{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54252/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54252","id":"gutenberg_54252","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54252","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - British","Category: Journalism/Media/Writing","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Ireland -- Periodicals"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n         NUMBER 15.    SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1840.    VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: THE TOWN AND CASTLE OF LEIXLIP, COUNTY OF KILDARE.]\n\nLocalities are no less subject to the capricious mutations of fashion in\ntaste, than dress, music, or any other of the various objects on which\nit displays its extravagant vagaries. The place which on account of its\nbeauties is at one period the chosen resort of pleased and admiring\ncrowds, at another becomes abandoned and unthought of, as if it were\nan unsightly desert, unfit for the enjoyment or happiness of civilized\nman. Some other locality, perhaps of less natural or acquired beauty,\nbecomes the fashion of the day, and after a time gets out of favour in\nturn, and is neglected for some other novel scene before unthought of or\ndisregarded. Yet the principles of true taste are immutable, and that\nwhich is really beautiful is not the less so because it has ceased to\nattract the multitude, who are generally governed to a far greater extent\nby accidental associations of ideas than by any abstract feelings of the\nmind.\n\nPerhaps it is less attributable to any characteristic volatility in the\ncharacter of the inhabitants of our metropolis, than to the singular\nvariety and number of the beautiful localities which surround our city,\nand in emulous rivalry attract our attention, that this inconstancy\nof attachment to any one locality is more strikingly instanced among\nourselves, than among the citizens of any other great town with which\nwe are acquainted. But, however this may be, the fact is unquestionable,\nthat there is scarcely a spot of any natural or improved beauty, within\na few miles of us, which has not in turn had its day of fashion, and its\nsubsequent period of unmerited neglect. Clontarf, with its sequestered\ngreen lanes, and its glorious views of the bay--Glasnevin, the classical\nabode of Addison, Parnell, Tickell, Sheridan, and Delany--Finglas,\nwith its rural sports--Chapelizod, the residence of the younger\nCromwell--Lucan, Leixlip, with their once celebrated spas, and all\nthe delightful epic scenery of the Liffey--Dundrum, with its healthy\nmountain walks and atmosphere, and many others unnecessary to mention,\nall experiencing the effects of this inconstancy of fashion, have found\ntheir once admired beauties totally disregarded, and the admiration of\nthe multitude almost wholly transferred to a wild and unadorned beauty on\nthe rocky shores of Kingstown and Bullock, which our forefathers deemed\nunworthy of notice. But let that beauty take warning from the fate of her\npredecessors, and not hold her head too high in her day of triumph, for\nshe too will assuredly be cast off in turn, and find herself neglected\nfor some rival as yet unnoticed.\n\nOf such unmerited inconstancy and neglect there are no localities in\nthe neighbourhood of Dublin which have greater reason to complain than\nthe village of Lucan and that which forms the subject of our prefixed\nembellishment. As the establishment of peace in Ireland led to an\nincrease of civilization, which exhibited itself in improved roads and\nvehicles of conveyance, and the citizens, emerging from their embattled\nstrongholds, ventured to enjoy the pleasures of nature and rural life,\nLucan and Leixlip, with the beautiful scenery in which they are situated,\nbecame the favourite places of resort; and their various natural\nattractions becoming heightened by art, were described by travellers,\nand chaunted in song. About \u201csixty years since\u201d they had reached their\ngreatest glory, and Leixlip was the favourite of the day. It is thus\ndescribed at this period by the celebrated Doctor Campbell:--\u201cAll the\noutlets of Dublin are pleasant, but this is superlatively so which leads\nthrough Leixlip, a neat little village about seven miles from Dublin, up\nthe Liffey; whose banks being prettily tufted with wood, and enlivened\nby gentlemen\u2019s seats, afford a variety of landscapes, beautiful beyond\ndescription.\u201d It was at this period also that O\u2019Keefe, in his popular\nopera of \u201cThe Poor Soldier,\u201d makes Patrick sing--\n\n    \u201cThough Leixlip is proud of its close shady bowers,\n      Its clear falling waters and murmuring cascades,\n    Its groves of fine myrtle, its beds of sweet flowers,\n      Its lads so well dressed, and its neat pretty maids.\u201d\n\nBut though Leixlip no longer holds out attractions sufficient to gratify\nthose whose tastes are dependent on fashion, it has never ceased to be\na favourite with all whose tastes had a more solid foundation. It was\nhere, and in its immediate vicinity, that the two Robertses, genuine\nIrish landscape painters, found many of the most congenial subjects\nfor their pencils. It was here, too, that the strong-headed painter of\nstrong heads--the Rembrandt of miniature painters, John Comerford--used\noccasionally to retire, abandoning for a week or two the intellectual\nsociety of Dublin which he so much enjoyed, and the acquisition of gain\nwhich he no less relished, to make some elaborate study of one of the\nscenes about the Bridge of Leixlip, which he, in his own dogmatic way,\nasserted, \u201cfor genuine landscape beauty, could not be surpassed or\neven rivalled any where!\u201d This estimate of the beauties of Leixlip\u2019s\n\u201cclose shady bowers, &c.\u201d was, we confess, a somewhat extravagant one;\nyet, like most other honestly formed opinions of Comerford\u2019s, it would\nnot have been an easy task to shake his belief in its truth, and to\nsustain it he could, if combated, adduce the testimony of his and our\nfriend Gaspar Gabrielli, the first of Italian landscape painters of our\ntimes, who notwithstanding his pride in being a Roman, and his national\npredilections in favour of the classic scenery of his dear Italy, has\noften declared in our hearing that he had never seen in his own country\nscenery of its kind comparable with that of the Liffey, in the vicinity\nof Lucan and Leixlip.\n\nBut enthusiastic admiration of the scenery of Leixlip has not been\nconfined to the painters. Hear with what gusto our friend C. O. lets\nhimself out on this subject, not in his drawing-room character as the\nclerical Connaught tourist, but in his more natural, buoyant, and Irish\none, as Terence O\u2019Toole, our co-labourer in the first volume of the\n_Dublin Penny Journal_:--\n\n\u201cAny one passing over the Bridge of Leixlip, must, if his eye is worth a\nfarthing for anything else than helping him to pick his way through the\npuddle, look up and down with delight while moving over this bridge. To\nthe right, the river winning its noisy turbulent way over its rocky bed,\nand losing itself afar down amidst embossing woods; to the left, after\nplunging over the Salmon-leap, whose roar is heard though half a mile\noff, and forming a junction with the Rye-water, it takes a bend to the\neast, and washes the rich amphitheatre with which Leixlip is environed. I\nquestion much whether any castle, even Warwick itself [bravo, Terence!]\nstands in a grander position than Leixlip Castle, as it embattles the\nhigh and wooded grounds that form the forks of the two rivers. Of the\ntowers, the round one of course was built by King John, the opposite\nsquare one by the Geraldines. This noble and grandly circumstanced pile\nhas been in latter days the baronial residence of the White family, and\nsubsequently the residence of [lord-lieutenants] generals and prelates.\nHere Primate Stone, more a politician than a Christian [churchman],\nretired from his contest with the Ponsonbys and the Boyles to play at\ncricket with General Cunningham; here resided Speaker Connolly before\nhe built his splendid mansion at Castletown; here the _great_ commoner,\nas he was called, Tom Connolly, was born. Like many such edifices, this\ncastle is haunted: character and keeping would be altogether lost if\ntowers of 600 years\u2019 standing, with rich mullioned \u2018windows that exclude\nthe light, and passages that lead to nothing,\u2019 with tapestried chambers\nthat have witnessed pranks of revelry and feats of war, of Norman,\nCromwellian, and Williamite possession, if such a place had not its\nlegend; and one of Ireland\u2019s wildest geniuses, the eccentric and splendid\nMaturin, has decorated the subject with the colourings of his vivid\nfancy.