{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54290/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54290","id":"gutenberg_54290","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54290","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Ireland -- Periodicals"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n       NUMBER 18.      SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1840.      VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: WOODLANDS, COUNTY OF DUBLIN]\n\nWoodlands, the seat of one of our good resident landlords, Colonel\nWhite, considered in connection with its beautiful demesne, may justly\nrank as the finest aristocratic residence in the immediate vicinity of\nour metropolis. As an architectural composition, indeed, the house,\nor castle, as it is called, will not bear a comparison, either for\nits classical correctness of details, or its general picturesqueness\nof outline, with the Castle of Clontarf--the architectural gem of our\nvicinity; but its proportions are on a grander scale, and its general\neffect accordingly more imposing, while its demesne scenery, in its\nnatural beauties, the richness of its plantations, and other artificial\nimprovements, is without a rival in our metropolitan county, and\nindeed is characterised by some features of such exquisite beauty as\nare very rarely found in park scenery any where, and which are nowhere\nto be surpassed. Well might the Prince P\u00fcckler Muskau, who despite of\nhis strange name has undoubtedly a true taste for the beautiful and\npicturesque, describe the entrance to this demesne as \u201cindeed the most\ndelightful in its kind that can be imagined.\u201d \u201cScenery,\u201d he continues,\n\u201cby nature most beautiful, is improved by art to the highest degree of\nits capability, and, without destroying its free and wild character, a\nvariety and richness of vegetation is produced which enchants the eye.\nGay shrubs and wild flowers, the softest turf and giant trees, festooned\nwith creeping plants, fill the narrow glen through which the path\nwinds, by the side of the clear dancing brook, which, falling in little\ncataracts, flows on, sometimes hidden in the thicket, sometimes resting\nlike liquid silver in an emerald cup, or rushing under overhanging arches\nof rock, which nature seems to have hung there as triumphal gates for\nthe beneficent Na\u00efad of the valley to pass through.\u201d\n\nThis description may appear somewhat enthusiastic, but we can truly state\nas our own opinion, formed on a recent visit to Woodlands, that it is\nby no means overdrawn, but, on the contrary, that it would be equally\ndifficult, if not impossible, either for the pencil or the pen to convey\nan adequate idea of the peculiar beauties of this little tract of fairy\nland.\n\nSingularly beautiful, however, as this sylvan glen unquestionably is, it\nis only one of the many features for which Woodlands is pre-eminently\ndistinguished. Its finely undulating surface--its sheets of water, though\nartificially formed--its noble forest timber--but above all, its woodland\nwalks, commanding vistas of the exquisite valley of the Liffey, with the\nmore remote scenery bounded by the Dublin and Wicklow mountains--all are\nequally striking, and present a combination of varied and impressive\nfeatures but rarely found within the bounds of even a princely demesne.\n\nThough Woodlands derives very many of its attractions from modern\nimprovements, its chief artificial features are of no recent creation,\nand are such as it would require a century or two to bring to their\npresent perfection. Woodlands is emphatically an old place, and is\nsaid to have been granted by King John to Sir Geoffry Lutterel, an\nAnglo-Norman knight who accompanied him into Ireland, and in possession\nof whose descendants it remained, and was their residence from the close\nof the fifteenth till the commencement of the present century, when it\nwas sold to Mr Luke White by the last Earl of Carhampton. Up to this\nperiod it was known by the name of Lutterelstown, a name which, for\nvarious reasons, the family into whose possession it has passed have\nwisely changed.\n\nThe principal parts of the mansion were rebuilt about fifty years back.\nBut a portion of the original castle still remains, and an apartment in\nit bears the name of King John\u2019s chamber. It has also received additional\nextension from its present proprietor, who is now making further\nadditions to the structure.\n\nWoodlands is situated on the north bank of the Liffey, about five miles\nfrom Dublin.\n\n                                                                       P.\n\n\n\n\nPEGGY THE PISHOGUE.\n\n\n\u201cAnd now, Mickey Brennan, it\u2019s not but I have a grate regard for you,\nfor troth you\u2019re a dacint boy, and a dacint father and mother\u2019s child;\nbut you see, avick, the short and the long of it is, that you needn\u2019t be\nlooking after my little girl any more.\u201d\n\nSuch was the conclusion of a long and interesting harangue pronounced\nby old Brian Moran of Lagh-buoy, for the purpose of persuading his\ndaughter\u2019s sweetheart to waive his pretensions--a piece of diplomacy\nnever very easy to effect, but doubly difficult when the couple so\nunceremoniously separated have laboured under the delusion that they were\nborn for each other, as was the ease in the affair of which our story\ntells; and certainly, whatever Mr Michael Brennan\u2019s other merits may have\nbeen, he was very far from exhibiting himself as a pattern of patience on\nthe occasion.\n\n\u201cWhy, thin, Brian Moran!\u201d he outrageously exclaimed, \u201cin the name of\nall that\u2019s out of the way, will you give me one reason, good, bad, or\nindifferent, and I\u2019ll be satisfied?\u201d\n\n\u201cOch, you unfortunate gossoon, don\u2019t be afther axing me,\u201d responded Brian\ndolefully.\n\n\u201cAh, thin, why wouldn\u2019t I?\u201d replied the rejected lover. \u201cAren\u2019t we\nplaying together since she could walk--wasn\u2019t she the light of my eyes\nand the pulse of my heart these six long years--and when did one of\nye ever either say or sign that I was to give over until this blessed\nminute?--tell me that.\u201d\n\n\u201cWiddy Eelish!\u201d groaned the closely interrogated parent; \u201c\u2019tis true\nenough for you. Botheration to Peggy, I wish she tould you herself. I\nknew how it \u2019ud be; an\u2019 sure small blame to you; an\u2019 it\u2019ll kill Meny out\nan\u2019 out.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it that I amn\u2019t rich enough?\u201d he asked impetuously.\n\n\u201cNo, avich machree, it isn\u2019t; but, sure, can\u2019t you wait an\u2019 ax Peggy.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it because there\u2019s any thing against me?\u201d continued he, without\nheeding this reference to the mother of his fair one--\u201cIs it because\nthere\u2019s any thing against me, I say, now or evermore, in the shape of\nwarrant, or summons, or bad word, or any thing of the kind?\u201d\n\n\u201cOch, _forrear, forrear_!\u201d answered poor Brian, \u201cbut can\u2019t you ax Peggy!\u201d\nand he clasped his hands again and again with bitterness, for the young\nman\u2019s interest had been, from long and constant habit, so interwoven\nin his mind with those of his darling Meny, that he was utterly unable\nto check the burst of agony which the question had excited. The old\nman\u2019s evident grief and evasion of the question were not lost upon his\ncompanion.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m belied--I know I am--I have it all now,\u201d shouted he, utterly losing\nall command of himself. \u201cCome, Brian Moran, this is no child\u2019s play--tell\nme at once who dared to spake one word against me, an\u2019 if I don\u2019t drive\nthe lie down his throat, be it man, woman, or child, I\u2019m willing to lose\nher and every thing else I care for!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, then,\u201d answered Brian, \u201cthe never a one said a word against you--you\nnever left it in their power, avich; an\u2019 that\u2019s what\u2019s breaking my heart.\nMillia murther, it\u2019s all Peggy\u2019s own doings.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d he replied--\u201cI\u2019ll be bound Peggy had a bad dhrame about the\nmatch. Arrah, out with it, an\u2019 let us hear what Peggy the Pishogue has to\nsay for herself--out with it, man; I\u2019m asthray for something to laugh at.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, whisht, whisht--don\u2019t talk that way of Peggy any how,\u201d exclaimed\nBrian, offended by this imputation on the unerring wisdom of his\nhelpmate. \u201cWhatever she says, doesn\u2019t it come to pass? Didn\u2019t it rain\non Saturday last, fine as the day looked? Didn\u2019t Tim Higgins\u2019s cow die?\nWasn\u2019t Judy Carney married to Tom Knox afther all? Ay, an\u2019 as sure as\nyour name is Mickey Brennan, what she says will come true of yourself\ntoo. _Forrear, forrear!