nnothing could remove, that he was not lost, but would yet return to her to\nbless her, and close her long-weeping eyes in peace.\n\n                                                                       P.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RED MEN OF AMERICA.\n\nSECOND ARTICLE.\n\n\nWe could relate many instances of the gratitude with which Indians repay a\nkindness, and of their firmness in friendship, but our limits restrain us.\nWe must besides admit, that they are equally resentful of injury as\nmindful of favours, and persecute an enemy with as much constancy as they\ncherish a friend. Mr Catlin has preserved the portrait of a Mandan chief,\nnamed Mah-to-t\u00f4h-pa, or the Four Bears, whose life affords many singular\nillustrations of the above truths. We have room for one only. His brother\nhad been surprised while asleep by a Riccaree, who left the spear with\nwhich he had murdered the sleeping man in the wound, and boasted of what\nhe had done. The Four Bears took possession of the spear, preserved it\ncarefully, with the blood of his brother encrusted on its point, and swore\nto cover that stain with the heart\u2019s blood of the Riccaree. Many moons\nelapsed, many snows even went by, and the Four Bears had not yet found the\nmuch desired opportunity of revenge. At length the _culpability_ of his\nenforced delay became too heavy a reproach, and he resolved on seeking the\nRiccaree in his distant home, to do which he had to steal his way through\nhis enemy\u2019s country for hundreds of miles; a task, the difficulty of which\ncan be appreciated only by those who know the watchfulness of Indian\nhabits, and the vigilance of those whom he had to circumvent. But \u201cwhen\nGreek meets Greek,\u201d we all know what \u201ccomes;\u201d in this case, however,\n\u201cdiamond-cut-diamond\u201d were perhaps the more appropriate metaphor: let our\nreaders settle that point. The Four Bears accomplished his task; he had\ntraversed many a weary plain, had threaded many a tangled forest, swam\nmany a river; but at length he stood, famished and outworn, before the\nvillage of his enemy. This was surrounded by a stockade, but he overcame\nthat with little difficulty. It was night, but the dwelling of the\noffender was known to him, and entering it, he sat down before the fire,\nover which hung a pot containing food, which the provident squaw had set\nto simmer through the night. The family were in their beds, which consist\nof skins stretched on low frames, and ranged around the walls of the hut.\nThe Riccaree, the object of the Mandan\u2019s visit, was also on his couch,\nwith his arms close beside him, as is the custom. But he was not asleep;\nthe flame as it rose fitfully was reflected from his glittering eyes,\nwhich rested, but with no particular interest, on his visitor. The latter,\nconscious that his then exhausted strength was not equal to the _duty_ he\nbecame to perform, sat collected within himself for a certain time; he\nthen took part of the food that filled the pot, and ate in such measure as\nhe thought advisable. This done, he lighted his pipe, and sat to smoke it.\nThe squaw meanwhile had asked her husband what man it was who was reposing\nat their hearth. \u201cHe is a hungry man, for thou seest he is eating; what\nmatter for the rest?\u201d was her husband\u2019s reply, and the uninvited guest\nconcluded his meal without interruption. Was the Mandan shaken by what we\nfeel to be the most touching appeal of this deep confidence to his better\nsympathies? He scarcely felt that it was one. Among Indians, hospitality\nis neither offered nor accepted as a matter of favour, but of right, and\nof course; nor would he have replied to such an appeal could he have felt\nit. He believed himself to be in the performance of a most solemn duty,\nand would have scorned all vacillation as weakness. Nor shall we be just\nourselves if we lose sight of this in our abhorrence of his deed.\n\nThe pipe of the Mandan exhausted, he adjusted his raiment for departure;\nhe rose, collected his force, sprang on his unsuspecting host, whom he\nstabbed to the heart with the spear already named, then scalped him, and,\nspringing from the hut, was out of the village, and deep in a neighbouring\nwatercourse, by the time that his enemies\u2019 dogs were upon him; again, by\nmany a night march and day of hunger and suffering, he arrived in his\nvillage, _his_ conscience set at rest by the act at which _we_ shudder.\n\nMr Catlin, who knew this chief intimately, relates many stories of his\nbravery and general elevation of character, but we have room for the tale\nof his death only. In the year 1837, Mr Catlin had left the friendly\nMandans some three years, when the small-pox was carried among them by the\ntraders; the whole family of the Four Bears perished by this disease;\nwife, child, not one was left him; he stood alone in his desolation, and\ngathering the corpses together, he covered all with skins, after the\nmanner of his people; the songs for the dead then performed, he seated\nhimself by the mound he had raised, which he addressed from time to time\nin the most touching terms of endearment, as each individual composing the\nmournful group rose to his memory. This continued through nine days and\nnights, during all which he took neither food nor sleep, and on the tenth\nhe was himself a corpse.\n\nThe native American is deeply imbued with religious feeling; no Indian who\nmaintains a fair character in his tribe is without some place of\nretirement for worship and meditation; a lonely tree, a nook in the bank\nof a stream, the hollow of a rock, are frequently selected for this\npurpose; nor is the habit confined to such tribes as have no fixed\nreligious ceremonies; it was practised by the Mandans and others, many of\nwhom possessed oratories such as we have just described, in addition to\ntheir \u201cmedicine\u201d or \u201cmystery lodges,\u201d which may be called their public\ntemples. The Osages, Kansas, and other tribes west of the Mississippi,\nnever fail to implore the blessing of the Great Spirit on breaking up\ntheir encampments, and they return thanks devoutly for the food they have\nfound, and the preservation they have experienced, on arriving at the end\nof their journey. Thanks and praises are also publicly offered at every\nnew moon, at the commencement of the buffalo hunts in spring, and at the\ningathering of the corn; at which latter period a feast is held, called\nthe corn feast: over this, among some tribes, the oldest woman presides.\nThe Minatarrees boil a large kettle full of the new corn in presence of\nall the people, four medicine men, painted with white clay, dancing round\nthe kettle until its contents are well boiled; these are next burnt to\nashes as an offering to the Great Spirit; the fire is then extinguished;\nnew fire is immediately created by rubbing two sticks together; with this\nthey cook the corn for their own feast, and the remainder of the day is\nspent in festivity.