\u201d\n\nTerence adds:--\u201cLeixlip is memorable in an historic point of view as the\nplace where, in the war commencing 1641, General Preston halted when on\nhis way to form a junction with the Marquis of Ormonde to oppose the\nParliamentarians. Acknowledging that his army was not excommunication\nproof, he bowed before the fiat of the Nuncio, and lost the best\nopportunity that ever offered of saving his cause and his country from\nwhat has been called the \u2018curse of Cromwell.\u2019\u201d\n\nTo this brief but graphic sketch of our friend we can add but little.\nLeixlip is a market and post town of the county of Kildare, situated in\nthe barony of North _Salt_--a name derived from the Latin appellation of\nthe cataract called the _Saltus Salmonis_, \u201cSalmon Leap,\u201d in the vicinity\nof the town--and is about eight miles from Dublin. It contains between\neleven and twelve hundred inhabitants, and consists of one long street of\nhouses, well, though irregularly built, but exhibiting for the greater\nnumber an appearance of negligence and decay. It is bounded on one\nextremity by the river Liffey, which is crossed by a bridge of ancient\nconstruction, and on the other by the Rye-water, over which there is a\nbridge of modern date. As the focus of a parish, it has a church and a\nRoman Catholic chapel, both of ample size and substantial construction,\nbut, like most edifices of their class in Ireland, but little remarkable\nfor the purity of their architectural styles. The latter is of recent\nerection. Its most imposing architectural feature is, however, its\ncastle, which is magnificently situated on a steep and richly wooded\nbank over the Liffey; but though of great antiquity, it exhibits in its\nexternal character but little of the appearance of an ancient fortress,\nhaving been modernised by the Hon. George Cavendish, its present\noccupier. On its west side it is flanked by a circular, and on its east\nby a square tower. This castle is supposed to have been erected in the\nreign of Henry II. by Adam de Hereford, one of the chief followers of\nEarl Strongbow, from whom he received as a gift the tenement of the\nSalmon Leap, and other extensive possessions. It is said to have been the\noccasional residence of Prince John during his governorship of Ireland in\nthe reign of his father; and in recent times it was a favourite retreat\nof several of the Viceroys, one of whom, Lord Townsend, usually spent\nthe summer here. From an inquisition taken in 1604, it appears that the\nmanor of Leixlip was part of the possessions of the abbey of St Thomas in\nDublin. In 1668, the castle, with sixty acres of land, belonged to the\nEarl of Kildare. They afterwards passed into the hands of the Right Hon.\nThomas Connolly, Speaker of the Irish House of Commons, and are now the\nproperty of Colonel Connolly of Castletown.\n\n                                                                       P.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHASE, A POEM TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH--CONCLUDED.\n\n\n    PATRICK.\n\n    O son of kings, adorned with grace,\n      \u2019Twere music to my ear,\n    Of Fionn and his wondrous chase\n      The promised tale to hear.\n\n    OISIN.\n\n    Well--though afresh my bosom bleeds,\n      Remembering days of old--\n    When I think of my sire and his mighty deeds--\n      Yet shall the tale be told.\n\n    While the Fenian bands at Almhuin\u2019s towers,\n    In the hall of spears, passed the festive hours,\n    The goblet crowned, with chessmen played,[1]\n    Or gifts for gifts of love repaid;\n\n    From the reckless throng Finn stole unseen,\n    When he spied a young doe on the heath-clad green\n      With agile spring draw near:\n    On Sceolan and Bran his nimble hounds\n    He whistles aloud, and away he bounds\n      In chase of the hornless deer.\n\n    With his hounds alone and his trusty blade,\n      The son of Luno\u2019s skill,\n    On the track of the flying doe he strayed\n      To Guillin\u2019s pathless hill.\n    But when he came to its hard-won height\n      No deer appeared in view;\n    If east or west she had sped her flight\n      Nor hounds nor huntsman knew.\n    But those sprang westward o\u2019er the sod,\n      While eastward Fionn press\u2019d--\n    Why did not pity touch thy God\n      To see them thus distress\u2019d?\n\n    There while he gazes anxious round,\n    Sudden he hears a doleful sound,\n    And by a lake of crystal sheen\n    Spies a nymph of loveliest form and mien:\n    Her cheeks as the rose were crimson bright,\n      Her lips the red berry\u2019s glow;\n    Her neck as the polished marble[2] white,\n      Her breast the pure blossom\u2019s full blow;\n    Downy gold were her locks, and her sparkling eyes\n    Like freezing stars in the ebon skies.\n    Such beauty, O Sage, all cold as thou art,\n    Would kindle warm raptures of love in thy heart.\n\n    Nigh to the nymph of golden hair\n      With courteous grace he drew--\n    \u201cO hast thou seen, enchantress fair,\n      My hounds their game pursue?\u201d[3]\n\n    NYMPH.\n\n    \u201cThy hounds I saw not in the chase,\n    O noble prince of the Fenian race;\n    But I have cause of woe more deep,\n    For which I linger here and weep.\u201d\n\n    FIONN.\n\n    \u201cO, hast thou lost a husband dear?\n    Falls for a darling son thy tear,\n      Or daughter of thy heart?\n    Sweet, soft-palmed nymph, the cause reveal\n    To one who can thy sorrows feel,\n      Perchance can ease thy smart?\u201d\n\n    The maid of tresses fair replied--\n      \u201cA precious ring I wore;\n    Dropped from my finger in the tide,\n      Its loss I now deplore:\n    But by the sacred vows that bind\n      Each brave and loyal knight,\n    I now adjure thee, Chief, to find\n      My peerless jewel bright.\u201d\n\n    He feels her adjuration\u2019s ties;\n      Disrobes each manly limb,\n    And for the smooth-palmed princess hies\n      The gulfy lake to swim.\n    Five times deep-diving down the wave,\n    Through every cranny, nook, and cave,\n    With care he searches round and round,\n    Till the golden ring at length he found;\n    But scarce to shore the prize could bring,\n      When by some blasting ban--\n    Ah! piteous tale--the Fenian king\n      Grew a withered, grey, old man!\n\n    Meanwhile the Fenians passed the hours\n    In the hall of spears, at Almhuin\u2019s towers;\n    The goblet crowned, with chessmen played,\n    Or gifts for gifts of love repaid,\n    When Caoilte rose and asked in grief,\n    \u201cYe spearmen, where is our gallant chief?\n    O, lost I dread is the Fenians\u2019 boast--\n    Then who shall lead our bannered host?\u201d\n\n    Bald Conan spoke--\u201cA sweeter sound\n      Ne\u2019er tingled on my ear;\n    If Fionn be lost, may he not be found\n      Till end the distant year!\n    But, Caoilte of the nimble feet,\n    Ye shall not want a chieftain meet;\n    In me, till Fionn\u2019s fate be told,\n    The leader of your host behold!\u201d\n\n    Although the Fenian bands were torn\n      With agony severe,\n    We burst into a laugh of scorn\n      Such arrogance to hear.\n\n    To urge the quest, we then decree,\n    Of Finn and his hounds the joyous three\n      That still to triumph led;\n    And soon from Almhuin\u2019s halls away,\n    With Caoilte, I, and our dark array,\n      North to Slew Guillin sped.\n    There, as with searching glance the eye\n      O\u2019er all the prospect rolled,\n    Beside the lake a wretch we spy,\n      Poor, withered, grey, and old.\n    Disgust and horror touched the heart\n    To see the bones all fleshless start\n      In a frame so lank and wan;\n    We thought him some starved fisher torn\n    From the whelming stream, by famine worn,\n      And left but the wreck of man.\n\n    We asked if he had chanced to see\n      A swift-paced chieftain go,\n    With two fleet hounds, across the lea,\n      Behind a fair young doe.\n\n    He gave us back no answer clear,\n    But in the nimble Caoilte\u2019s ear\n    He breathed his tale--O, tale of grief!--\n    That in him we saw the Fenian chief!\n\n    Three sudden shouts to hear the tale\n      Our host raised loud and shrill--\n    The badgers started in the vale,\n      The wild deer on the hill.\n\n    Then Conan fierce unsheathed his sword,\n    And curs\u2019d the Fenian king and his horde.