_ that the like should befall one of your dacint\nkin!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, what\u2019s going to happen me?\u201d inquired he, his voice trembling a\nlittle in spite of all his assumed carelessness: for contemptuously as he\nhad alluded to the wisdom of his intended mother-in-law, it stood in too\nhigh repute not to create in him some dismay at the probability of his\nfiguring unfavourably in any of her prognostications.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t ax me, don\u2019t ax me,\u201d was the sorrowing answer; \u201cbut take your\nhaste out of the stable at once, and go straight to Father Coffey; and\nwho knows but he might put you on some way to escape the bad luck that\u2019s\nafore you.\u201d\n\n\u201cPsha! fudge! \u2019pon my sowl it\u2019s a shame for you, Brian Moran.\u201d\n\n\u201cDivil a word of lie in it,\u201d insisted Brian; \u201cPeggy found it all out last\nnight; an\u2019 troth it\u2019s troubling her as much as if you were her own flesh\nand blood. More betoken, haven\u2019t you a mole there under your ear?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, and what if I have?\u201d rejoined he peevishly, but alarmed all the\nwhile by the undisguised pity which his future lot seemed to call forth.\n\u201cWhat if I have?--hadn\u2019t many a man the same afore me?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt, Mickey, agra, and the same bad luck came to them too,\u201d replied\nBrian. \u201cOch, you unfortunate ignorant crathur, sure you wouldn\u2019t have me\nmarry my poor little girl to a man that\u2019s sooner or later to end his days\non the gallows!\u201d\n\n\u201cThe gallows!\u201d he slowly exclaimed. \u201cHoly Virgin! is that what\u2019s to\nbecome of me after all?\u201d He tried to utter a laugh of derision and\ndefiance, but it would not do; such a vaticination from such a quarter\nwas no laughing matter. So yielding at last to the terror which he had\nso vainly affected to combat, he buried his face in his hands, and threw\nhimself violently on the ground; while Brian, scarcely less moved by the\nrevelation he had made on the faith of his wife\u2019s far-famed sagacity,\nseated himself compassionately beside him to administer what consolation\nhe could.\n\nMickey Brennan, in the parlance of our country, was a snug gossoon,\nwell to do in the world, had a nice bit of land, a comfortable house,\ngood crops, a pig or two, a cow or two, a sheep or two, a handsome\ngood-humoured face, a good character; and, what made him more\nmarriageable than all the rest, he had the aforementioned goods all to\nhimself, for his father and mother were dead, and his last sister had\ngot married at Shrove-tide. With all these combined advantages he might\nhave selected any girl in the parish; but his choice was made long years\nbefore: it was Meny Moran or nobody--a choice in which Meny Moran herself\nperfectly concurred, and which her father, good, easy, soft-hearted\nBrian, never thought of disputing, although he was able to give her a\nfortune probably amounting to double what her suitor was worth. But was\nthe fair one\u2019s mother ever satisfied when such a disparity existed?\nCareful creatures! pound for pound is the maternal maxim in all ages and\ncountries, and to give Peggy Moran her due, she was as much influenced by\nit as her betters, and murmured loud and long at the acquiescence of her\nhusband in such a sacrifice. She murmured in vain, however: much as Brian\ndeferred to her judgment and advice in all other matters, his love for\nhis fond and pretty Meny armed him with resolution in this. When she wept\nat her mother\u2019s insinuations, he always found a word of comfort for her;\nand if words wouldn\u2019t do, he managed to bring Mickey and her together,\nand left them to settle the matter after their own way--a method which\nseldom failed of success. But Peggy was not to be baulked of her will.\nWhat! she whose mere word could make or break any match for five miles\nround, to be forbidden all interference in her own daughter\u2019s: it was not\nto be borne. So at last she applied herself in downright earnest to the\ntask. She dreamed at the match, tossed cups at it, saw signs at it: in\nfine, called her whole armoury of necromancy into requisition, and was\nrewarded at last by the discovery that the too highly-favoured swain was\ninevitably destined to end his days on the gallows--a discovery which, as\nhas been already seen, fulfilled her most sanguine wishes.\n\nWhatever may be the opinion of other and wiser people on the subject, in\nthe parish of Ballycoursey or its vicinity it was rather an ugly joke to\nbe thus devoted to the infernal gods by a prophetess of such unerring\nsagacity as Peggy Moran, or, as she was sometimes styled with reference\nto her skill in all supernatural matters, Peggy the Pishogue--that\ncognomen implying an acquaintance with more things in heaven and earth\nthan are dreamt of in philosophy; and most unquestionably it was no\nmisnomer: the priest himself was not more deeply read in his breviary\nthan was she in all the signs and omens whereby the affairs of this\nmoving world are shadowed and foretokened--nothing was too great or\ntoo small for her all-piercing ken--in every form of augury she was\nomniscient, from cup-tossing up to necromancy--in vain the mystic\ndregs of the tea-cup assumed shapes that would have puzzled Doctor\nWall himself: with her first glance she detected at once the true\nmeaning of the hieroglyphic symbol, and therefrom dealt out deaths,\nbirths, and marriages, with the infallibility of a newspaper--in vain\nDestiny, unwilling to be unrolled, shrouded itself in some dream that\nwould have bothered King Solomon. Peggy no sooner heard it than it was\nunravelled--there was not a ghost in the country with whose haunts\nand habits she was not as well acquainted as if she was one of the\nfraternity--not a fairy could put his nose out without being detected by\nher--the value of property was increased tenfold all round the country by\nthe skill with which she wielded her charms and spells for the discovery\nof all manner of theft. But I must stop; for were I to recount but half\nher powers, the eulogium would require a _Penny Journal_ for itself, and\nstill leave matter for a supplement. It would be a melancholy instance\nindeed of Irish ingratitude if for all these superhuman exertions she\nwas not rewarded by universal confidence. To the credit of the parish\nbe it said that no such stigma was attached to it: nothing could equal\nthe estimation in which all her words and actions were held by her\nneighbours--nothing but the estimation in which they were held in her own\nhousehold by her husband and daughter.\n\nSuch being the gifted personage who had foretold the coming disasters of\nMickey Brennan, it is not to be wondered at that the matter created a\nsensation, particularly as sundry old hags to whom she had imparted her\ndiscovery were requested to hush it up for the poor gossoon\u2019s sake. His\nfriends sorrowed over him as a gone man, for not the most sceptical among\nthem ventured to hazard even a doubt of Peggy\u2019s veracity--in fact, they\nviewed the whole as a matter requiring consolation and sympathy rather\nthan as a scrutiny into the sources of her information, which by common\nconsent were viewed as indubitable, while some, more compassionate than\nthe rest, went so far as to declare \u201cthat since the thing could not be\navoided, and Mickey, poor fellow, must be hanged, they hoped it might be\nfor something dacint, not robbing, or coining, or the like.\u201d\n\nThe hardest task of all is to describe the feelings of poor Brennan\nhimself on the occasion; for much as he had affected to disparage the\nsybilline revelations of the wierd woman of Ballycoursey, there was not\none in the neighbourhood who was more disposed to yield them unlimited\ncredence in any case but his own; and even in his own case he was not\nlong enabled to struggle against conviction. Let people prate as they\nmay about education and its effects, it will require a period of more\ngenerations than one to root the love of the marvellous out of the hearts\nof our countrymen; and until that be effected, every village in the\nland will have its wise woman, and with nine-tenths of her neighbours\nwhat she says will be regarded as gospel. Some people of course will\nlaugh to scorn such an assertion, and more will very respectfully beg\nleave to doubt it, but still it is true; and in the more retired inland\nvillages circumstances are every day occurring far more extravagant than\nanything detailed in this story, as is very well known to all who are\nmuch conversant with such places. But to return to the doomed man:--How\ncould he be expected to bear up against this terrible denunciation, when\nall the consolation he could receive from his nearest and dearest was\nthat \u201cit was a good man\u2019s death?