\n\nDances are also performed to the Great Spirit on various occasions, as\namong the Ojibbeways on the first fall of snow; this is danced in\nsnow-shoes. All believe in a future state of existence--in the reward of\nthe good by an eternal residence in pleasant and plentifully supplied\nhunting grounds beyond the great waters--and in the punishment of the\nwicked by transformation into some loathsome beast, reptile, or insect,\nand by banishment to barren, parched, and desolate regions, the abodes of\nbad spirits, for a period proportionate to the enormity of their guilt.\nPrayers are also offered to the evil spirit in deprecation of his enmity,\nbut on none of these ceremonies is attendance compelled; that Indian is,\nhowever, less respected, who is known constantly to absent himself from\nall.\n\nThe \u201cmedicine man\u201d of the Indians is at once prophet, priest, and\nphysician; he has sometimes great influence. The ceremony by which this\ndignity is attained among the Sioux, is one involving no little suffering.\nThe candidate for this honour has innumerable splints of wood driven\nthrough the most sensitive parts of his flesh, and being suspended by some\nof these to a pole, with his medicine bag in his hand, he is expected to\nkeep his eyes steadily fixed on the sun from its rising to its setting,\nwhen he is taken down, and entitled to be called a medicine or mystery man\nfor the remainder of his life; but he has to make ceaseless efforts for\nthe support of his character, since the failure of either his cures or his\nprophecies renders him liable to universal contempt.\n\nAlmost every family has its medicine or mystery bag, which consists of a\nbeaver or otter skin curiously ornamented; this contains the medicinal\nstores and smaller consecrated articles of the family; it is considered a\ngreat disgrace to sell or otherwise part with an article once consecrated,\nand the medicine bag is always held sacred and inviolate to every hand but\nthat of its owner. When a warrior of the Sac and Fox tribe falls in\nbattle, his widow suspends his mystery bag on the pole before his tent,\nand sits herself within the lodge; the warriors, returned from the battle,\nand adorned with the scalps they have taken from the enemy, then assemble\nbefore the lodge; they dance to the medicine bag of their lost brother,\nand throw presents to his widow, of such articles as they think may best\nconsole her for her loss.\n\nThe Indian dwelling is much varied in its form and manner among the\nvarious tribes; the Pawnees, for example, live in lodges thatched with\nprairie grass, and which are not unlike immense bee-hives.\n\nThe Sioux, the Camanchees, the Crows, and others inhabiting a vast tract\non the upper waters of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, and extending\nto the base of the Rocky Mountains, have moveable tents formed of buffalo\nskins richly ornamented, according to Indian notions of ornament, and\nfastened to poles sometimes twenty-five feet high; some of these tents\nwill shelter eighty persons, and require from thirty to thirty-five\nbuffalo skins to cover them.\n\nThe Riccarees, Mandans, &c. are, or _were_, lodged in villages fortified\nby strong stockades eighteen feet high; their huts are formed of poles\ncovered closely and smoothly with earth, and this in process of time\nbecomes so compact and hard, that men, women, and children, recline and\nplay on their tops.\n\nIt has been sometimes asserted that the Indian people have a common\nlanguage, but this is not the case; scarcely any two of their nations\nbetween whom no intercourse exists, possess a language understood by both,\nbut this inconvenience is obviated by a \u201clanguage of signs,\u201d so effective\nand eloquent that by this every Indian is enabled to communicate with his\nbrother of whatever nation or tribe, and hence perhaps has arisen the\nsupposition that all speak a common language. The mode of writing among\nIndians is entirely hieroglyphic, and is of course liable to wide\nmisconstruction; but they lay down maps with no mean degree of accuracy,\nand the chiefs wear the boundaries of their hunting-grounds traced on\ntheir robes; a counterpart being kept in the public lodge among such other\nrecords as the nation may possess, and those are referred to if any\ndispute arise among neighbouring tribes.\n\nTheir manufactures are of course few and simple. Stones are cut into\npestles and mortars, tomahawks, knives, pipes, &c.; pottery is formed for\ndomestic purposes from the clays furnished by all parts of their country;\nmats are woven from grass or rushes, and blankets from the hair of the\nbuffalo. These articles are mostly the work of the women, who with the\nchildren plant, cultivate, and gather in the crops, collect wild rice and\npash-e-quah, a large bulbous root, in form like the sweet potato and in\ntaste like the chesnut, but more juicy. Nuts of many sorts, several kinds\nof plums, osage oranges, gooseberries, strawberries, and many sorts of\ngrapes, are also collected in their season. Besides this, the women dress\nbuffalo skins, procure wood and water, and in some tribes fetch home the\ngame which the hunter, having tracked and killed, then leaves to their\nfurther disposal.\n\nBeaver and other skins, belts of wampum, and coloured shells ground to an\noval form, serve as coin; but the most important wealth of the Indian is\nin his horses and dogs, which assist him in the chase, and of which some\npossess great numbers. Many tribes of Indians are exceedingly bold and\nexpert horsemen, the Camanchees more particularly, many of whom perform\nfeats of dexterity on their wild horses that would astonish our boldest\nequestrians. These men are often seen to throw themselves on one side of\ntheir horses, to avoid the arrows of an enemy or the attack of an enraged\nbuffalo, in such a manner that the extremity of one foot only seems to\nhold by the animal, and that while he continues to move at full speed;\nnay, some have been even known to shoot arrows while in that position, the\ntenure of which is altogether inconceivable to the European rider.\n\nTheir weapons for hunting are lances five or six feet long, and tipped\nwith stone or the bone of some animal, and bows with arrows similarly\npointed. The buffalo is sometimes hunted by men who have partially\nconcealed their persons in the skin of the white wolf, and who creep to\nwithin shot of their game by favour of this disguise; for the buffalo,\naccustomed to the white wolf, and safe from his attack unless, when,\nseparated from the herd, he becomes the prey of a pack, permits the\napproach of the Indian thus masked, the latter being careful to keep to\nleeward of his game, whose scent is very acute.\n\nIndians sometimes drive whole herds of buffalo, elk, and deer, into\nimpassable ravines or to the brink of precipices, when they slaughter as\nmany as they may need; but none were ever destroyed wantonly before the\nintroduction of whisky; whereas at this time whole herds are killed merely\nfor their skins, the flesh being left to decay on the prairies; and this,\nby depopulating the hunting-grounds, induces famine, and is another cause\nof Indian suffering and final extinction.