\n      \u201cIf true thy tale,\u201d he cries,\n    \u201cThis blade thy head would off thee smite;\n    For ne\u2019er my valour in the fight,\n      Nor prowess didst thou prize.\n    Would that like thee, both old and weak,\n    Were the Fenians all, that my sword might reek\n    In their craven blood, and their cairns might swell\n    On the grassy lea!--for since Cumhail fell,\n      O\u2019ercome in fateful strife\n    By Morni\u2019s son of the golden shields,\n    Our sons thou hast sent to foreign fields,\n      Or of freedom reft and life.\u201d\n\n    \u201cBald, senseless wretch! our care is due\n    To Finn\u2019s sad state, or thy mouth should rue\n    A speech so vile, and soon atone\n    With shattered teeth and fractured bone.\u201d\n\n      Indignant Caoilte spoke.\n    With equal wrath said Oscar stern,\n      \u201cAudacious babbler! silence learn--\n    What foe e\u2019er felt thy stroke?\u201d\n\n    Then Conan thus--\u201cVain boy! be dumb,\n      Or tell what deed of fame\n    Did e\u2019er thy Finn, but gnaw his thumb[4]\n      Until the marrow came?\n    WE, not Clan-Boske, did the deed\n    Whene\u2019er we saw the foemen bleed.\n    Behind thee, Oisin, may thy son\n    A puling, whining chanter run,\n      And bear white book and bell.\n    His words I scorn--in open fight,\n    Which of us twain is in the right\n      Let swords, not speeches, tell.\u201d\n\n    Him answered Oscar\u2019s trusty steel;\n    When craven Conan, taught to feel,\n    And trembling for his worthless life,\n    The Fenians prayed to end the strife,\n      And stay rough Oscar\u2019s blade.\n    Between them swift the Fenians rushed,\n    The rising storm of battle hushed,\n      And Oscar\u2019s vengeance stayed.\n\n    Of Cumhail\u2019s son then Caoilte sought\n    What wizard Danan foe had wrought\n    Such piteous change--and Finn replied,\n      \u201c\u2019Twas Guillin\u2019s daughter--me she bound\n    By a sacred spell to search the tide\n      Till the ring she lost was found.\u201d\n\n    Then Conan spoke in altered mood--\n      \u201cSafe may we ne\u2019er depart,\n    Till we see restored our chieftain good,\n      Or Guillin rue his art!\u201d\n    Then close around our chief we throng,\n    And bear him on our shields along.\n\n    Eight days and nights the caverned seat\n    Where Guillin made his dark retreat\n      We dig with sleepless care;\n    Pour through its windings close the light,\n    Till we see, in all her radiance bright,\n      Spring forth th\u2019 enchantress fair.\n\n    A chalice she bore of angled mould,[5]\n    And sparkling rich with gems and gold;\n    Its brimming fount in the hand she placed\n    Of Finn, whose looks small beauty graced.\n    Feeble he drinks--the potion speeds\n      Through every joint and pore;\n    To palsied age fresh youth succeeds--\n    Finn of the swift and slender steeds\n      Becomes himself once more.\n    His shape, his strength, his bloom returns,\n    And in manly glory bright he burns!\n\n    We gave three shouts that rent the air--\n      The badgers fled the vale:\n    And now, O sage of frugal care,\n      Hast thou not heard the tale?\n\n                                                                       D.\n\n[1] The game of chess is repeatedly noticed in connection with various\nhistorical incidents in the early history of Ireland. Theophilus\nO\u2019Flanagan, in a note to his translation of _Deirdri_, an ancient Irish\ntale, published in the Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin,\nspeaks of it as \u201ca military game that engages the mental faculties, like\nmathematical science.\u201d O\u2019Flaherty\u2019s Ogygia states that Cathir, the 120th\nking of Ireland, left among his bequests to Crimthan \u201ctwo chess-boards\nwith their chess-men distinguished with their specks and power; on which\naccount he was constituted master of the games in Leinster.\u201d\n\nIn the first book of Homer\u2019s Odyssey the suitors are described as amusing\nthemselves with the game of chess:--\n\n    _With rival art and ardour in their mien,_\n    _At chess they vie to captivate the queen,_\n    _Divining of their loves._\n\nIn Pope\u2019s translation there is a learned note on the subject, to which\nthe curious reader is referred; and also to a passage in Vallancey\u2019s\nEssay on the Celtic Language.\n\n[2] Literally, _as lime_.\n\n[3] This will remind the reader of a similar question by Venus in the\nfirst Eneid:--\n\n        ----Heus inquit, juvenes monstrate mearum\n    Vidistis usquam hic errantem forte sororum\n    Succinctam pharetra, et maculos\u00e6 tegmine lyncis,\n    Aut spumantis apri cursum clamore prementem?--EN. I. 325.\n\n    Ho, strangers! have you lately seen, she said,\n    One of my sisters, like myself array\u2019d,\n    Who cross\u2019d the lawn or in the forest stray\u2019d?\n    A painted quiver at her back she bore;\n    Varied with spots, a lynx\u2019s hide she wore;\n    And at full cry pursued the tusky boar.--DRYDEN.\n\n\n[4] A note in Miss Brooke\u2019s translations informs us that \u201cFinn was\nreproached with deriving all his courage from his foreknowledge of\nevents, and chewing his thumb for prophetic information.\u201d\n\n[5] Quadrangular--the ancient cup of the Irish, called _meadar_.\nSpecimens of it may be seen in the Antiquarian Museum of the Royal Irish\nAcademy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDISCRETION.--This is a nice perception of what is right and proper\nunder the circumstances in which a person is called to act. It may be\nillustrated by the _feelers_ of the cat, which are long hairs placed\nupon her nose, with which she readily measures the space between sticks\nand stones through which she desires to pass, and thus determines, by a\ndelicate touch, whether it is sufficiently large to let her go through\nwithout being scratched. Thus discretion appreciates difficulties,\ndangers, and obstructions around, and enables a person to decide upon the\nproper course of action. \u201cThere are many more shining qualities in the\nmind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this which\ngives a value to all the rest, which sets them at work, and turns them\nto the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. Without it,\nlearning is pedantry and wit impertinence; nay, virtue itself often looks\nlike weakness. Discretion not only shows itself in words, but in all the\ncircumstances of action; and is like an agent of Providence, to guide\nand direct us in the ordinary chances of life.\u201d But how shall discretion\nbe cultivated in children? Chiefly by example. It is a virtue especially\ncommitted to the cultivation of the mother. She may do much to promote\nit, by rebuking acts of imprudence, and bestowing due encouragement upon\nacts of discretion. Let the mother remember that discretion is important\nto men, and see that she cherishes it in her sons; let her remember that\nit is essential to women, and make sure of it in her daughters.--_Dr\nChanning._\n\n\n\n\nTHE IRISH MATCHMAKER.\n\nBY WILLIAM CARLETON.\n\n\nThough this word at a glance may be said to explain itself, yet lest our\nEnglish or Scotch readers might not clearly understand its meaning, we\nshall briefly give them such a definition of it as will enable them to\ncomprehend it in its full extent. The Irish Matchmaker, then, is a person\nselected to conduct reciprocity treaties of the heart between lovers\nthemselves in the first instance, or, where the principal parties are\nindifferent, between their respective families, when the latter happen to\nbe of opinion that it is a safer and more prudent thing to consult the\ninterest of the young folk rather than their inclination. In short, the\nMatchmaker is the person engaged in carrying from one party to another\nall the messages, letters, tokens, presents, and secret communications of\nthe tender passion, in whatever shape or character the said parties may\ndeem it proper to transmit them. The Matchmaker, therefore, is a general\nnegociator in all such matters of love or interest as are designed by\nthe principals or their friends to terminate in the honourable bond of\nmarriage; for with nothing morally improper or licentious, or approaching\nto the character of an intrigue, will the regular Irish Matchmaker have\nany thing at all to do. The Matchmaker, therefore, after all, is only\nthe creature of necessity, and is never engaged by an Irishman unless\nto remove such preliminary obstacles as may stand in the way of his own\ndirect operations. In point of fact, the Matchmaker is nothing but a\npioneer, who, after the plan of the attack has been laid down, clears\naway some of the rougher difficulties, until the regular advance is made,\nthe siege opened in due form, and the citadel successfully entered by the\nprincipal party.