\u201d Death! poor fellow, he had suffered\nthe pains of a thousand deaths already, in living without the hope of\never being the husband of his Meny. Death, instant and immediate, would\nhave been a relief to him; and it was not long until, by his anxiety to\nobtain that relief, he afforded an opportunity to Peggy of displaying\nher own reliance on the correctness of her prognostications. Goaded into\nmadness by his present sufferings and his fears for the future, he made\nan attempt upon his life by plunging into an adjacent lake when no one,\nas he thought, was near to interrupt his intentions. It was not so,\nhowever--a shepherd had observed him, but at such a distance that before\nhelp could be obtained to rescue him he was to all appearance lifeless.\nThe news flew like wildfire: he was dead, stone dead, they said--had lain\nin the water ten minutes, half an hour, half the day, since last night;\nbut in one point they all concurred--dead he was; dead as St Dominick.\n\n\u201cTroth he\u2019s not,\u201d was Peggy\u2019s cool rejoinder. \u201cBe quiet, and I\u2019ll engage\nhe\u2019ll come to. _Nabocklish_, he that\u2019s born to be hanged will never be\ndrowned. Wait a while an\u2019 hould your tongues. _Nabocklish_, I tell you\nhe\u2019ll live to spoil a market yet, an\u2019 more\u2019s the pity.\u201d\n\nPeople shook their heads, and almost began to think their wise woman had\nmade a mistake, and read hemp instead of water. It was no such thing,\nhowever: slowly and beyond all hopes, Brennan recovered the effects of\nhis rash attempt, thereby fulfilling so much of his declared destiny,\nand raising the reputation of Mrs Moran to a point that she never had\nattained before. That very week she discovered no less than six cases\nof stolen goods, twice detected the good people taking unauthorised\nliberties with their neighbours\u2019 churns, and spaed a score of fortunes,\nat the very least; and he, poor fellow, satisfied at last that Fortune\nwas not to be bilked so easily, resigned himself to his fate like a man,\nand began to look about him in earnest for some opportunity of gracing\nthe gallows without disgracing his people.\n\nAnd Meny--poor heart-stricken Meny--loving as none but the true and\nsimple-minded can love, the extent of her grief was such as the true and\nsimple-minded only can know; and yet there was worse in store for her.\nShortly after this consummation of her mother\u2019s fame, a whisper began to\ncreep through the village--a whisper of dire import, portending death\nand disaster on some luckless wight unknown--\u201cPeggy Moran has something\non her mind.\u201d What could it be? Silent and mysterious she shook her head\nwhen any one ventured to question her--the pipe was never out of her\njaw unless when she slept or sat down to her meals--she became as cross\nas a cat, which to do her justice was not her wont, and eschewed all\nsorts of conversation, which most assuredly was not her wont either. The\ninterest and curiosity of her neighbours was raised to a most agonising\npitch--every one trembled lest the result should be some terrible\nrevelation affecting himself or herself, as the case might be: it was the\nburden of the first question asked in the morning, the last at night.\nEvery word she uttered during the day was matter of speculation to an\nhundred anxious inquirers; and there was every danger of the good people\nof Ballycoursey going absolutely mad with fright if they were kept any\nlonger in the dark on the subject.\n\nAt length there was a discovery; but, as is usually the case in all\nscrutinies into forbidden matters, it was at the cost of the too-daring\ninvestigator. Peggy and Brian were sitting one night before the fire,\npreparing for their retirement, when a notion seized the latter to probe\nthe sorrows of his helpmate.\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed it well becomes you to ax,\u201d quoth the wierd woman in answer to his\nmany and urgent inquiries; \u201cfor Brian, achorra machree, my poor ould man,\nthere\u2019s no use in hiding it--it\u2019s all about yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, then!\u201d exclaimed the surprised interrogator; \u201cthe Lord betune us an\u2019\nharm, is it?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed yes, Brian,\u201d responded the sybil with a melancholy tone, out of\nthe cloud of smoke in which she had sought to hide her troubles. \u201cI\u2019m\nthinking these last few days you\u2019re not yourself at all at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cTare an ounties! maybe I\u2019m not,\u201d responded he of the doubtful identity.\n\n\u201cDo you feel nothing on your heart, Brian achree?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do; sure enough I do,\u201d gasped poor Brian, ready to believe anything of\nhimself.\n\n\u201cSomething like a _plurrisy_, isn\u2019t it?\u201d inquired the mourner.\n\n\u201cAy, sure enough, like a plurrisy for all the world, Lord betune us an\u2019\nharm!\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 you do be very cold, I\u2019ll engage, these nights, Brian?\u201d continued\nshe.\n\n\u201cWiddy Eelish! I\u2019m as could as ice this minute,\u201d answered Brian, and his\nteeth began to chatter as if he was up to his neck in a mill-pond.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 your appetite is gone entirely, achra?\u201d continued his tormentor.\n\n\u201cSorra a word o\u2019 lie in it,\u201d answered the newly discovered invalid,\nforgetful however that he had just finished discussing a skib of potatoes\nand a mug of milk for his supper.\n\n\u201cAnd the cat, the crathur, looked at you this very night after licking\nher paw.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll engage she did. Bad luck to her,\u201d responded Brian, \u201cI wouldn\u2019t put\nit beyant her.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me feel your pulse, asthore,\u201d said Peggy in conclusion; and Brian\nsubmitted his trembling wrist to her inspection, anxiously peering into\nher face all the while to read his doom therein. A long and deep sigh\nbroke from her lips, along with a most voluminous puff of smoke, as she\nlet the limb drop from her hold, and commenced rocking herself to and\nfro, uttering a low and peculiar species of moan, which to her terrified\npatient sounded as a death summons.\n\n\u201cMurther-an\u2019-ages, Peggy, sure it\u2019s not going to die I am!\u201d exclaimed\nBrian.\n\n\u201cOch, widdy! widdy!\u201d roared the afflicted spouse, now giving full vent\nto her anguish, \u201cit\u2019s little I thought, Brian asthore machree, when I\nmarried you in your beauty and your prime, that I\u2019d ever live to cry\nthe keen over you--ochone, ochone! \u2019tis you was the good ould man in\nairnest--och! och!\u201d\n\n\u201cArrah, Peggy!\u201d interposed the object of her rather premature\nlamentations.\n\n\u201cOh, don\u2019t talk to me--don\u2019t talk to me. I\u2019ll never hould up my head\nagain, so I won\u2019t!\u201d continued the widow that was to be, in a tone that\nquickly brought all the house about her, and finally all the neighbours.\nGreat was the uproar that ensued, and noisy the explanations, which,\nhowever, afforded no small relief to the minds of all persons not\nimmediately concerned in the welfare of the doomed Brian. Peggy was\ninconsolable at the prospect of such a bereavement. Meny clung in despair\nto the poor tottering old man, her grief too deep for lamentation,\nwhile he hobbled over his prayers as fast and as correctly as his utter\ndismay would permit him. Next morning he was unable to rise, refused\nall nourishment, and called vehemently for the priest. Every hour he\nbecame worse; he was out of one faint into another; announced symptoms of\nevery complaint that ever vexed mankind, and declared himself affected\nby a pain in every member, from his toe to his cranium. No wonder it\nwas a case to puzzle the doctor. The man of science could make nothing\nof it--swore it was the oddest complication of diseases that ever he\nhad heard of--and strongly recommended that the patient be tossed in a\nblanket, and his wife treated to a taste of the horse-pond. Father Coffey\nwas equally nonplussed.\n\n\u201cWhat ails you, Brian?\u201d\n\n\u201cAn all-overness of some kind or other, your reverence,\u201d groaned the\nsufferer in reply, and the priest had to own himself a bothered man.\nNothing would induce him to rise--\u201cwhere\u2019s the use in a man\u2019s gettin\u2019 up,\nan\u2019 he goin\u2019 to die?\u201d was his answer to those who endeavoured to rouse\nhim--\u201cisn\u2019t it a dale dacinter to die in bed like a Christian?\u201d\n\n\u201cGod\u2019s good!--maybe you won\u2019t die this time, Brian.\u201d\n\n\u201cArrah, don\u2019t be talking--doesn\u2019t Peggy know best?