\n\nBuffaloes are often destroyed by the panther; solitary individuals\nsometimes fall a prey to a pack of wolves; others perish in the burning\nprairies, that awfully peculiar feature of the American solitudes; a few\nare drowned every season in attempting to cross the ice of rivers not\nfirmly frozen; but the principal element of their destruction is in the\nrapacity of the trader; and it has been calculated that the activity of\nthis last-named agent will ensure the extermination of this most valuable\ncreature within a very short period of time.\n\nThe education of the Indian child is an object of the most profound\ninterest, not only to his own family but to the whole tribe. He is taught\nto love his country and tribe, to contemn falsehood, to reverence age, to\nbe modest and silent; he is strictly enjoined to reward a kindness, but\nalso to avenge an injury; to aid and guard a friend, but also to injure,\nby every means in his power, and relentlessly to persecute, an enemy; to\nabhor theft, unless it be practised on the property of an enemy, when it\nis called highly meritorious. The sports of youth are watched attentively\nby their elders, and all evidences of cowardice, meanness, &c., are\nfollowed by the needful discipline. The Indian usually retains his\nmother\u2019s name until he has entitled himself, by some remarkable act of\nprowess, endurance, &c., to choose one for himself, or been distinguished\nby some appellation bestowed by the tribe. Some of these \u201cnames\u201d are\nsufficiently amusing, as, for example, \u201cHe who jumps over every one,\u201d \u201cThe\nvery sweet man,\u201d \u201cThe man of good sense,\u201d \u201cNo fool,\u201d \u201cThe bird that goes\nto war,\u201d \u201cHe who strikes two at once,\u201d &c. The names of women are not\nalways inelegant. Take as a specimen of Indian taste in this matter, \u201cThe\nbending willow,\u201d \u201cThe pure fountain,\u201d \u201cThe sweet-scented grass.\u201d Others\nare scarcely so complimentary, as, \u201cThe female bear,\u201d \u201cThe woman who lives\nin the bear\u2019s den,\u201d \u201cThe creature that creeps,\u201d &c.\n\nThe constancy with which an Indian endures tortures, is among the best\nknown traits of his character, but his power of enduring labour has been\nless insisted on; nay, it has been denied by those who despair of the\ncivilization of the race, or who believe that its destruction is a\nconsequence inevitable to the white man\u2019s progress: but those who so judge\nknow little of our Red brothers. We could adduce many facts in proof of\nthis, were our space not wholly exhausted; but we must defer these, as\nwell as the account we had purposed giving of the very extraordinary\nreligious ceremonies practised among some of the tribes. We may, however,\npossibly return to the subject at some other time.\n\n\n\n\nTHE IRISH FIDDLER.\n\nBY W. CARLETON.\n\n\nWhat a host of light-hearted associations are revived by that living\nfountain of fun and frolic, an Irish fiddler! Every thing connected with\nhim is agreeable, pleasant, jolly. All his anecdotes, songs, jokes,\nstories, and secrets, bring us back from the pressure and cares of life,\nto those happy days and nights when the heart was as light as the heel,\nand both beat time to the exhilarating sound of his fiddle.\n\nThe old harper was a character looked upon by the Irish rather as a\nmusical curiosity, than a being specially created to contribute to their\nenjoyment. There was something about him which they did not feel to be in\nperfect sympathy with their habits and amusements. He was above them, not\nof them; and although they respected him, and treated him kindly, yet was\nhe never received among them with that spontaneous ebullition of warmth\nand cordiality with which they welcomed their own musician, the fiddler.\nThe harper, in fact, belonged to the gentry, and to the gentry they were\nwilling to leave him. They listened to his music when he felt disposed to\nplay for them, but it only gratified their curiosity, instead of\nenlivening their hearts--a fact sufficiently evident from the circumstance\nof their seldom attempting to dance to it. This preference, however, of\nthe fiddle to the harp, is a feeling generated by change of times and\ncircumstances, for it is well known that in days gone by, when Irish\nhabits were purer, older, and more hereditary than they are now, the harp\nwas the favourite instrument of young and old, of high and low.\n\nThe only instrument that can be said to rival the fiddle, is the bagpipe;\nbut every person knows that Ireland is a loving country, and that at our\nfairs, dances, weddings, and other places of amusement, Paddy and his\nsweetheart are in the habit of indulging in a certain quiet and\naffectionate kind of whisper, the creamy tones of which are sadly curdled\nby the sharp jar of the chanter. It is not, in fact, an instrument adapted\nfor love-making. The drone is an enemy to sentiment, and it is an\nunpleasant thing for a pretty blushing girl to find herself put to the\nnecessity of bawling out her consent at the top of her lungs, which she\nmust do, or have the ecstatic words lost in its drowsy and monotonous\nmurmur. The bagpipe might do for war, to which, with a slight variation,\nit has been applied; but in our opinion it is only fit to be danced to by\nan assembly of people who are hard of hearing. Indeed, we have little\ndoubt but its cultivation might be introduced with good effect as a system\nof medical treatment, suitable to the pupils of a deaf and dumb\ninstitution; for if any thing could bring them to the use of their ears,\nits sharp and stiletto notes surely would effect that object.\n\nThe fiddle, however, is the instrument of all others most essential to the\nenjoyment of an Irishman. Dancing and love are very closely connected, and\nof course the fiddle is never thought of or heard, without awakening the\ntenderest and most agreeable emotions. Its music, soft, sweet, and\ncheerful, is just the thing for Paddy, who under its influence partakes of\nits spirit, and becomes soft, sweet, and cheerful himself. The very tones\nof it act like a charm upon him, and produce in his head such a bland and\ndelightful intoxication, that he finds himself making love just as\nnaturally as he would eat his meals. It opens all the sluices of his\nheart, puts mercury in his veins, gives honey to a tongue that was, Heaven\nknows, sufficiently sweet without it, and gifts him with a pair of feather\nheels that Mercury might envy; and to crown all, endows him, while\npleading his cause in a quiet corner, with a fertility of invention, and\nan easy unembarrassed assurance, which nothing can surpass. In fact, with\ngreat respect for my friend Mr Bunting, the fiddle it is that _ought_ to\nbe our national instrument, as it is that which is most closely and\nagreeably associated with the best and happiest impulses of the Irish\nheart. The very language of the people themselves is a proof of this; for\nwhilst neither harp nor bagpipe is ever introduced as illustrating\npeculiarities of feeling by any reference to their influence, the fiddle\nis an agreeable instrument in their hands, in more senses than one.