\n\nWe have said thus much to prevent our fair neighbours of England and\nScotland from imagining that because such a character as the Irish\nMatchmaker exists at all, Irishmen are personally deficient in that\nfluent energy which is so necessary to express the emotions of the tender\npassion. Addison has proved to the satisfaction of any rational mind that\nmodesty and assurance are inseparable--that a blushing face may accompany\na courageous, nay, a desperate heart--and that, on the contrary, an\nabundance of assurance may be associated with a very handsome degree of\nmodesty. In love matters, I grant, modesty is the _forte_ of an Irishman,\nwhose character in this respect has been unconsciously hit off by the\npoet. Indeed he may truly be termed _vultus ingenui puer, ingenuique\npudoris_; which means, when translated, that in looking for a wife an\nIrishman is \u201ca _boy_ of an _easy_ face, and remarkable modesty.\u201d\n\nAt the head of the Matchmakers, and far above all competitors, stands\nthe Irish Midwife, of whose abilities in this way it is impossible to\nspeak too highly. And let not our readers imagine that the duties which\ndevolve upon her, as well as upon matchmakers in general, are slight or\neasily discharged. To conduct a matter of this kind ably, great tact,\nknowledge of character, and very delicate handling, are necessary. To\nbe incorruptible, faithful to both parties, not to give offence to\neither, and to obviate detection in case of secret bias or partiality,\ndemand talents of no common order. The amount of fortune is often to be\nregulated--the good qualities of the parties placed in the best, or, what\nis often still more judicious, in the most suitable light--and when there\nhappens to be a scarcity of the commodity, it must be furnished from her\nown invention. The miser is to be softened, the contemptuous tone of the\npurse-proud _bodagh_ lowered without offence, the crafty cajoled, and\nsometimes the unsuspecting overreached. Now, all this requires an able\nhand, as matchmaking in general among the Irish does. Indeed I question\nwhether the wiliest politician that ever attempted to manage a treaty of\npeace between two hostile powers could have a more difficult card to play\nthan often falls to the lot of the Irish Matchmaker.\n\nThe Midwife, however, from her confidential intercourse with the sex,\nand the respect with which both young and old of them look upon her, is\npeculiarly well qualified for the office. She has seen the youth shoot up\nand ripen into the young man--she has seen the young man merged into the\nhusband, and the husband very frequently lost in the wife. Now, the marks\nand tokens by which she noted all this are as perceptible in the young of\nthis day as they were in the young of fifty years ago; she consequently\nknows from experience how to manage each party, so as to bring about the\nconsummation which she so devoutly wishes.\n\nUpon second thoughts, however, we are inclined to think after all that\nthe right of precedence upon this point does not exclusively belong to\nthe Midwife; or at least, that there exists another person who contests\nit with her so strongly that we are scarcely capable of determining\ntheir respective claims: this is the _Cosherer_. The Cosherer in Ireland\nis a woman who goes from one relation\u2019s house to another, from friend\nto friend, from acquaintance to acquaintance--is always welcome, and\nuniformly well treated. The very extent of her connexions makes her\nindependent; so that if she receives an affront, otherwise a cold\nreception, from one, she never feels it to affect her comfort, but on the\ncontrary carries it about with her in the shape of a complaint to the\nrest, and details it with such a rich spirit of vituperative enjoyment,\nthat we believe in our soul some of her friends, knowing what healthful\noccupation it gives her, actually affront her from pure kindness. The\nCosherer is the very impersonation of industry. Unless when asleep,\nno mortal living ever saw her hands idle. Her principal employment is\nknitting; and whether she sits, stands, or walks, there she is with the\nend of the stocking under her arm, knit, knit, knitting. She also sews\nand quilts; and whenever a quilting is going forward, she can tell you\nat once in what neighbour\u2019s house the quilting-frame was used last,\nand where it is now to be had; and when it has been got, she is all\nbustle and business, ordering and commanding about her--her large red\nthree-cornered pincushion hanging conspicuously at her side, a lump of\nchalk in one hand, and a coil of twine in the other, ready to mark the\npattern, whether it be wave, square, or diamond.\n\nThe Cosherer is always dressed with neatness and comfort, but generally\nwears something about her that reminds one of a day gone by, and may be\nconsidered as the lingering remnant of some old custom that has fallen\ninto disuse. This, slight as it is, endears her to many, for it stands\nout as the memorial of some old and perhaps affecting associations, which\nat its very appearance are called out from the heart in which they were\nslumbering.\n\nIt is impossible to imagine a happier life than that of the Cosherer. She\nhas evidently no trouble, no care, no children, nor any of the various\nclaims of life, to disturb or encumber her. Wherever she goes she is\nmade, and finds herself, perfectly at home. The whole business of her\nlife is carrying about intelligence, making and projecting matches,\nsinging old songs and telling old stories, which she frequently does\nwith a feeling and unction not often to be met with. She will sing you\nthe different sets and variations of the old airs, repeat the history\nand traditions of old families, recite _ranns_, interpret dreams, give\nthe origin of old local customs, and tell a ghost story in a style that\nwould make your hair stand on end. She is a bit of a doctress, too--an\nextensive herbalist, and is very skilful and lucky among children. In\nshort, she is a perfect Gentleman\u2019s Magazine in her way--a regular\nrepertory of traditionary lore, a collector and distributor of social\nantiquities, dealing in every thing that is timeworn or old, and handling\nit with such a quiet and antique air, that one would imagine her life\nto be a life not of years but of centuries, and that she had passed the\ngreater portion of it, long as it was, in \u201cwandering by the shores of old\nromance.\u201d\n\nSuch a woman the reader will at once perceive is a formidable competitor\nfor popular confidence with the Midwife. Indeed there is but one\nconsideration alone upon which we would be inclined to admit that\nthe latter has any advantage over her--and it is, that she _is the\nMidwife_; a word which is a tower of strength to her, not only against\nall professional opponents, but against such analogous characters as\nwould intrude even upon any of her subordinate or collateral offices.\nAs matchmakers, it is extremely difficult to decide between her and the\nCosherer; so much so, indeed, that we are disposed to leave the claim for\npriority undetermined. In this respect each pulls in the same harness;\nand as they are so well matched, we will allow them to jog on side by\nside, drawing the youngsters of the neighbouring villages slowly but\nsurely towards the land of matrimony.\n\nIn humble country life, as in high life, we find in nature the same\nprinciples and motives of action. Let not the speculating mother of rank,\nnor the husband-hunting dowager, imagine for a moment that the plans,\nstratagems, lures, and trap-falls, with which they endeavour to secure\nsome wealthy fool for their daughters, are not known and practised--ay,\nand with as much subtlety and circumvention too--by the very humblest of\ntheir own sex. In these matters they have not one whit of superiority\nover the lowest, sharpest, and most fraudulent gossip of a country\nvillage, where the arts of women are almost as sagaciously practised, and\nthe small scandal as ably detailed, as in the highest circles of fashion.