\u201d And with this\nundeniable assertion he closed all his arguments, receiving consolation\nfrom none, not even his heart-broken Meny. Despite of all his entreaties\nto be let die in peace, the doctor, who guessed how matters stood, was\ndetermined to try the effects of a blister, and accordingly applied one\nof more than ordinary strength, stoutly affirming that it would have the\neffect of the patient being up and walking on the morrow. A good many\npeople had gathered into his cabin to witness the cure, as they always\ndo when their presence could be best dispensed with; and to these Peggy,\nwith tears and moans, was declaring her despair in all remedies whatever,\nand her firm conviction that a widow she\u2019d be before Sunday, when Brian,\nroused a little by the uneasy stimulant from the lethargy into which they\nall believed him to be sunk, faintly expressed his wish to be heard.\n\n\u201cPeggy, agra,\u201d said he, \u201cthere\u2019s no denyin\u2019 but you\u2019re a wonderful woman\nentirely; an\u2019 since I\u2019m goin\u2019, it would be a grate consolation to me if\nyou\u2019d tell us all now you found out the sickness was on me afore I knew\nit myself. It\u2019s just curiosity, agra--I wouldn\u2019t like to die, you see,\nwithout knowin\u2019 for why an\u2019 for what--it \u2019ud have a foolish look if any\nbody axed me what I died of, an\u2019 me not able to tell them.\u201d\n\nPeggy declared her willingness to do him this last favour, and,\ninterrupted by an occasional sob, thus proceeded:--\n\n\u201cIt was Thursday night week--troth I\u2019ll never forget that night, Brian\nasthore, if I live to be as ould as Noah--an\u2019 it was just after my first\nsleep that I fell draiming. I thought I went down to Dan Keefe\u2019s to buy\na taste ov mate, for ye all know he killed a _bullsheen_ that day for\nthe market ov Moneen; an\u2019 I thought when I went into his house, what did\nI see hangin\u2019 up but an ugly _lane_ carcase, an\u2019 not a bit too fresh\nneither, an\u2019 a strange man dividin\u2019 it with a hatchet; an\u2019 says he to me\nwith a mighty grum look,\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, honest woman, what do you want?--is it to buy bullsheen?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Yes,\u2019 says I, \u2018but not the likes of that--it\u2019s not what we\u2019re used to.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Divil may care,\u2019 says he; \u2018I\u2019ll make bould to cut out a rib for you.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh, don\u2019t if you plase,\u2019 says I, puttin\u2019 out my hand to stop him; an\u2019\nwith that what does he do but he lifts the hatchet an\u2019 makes a blow at my\nhand, an\u2019 cuts the weddin\u2019 ring in two on my finger?\u201d\n\n\u201cDth! dth! dth!\u201d was ejaculated on all sides by her wondering auditory,\nfor the application of the dream to Brian was conclusive, according to\nthe popular method of explaining such matters. They looked round to\nsee how he sustained the brunt of such a fatal revelation. There he\nwas sitting bolt upright in the bed, notwithstanding his unpleasant\nincumbrance, his mouth and eyes wide open.\n\n\u201cWhy, thin, blur-an\u2019-ages, Peggy Moran,\u201d he slowly exclaimed, when he and\nthey had recovered a little from their surprise, \u201cdo you mane to tell me\nthat\u2019s all that ailed me?\u201d\n\nPeggy and her coterie started back as he uttered this extraordinary\ninquiry, there being something in his look that portended his intention\nto leap out of bed, and probably display his indignation a little too\nforcibly, for, quiet as he was, his temper wasn\u2019t proof against a\nblister; but his bodily strength failed him in the attempt, and, roaring\nwith pain, he resumed his recumbent position. But Peggy\u2019s empire was\nover--the blister had done its business, and in a few days he was able\nto stump about as usual, threatening to inflict all sorts of punishments\nupon any one who dared to laugh at him. A laugh is a thing, however, not\neasy to be controlled, and finally poor Brian\u2019s excellent temper was\nsoured to such a degree by the ridicule which he encountered, that he\ndetermined to seek a reconciliation with young Brennan, pitch the decrees\nof fate to Old Nick, and give Father Coffey a job with the young couple.\n\nTo this resolution we are happy to say he adhered: still happier are we\nto say, that among the county records we have not yet met the name of\nhis son-in-law, and that unless good behaviour and industry be declared\ncrimes worthy of bringing their perpetrator to the gallows, there is very\nlittle chance indeed of Mickey Brennan fulfilling the prophecy of Peggy\nthe Pishogue.\n\n                                                                  A. M\u2019C.\n\n\n\n\nA SHORT CHAPTER ON BUSTLES.\n\n\nBustles!--what are bustles? Ay, reader, fair reader, you may well ask\nthat question. But some of your sex at least know the meaning of the\nword, and the use of the article it designates, sufficiently well,\nthough, thank heaven! there are many thousands of my countrywomen who are\nas yet ignorant of both, and indeed to whom such knowledge would be quite\nuseless. Would that I were in equally innocent ignorance! Not, reader,\nthat I am of the feminine gender, and use the article in question; but my\nknowledge of its mysterious uses, and the various materials of which it\nis composed, has been the ruin of me. I will have inscribed on my tomb,\n\u201cHere lies a man who was killed by a bustle!\u201d\n\nBut before I detail the circumstances of my unhappy fate, it will perhaps\nbe proper to give a description of the article itself which has been the\ncause of my undoing. Well, then, a bustle is\u2026\n\nBut the editor will perhaps object to this description as being too\ndistinct and graphic. If so, then here goes for another less laboured and\nmore characteristically mysterious.\n\nA bustle is an article used by ladies to take from their form the\ncharacter of the Venus of the Greeks, and impart to it that of the Venus\nof the Hottentots!\n\nThat ladies should have a taste so singular, may appear incredible; but\nthere is no accounting for tastes, and I know to my cost that the fact is\nindisputable.\n\nI made the discovery a few years since, and up to that time I had always\nborne the character of a sage, sedate, and promising young man--one\nlikely to get on in the world by my exertions, and therefore sure to be\nhelped by my friends. I was even, I flatter myself, a favourite with the\nfair sex too; and justly so, for I was their most ardent admirer; and\nthere was one most lovely creature among them whom I had fondly hoped\nto have made my own. But, alas! how vain and visionary are our hopes of\nhuman happiness: such hopes with me have fled for ever! As I said before,\nI am a ruined man, and all in consequence of ladies\u2019 bustles.\n\nIn an unlucky hour I was in a ball-room, seated at a little distance\nfrom my fair one--my eyes watching her every air and look, my ears\ncatching every sound of her sweet voice--when I heard her complain to a\nfemale friend, in tones of the softest whispering music, that she was\noppressed with the heat of the place. \u201cMy dear,\u201d her friend replied,\n\u201cit must be the effect of your bustle. What do you stuff it with?\u201d\n\u201cHair--horse-hair,\u201d was the reply. \u201cHair!--mercy on us!\u201d says her friend,\n\u201cit is no wonder you are oppressed--that\u2019s a _hot-and-hot_ material\ntruly. Why, you should do as I do--you do not see me fainting; and the\nreason is, that I stuff my bustle with hay--new hay!\u201d\n\nI heard no more, for the ladies, supposing from my eyes that I was a\nlistener, changed the topic of conversation, though indeed it was not\nnecessary, for at the time I had not the slightest notion of what they\nmeant. Time, however, passed on most favourably to my wishes--another\nmonth, and I should have called my Catherine my own. She was on a visit\nto my sister, and I had every opportunity to make myself agreeable. We\nsang together, we talked together, and we danced together. All this would\nhave been very well, but unfortunately we also walked together. It was\non the last time we ever did so that the circumstance occurred which I\nhave now to relate, and which gave the first death-blow to my hopes of\nhappiness. We were crossing Carlisle-bridge, her dear arm linked in mine,\nwhen we chanced to meet a female friend; and wishing to have a little\nchat with her without incommoding the passengers, we got to the edge of\nthe flag-way, near which at the time there was standing an old white\nhorse, totally blind. He was a quiet-looking animal, and none of us could\nhave supposed from his physiognomy that he had any savage propensity in\nhis nature. But imagine my astonishment and horror when I suddenly heard\nmy charmer give a scream that pierced me to the very heart!--and when I\nperceived that this atrocious old blind brute, having slowly and slyly\nswayed his head round, caught the--how shall I describe it?