\nPaddy\u2019s highest notion of flattery towards the other sex is boldly\nexpressed by an image drawn from it, for when he boasts that he can, by\nhonied words, impress such an agreeable delusion upon his sweetheart as to\nmake her imagine \u201cthat there is a fiddler on every rib of the house,\u201d\nthere can be no metaphor conceived more strongly or beautifully expressive\nof the charm which flows from the tones of that sweet instrument. Paddy,\nhowever, is very often hit by his own metaphor, at a time when he least\nexpects it. When pleading his cause, for instance, and promising golden\ndays to his fair one, he is not unfrequently met by, \u201cAy, ay, it\u2019s all\nvery well now; you\u2019re sugary enough, of coorse; but wait till we\u2019d be a\nyear married, an\u2019 maybe, like so many others that promised what you do,\nyou\u2019d never come home to me widout \u2018hangin\u2019 up your fiddle behind the\ndoor;\u2019\u201d by which she means to charge him with the probability of being\nagreeable when abroad, but morose in his own family.\n\nHaving thus shown that the fiddle and its music are mixed up so strongly\nwith our language, feelings, and amusements, it is now time to say\nsomething of the fiddler. In Ireland it is impossible, on looking through\nall the classes of society, to find any individual so perfectly free from\ncare, or, in stronger words, so completely happy, as the fiddler,\nespecially if he be blind, which he generally is. His want of sight\ncircumscribes his other wants, and, whilst it diminishes his enjoyments,\nnot only renders him unconscious of their loss, but gives a greater zest\nto those that are left him, simple and innocent as they are. He is in\ntruth a man whose lot in life is happily cast, and whose lines have fallen\nin pleasant places. The phase of life which is presented to him, and in\nwhich he moves, is one of innocent mirth and harmless enjoyment.\nMarriages, weddings, dances, and merry-makings of all descriptions, create\nthe atmosphere of mirth and happiness which he ever breathes. With the\ndark designs, the crimes, and outrages of mankind, he has nothing to do,\nand his light spirit is never depressed by their influence. Indeed, he\nmay be said with truth to pass through none but the festivals of life, to\nhear nothing but mirth, to feel nothing but kindness, and to communicate\nnothing but happiness to all around him. He is at once the source and the\ncentre of all good and friendly feelings. By him the aged man forgets his\nyears, and is agreeably cheated back into youth; the labourer snatches a\npleasant moment from his toil, and is happy; the care-worn ceases to\nremember the anxieties that press him down; the boy is enraptured with\ndelight, and the child is charmed with a pleasure that he feels to be\nwonderful.\n\nSurely such a man is important, as filling up with enjoyment so many of\nthe painful pauses in human misery. He is a thousand times better than a\npolitician, and is a true philosopher without knowing it. Every man is his\nfriend, unless it be a rival fiddler, and he is the friend of every man,\nwith the same exception. Every house, too, every heart, and every hand, is\nopen to him; he never knows what it is to want a bed, a dinner, or a\nshilling. Good heavens! what more than this can the cravings of a human\nheart desire! For my part, I do not know what others might aim at; but I\nam of opinion that in such a world as this, the highest proof of a wise\nman would be, a wish to live and die an Irish fiddler.\n\nAnd yet, alas! there is no condition of life without some remote or\ncontingent sorrow. Many a scene have I witnessed connected with this very\nsubject, that would wring the tears out of any eye, and find a tender\npulse in the hardest heart. It is indeed a melancholy alternative that\ndevotes the poor sightless lad to an employment that is ultimately\nproductive of so much happiness to himself and others. This alternative is\nseldom resorted to, unless when some poor child--perhaps a favourite--is\ndeprived of sight by the terrible ravages of the small-pox. In life there\nis scarcely any thing more touching than to witness in the innocent\ninvalid the first effects, both upon himself and his parents, of this\nwoeful privation. The utter helplessness of the pitiable darkling, and his\ntotal dependence upon those around him--his unacquaintance with the\nrelative situation of all the places that were familiar to him--his\ntottering and timid step, and his affecting call of \u201cMammy, where are\nyou?\u201d joined to the bitter consciousness on her part that the light of\naffection and innocence will never sparkle in those beloved eyes\nagain--all this constitutes a scene of deep and bitter sorrow. When,\nhowever, the sense of his bereavement passes away, and the cherished child\ngrows up to the proper age, a fiddle is procured for him by his parents,\nif they are able, and if not, a subscription is made up among their\nfriends and neighbours to buy him one. All the family, with tears in their\neyes, then kiss and take leave of him; and his mother, taking him by the\nhand, leads him, as had been previously arranged, to the best fiddler in\nthe neighbourhood, with whom he is left as an apprentice. There is\ngenerally no fee required, but he is engaged to hand his master all the\nmoney he can make at dances, from the time he is proficient enough to play\nat them. Such is the simple process of putting a blind boy in the way of\nbecoming acquainted with the science of melody.\n\nIn my native parish there were four or five fiddlers--all good in their\nway; but the Paganini of the district was the far-famed Mickey M\u2019Rorey.\nWhere Mickey properly lived, I never could actually discover, and for the\nbest reason in the world--he was not at home once in twelve months. As\nColley Cibber says in the play, he was \u201ca kind of a here-and-thereian--a\nstranger nowhere.\u201d This, however, mattered little; for though perpetually\nshifting day after day from place to place, yet it somehow happened that\nnobody ever was at a loss where to find him. The truth is, he never felt\ndisposed to travel _incog._, because he knew that his interest must suffer\nby doing so; the consequence was, that wherever he went, a little nucleus\nof local fame always attended him, which rendered it an easy matter to\nfind his whereabouts.\n\nMickey was blind from his infancy, and, as usual, owed to the small-pox\nthe loss of his eyesight. He was about the middle size, of rather a\nslender make, and possessed an intelligent countenance, on which beamed\nthat singular expression of inward serenity so peculiar to the blind. His\ntemper was sweet and even, but capable of rising through the buoyancy of\nhis own humour to a high pitch of exhilaration and enjoyment. The dress he\nwore, as far as I can remember, was always the same in colour and\nfabric--to wit, a brown coat, a sober-tinted cotton waistcoat, grey\nstockings, and black corduroys. Poor Mickey! I think I see him before me,\nhis head erect, as the heads of all blind men are, the fiddle-case under\nhis left arm, and his hazel staff held out like a feeler, exploring with\nexperimental pokes the nature of the ground before him, even although\nsome happy urchin leads him onward with an exulting eye; an honour of\nwhich he will boast to his companions for many a mortal month to come.