\n\nThe third great master of the art of matchmaking is the _Shanahus_,\nwho is nothing more or less than the counterpart of the Cosherer; for\nas the Cosherer is never of the male sex, so the Shanahus is never of\nthe female. With respect to their habits and modes of life, the only\ndifference between them is, that as the Cosherer is never idle, so the\nShanahus never works; and the latter is a far superior authority in old\npopular prophecy and genealogy. As a matchmaker, however, the Shanahus\ncomes infinitely short of the Cosherer; for the truth is, that this\nbranch of diplomacy falls naturally within the man\u0153uvring and intriguing\nspirit of a woman.\n\nOur readers are not to understand that in Ireland there exists, like\nthe fiddler or dancing-master, a distinct character openly known by\nthe appellation of matchmaker. No such thing. On the contrary, the\nnegotiations they undertake are all performed under false colours. The\nbusiness, in fact, is close and secret, and always carried on with the\nprofoundest mystery, veiled by the sanction of some other ostensible\noccupation.\n\nOne of the best specimens of the kind we ever met was old Rose Mohan, or,\nas she was called, Moan, a name, we doubt, fearfully expressive of the\nconsequences which too frequently followed her own negociations. Rose\nwas a tidy creature of middle size, who always went dressed in a short\ncrimson cloak much faded, a striped red and blue drugget petticoat, and\na heather-coloured gown of the same fabric. When walking, which she did\nwith the aid of a light hazel staff hooked at the top, she generally\nkept the hood of the cloak over her head, which gave to her whole figure\na picturesque effect; and when she threw it back, one could not help\nadmiring how well her small but symmetrical features agreed with the dowd\ncap of white linen, with a plain muslin border, which she wore. A pair of\nblue stockings and sharp-pointed shoes high in the heels completed her\ndress. Her features were good-natured and Irish; but there lay over the\nwhole countenance an expression of quickness and sagacity, contracted\nno doubt by a habitual exercise of penetration and circumspection. At\nthe time I saw her she was very old, and I believe had the reputation\nof being the last in that part of the country who was known to go about\nfrom house to house spinning on the distaff, an instrument which has now\npassed away, being more conveniently replaced by the spinning-wheel.\n\nThe manner and style of Rose\u2019s visits were different from those of any\nother who could come to a farmer\u2019s house, or even to an humble cottage,\nfor to the inmates of both were her services equally rendered. Let\nus suppose, for instance, the whole female part of a farmer\u2019s family\nassembled of a summer evening about five o\u2019clock, each engaged in\nsome domestic employment: in runs a lad who has been sporting about,\nbreathlessly exclaiming, whilst his eyes are lit up with delight,\n\u201cMother! mother! here\u2019s Rose Moan coming down the boreen!\u201d \u201cGet out,\navick; no, she\u2019s not.\u201d \u201cBad cess to me but she is; that I may never stir\nif she isn\u2019t! Now!\u201d The whole family are instantly at the door to see\nif it be she, with the exception of the prettiest of them all, Kitty,\nwho sits at her wheel, and immediately begins to croon over an old Irish\nair which is sadly out of tune; and well do we know, notwithstanding\nthe mellow tones of that sweet voice, why it is so, and also why that\nyouthful cheek in which health and beauty meet, is now the colour of\ncrimson.\n\n\u201c_Oh, Rosha, acushla, cead millie failte ghud!_ (Rose, darlin\u2019, a hundred\nthousand welcomes to you!) Och, musha, what kep you away so long, Rose?\nSure you won\u2019t lave us this month o\u2019 Sundays, Rose?\u201d are only a few of\nthe cordial expressions of hospitality and kindness with which she is\nreceived. But Kitty, whose cheek but a moment ago was carmine, why is it\nnow pale as the lily?\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 what news, Rose?\u201d asks one of her sisters; \u201csure you\u2019ll tell us\nevery thing; won\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThroth, avillish, _I have no bad news_, any how--an\u2019 as to tellin\u2019 you\n_all_--Biddy, _lhig dumh_, let me alone. No, I have no bad news, God be\npraised, _but good news_.\u201d\n\nKitty\u2019s cheek is again crimson, and her lips, ripe and red as cherries,\nexpand with the sweet soft smile of her country, exhibiting a set of\nteeth for which many a countess would barter thousands, and giving out\na breath more delicious than the fragrance of a summer meadow. Oh, no\nwonder, indeed, that the kind heart of Rose contains in its recesses a\nmessage to her as tender as ever was transmitted from man to woman!\n\n\u201cAn\u2019, Kitty, acushla, where\u2019s the welcome from _you_, that\u2019s my\nfavourite? Now don\u2019t be jealous, childre; sure you all know she is, an\u2019\never an\u2019 always was.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf it\u2019s not upon my lips, it\u2019s in my heart, Rose, an\u2019 from that heart\nyou\u2019re welcome!\u201d\n\nShe rises up and kisses Rose, who gives her one glance of meaning,\naccompanied by the slightest imaginable smile, and a gentle but\nsignificant pressure of the hand, which thrills to her heart and diffuses\na sense of ecstacy through her whole spirit. Nothing now remains but the\nopportunity, which is equally sought for by Rose and her, to hear without\ninterruption the purport of her lover\u2019s communication; and this we leave\nto lovers to imagine.\n\nIn Ireland, however odd it may seem, there occur among the very poorest\nclasses some of the hardest and most penurious bargains in matchmaking\nthat ever were heard of or known. Now, strangers might imagine that all\nthis close higgling proceeds from a spirit naturally near and sordid, but\nit is not so. The real secret of it lies in the poverty and necessity\nof the parties, and chiefly in the bitter experience of their parents,\nwho, having come together in a state of destitution, are anxious, each as\nmuch at the expense of the other as possible, to prevent their children\nfrom experiencing the same privation and misery which they themselves\nfelt. Many a time have matches been suspended or altogether broken off\nbecause one party refuses to give his son a slip of a pig, or another his\ndaughter a pair of blankets; and it was no unusual thing for a matchmaker\nto say, \u201cNever mind; I have it all settled _but the slip_.\u201d One might\nnaturally wonder why those who are so shrewd and provident upon this\nsubject do not strive to prevent early marriages where the poverty is\nso great. So unquestionably they ought, but it is a settled usage of\nthe country, and one too which Irishmen have never been in the habit\nof considering as an evil. We have no doubt that if they once began to\nreason upon it as such, they would be very strongly disposed to check a\ncustom which has been the means of involving themselves and their unhappy\noffspring in misery, penury, and not unfrequently in guilt itself.\n\nRose, like many others in this world who are not conscious of the same\nfailing, smelt strongly of the shop; in other words, her conversation\nhad a strong matrimonial tendency. No two beings ever lived so decidedly\nantithetical to each other in this point of view as the Matchmaker and\nthe Keener. Mention the name of an individual or a family to the Keener,\nand the medium through which her memory passes back to them is that of\nher professed employment--a mourner at wakes and funerals.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you know young Kelly of Tamlaght?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do, avick,\u201d replies the Keener, \u201cand what about him?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, he was married to-day mornin\u2019 to ould Jack M\u2019Cluskey\u2019s daughter.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, God grant them luck an\u2019 happiness, poor things! I do indeed\nremember his father\u2019s wake an\u2019 funeral well--ould Risthard Kelly of\nTamlaght--a dacent corpse he made for his years, an\u2019 well he looked. But\nindeed I _knewn_ by the colour that sted in his checks, an\u2019 the limbs\nremainin\u2019 soople for the twenty-four hours afther his departure, that\nsome of the family \u2019ud follow him afore the year was out: an\u2019 so she\ndid. The youngest daughter, poor thing, by raison of a could she got,\nover-heatin\u2019 herself at a dance, was stretched beside him that very day\nwas eleven months; and God knows it was from the heart my grief came\nfor _her_--to see the poor handsome colleen laid low so soon. But when\na gallopin\u2019 consumption sets in, avourneen, sure we all know what\u2019s to\nhappen. In Crockaniska churchyard they sleep--the Lord make both their\nbeds in heaven this day!