--caught my\nCatherine--really I can\u2019t say how--but he caught her; and before I could\nextricate her from his jaws, he made a reef in her garments such as lady\nnever suffered. Silk gown, petticoat, bustle--everything, in fact, gave\nway, and left an opening--a chasm--an exposure, that may perhaps be\nimagined, but cannot be described.[1]\n\nAs rapidly as I could, of course, I got my fair one into a jarvy, and\nhurried home, the truth gradually opening in my mind as to the cause\nof the disaster--it was, that the blind horse, hungry brute, had been\nattracted by the smell of my Catherine\u2019s bustle, made of hay--new hay!\n\nCatherine was never the same to me afterwards--she took the most\ninvincible dislike to walk with me, or rather, perhaps, to be seen in\nthe streets with me. But matters were not yet come to the worst, and I\nhad indulged in hopes that she would yet be mine. I had however taken a\ndeep aversion to bustles, and even determined to wage war upon them to\nthe best of my ability. In this spirit, a few days after, I determined to\nwreak my vengeance on my sister\u2019s bustle, for I found by this time that\nshe too was emulous of being a Hottentot beauty. Accordingly, having to\naccompany her and my intended wife to a ball, I stole into my sister\u2019s\nroom in the course of the evening before she went into it to dress,\nand pouncing upon her hated bustle, which lay on her toilet table, I\ninflicted a cut on it with my penknife, and retired. But what a mistake\ndid I make! Alas, it was not my sister\u2019s bustle, but my Catherine\u2019s!\nHowever, we went to the ball, and for a time all went smoothly on. I\ntook out my Catherine as a partner in the dance; but imagine my horror\nwhen I perceived her gradually becoming thinner and thinner--losing her\n_enbonpoint_--as she danced; and, worse than that, that every movement\nwhich she described in the figure--the ladies\u2019 chain, the chassee--was\naccurately marked--recorded--on the chalked floor with--bran! Oh dear!\nreader, pity me: was ever man so unfortunate? This sealed my doom. She\nwould never speak to me, or even look at me afterwards.\n\nBut this was not all. My character with the sex--ay, with both sexes--was\nalso destroyed. I who had been heretofore, as I said, considered as an\nexample of prudence and discretion for a young man, was now set down as\na thoughtless, devil-may-care wag, never to do well: the men treated me\ncoldly, and the women turned their backs upon me; and so thus in reality\nthey made me what they had supposed I was. It was indeed no wonder, for\nI could never after see a lady with a bustle but I felt an irresistible\ninclination to laughter, and this too even on occasions when I should\nhave kept a grave countenance. If I met a couple of country or other\nfriends in the street, and inquired after their family--the cause,\nperhaps, of the mourning in which they were attired--while they were\ntelling me of the death of some father, sister, or other relative, I to\ntheir astonishment would take to laughing, and if there was a horse near\nus, give the lady a drag away to another situation. And if then I were\nasked the meaning of this ill-timed mirth, and this singular movement,\nwhat could I say? Why, sometimes I made the matter worse by replying,\n\u201cDear madam, it is only to save your bustle from the horse!\u201d\n\nStung at length by my misfortunes and the hopelessness of my situation, I\nbecame utterly reckless, and only thought of carrying out my revenge on\nthe bustles in every way in my power; and this I must say with some pride\nI did for a while with good effect. I got a number of the hated articles\nmanufactured for myself, but not, reader, to wear, as you shall hear. Oh!\nno; but whenever I received an invitation to a party--which indeed had\nlatterly been seldom sent me--I took one of these articles in my pocket,\nand, watching a favourable opportunity when all were engaged in the mazy\nfigure of the dance, let it secretly fall amongst them. The result may be\nimagined--ay, reader, imagine it, for I cannot describe it with effect.\nFirst, the half-suppressed but simultaneous scream of all the ladies as\nit was held up for a claimant; next, the equally simultaneous movement of\nthe ladies\u2019 hands, all quickly disengaged from those of their partners,\nand not raised up in wonder, but carried down to their--bustles! Never\nwas movement in the dance executed with such precision; and I should be\nimmortalised as the inventor of an attitude so expressive of sentiment\nand of _feeling_.\n\nAlas! this is the only consolation now afforded me in my afflictions:\nI invented a new attitude--a new movement in the quadrille: let others\nsee that it be not forgotten. I am now a banished man from all refined\nsociety: no lady will appear, where that odious Mr Bustle, as they call\nme, might possibly be; and so no one will admit me inside their doors. I\nhave nothing left me, therefore, but to live out my solitary life, and\nvent my execration of bustles in the only place now left me--the columns\nof the Irish Penny Journal.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[1] A fact.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COMMON OTTER.\n\n\nThe otter varies in size, some adult specimens measuring no more than\nthirty-six inches in length, tail inclusive, while others, again, are to\nbe found from four and a half to five feet long. The head of the otter is\nbroad and flat; its muzzle is broad, rounded, and blunt; its eyes small\nand of a semi-circular form; neck extremely thick, nearly as thick as the\nbody; body long, rounded, and very flexible; legs short and muscular;\nfeet furnished with five sharp-clawed toes, webbed to three-quarters of\ntheir extent; tail long, muscular, somewhat flattened, and tapering to\nits extremity. The colour of the otter is a deep blackish brown; the\nsides of the head, the front of the neck, and sometimes the breast,\nbrownish grey. The belly is usually, but not invariably, darker than the\nback; the fur is short, and of two kinds; the inferior or woolly coat is\nexceedingly fine and close; the longer hairs are soft and glossy, those\non the tail rather stiff and bristly. On either side of the nose, and\njust below the chin, are two small light-coloured spots. So much for the\nappearance of the otter: now we come to its dwelling. The otter is common\nto England, Ireland, and Scotland; a marine variety is also to be met\nwith, differing from the common only in its superior size and more furry\ncoat. Some naturalists have set them down as a different species: I am,\nhowever, disposed to regard them as a variety merely.\n\nThe native haunt of the otter is the river-bank, where amongst the reeds\nand sedge it forms a deep burrow, in which it brings forth and rears\nits young. Its principal food is fish, which it catches with singular\ndexterity. It lives almost wholly in the water, and seldom leaves it\nexcept to devour its prey; on land it does not usually remain long at\nany one time, and the slightest alarm is sufficient to cause it to\nplunge into the stream. Yet, natural as seems a watery residence to this\ncreature, its hole is perfectly dry; were it to become otherwise, it\nwould be quickly abandoned. Its entrance, indeed, is invariably under\nwater, but its course then points upwards into the bank, towards the\nsurface of the earth, and it is even provided with several lodges or\napartments at different heights, into which it may retire in case of\nfloods, throwing up the earth behind it as it proceeds into the recesses\nof its retreat; and when it has reached the last and most secure chamber,\nit opens a small hole in the roof for the admission of atmospheric air,\nwithout which the animal could not of course exist many minutes; and\nshould the flood rise so high as to burst into this last place of refuge,\nthe animal will open a passage through the roof, and venture forth upon\nland, rather than remain in a damp and muddy bed. During severe floods,\notters are not unfrequently surprised at some distance from the water,\nand taken.\n\nIn a wild state the otter is fierce and daring, will make a determined\nresistance when attacked by dogs, and being endued with no inconsiderable\nstrength of jaw, it often punishes its assailants terribly. I have myself\nseen it break the fore-leg of a stout terrier. Otter-hunting was in\nformer times a favourite amusement even with the nobility, and regular\nestablishments of otter-hounds were kept. The animal is now become\nscarce, and its pursuit is no longer numbered in our list of sports,\nunless perhaps in Scotland, where, especially in the Western Islands,\notter-hunting is still extensively practised.