\n\nThe first time I ever heard Mickey play was also the first I ever heard a\nfiddle. Well and distinctly do I remember the occasion. The season was\nsummer--but summer _was_ summer then--and a new house belonging to Frank\nThomas had been finished, and was just ready to receive him and his\nfamily. The floors of Irish houses in the country generally consist at\nfirst of wet clay; and when this is sufficiently well smoothed and\nhardened, a dance is known to be an excellent thing to bind and prevent\nthem from cracking. On this occasion the evening had been appointed, and\nthe day was nearly half advanced but no appearance of the fiddler. The\nstate of excitement in which I found myself could not be described. The\nname of Mickey M\u2019Rorey had been ringing in my ears for God knows how long,\nbut I had never seen him, or even heard his fiddle. Every two minutes I\nwas on the top of a little eminence looking out for him, my eyes straining\nout of their sockets, and my head dizzy with the prophetic expectation of\nrapture and delight. Human patience, however, could bear this painful\nsuspense no longer, and I privately resolved to find Mickey, or perish. I\naccordingly proceeded across the hills, a distance of about three miles,\nto a place called Kilnahushogue, where I found him waiting for a guide. At\nthis time I could not have been more than seven years of age; and how I\nwrought out my way over the lonely hills, or through what mysterious\ninstinct I was led to him, and that by a path too over which I had never\ntravelled before, must be left unrevealed, until it shall please that\nPower which guides the bee to its home, and the bird for thousands of\nmiles through the air, to disclose the principle upon which it is\naccomplished.\n\nOn our return home I could see the young persons of both sexes flying out\nto the little eminence I spoke of, looking eagerly towards the point we\ntravelled from, and immediately scampering in again, clapping their hands,\nand shouting with delight. Instantly the whole village was out, young and\nold, standing for a moment to satisfy themselves that the intelligence was\ncorrect; after which, about a dozen of the youngsters sprang forward, with\nthe speed of so many antelopes, to meet us, whilst the elders returned\nwith a soberer but not less satisfied manner into the houses. Then\ncommenced the usual battle, as to who should be honoured by permission to\ncarry the fiddle-case. Oh! that fiddle-case! For seven long years it was\nan honour exclusively allowed to myself, whenever Mickey attended a dance\nany where at all near us; and never was the Lord Chancellor\u2019s mace--to\nwhich, by the way, with great respect for his lordship, it bore a\nconsiderable resemblance--carried with a prouder heart or a more exulting\neye. But so it is--\n\n    \u201cThese little things are great to _little_ men.\u201d\n\n\u201cBlood alive. Mickey, you\u2019re welcome!\u201d \u201cHow is every bone of you, Mickey?\nBedad we gev you up.\u201d \u201cNo, we didn\u2019t give you up, Mickey; never heed him;\nsure we knew very well you\u2019d not desart the Towny boys--whoo!--Fol de rol\nlol.\u201d \u201cAh, Mickey, won\u2019t you sing \u2018There was a wee devil come over the\nwall?\u2019\u201d \u201cTo be sure he will, but wait till he comes home and gets his\ndinner first. Is\u2019t off an empty stomach you\u2019d have him to sing?\u201d \u201cMickey,\ngive me the fiddle-case, won\u2019t you, Mickey?\u201d \u201cNo, to _me_, Mickey.\u201d \u201cNever\nheed them, Mickey: you promised it to me at the dance in Carntaul.\u201d\n\n\u201cAisy, boys, aisy. The truth is, none of yez can get the fiddle-case.\nShibby, my fiddle, hasn\u2019t been well for the last day or two, and can\u2019t\nbear to be carried by any one barrin\u2019 myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cBlood alive! sick is it, Mickey?--an\u2019 what ails her?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, some o\u2019 the doctors says there\u2019s a frog in her, an\u2019 others that she\nhas the cholic; but I\u2019m goin\u2019 to give her a dose of balgriffauns when I\nget up to the house above. Ould Harry Connolly says she\u2019s with fiddle; an\u2019\nif that\u2019s true, boys, maybe some o\u2019 yez won\u2019t be in luck. I\u2019ll be able to\nspare a young fiddle or two among yez.\u201d\n\nMany a tiny hand was clapped, and many an eye was lit up with the hope of\ngetting a young fiddle; for gospel itself was never looked upon to be more\ntrue than this assertion of Mickey\u2019s. And no wonder. The fact is, he used\nto amuse himself by making small fiddles of deal and horse-hair, which he\ncarried about with him as presents for such youngsters as he took a fancy\nto. This he made a serious business of, and carried it on with an\nimportance becoming the intimation just given. Indeed, I remember the time\nwhen I watched one of them, which I was so happy as to receive from him,\nday and night, with the hope of being able to report that it was growing\nlarger; for my firm belief was, that in due time it would reach the usual\nsize.\n\nAs we went along, Mickey, with his usual tact, got out of us all the\ninformation respecting the several courtships of the neighbourhood that\nhad reached us, and as much, too, of the village gossip and scandal as we\nknew.\n\nNothing can exceed the overflowing kindness and affection with which the\nIrish fiddler is received on the occasion of a dance or merry-making; and\nto do him justice he loses no opportunity of exaggerating his own\nimportance. From habit, and his position among the people, his wit and\npower of repartee are necessarily cultivated and sharpened. Not one of his\njokes ever fails--a circumstance which improves his humour mightily; for\nnothing on earth sustains it so much as knowing, that, whether good or\nbad, it will be laughed at. Mickey, by the way, was a bachelor, and,\nthough blind, was able, as he himself used to say, to see through his ears\nbetter than another could through the eyes. He knew every voice at once,\nand every boy and girl in the parish by name, the moment he heard them\nspeak.\n\nOn reaching the house he is bound for, he either partakes of, or at least\nis offered, refreshment, after which comes the ecstatic moment to the\nyoungsters: but all this is done by due and solemn preparation. First he\ncalls for a pair of scissors, with which he pares or seems to pare his\nnails; then asks for a piece of rosin, and in an instant half a dozen boys\nare off at a break-neck pace, to the next shoemaker\u2019s, to procure it;\nwhilst in the meantime he deliberately pulls a piece out of his pocket and\nrosins his bow. But, heavens! what a ceremony the opening of that\nfiddle-case is! The manipulation of the blind man as he runs his hand down\nto the key-hole--the turning of the key--the taking out of the fiddle--the\ntwang twang--and then the first ecstatic sound, as the bow is drawn across\nthe strings; then comes a screwing; then a delicious saw or two; again\nanother screwing--twang twang--and away he goes with the favourite tune of\nthe good woman, for such is the etiquette upon these occasions. The house\nis immediately thronged with the neighbours, and a preliminary dance is\ntaken, in which the old folks, with good-humoured violence, are literally\ndragged out, and forced to join. Then come the congratulations--\u201cAh, Jack,\nyou could do it wanst,\u201d says Mickey, \u201can\u2019 can still; you have a kick in\nyou yet.