\u201d The very reverse of this, but at the same time\nas inveterately professional, was Rose Moan.\n\n\u201cGod save you, Rose.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod save you kindly, avick. Eh!--let me look at you. Aren\u2019t you red\nBilly M\u2019Guirk\u2019s son from Ballagh?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am, Rose. An\u2019, Rose, how is yourself an\u2019 the world gettin\u2019 an?\u201d\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t complain, dear, in such times. How are yez all at home, alanna?\u201d\n\n\u201cFaix, middlin\u2019 well, Rose, thank God an\u2019 you.--You heard of my\ngranduncle\u2019s death, big Ned M\u2019Coul?\u201d\n\n\u201cI did, avick, God rest him. Sure it\u2019s well I remimber his weddin\u2019, poor\nman, by the same atoken that I know one that helped him on wid it a\nthrifle. He was married in a blue coat and buckskins, an\u2019 wore a scarlet\nwaistcoat that you\u2019d see three miles off. Oh, well I remimber it. An\u2019\nwhin he was settin\u2019 out that mornin\u2019 to the priest\u2019s house, \u2018Ned,\u2019 says\nI, an\u2019 I fwhishspered him, \u2018dhrop a button on the right knee afore you\nget the words said.\u2019 \u2018_Thighum_,\u2019 said he, wid a smile, an\u2019 he slipped\nten thirteens into my hand as he spoke. \u2018I\u2019ll do it,\u2019 said he, \u2018and thin\na fig for the fairies!\u2019--becase you see if there\u2019s a button of the right\nknee left unbuttoned, the fairies--this day\u2019s Friday, God stand betune us\nand harm!--can do neither hurt nor harm to sowl or body, an\u2019 sure that\u2019s\na great blessin\u2019, avick. He left two fine slips o\u2019 girls behind him.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe did so--as good-lookin\u2019 girls as there\u2019s in the parish.\u201d\n\n\u201cFaix, an\u2019 kind mother for them, avick. She\u2019ll be marryin\u2019 agin, I\u2019m\njudgin\u2019, she bein\u2019 sich a fresh good-lookin\u2019 woman.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, it\u2019s very likely, Rose.\u201d\n\n\u201cThroth it\u2019s natural, achora. What can a lone woman do wid such a large\nfarm upon her hands, widout having some one to manage it for her, an\u2019\nprevint her from bein\u2019 imposed on? But indeed the first thing she ought\nto do is to marry off her two girls widout loss of time, in regard that\nit\u2019s hard to say how a stepfather an\u2019 thim might agree; and I\u2019ve often\nknown the mother herself, when she had a fresh family comin\u2019 an her,\nto be as unnatural to her fatherless childre as if she was a stranger\nto thim, and that the same blood did\u2019nt run in their veins. Not saying\nthat Mary M\u2019Coul will or would act that way by her own; for indeed she\u2019s\ncome of a kind ould stock, an\u2019 ought to have a good heart. Tell her,\navick, when you see her, that I\u2019ll spind a day or two wid her--let me\nsee--to-morrow will be Palm Sunday--why, about the Aisther holidays.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed I will, Rose, with great pleasure.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 fwhishsper, dear, jist tell her that I\u2019ve a thing to say to\nher--that I had a long dish o\u2019 discoorse about her wid _a friend o\u2019\nmine_. You wont forget now?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh the dickens a forget!\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, dear: God mark you to grace, avourneen! When you\u2019re a little\nouldher, maybe I\u2019ll be a friend to you yet.\u201d\n\nThis last intimation was given with a kind of mysterious benevolence,\nvery visible in the complacent shrewdness of her face, and with a twinkle\nin the eye, full of grave humour and considerable self-importance,\nleaving the mind of the person she spoke to in such an agreeable\nuncertainty as rendered it a matter of great difficulty to determine\nwhether she was serious or only in jest, but at all events throwing the\nonus of inquiry upon him.\n\nThe ease and tact with which Rose could involve two young persons of\nopposite sexes in a mutual attachment, were very remarkable. In truth,\nshe was a kind of matrimonial incendiary, who went through the country\nholding her torch now to this heart and again to that--first to one and\nthen to another, until she had the parish more or less in a flame. And\nwhen we consider the combustible materials of which the Irish heart is\ncomposed, it is no wonder indeed that the labour of taking the census\nin Ireland increases at such a rapid rate during the time that elapses\nbetween the periods of its being made out. If Rose, for instance, met\na young woman of her acquaintance accidentally--and it was wonderful\nto think how regularly these accidental meetings took place--she would\naddress her probably somewhat as follows:--\n\n\u201cArra, Biddy Sullivan, how are you, a-colleen?\u201d\n\n\u201cFaix, bravely, thank you, Rose. How is yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, thin, sorra bit o\u2019 the health we can complain of, Bhried,\nbarrin\u2019 whin this pain in the back comes upon us. The last time I seen\nyour mother, Biddy, she was complainin\u2019 of a _weid_.[6] I hope she\u2019s\nbetther, poor woman?\u201d\n\n\u201cHut! bad scran to the thing ails her! She has as light a foot as e\u2019er a\none of us, an\u2019 can dance \u2018Jackson\u2019s mornin\u2019 brush\u2019 as well as ever she\ncould.\u201d\n\n\u201cThroth, an\u2019 I\u2019m proud to hear it. Och! och! \u2018Jackson\u2019s mornin\u2019 brush!\u2019\nand it was she that _could_ do it. Sure I remimber her wedding-day\nlike yestherday. Ay, far an\u2019 near her fame wint as a dancer, an\u2019 the\nclanest-made girl that ever came from Lisbuie. Like yestherday do I\nremimber it, an\u2019 how the squire himself an\u2019 the ladies from the Big\nHouse came down to see herself an\u2019 your father, the bride and groom--an\u2019\nit wasn\u2019t on every hill head you\u2019d get sich a couple--dancin\u2019 the same\n\u2018Jackson\u2019s mornin\u2019 brush.\u2019 Oh! it was far and near her fame wint for\ndancin\u2019 that.--An\u2019 is there no news wid you, Bhried, at all at all?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe sorra word, Rose: where ud I get news? Sure it\u2019s yourself that\u2019s\nalways on the fut that ought to have the news for _us_, Rose alive.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 maybe I have too. I was spaikin\u2019 to a friend o\u2019 mine about you the\nother day.\u201d\n\n\u201cA friend o\u2019 yours, Rose! Why, what friend could it be?\u201d\n\n\u201cA friend o\u2019 mine--ay, an\u2019 of yours too. Maybe you have more friends than\nyou think, Biddy--and kind ones too, as far as wishin\u2019 you well goes,\n\u2019tany rate. Ay have you, faix, an\u2019 friends that e\u2019er a girl in the parish\nmight be proud to hear named in the one day wid her. Awouh!\u201d\n\n\u201cBedad we\u2019re in luck, thin, for that\u2019s more than I knew of. An\u2019 who may\nthese great friends of ours be, Rose?\u201d\n\n\u201cAwouh! Faix, as dacent a boy as ever broke bread the same boy is, \u2018and,\u2019\nsays he, \u2018if I had goold in bushelfuls, I\u2019d think it too little for that\ngirl;\u2019 but, poor lad, he\u2019s not aisy or happy in his mind in regard o\u2019\nthat. \u2018I\u2019m afeard,\u2019 says he, \u2018that she\u2019d put scorn upon me, an\u2019 not think\nme her aiquals. An\u2019 no more I am,\u2019 says he again, \u2018for where, afther all,\nwould you get the likes of Biddy Sullivan?\u2019--Poor boy! throth my heart\naches for him!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, can\u2019t you fall in love wid him yourself, Rose, whoever he is?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, an\u2019 if I was at your age, it would be no shame to me to do so;\nbut, to tell you the thruth, the sorra often ever the likes of Paul\nHeffernan came acrass me.\u201d\n\n\u201cPaul Heffernan! Why, Rose,\u201d replied Biddy, smiling with the assumed\nlightness of indifference, \u201cis that your beauty? If it is, why, keep him,\nan\u2019 make much of him.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, wurrah! the differ there is between the hearts an\u2019 tongues of some\npeople--one from another--an\u2019 the way they spaik behind others\u2019 backs!