\n\nOtters are easily rendered tame, especially if taken young, and may\nbe taught to follow their master like dogs, and even to fish for him,\ncheerfully resigning their prey when taken, and dashing into the water\nin search of more. A man named James Campbell, residing near Inverness,\nhad one which followed him wherever he went, unless confined, and would\nanswer to its name. When apprehensive of danger from dogs, it sought the\nprotection of its master, and would endeavour to spring into his arms for\ngreater security. It was frequently employed in catching fish, and would\nsometimes take eight or ten salmon in a day. If not prevented, it always\nattempted to break the fish behind the fin which is next the tail; and as\nsoon as one was taken away, it always dived in pursuit of more. It was\nequally dexterous at sea-fishing, and took great numbers of young cod\nand other fish. When tired it would refuse to fish any longer, and was\nthen rewarded with as much food as it could devour. Having satiated its\nappetite, it always coiled itself up and went to sleep, no matter where\nit was, in which state it was usually carried home.\n\nBrown relates that a person who kept a tame otter taught it to associate\nwith his dogs, who were on the most friendly terms with it on all\noccasions, and that it would follow its master in company with its\ncanine friends. This person was in the habit of fishing the river with\nnets, on which occasions the otter proved highly useful to him, by going\ninto the water and driving trout and other fish towards the net. It was\nvery remarkable that dogs accustomed to otter-hunting were so far from\noffering it the least molestation, that they would not even hunt any\nother otter while it remained with them; on which account its owner was\nforced to part with it.\n\nThe otter is of a most affectionate disposition, as may at once be seen\nfrom its anxiety respecting its young. Indeed, the parental affection\nof this creature is so powerful that the female otter will often suffer\nherself to be killed rather than desert them. Professor Steller says,\n\u201cOften have I spared the lives of the female otters whose young ones I\ntook away. They expressed their sorrow by crying like human beings, and\nfollowing me as I was carrying off their young, while they called to\nthem for aid with a tone of voice which very much resembled the crying\nof children. When I sat down in the snow, they came quite close to me,\nand attempted to carry off their young. On one occasion when I had\ndeprived an otter of her progeny, I returned to the place eight days\nafter, and found the female sitting by the river listless and desponding,\nwho suffered me to kill her on the spot without making any attempt to\nescape. On skinning her I found she was quite wasted away from sorrow\nfor the loss of her young.\u201d This affection which the otter, while in a\nstate of nature, displays towards her young, is when in captivity usually\ntransferred to her master, or perhaps, as in an instance I shall mention\nby and bye, to some one or other of his domestic animals. As an example\nof the former case I may mention the following:--A person named Collins,\nwho lived near Wooler in Northumberland, had a tame otter, which followed\nhim wherever he went. He frequently took it to the river to fish for its\nown food, and when satisfied it never failed to return to its master. One\nday in the absence of Collins, the otter being taken out to fish by his\nson, instead of returning as usual, refused to answer to the accustomed\ncall, and was lost. Collins tried every means to recover it; and after\nseveral days\u2019 search, being near the place where his son had lost it, and\ncalling its name, to his very great joy the animal came crawling to his\nfeet. In the following passage of the \u201cPr\u00e6dium Rusticum\u201d of Vaniere,\nallusion is made to tame otters employed in fishing:--\n\n    \u201cShould chance within this dark recess betray\n    The tender young, bear quick the prize away;\n    Tamed by thy care the useful brood shall join\n    The watery chase, and add their toils to thine;\n    From each close lurking hole shall force away,\n    And drive within the nets the silver prey;\n    As the taught hound the nimble stag subdues,\n    And o\u2019er the dewy plain the panting hare pursues.\u201d\n\nMr Macgillivray, in his interesting volume on British Quadrupeds in the\nNaturalist\u2019s Library, mentions several instances of otters having been\ntamed and employed in fishing. Among others he relates that a gentleman\nresiding in the Outer Hebrides had one that supplied itself with food,\nand regularly returned to the house. M\u2019Diarmid, in his \u201cSketches from\nNature,\u201d enumerates many others. One otter belonging to a poor widow,\n\u201cwhen led forth plunged into the Urr, and brought out all the fish it\ncould find.\u201d Another, kept at Corsbie House, Wigtonshire, \u201cevinced a\ngreat fondness for gooseberries,\u201d fondled \u201cabout her keeper\u2019s feet\nlike a pup or kitten, and even seemed inclined to salute her cheek,\nwhen permitted to carry her freedoms so far.\u201d A third, belonging to Mr\nMontieth of Carstairs, \u201cthough he frequently stole away at night to fish\nby the pale light of the moon, and associate with his kindred by the\nriver side, his master of course was too generous to find any fault with\nhis peculiar mode of spending his evening hours. In the morning he was\nalways at his post in the kennel, and no animal understood better the\nsecret of \u2018keeping his own side of the house.\u2019 Indeed his pugnacity in\nthis respect gave him a great lift in the favour of the gamekeeper, who\ntalked of his feats wherever he went, and averred besides, that if the\nbest cur that ever ran \u2018only daured to girn\u2019 at his proteg\u00e9, he would\nsoon \u2018mak his teeth meet through him.\u2019 To mankind, however, he was much\nmore civil, and allowed himself to be gently lifted by the tail, though\nhe objected to any interference with his snout, which is probably with\nhim the seat of honour.\u201d\n\nMr Glennon, of Suffolk-street, Dublin, informs me that Mr Murray,\ngamekeeper to his Grace the Duke of Leinster, has a tame otter, which\nenters the water to fish when desired, and lays whatever he catches with\ndue submission at his master\u2019s feet. Mr Glennon further observes, that\nthe affection for his owner which this animal exhibits is equal or even\nsuperior to that of the most faithful dog. The creature follows him\nwherever he goes, will suffer him to lift him up by the tail and carry\nhim under his arm just as good-humouredly as would a dog, will spring\nto his knee when he sits at home, and seems in fact never happy but\nwhen in his company. This otter is well able to take care of himself,\nand fearlessly repels the impertinent advances of the dogs: with such,\nhowever, as treat him with fitting respect, he is on excellent terms.\nSometimes Mr Murray will hide himself from this animal, which will\nimmediately, on being set at liberty, search for him with the greatest\nanxiety, running like a terrier dog by the scent. Mr Glennon assures me\nthat he has frequently seen the animal thus trace the footsteps of its\nmaster for a considerable distance across several fields, and that too\nwith such precision as never in any instance to fail of finding him.\n\nI myself had once a tame otter, with a detail of whose habits and manners\nI shall now conclude this article. When I first obtained the animal she\nwas very young, and not more than sixteen inches in length: young as she\nwas, she was very fierce, and would bite viciously if any one put his\nhand near the nest of straw in which she was kept. As she grew a little\nolder, however, she became more familiarized to the approaches of human\nbeings, and would suffer herself to be gently stroked upon the back\nor head; when tired of being caressed, she would growl in a peculiar\nmanner, and presently use her sharp teeth if the warning to let her\nalone were not attended to. In one respect the manners of this animal\npresented a striking contrast to the accounts I had read and heard of\nother tame individuals. She evinced no particular affection for me; she\ngrew tame certainly, but her tameness was rather of a general than of an\nexclusive character: unlike other wild animals which I had at different\ntimes succeeded in domesticating, this creature testified no particular\ngratitude to her master, and whoever fed her, or set her at liberty, was\nher favourite for the time being. She preferred fish to any other diet,\nand eagerly devoured all descriptions, whether taken in fresh or salt\nwater, though she certainly preferred the former. She would seize the\nfish between her fore paws, hold it firmly on the ground, and devour it\ndownwards to the tail, which with the head the dainty animal rejected.\nWhen fish could not be procured, she would eat, but sparingly, of bread\nand milk, as well as the lean of raw meat; fat she could on no account be\nprevailed upon to touch.