\u201d \u201cWhy, Mickey, I seen dancin\u2019 in my time,\u201d the old man will\nreply, his brow relaxed by a remnant of his former pride, and the hilarity\nof the moment, \u201cbut you see the breath isn\u2019t what it used to be wid me,\nwhen I could dance the _Baltehorum Jig_ on the bottom of a ten-gallon\ncask. But I think a glass o\u2019 whisky will do us no harm afther that.\nHeighho!--well, well--I\u2019m sure I thought _my_ dancin\u2019 days wor over.\u201d\n\n\u201cBedad an\u2019 you wor matched any how,\u201d rejoined the fiddler. \u201cMolshy carried\nas light a heel as ever you did; sorra a woman of her years ever I seen\ncould cut the buckle wid her. You would know the tune on her feet still.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, Mickey, the thruth is,\u201d the good woman would say, \u201cwe have no sich\ndancin\u2019 now as there was in my days. Thry that glass.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut as good fiddlers, Molshy, eh? Here\u2019s to you both, and long may ye\nlive to shake the toe! Whoo! bedad that\u2019s great stuff. Come now, sit down.\nJack, till I give you your ould favourite, \u2018_Cannie Soogah_.\u2019\u201d\n\nThese were happy moments and happy times, which might well be looked upon\nas picturing the simple manners of country life with very little of moral\nshadow to obscure the cheerfulness which lit up the Irish heart and hearth\ninto humble happiness. Mickey, with his usual good nature, never forgot\nthe younger portion of his audience. After entertaining the old and\nfull-grown, he would call for a key, one end of which he placed in his\nmouth, in order to make the fiddle sing for the children their favourite\nsong, beginning with\n\n    \u201cOh! grand-mamma, will you squeeze my wig?\u201d\n\nThis he did in such a manner, through the medium of the key, that the\nwords seemed to be spoken by the instrument, and not by himself. After\nthis was over, he would sing us, to his own accompaniment, another\nfavourite, \u201cThere was a wee devil looked over the wall,\u201d which generally\nclosed that portion of the entertainment so kindly designed for _us_.\n\nUpon those moments I have often witnessed marks of deep and pious\nfeeling, occasioned by some memory of the absent or the dead, that were as\nbeautiful as they were affecting. If, for instance, a favourite son or\ndaughter happened to be removed by death, the father or mother,\nremembering the air which was loved best by the departed, would pause a\nmoment, and with a voice full of sorrow, say, \u201cMickey, there is _one tune_\nthat I would like to hear; I love to think of it, and to hear it; I do,\nfor the sake of them that\u2019s gone--my darlin\u2019 son that\u2019s lyin\u2019 low: it was\nhe that loved it. His ear is closed against it now; but for _his_\nsake--ay, for your sake, avourneen machree--we will hear it wanst more.\u201d\n\nMickey always played such tunes in his best style, and amidst a silence\nthat was only broken by sobs, suppressed moanings, and the other tokens of\nprofound sorrow. These gushes, however, of natural feeling soon passed\naway. In a few minutes the smiles returned, the mirth broke out again, and\nthe lively dance went on as if their hearts had been incapable of such\naffection for the dead--affection at once so deep and tender. But many a\ntime the light of cheerfulness plays along the stream of Irish feeling,\nwhen cherished sorrow lies removed from the human eye far down from the\nsurface.\n\nThese preliminary amusements being now over, Mickey is conducted to the\ndance-house, where he is carefully installed in the best chair, and\nimmediately the dancing commences. It is not my purpose to describe an\nIrish dance here, having done it more than once elsewhere. It is enough to\nsay that Mickey is now in his glory; and proud may the young man be who\nfills the honourable post of his companion, and sits next him. He is a\nliving storehouse of intelligence, a travelling directory for the\nparish--the lover\u2019s text-book--the young woman\u2019s best companion; for where\nis the courtship going on of which he is not cognizant? where is there a\nmarriage on the tapis, with the particulars of which he is not acquainted?\nHe is an authority whom nobody would think of questioning. It is now, too,\nthat he scatters his jokes about; and so correct and well trained is his\near, that he can frequently name the young man who dances, by the\npeculiarity of his step.\n\n\u201cAh ha! Paddy Brien, you\u2019re there? Sure I\u2019d know the sound of your\nsmoothin\u2019-irons any where. Is it thrue, Paddy, that you wor sint for down\nto Errigle Keerogue, to kill the clocks for Dan M\u2019Mahon? But, nabuklish!\nPaddy, what\u2019ll you have?\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that Grace Reilly on the flure? Faix, avourneen, you can do it; devil\no\u2019 your likes I _see_ any where. I\u2019ll lay Shibby to a penny trump that you\ncould dance your own namesake--the _Calleen dhas dhun_, the bonny brown\ngirl--upon a spider\u2019s cobweb, widout breakin\u2019 it. Don\u2019t be in a hurry,\nGrace dear, to tie the knot; _I\u2019ll_ wait for you.\u201d\n\nSeveral times in the course of the night a plate is brought round, and a\ncollection made for the fiddler: this was the moment when Mickey used to\nlet the jokes fly in every direction. The timid he shamed into liberality,\nthe vain he praised, and the niggardly he assailed by open hardy satire;\nall managed, however, with such an under-current of good humour, that no\none could take offence. No joke ever told better than that of the broken\nstring. Whenever this happened at night, Mickey would call out to some\nsoft fellow, \u201cBlood alive, Ned Martin, will you bring me a candle?--I\u2019ve\nbroken a string.\u201d The unthinking young man, forgetting that he was blind,\nwould take the candle in a hurry, and fetch it to him.\n\n\u201cFaix, Ned. I knew you wor jist fit for\u2019t; houldin\u2019 a candle to a dark\nman! Isn\u2019t he a beauty, boys?--look at him, girls--as cute as a pancake.\u201d\n\nIt is unnecessary to say, that the mirth on such occasions was convulsive.\nAnother similar joke was also played off by him against such as he knew to\nbe ungenerous at the collection.\n\n\u201cPaddy Smith, I want a word wid you. I\u2019m goin\u2019 across the counthry as far\nas Ned Donnelly\u2019s, and I want you to help me along the road, as the night\nis dark.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure, Mickey. I\u2019ll bring you over as snug as if you wor on a clane\nplate, man alive!\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, Paddy; throth you\u2019ve the dacency in you; an\u2019 kind father for\nyou, Paddy. Maybe I\u2019ll do as much for you some other time.\u201d\n\nMickey never spoke of this until the trick was played off, after which, he\npublished it to the whole parish; and Paddy of course was made a standing\njest for being so silly as to think that night or day had any difference\nto a man who could not see.