\nWell, well, I\u2019m sure that wasn\u2019t the way he spoke of you, Biddy; an\u2019\nGod forgive you for runnin\u2019 down the poor boy as you\u2019re doin\u2019. Trogs! I\nbelieve you\u2019re the only girl would do it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho, me! I\u2019m not runnin\u2019 him down. I\u2019m neither runnin\u2019 him up nor down.\nI have neither good nor bad to say about him--the boy\u2019s a black sthranger\nto me, barrin\u2019 to know his face.\u201d\n\n\u201cFaix, an\u2019 he\u2019s in consate wid you these three months past, an\u2019 intinds\nto be at the dance on Friday next, in Jack Gormly\u2019s new house. Now, good\nbye, alanna; keep your own counsel till the time comes, an\u2019 mind what\nI said to you. It\u2019s not behind every ditch the likes of Paul Heffernan\ngrows. _Bannaght lhath!_ My blessin\u2019 be wid you!\u201d\n\nThus would Rose depart just at the critical moment, for well she knew\nthat by husbanding her information and leaving the heart something to\nfind out, she took the most effectual steps to excite and sustain that\nkind of interest which is apt ultimately to ripen, even from its own\nagitation, into the attachment she is anxious to promote.\n\nThe next day, by a meeting similarly accidental, she comes in contact\nwith Paul Heffernan, who, honest lad, had never probably bestowed a\nthought upon Biddy Sullivan in his life.\n\n\u201c_Morrow ghud_, Paul!--how is your father\u2019s son, ahager?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Morrow ghuteha_, Rose!--my father\u2019s son wants nothin\u2019 but a good wife,\nRosha.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 it\u2019s not every set day or bonfire night that a good wife is to be\nhad, Paul--that is, a _good_ one, as you say; for, throth, there\u2019s many\no\u2019 them in the market sich as they are. I was talkin\u2019 about you to a\nfriend of mine the other day--an\u2019, trogs, I\u2019m afeard you\u2019re not worth all\nthe abuse we gave you.\u201d\n\n\u201cMore power to you, Rose! I\u2019m oblaged to you. But who is the friend in\nthe manetime?\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor girl! Throth, when your name slipped out an her, the point of a\nrush would take a drop of blood out o\u2019 her cheek, the way she crimsoned\nup. \u2018An\u2019, Rose,\u2019 says she, \u2018if ever I know you to breathe it to man or\nmortual, my lips I\u2019ll never open to you to my dyin\u2019 day.\u2019 Trogs, whin I\nlooked at her, an\u2019 the tears standin\u2019 in her purty black eyes, I thought\nI didn\u2019t see a betther favoured girl, for both face and figure, this many\na day, than the same Biddy Sullivan.\u201d\n\n\u201cBiddy Sullivan! Is that long Jack\u2019s daughter of Cargah?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe same. But, Paul, avick, if a syllable o\u2019 what I tould you----\u201d\n\n\u201cHut, Rose! honour bright! Do you think me a _stag_, that I\u2019d go and\ninform on you?\u201d\n\n\u201cFwhishsper, Paul; she\u2019ll be at the dance on Friday next in Jack Gormly\u2019s\nnew house. So _bannaght lhath_, an\u2019 think o\u2019 what I betrayed to you.\u201d\n\nThus did Rose very quietly and sagaciously bind two young hearts\ntogether, who probably might otherwise have never for a moment even\nthought of each other. Of course, when Paul and Biddy met at the dance on\nthe following Friday, the one was the object of the closest attention to\nthe other; and each being prepared to witness strong proofs of attachment\nfrom the opposite party, every thing fell out exactly according to their\nexpectations.\n\nSometimes it happens that a booby of a fellow during his calf love will\nemploy a male friend to plead his suit with a pretty girl, who, if the\nprincipal party had spunk, might be very willing to marry him. To the\ncredit of our fair countrywomen, however, be it said, that in scarcely\none instance out of twenty does it happen, or has it ever happened, that\nany of them ever fails to punish the faint heart by bestowing the fair\nlady upon what is called the blackfoot or spokesman whom he selects to\nmake love for him. In such a case it is very naturally supposed that\nthe latter will speak two words for himself and one for his friend,\nand indeed the result bears out the supposition. Now, nothing on earth\ngratifies the heart of the established Matchmaker so much as to hear\nof such a disaster befalling a spoony. She exults over his misfortune\nfor months, and publishes his shame to the uttermost bounds of her own\nlittle world, branding him as \u201ca poor pitiful crature, who had not the\ncourage to spaik up for himself or to employ them that could.\u201d In fact,\nshe entertains much the same feeling against him that a regular physician\nwould towards some weak-minded patient, who prefers the knavish ignorance\nof a quack to the skill and services of an able and educated medical\npractitioner.\n\nCharacters like Rose are fast disappearing in Ireland; and indeed in a\ncountry where the means of life were generally inadequate to the wants\nof the population, they were calculated, however warmly the heart may\nlook back upon the memory of their services, to do more harm than good,\nby inducing young folks to enter into early and improvident marriages.\nThey certainly sprang up from a state of society not thoroughly formed\nby proper education and knowledge--where the language of a people, too,\nwas in many extensive districts in such a state of transition as in the\ninterchange of affection to render an interpreter absolutely necessary.\nWe have ourselves witnessed marriages where the husband and wife spoke\nthe one English and the other Irish, each being able with difficulty to\nunderstand the other. In all such cases Rose was invaluable. She spoke\nIrish and English fluently, and indeed was acquainted with every thing in\nthe slightest or most remote degree necessary to the conduct of a love\naffair, from the first glance up until the priest had pronounced the last\nwords--or, to speak more correctly, until \u201cthe throwing of the stocking.\u201d\n\nRose was invariably placed upon the _hob_, which is the seat of comfort\nand honour at a farmer\u2019s fireside, and there she sat neat and tidy,\ndetailing all the news of the parish, telling them how such a marriage\nwas one unbroken honeymoon--a sure proof by the way that she herself had\na hand in it--and again, how another one did not turn out well, and she\nsaid so; \u201cthere was always a bad dhrop in the Haggarties; but, my dear,\nthe girl herself was _for_ him; so as she made her own bed she must lie\nin it, poor thing. Any way, thanks be to goodness I had nothing to do wid\nit!\u201d\n\nRose was to be found in every fair and market, and always at a particular\nplace at a certain hour of the day, where the parties engaged in a\ncourtship were sure to meet her on these occasions. She took a chirping\nglass, but never so as to become unsteady. Great deference was paid to\nevery thing she said; and if this was not conceded to her, she extorted\nit with a high hand. Nobody living could drink a health with half the\ncomic significance that Rose threw into her eye when saying, \u201cWell, young\ncouple, here\u2019s everything as you wish it!\u201d\n\nRose\u2019s motions from place to place were usually very slow, and for the\nbest reason in the world, because she was frequently interrupted. For\ninstance, if she met a young man on her way, ten to one but he stood\nand held a long and earnest conversation with her; and that it was both\nimportant and confidential, might easily be gathered from the fact that\nwhenever a stranger passed, it was either suspended altogether, or\ncarried on in so low a tone as to be inaudible. This held equally good\nwith the girls. Many a time have I seen them retracing their steps, and\nprobably walking back a mile or two, all the time engaged in discussing\nsome topic evidently of more than ordinary interest to themselves. And\nwhen they shook hands and bade each other good bye, heavens! at what a\npace did the latter scamper homewards across fields and ditches, in order\nto make up for the time she had lost!\n\nNobody ever saw Rose receive a penny of money, and yet when she took\na fancy, it was beyond any doubt that she has often been known to\nassist young folks in their early struggles; but in no instance was the\nslightest aid ever afforded to any one whose union she had not herself\nbeen instrumental in bringing about. As to the _when_ and the _how_ she\ngot this money, and the great quantity of female apparel which she was\nknown to possess, we think we see our readers smile at the simplicity of\nthose who may not be able to guess the several sources from whence she\nobtained it.