\n\nTowards other animals my otter for a long period maintained an appearance\nof perfect indifference. If a dog approached her suddenly, she would\nutter a sharp, whistling noise, and betake herself to some place of\nsafety: if pursued, she would turn and show fight. If the dog exhibited\nno symptoms of hostility, she would presently return to her place at the\nfireside, where she would lie basking for hours at a time.\n\nWhen I first obtained this animal, there was no water sufficiently near\nto where I lived in which I could give her an occasional bath; and being\napprehensive, that, if entirely deprived of an element in which nature\nhad designed her to pass so considerable a portion of her existence,\nshe would languish and die, I allowed her a tub as a substitute for\nher native river; and in this she plunged and swam with much apparent\ndelight. It was in this manner that I became acquainted with the curious\nfact, that the otter, when passing along beneath the surface of the\nwater, does not usually accomplish its object by swimming, but by walking\nalong the bottom, which it can do as securely and with as much rapidity\nas it can run on dry land.\n\nAfter having had my otter about a year, I changed my residence to another\nquarter of the town, and the stream well known to all who have seen\nEdinburgh as the \u201cWater of Leith,\u201d flowed past the rear of the house. The\ncreature being by this time so tame as to be allowed perfect liberty,\nI took it down one evening to the river, and permitted it to disport\nitself for the first time since its capture in a deep and open stream.\nThe animal was delighted with the new and refreshing enjoyment, and I\nfound that a daily swim in the river greatly conduced to its health and\nhappiness. I would sometimes walk for nearly a mile along the bank, and\nthe happy and frolicsome creature would accompany me by water, and that\ntoo so rapidly that I could not even by very smart walking keep pace with\nit. On some occasions it caught small fish, such as minnows, eels, and\noccasionally a trout of inconsiderable size. When it was only a minnow\nor a small eel which it caught, it would devour it in the water, putting\nits head for that purpose above the surface; when, however, it had made\na trout its prey, it would come to shore, and devour it more at leisure.\nI strove very assiduously to train this otter to fish for me, as I had\nheard they have sometimes been taught to do; but I never could succeed\nin this attempt, nor could I even prevail upon the animal to give me up\nat any time the fish which she had taken: the moment I approached her\nto do so, as if suspecting my intention, she would at once take to the\nwater, and, crossing to the other side of the stream, devour her prey in\nsecurity. This difficulty in training I impute to the animal\u2019s want of\nan individual affection for me, for it was not affection, but her own\npleasure, which induced her to follow me down the stream; and she would\nwith equal willingness follow any other person who happened to release\nher from her box. This absence of affection was probably nothing more\nthan peculiarity of disposition in this individual, there being numerous\ninstances of a contrary nature upon record.\n\nAlthough this otter failed to exhibit those affectionate traits of\ncharacter which have displayed themselves in other individuals of her\ntribe towards the human species, she was by no means of a cold or\nunsocial disposition towards some of my smaller domestic animals. With an\nAngora cat she soon after I got her formed a very close friendship, and\nwhen in the house was unhappy when not in the company of her friend. I\nhad one day an opportunity of witnessing a singular display of attachment\non the part of this otter towards the cat:--A little terrier dog attacked\nthe latter as she lay by the fire, and driving her thence, pursued her\nunder the table, where she stood on her defence, spitting and setting up\nher back in defiance: at this instant the otter entered the apartment,\nand no sooner did she perceive what was going on, than she flew with much\nfury and bitterness upon the dog, seized him by the face with her teeth,\nand would doubtless have inflicted a severe chastisement upon him, had I\nnot hastened to the rescue, and, separating the combatants, expelled the\nterrier from the room.\n\nWhen permitted to wander in the garden, this otter would search for\ngrubs, worms, and snails, which she would eat with much apparent relish,\ndetaching the latter from their shell with surprising quickness and\ndexterity. She would likewise mount upon the chairs at the window, and\ncatch and eat flies--a practice which I have not as yet seen recorded\nin the natural history of this animal. I had this otter in my possession\nnearly two years, and have in the above sketch mentioned only a few of\nits most striking peculiarities. Did I not fear encroaching on space\nwhich is perhaps the property of another contributor, I could have\ncarried its history to a much greater length.\n\n                                                                 H. D. R.\n\n\n\n\nRANDOM SKETCHES--No. II.\n\nAN AMERICAN NOBLEMAN.\n\n\nThere reached our city, on the morning of the 29th day of July, and\nsailed from it on the night of the 31st, the most _remarkable_ person\nperhaps by whom our shores have been lately visited. Were we to second\nour own feelings, we would apply a higher epithet to William Lloyd\nGarrison, but we have chosen one in which we are persuaded all parties\nwould agree who partook of his intercourse, however much they may differ\nfrom each other and from him in principle and in practice. The object of\nthis short paper is to leave on the pages of our literature some record\nof an extraordinary individual, who is a literary man himself, being the\neditor and proprietor of a successful newspaper published at Boston in\nMassachusetts; but his name may be best recommended to our readers in\nconnection with that of the well-known George Thompson, whose eloquence\nwas so powerful an auxiliary to the unnumbered petitions which at length\nwrung from our legislature the just but expensive emancipation of the\nWest Indian negroes. Community of action and of suffering, as pleaders\nfor the rights of the black and coloured population of the United States,\nhas rendered them bosom friends, and each has a child called after the\nname of the other. Thompson is now a denizen of the United Kingdom; but\nwhile we write, Garrison is crossing the broad Atlantic to encounter\nnew dangers: comparatively safe at home, his life is forfeited whenever\nhe ventures to pass the moral line of demarcation which separates the\nfree from the slave states--forfeited so surely as there is a rifle in\nKentucky or a bowie knife in Alabama.\n\nWe have set Garrison down as \u201can American nobleman,\u201d and the \u201cpeerage\u201d\nin which we look for his titles and dignities is \u201cThe Martyr Age of the\nUnited States of America,\u201d by Harriet Martineau--a writer to whom none\nwill deny the possession of discrimination, which is all we contend for.\n\u201cWilliam Lloyd Garrison is one of God\u2019s nobility--the head of the moral\naristocracy, whose prerogatives we are contemplating. It is not only\nthat he is invulnerable to injury--that he early got the world under\nhis feet in a way which it would have made Zeno stroke his beard with a\ncomplacency to witness; but that in his meekness, his sympathies, his\nself-forgetfulness, he appears \u2018covered all over with the stars and\norders\u2019 of the spiritual realm whence he derives his dignities and his\npowers. At present he is a marked man wherever he turns. The faces of\nhis friends brighten when his step is heard: the people of colour almost\nkneel to him; and the rest of society jeers, pelts, and execrates him.\nAmidst all this, his gladsome life rolls on, \u2018too busy to be anxious,\nand too loving to be sad.\u2019 He springs from his bed singing at sunrise:\nand if during the day tears should cloud his serenity, they are never\nshed for himself. His countenance of steady compassion gives hope to\nthe oppressed, who look to him as the Jews looked to Moses. It was this\nserene countenance, saint-like in its earnestness and purity, that a man\nbought at a print-shop, where it was exposed without a name, and hung\nup as the most apostolic face he ever saw. It does not alter the case\nthat the man took it out of the frame, and hid it when he found that it\nwas Garrison who had been adorning his parlour.\u201d And he can be no common\nman of whom it is recorded in the work to which we have already alluded,\nthat, on starting a newspaper for the advocacy of abolition principles,\n\u201cGarrison and his friend Knapp, a printer, were ere long living in a\ngarret, on bread and water, expending all their spare earnings and time\non the publication, and that when it sold particularly well (says Knapp),\nwe treated ourselves with a bowl of milk.\u201d--_The Martyr Age of the United\nStates of America_, p. 5.