\n\nThus passed the life of Mickey M\u2019Rorey, and thus pass the lives of most of\nhis class, serenely and happily. As the sailor to his ship, the sportsman\nto his gun, so is the fiddler attached to his fiddle. His hopes and\npleasures, though limited, are full. His heart is necessarily light, for\nhe comes in contact with the best and brightest side of life and nature;\nand the consequence is, that their mild and mellow lights are reflected on\nand from himself. I am ignorant whether poor Mickey is dead or not; but I\ndare say he forgets the boy to whose young spirit he communicated so much\ndelight, and who often danced with a buoyant and careless heart to the\npleasant notes of his fiddle. Mickey M\u2019Rorey, farewell! Whether living or\ndead, peace be with you!\n\nThere is another character in Ireland essentially different from the mere\nfiddler--I mean the country dancing-master. In a future number of the\nJournal I will give a sketch of one who was eminent in his line. Many will\nremember him when I name BUCKRAM-BACK.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PASSING BELL.\n\nBY J. U. U.\n\n\n    With its measured pause, and its long-drawn wail,\n    The minster bell swings on the gale,\n    And saddens the vale with its solemn toll,\n    That passeth away like a passing soul--\n    Pulse after pulse still diminishing on,\n    Till another rings forth for the dead and gone.\n\n    The minute-sound of that mourning bell\n    Is the lord\u2019s of the valley--the rich man\u2019s knell:\n    While it swells o\u2019er his lawns and his woodlands bright,\n    He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the light:\n    On the couch of his ease he lies stiff and wan--\n    In the midst of his pomp he is dead and gone.\n\n    The pride hath passed from his haughty brow--\n    Where are his plans and high projects now?\n    Another lord in his state is crowned,\n    To level his castles with the ground;\n    Respect and terror pass reckless on--\n    His frowns and favours are dead and gone.\n\n    Had he wisdom, and wealth, and fame,\n    Mortal tongue shall forget his name:\n    Other hands shall disperse his store--\n    Earthly dream shall he dream no more:\n    His chair is vacant--his way lies yon,\n    To the formless cells of the dead and gone.\n\n    Passing bell, that dost sadly fling\n    Thy wailing wave on the air of spring.\n    There is no voice in thy long, wild moan,\n    To tell where the parted soul is flown,\n    To what far mansion it travels on--\n    While thou tollest thus for the dead and gone.\n\n    Yet, bell of death, on the living air\n    Thy tones come bound from the house of prayer--\n    They speak of the Valley of Shadow, trod\n    On a path once walked by the Son of God,\n    Whose word of promise inviteth on,\n    Through the gate unclosed for the dead and gone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCURRENT COIN OF CHINA.--The only coin made in China is the tchen, or\n_cash_, as it is called in Canton. It is composed of base metal, having\nthe date and reigning emperor\u2019s name stamped on it. According to Gutzlaff,\nthey had coins of this description a thousand years before our era. It is\nnearly as large as an old shilling. There is a square hole in the centre,\nto admit of a number of them being strung on a bamboo. From seven to eight\nhundred of these, according to the exchange, may be had for a Spanish\ndollar. Silver is the commercial medium of barter; it is not coined, but\npasses by weight, after being purified, when it is called sycee silver. It\nis then cast into lumps of one tael, or Chinese ounce, each, the value of\nwhich in English money is about six shillings. When decimal parts are\nrequired, it is cut. Spanish dollars are current in Canton, and they are\nalso cut when required for lesser portions. Whenever one of these gets\ninto the possession of a Chinese, he stamps his name on it; hence in a\nshort time the Spanish marks become quite obliterated, and then they are\ncalled chop dollars, and are melted into sycee silver. Gold is like any\nother article of trade, and is not used as a medium of barter.--_Dr\nFulton\u2019s Travelling Sketches in Various Countries._\n\n\n\n\nEXTRAORDINARY ANOMALY.\n\nBERNARD CAVANAGH.\n\n\nIn the hope that the narration of the following singular circumstances may\nattract the attention of medical and scientific men towards its\nextraordinary subject, we lay it before the readers of the _Irish Penny\nJournal_:--\n\nBernard Cavanagh is about twenty-four years of age, and now living with\nhis parents at nearly a mile distant from the little town of Swineford,\ncounty Mayo. The parents are respectable, of reputable character, and in\ncomfortable circumstances. They assert--indeed they have made affidavits\nbefore a magistrate of the county--that for nearly the last four years he\nhas existed without tasting sustenance of any kind. They state also that\nfrom the 2d September 1836 to the 2d July 1840, he neither spoke nor rose\nfrom his bed except to allow it to be arranged, during which operation he\nnever opened his mouth; and this portion of the statement is borne out to\na considerable extent by the fact of his having been visited frequently,\nand at various periods, by persons of high respectability as well as of\nthe lower class, on all which occasions he was observed invariably in the\nsame position, with his hands on his breast and his eyes fixed on the\nwindow.\n\nThe night before he betook himself to bed, he knocked at the door of the\npriest\u2019s house, and stated that he wished to communicate something to him;\nbut the reverend gentleman declined admitting him, in consequence of the\nlateness of the hour, saying that he could impart whatever he wished to\nstate on the morrow.\n\n\u201cBut I will not be here to-morrow,\u201d responded Cavanagh; and he was right:\nthe next day he took to his bed.\n\nIn the interval between September 1836 and the present season, public\nattention on a limited scale was occasionally directed towards Cavanagh.\nBut the report of his utter and continued abstinence from food was treated\nas a monstrous fable by every one at any distance from his immediate\nlocality, and the extraordinary allegations respecting him were beginning\nto fade from general recollection, when, to the utter astonishment of\nevery one in his neighbourhood, he arose from bed and recovered his speech\nand powers of moving about; since which time he continues, according to\nthe accounts, without sustenance in any shape, and has been visited by\nthousands of persons from various quarters.\n\nIn boyhood, Cavanagh\u2019s education extended barely as far as the acquirement\nof reading and writing; but he constantly exhibited strong marks of\nreligious enthusiasm, often proceeding to Meelick chapel (about three\nmiles from his residence) to one mass, and then attending another at his\nown parish chapel of Swineford. It is said, too, that he at one time\nconstructed a sort of rude building for his private devotion in the open\nfields, and repeatedly went to prayers at meal-times in his father\u2019s\nhouse, contenting himself with _one_ meal in the day, as if preparing\nhimself for his total fast. Accordingly, since resuming his speech and\nmotion he haunts the chapel at all hours by day and night, continuing for\nhours together apparently in private prayer, and generally attended by a\nlarge concourse of the peasantry, whom he addresses by fits and starts,\nand many of whom are naturally, under the circumstances, beginning to deem\nhim not a human being at all, but a shadow.