\n\nOne other fact we must mention before we close this sketch of her\ncharacter. There were _some_ houses--we will not, for we dare not, say\n_how many_--into which Rose was never seen to enter. This, however, was\nnot her fault. Every one knew that what she did, she did always for the\nbest; and if some small bits of execration were occasionally levelled\nat her, it was not more than the parties levelled at each other. All\nmarriages cannot be happy; and indeed it was a creditable proof of Rose\nMoan\u2019s sagacity that so few of those effected through her instrumentality\nwere unfortunate.\n\nPoor Rose! matchmaking was the great business of your simple but not\nabsolutely harmless life. You are long since, we trust, gone to that\nhappy place where there are neither marryings nor givings in marriage,\nbut where you will have a long Sabbath from your old habits and\ntendencies. We love for more reasons than either one or two to think of\nyour faded crimson cloak, peaked shoes, hazel staff, clear grey eye,\nand nose and chin that were so full of character. As you used to say\nyourself, _bannaght lhath!_--my blessing be with you!\n\n[6] A feverish cold.\n\n\n\n\nRANDOM SKETCHES.--No. I.\n\nFELINE RECOLLECTIONS.\n\n\nOne result of perusing such interesting papers on \u201cthe Intellectuality of\nDomestic Animals\u201d as that which lately appeared in the _Dublin University\nMagazine_, should be the publication of similar facts; another, the\npromotion of that kindness towards the inferior creation which is still,\nalas! so sparingly manifested. I therefore propose stuffing a cranny\nof the _Irish Penny Journal_ with a few particulars relating, firstly,\nto the maternal and filial piety of the cat; secondly, to the humanity\n(or, psychologically speaking, brutality) of the same animal. Of the\nfacts illustrative of the former virtues I was an eye-witness--those\nillustrative of the latter I had from a member of the family in which\nthey occurred.\n\nIn my early home two cats, a mother and a son, formed part of the\nestablishment. The former, a dark-grey matron, rejoiced in the euphonious\nname of SMUT--the colour of the latter may be inferred from his\nappellation, FOX. Smut was, to be brief, the most lady-like cat I ever\nsaw; Fox was a huge Dan Donnelly of a brute, a very hero of the slates,\nand the terror of all the cats in the neighbourhood, _save one_; he\nwalloped them right and left; and many a smirking sylph of the gutters,\nwont to pick her steps daintily to avoid all possible contact with the\nwet, was seen to scamper away screaming when Fox appeared in view, for\ntruth obliges me to record that he spared neither age nor sex. Nor was he\nformidable to the brute creation alone--humanity often suffered under his\nvisitations. There was no keener forager among the larders and pantries\nof the neighbourhood. A poor dancing-master who had a way of leaving his\nwindow open was most frequently victimized; for as the said window was\n_convenient_ to the low roof of a back house, our hero used to quietly\nwalk in and purvey to his liking. In the recess of a chimney, and several\nfeet above the roof of our house, was a kind of small platform, where\nMaster Fox was usually pleased to regale himself on his ill-gotten gains.\nOne day I saw him with a calf\u2019s or lamb\u2019s pluck in his mouth, twice as\nlong as himself, darting aloft towards his refectory. The weight of the\nbooty several times dragged him back; but he persevered till he gained\nhis point: it was a sight ludicrous beyond all imagining.\n\nBut as it was not every day Master Fox could mulct the circumambient\ndancing-master in a beef-steak or a calf\u2019s pluck, he often returned home\nhungry; and I am now come to the point of proving the \u201cintellectuality\u201d\nof Madam Smut, as evidenced in her maternal piety. Within the\nkitchen-door lay a mat, in a hole in which she daily hid a portion of her\nlights. She was generally dozing before the fire when her son came in for\nthe night, and whenever I happened to follow him and watch her movements,\nshe invariably looked up to see whether he had scented the provender:\nand when satisfied on that point, coiled herself up to sleep again. But\nher maternal tenderness never interfered with her matronly dignity. Woe\nbetide Fox, if, in proceeding to take his place at the fire, he attempted\nto pass between her and it. She would instantly spring up and deal him\na dab, which prevented for that time a repetition of the indecorum. I\nhave seen him steal most cautiously along the forbidden path in the\npresumption that she was asleep, but I do not remember to have ever seen\nhim effect a passage. I have said that he leathered all the cats about\nhim save one--that one was his mother. Determined pugilist and fire-eater\nas he was, he never returned the dab she gave him.\n\nThe fact of which I was only an ear-witness may be briefly related. A\nlady of this city observing one day a wretched kitten which had been\nruthlessly flung into the street before her residence, had it taken into\nthe house and carefully tended. Some time after, when it had grown into\na thorough-bred mouser, a strange cat with a broken leg hobbled into the\nyard, where it was discovered by the foundling, which immediately took\ncharge of it, and regularly allotted to the sufferer a portion of its own\ndaily food till it was sufficiently recovered to shift for itself.\n\nAs a warm friend of the inferior creation, I was much pleased to find\ntheir cause pleaded towards the close of the article, which gave rise\nto the present sketch, and a just encomium passed on the author of \u201cthe\nRights of Animals.\u201d And much was I gratified to find that the same cause\nappears to maintain an abiding interest in the bosom of the first of\nliving poets. \u201cC. O.\u201d alludes as follows to a conversation he had with\nMr Wordsworth on the subject:--\u201cI remember an observation made to me\nby one of the most gifted of the human race--one of the stars of this\ngeneration--the poet of nature and of feeling--the good and the great Mr\nWordsworth. Having the honour of a conversation with him after he had\nmade a tour through Ireland, I in the course of it asked what was the\nthing that most struck his observation here as making us differ from the\nEnglish; and he without hesitation said it was the ill-treatment of our\nhorses: that his soul was often, too often, sick within him at the way\nin which he saw these creatures of God abused.\u201d One evening, which I\nhad the happiness of spending at Rydal Mount, the very same subject was\nbroached by Mr W. Defend my countrymen I could not, but I parried the\nattack by showing that other segments of the united kingdom had little\nright to boast over them in this particular. This I proved by adverting\nto the notorious cat-skinning of London--a horror unknown in Ireland,\nbad as we are--and to certain atrocious cruelties which had just been\nperpetrated on some horses in Sutherland (though I must confess that I\nknow too little of Scotland to pronounce whether its national character\nis tarnished by cruelty to animals or not). And much was I surprised when\nthe son of the poet threw discredit on the character of one of the first\nof London newspapers, from which I had cited a recent case in proof of\nmy assertion. It was in 1833 I visited Rydal Mount. Should this paper\nreach the eye of Mr W. jun., he may find my statement corroborated, and\nthe perpetration of the barbarous trade demonstrated, by referring to the\ncase of Elizabeth Rogerson, an old offender, who in 1839 was condemned\nto the ridiculously lenient penalty of two months\u2019 imprisonment for the\ncrime, without hard labour. A diametrically opposite opinion respecting\nthe treatment of horses in Ireland was once expressed to me by another\nEnglish gentleman of some celebrity in the religious world. He passed an\nencomium on the kindness to animals observable in this country, from the\nhabit he had noticed among the drivers of jaunting-cars, during his short\nstay in Dublin, of feeding their horses from their hands with a wisp of\nhay at leisure moments--a pitch of humanity just equivalent to that of\ngreasing the wheels of their vehicles.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Printed and published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON,\n    No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin; and sold by all\n    Booksellers.","title":"The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 15, October 10, 1840","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11016}