\n\nAs we are not writing his memoir, we refer such of our readers as may be\ncurious to inquire further into the subject to the pamphlet just cited,\nand to the chapter headed \u201cGarrison,\u201d in the work on America by the same\nwriter. To one extraordinary feature of his character, however, we cannot\nforbear adverting. He belongs to a society instituted for the apparently\nnegative purpose of _non-resistance_, and is therefore the safest of all\nantagonists. Buffet as you list the head and sides of W. L. Garrison,\nand you receive no buffet in return. That this is owing to no deficiency\nof personal courage, admits of demonstration. Neither the prison into\nwhich he was cast when a mere lad in one state, the price set on his head\nin another, nor the tar-kettle to which he would on one occasion have\nbeen dragged but for a stout arm that came to his rescue, has been able\nto make Garrison swerve from what he considers to be his line of duty.\nAnother cause of this disposition to passive endurance must be sought,\nand it is easily found: _he is in love_--deeply in love with all mankind.\nHis principle is to \u201cresist not evil;\u201d and he acts upon it to the fullest\nextent. In fact, he appears to be several centuries in advance of his\ntime, and to live in a millennium of his own creating.\n\nWe shall only add, that the effect which this remarkable man produced\non the minds of those who companied with him while in Dublin, was of\na very peculiar nature. Among these were persons of various sects and\nparties, and of all varieties of temperament, but nearly all seemed\nto concur in their estimate of his character. Though many seemed to\nthink that he carried out the great principle of love to an unnecessary\nextent, none seemed able to gainsay his reasonings. Here and there tears\nwere seen to start, not called forth by any sublime sentiment or tender\nemotion to which he had given words at the moment, but educed as it were\nby the abstract contemplation of the image of intense virtue which he\nrepresented; and most agreed in the opinion, that of all individuals\nwith whom they had ever been acquainted, he was the one of whom it could\nbe with most justice asserted, that none could hold much intercourse\nwith him without becoming better. His Dublin host sailed to Liverpool on\nMonday evening for the mere purpose of enjoying his company for three\nhours more, which was all the arrangements the Boston steamer would\npermit, in which he was to leave Liverpool on Tuesday.\n\nIt would be an act of great injustice to close this article without\nmaking some mention of Garrison\u2019s congenial friend and companion\nNathaniel Peabody Rogers of Plymouth, in New Hampshire, also the editor\nand proprietor of a newspaper, of whom, however, we shall only say,\nthat if (as the phrase goes) _anything happened_ to W. L. Garrison, he\nis the man who would be ready to occupy his place in the admiration and\nexecration of America.\n\n                                                                    G. D.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTIME.--Time is the most undefinable yet most paradoxical of things: the\npast is gone, the future is not come, and the present becomes the past\neven while we attempt to define it, and, like the flash of the lightning,\nat once exists and expires. Time is the measure of all things, but is\nitself immeasurable, and the grand discloser of all things, but is itself\nundisclosed. Like space, it is incomprehensible, because it has no limit,\nand it would be still more so, if it had. It is more in its source than\nthe Nile, and its termination, than the Niger; and advances like the\nslowest tide, but retreats like the swiftest torrent. It gives wings of\nlightning to pleasure, but feet of lead to pain, and lends expectation\na curb, but enjoyment a spur. It robs beauty of her charms, to bestow\nthem on her picture, and builds a monument to merit, but denies it a\nhouse; it is the transient and deceitful flatterer of falsehood, but the\ntried and final friend of truth. Time is the most subtle, yet the most\ninsatiable of depredators, and by appearing to take nothing, is permitted\nto take all, nor can it be satisfied until it has stolen the world from\nus, and us from the world. It constantly flies, yet overcomes all things\nby flight; and although it is the present ally, it will be the future\nconqueror of death. Time, the cradle of hope, but the grave of ambition,\nis the stern corrector of fools, but the salutary counsellor of the wise,\nbringing all they dread to the one, and all they desire to the other;\nlike Cassandra, it warns us with a voice that even the sages discredit\ntoo long, and the silliest believe too late. Wisdom walks before it,\nopportunity with it, and repentance behind it; he that has made it his\nfriend, will have little to fear from his enemies; but he that has\nmade it his enemy, will have little to hope from his friends.--_Burn\u2019s\nYouthful Piety._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDIFFIDENCE.--A man gets along faster with a sensible married woman in\nhours than with a young girl in whole days. It is next to impossible to\nmake them talk, or to reach them. They are like a green walnut: there are\nhalf a dozen outer coats to be pulled off, one by one and slowly, before\nyou reach the kernel of their characters.\n\n\n\n\nAPOLOGUES AND FABLES, IN PROSE AND VERSE, FROM THE GERMAN AND OTHER\nLANGUAGES.\n\n\nNo. IV.--THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE.\n\nA TRANSLATION FROM GOETHE.\n\n    Joyous with youth, an Eagle spread his pinions\n    One sunny summer day,\n    And through the wilderness of Air\u2019s dominions\n    Arose in quest of prey,\n    When, lo! the forest-ranger\u2019s musquet roared,\n    And struck him as he soared,\n    Shattering the tendons of one buoyant wing,\n    And down to earth he fell, poor wounded thing!\n    Deep in the hollow of a grassy grove,\n    Where sleepy myrtles bloomed, and dark boughs wove\n    A trellis-curtain to shut out the sun,\n    He lay for three long days, with none\n    To tend him in that lowly lair,\n    And fed for three long nights upon his heart\u2019s despair!\n    All-healing Nature brought at length\n    Relief at least from agonizing pain,\n    And some return of youthful strength.\n    Feebly he leaves his couch and crawls along,\n    And tries to raise his wing--alas! in vain--\n    The glory has departed from the Strong,\n    And henceforth he can only hope to gain\n    A mean prey from the surface of that earth\n    Which gives the worm and beetle birth.\n    In mournful mood he rests beside a stream;\n    He looks up towards the tall majestic trees\n    Whose tops are waving to the mountain-breeze;\n    He sees the sun\u2019s unconquerable beam\n    Shine forth; he gazes on his native skies,\n    And tears gush from his eyes.\n\n    While Sorrow thus oppressed the noble Bird,\n    A rustling sound was heard--\n    A flutter as of soft wings through the grove--\n    And presently a Turtle-Dove\n    Alighted on a myrtle-bough anear.\n    He saw the Eagle droop his kingly head;\n    He saw tear after tear\n    Fall from his eyes into the dark rill under,\n    And sentiments of Pity, blent with Wonder,\n    Troubled his tender breast. My friend, he said,\n    Thou grievest! What has made thee grieve?\n    Thou showest thy wing--Ah! thou art maimed for life!\n    Well! what of that? Thou shouldst rejoice to leave\n    A world whose very pleasures most be won by Strife!\n    For, hast thou not around thee here\n    All blessings that can make Existence dear?\n    When high the noontide sunbeam burns,\n    Yield not these latticed walls a soothing shade?\n    When starry Night again returns,\n    Doth not her lamp light up this pleasant glade?\n    The soft winds bring thee odours from yon orange bowers;\n    Almost thy very path lies over flowers!\n    The trees around thee, the rich earth below,\n    Teem with luxuriance of sweet fruits for food;\n    The rapid and resounding flood\n    That rushes downward from the mountain\n    Flows here, will here for ever flow,\n    Diminished to a silver fountain\n    That sings its way o\u2019er golden sands,\n    Fringed by the lily and young violet.\n    Here hast thou all a placid soul demands!\n    What wouldst thou more? Or, canst thou still regret\n    A barren world, which only lures and juggles\n    Its dupes to leave them doubly sad and lonely?\n    My friend! Mind was not made to spend itself in struggles!\n    True Happiness lies in Contentment only,\n    And true Contentment ever dwells apart\n    From Competition and Ambition--brooks\n    All wants--is rich though poor, and strong when weakest!\n    Ah, Wise One! spake the Eagle--and his looks\n    Betrayed the unaltered anguish of his heart--\n    Ah, Wisdom! ever thus, and thus in vain, thou speakest!\n\n                                                                   M.\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. 18, October 31, 1840","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11892}