\n\nHe seems not inclined to speak much, though he states he has had \u201chigh\nvisions.\u201d His reply to the clergymen respecting his revelations and\nfasting, is, that he is fed by the Word; that he is not at liberty to\ndetail his visions for the gratification of man; and that no one should\njudge lest he be judged.\n\nCavanagh is about the middle height, of a grave emaciated countenance; his\nmotions are quite unembarrassed, and his voice is sonorous and distinct\nwhen he speaks, which is still but seldom, as he seems to utterly\ndisregard his visitors, whatever their rank.\n\nAs we said before, he continues daily to draw thousands of the peasantry\naround him, who eagerly watch every word that falls from his lips, as they\nplace implicit faith in the assertion that he has lived without any\ndescription of food for the last four years, and of course regard him as\nsomething entirely beyond the pale of ordinary humanity. _We_ are,\nhowever, not so easy of belief in a case so much at variance with the\nordinary regulations of nature; at the same time that we are free to admit\nthat it is hard to conceive what motive the young man or his parents could\nhave for carrying on such an imposition, as the latter endeavoured at\nfirst to conceal the matter altogether, and, in the next place, have\nrepeatedly refused money offered by their respectable visitors, though,\nin fact, their means are a good deal diminished by the hospitality\nextended to each successive guest; while a young sister, who has\nconstantly attended Cavanagh since he has lain and fasted according to the\nstatement, persists in declaring, with the strongest appearance of\ninnocence and belief in the truth of her own assertion, that it was\nimpossible he could have tasted any thing during any part of that time\nunknown to her, and that he never had.\n\nThat a person of narrow intellect and strong devotional propensities\nshould be seized with a religious monomania, and that to a being of a weak\nmind and a debilitated frame strange visions should occur, is perfectly\ncomprehensible; but that the frail materials of the human frame, which\nneeds the nourishment of food as much as the flower requires sunshine and\nmoisture, should endure for such a period without support, is so\nunprecedented in all the records of mankind, and so contradictory to the\ngeneral laws of nature, that it would require the most powerful proofs\nindeed to convince the intelligent mind of its truth. We therefore again\nexpress our strong hope that this slight sketch may produce the effect of\nhaving Cavanagh\u2019s case submitted to the test of eminent medical skill--a\ntest to which the parents profess their entire willingness to assent, and\nthus a case of the grossest imposition be detected, and thousands of\nsimple beings disabused, or one of the most extraordinary of nature\u2019s\nanomalies be clearly ascertained and exhibited.\n\n                                                                       A.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSCENE IN THE THEATRE AT LEGHORN.--My time passed delightfully while I\nremained in Leghorn. The Russian fleet was at anchor in the Bay, commanded\nby Admiral O\u2019Dwyer, a distinguished seaman, and an Irishman by birth. The\nStoraces and myself often went on board his ship, and were delighted by\nhearing the Russians chaunt their evening hymn. The melody is beautifully\nsimple, and was always sung completely in tune by this immense body of\nmen. There was at the same time in the harbour a privateer from Dublin,\ncalled the Fame, Captain Moore: he and his first officer Campbell were\nIrishmen, and had a fine set of Irish lads under them. When Storace\u2019s\nbenefit took place, the officers and crew who could be spared from their\nduty, to a man (and a famous sight it was) marched to the theatre, and\nalmost filled the par-terre. At the end of the opera, Storace sang the\nIrish ballad \u201cMolly Astore,\u201d at the conclusion of which, the boatswain of\nthe Fame gave a loud whistle, and the crew in a body rose and gave three\ncheers. The dismay of the Italian part of the audience was ludicrous in\nthe extreme. The sailors then sang \u201cGod save the King\u201d in full chorus, and\nwhen done, applauded themselves to the very skies: nothing could be more\nunanimous or louder than their self-approbation.--_Reminiscences of\nMichael Kelly._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTRUTH.--Truth is the foundation of virtue. An habitual regard for it is\nabsolutely necessary. He who walks by the light of it has the advantage of\nthe mid-day sun; he who would spurn it, goes forth amid clouds and\ndarkness. There is no way in which a man strengthens his own judgment, and\nacquires respect in society so surely, as by a scrupulous regard to truth.\nThe course of such an individual is right on and straight on. He is no\nchangeling, saying one thing to-day and another to-morrow. Truth to him is\nlike a mountain landmark to the pilot: he fixes his eye upon a point that\ndoes not move, and he enters the harbour in safety. On the contrary, one\nwho despises truth and loves falsehood is like a pilot who takes a piece\nof drift-wood for his landmark, which changes with every changing wave. On\nthis he fixes his attention, and, being insensibly led from his course,\nstrikes upon some hidden reef, and sinks to rise no more. Thus truth\nbrings success; falsehood results in ruin and contempt.--_Dr Channing._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGAMING.--I look upon every man as a suicide from the moment he takes the\ndice-box desperately in his hand; and all that follows in his fatal career\nfrom that fatal time is only sharpening the dagger before he strikes it to\nhis heart.--_Cumberland._\n\n\n    Printed and Published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at the\n    Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green,\n    Dublin.--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row,\n    London. SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street, Manchester. J. DAVIES,\n    North John Street, Liverpool. J. DRAKE, Birmingham. M. BINGHAM,\n    Broad Street, Bristol. FRASER and CRAWFORD, George Street,\n    Edinburgh. DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate, Glasgow.\n\n\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Note: In the original, the date of 766 was given for the\ndeath of \u201cDubdainber, the son of Cormac, Abbot of Monasterboice\u201d. Based\non its order in the chronology (and cross-reference with other historical\nsources) this is presumed to be a misprint and has been changed to 786.","title":"The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 07, August 15, 1840","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11893}