{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54509/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54509","id":"gutenberg_54509","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54509","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - Other","Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Ireland -- Periodicals"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n       NUMBER 24.     SATURDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1840.      VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF DONEGAL.]\n\nThe ruins of the old castellated Mansion of Donegal are not only\ninteresting as affording, to use the words of Sir R. Colt Hoare, \u201ca\ngood subject for the pencil,\u201d but still more as a touching memorial of\nthe fallen fortunes of a long-time powerful and illustrious family,\nthe ancient lords of Tirconnell. These ruins are situated on the north\nbank of the little river Easky, or the fishy river, at the extremity\nof the town to which, as well as to the county, it has given its name.\nThis name, however, which signifies literally the Dun, or Fort of the\nForeigners, is of much higher antiquity than the castle erected here by\nthe O\u2019Donnells, and was, there can be no doubt, originally applied to a\nfortress, most probably of earth, raised here by the Danes or Northmen\nanterior to the twelfth century; for it appears unquestionable that the\nIrish applied the appellations Gaill exclusively to the northern rovers,\nanterior to the arrival of the English. Of the early history of this dun\nor fortress there is nothing preserved beyond the bare fact recorded in\nthe Annals of Ulster, that it was burnt by Murtogh M\u2019Loughlin, the head\nof the northern Hy-Niall race, in the year 1159. We have, however, an\nevidence of the connection of the Danes with this locality more than two\ncenturies earlier, in a very valuable poem which we shall at no remote\ntime present to our readers, addressed by the Tirconnellian bard, Flan\nMac Lonan, to Aighleann and Cathbar, the brothers of Domhnall, from whom\nthe name of O\u2019Donnell is derived. In this poem, which was composed at\nthe commencement of the tenth century, the poet relates that Egneachan,\nthe father of Donnell, gave his three beautiful daughters, Duibhlin,\nBebua, and Bebinn, in marriage to three Danish princes, Caithis, Torges,\nand Tor, for the purpose of obtaining their friendship, and to secure his\nterritory from their depredations; and these marriages were solemnised at\nDonegal, where Egneachan then resided.\n\nBut though we have therefore evidence that a fort or dun existed here\nfrom a very remote time, it would appear certain, from a passage in the\nAnnals of the Four Masters, that a castle, properly so called, was not\nerected at Donegal by the O\u2019Donnells till the year 1474. In this passage,\nwhich records the death of Hugh Roe, the son of Niall Garve O\u2019Donnell,\nat the year 1505, it is distinctly stated that he was the first that\nerected a castle at Donegal, that it might serve as a fortress for his\ndescendants; and that he also erected as it would appear, at the same\ntime, a monastery for Observantine Franciscans near the same place, and\nin which he was interred in the seventy-eighth year of his age, and\nforty-fourth of his reign. From this period forward the Castle of Donegal\nbecame the chief residence of the chiefs of Tirconnell, till their final\nextinction in the reign of James I., and was the scene of many a petty\ndomestic feud and conflict. From a notice of one of these intestine\nbroils, as recorded in the Annals of the Four Masters, at the year 1564,\nit would appear that shortly previous to that period a tower, called \u201cthe\nNew Tower,\u201d had been added to the older structure. This tower being at\nthat time in the possession of Hugh, the grandson of the builder of the\noriginal castle, while the latter was inhabited by his fraternal nephews,\nCon, the son of Calvarch, then Prince of Tirconnell, in the absence of\nhis father, attempted to get possession of both, and nearly succeeded,\nwhen he was made captive by O\u2019Neill.\n\nTowards the close of the great war with the Earl of Tyrone in 1601,\nthis castle, as well as the adjacent monastery, having been placed in\nthe hands of the Queen\u2019s troops, through the instrumentality of Niall\nGarve O\u2019Donnell, it was besieged and taken by the celebrated leader, Red\nHugh O\u2019Donnell, who afterwards blockaded the English in the monastery,\nfrom the end of September till the end of October following. But though\nthe besieged were reduced to the utmost extremity, in consequence of\nthe explosion of their powder by some accident, which reduced the\ngreater part of the monastery to ruins, they maintained their position\nwith undaunted bravery, and O\u2019Donnell finally raised the siege, and\npassed into Munster to join the Spaniards. It appears, however, from\na contemporaneous poem, addressed to the ruins of this castle, a\ntranslation of which we shall presently lay before our readers, that\nO\u2019Donnell did not depart from his native territory, never to return,\ntill he had reduced the proud castle of his ancestors to a ruined\npile, assigning as a reason, that it should never become what its name\nindicated--a fortress for strangers!\n\nWhether this castle was subsequently repaired or reconstructed by Red\nHugh\u2019s brother Rory, the Earl of Tirconnell, during the few years for\nwhich he held his earldom previous to his flight to Rome, does not\nappear from any document which has fallen under our notice, and we are\ninclined to believe that he did not do so. But be this as it may, the\nexisting ruins retain no feature of a castle of the 15th century, but\non the contrary are in every respect characteristic of the castellated\nresidences of the reign of James I.; so that if it be of Rory O\u2019Donnell\u2019s\nage, he must have rebuilt the mansion from its foundation. It appears,\nhowever, at least equally probable that the present structure may owe its\nre-erection to Sir Basil Brooke, to whom a grant of the castle was made\nin 1610. But it is certain, at all events, that he repaired the castle\nand resided in it until his death in 1633; and two chimney-pieces which\nstill remain are unquestionably of his time, as the arms on one of them\ntestify. These arms, which are sculptured on two shields, are, on the\nfirst, those of Brooke impaling Leicester--the family name of Sir Basil\u2019s\nlady; and on the second, those of Brooke only. These chimney-pieces,\nwhich are very splendid specimens of the architectural taste of the\nage, are faithfully represented in wood-cuts in the second volume of\nthe _Dublin Penny Journal_, and are accompanied by an excellent notice\nfrom the pen, as we believe, of Sir William Betham. In this notice it\nis stated that the Castle of Donegal \u201cwas granted by patent, dated the\n16th November 1610, to Captain Basil Brooke, for twenty-one years, if he\nshould live so long, with one hundred acres of land, and the fishings,\ncustoms, and duties extending along the river from the castle to the sea.\nCaptain Brooke was knighted 2d February 1616, by Sir Arthur Chichester,\nknight, Lord Deputy, and had a re-grant of twenty-one years, or his life,\nof the castle by patent, dated 27th July 1620, and on the 12th February\n1623, he had a grant of the fee of the castle for ever.\u201d\n\nAccording to the same authority, this \u201cSir Basil Brooke was a scion of\nthe family of Brooke of Norton, in Cheshire, and his lady was Anne,\ndaughter of Thomas Leicester of Toft, in that county. Henry Vaughan\nBrooke, Esq. Member of Parliament for the county of Donegal, was his\ndescendant and heir-at-law, who left the estates of his family to his\nnephew Thomas Grove, Esq. who took the name and arms of Brooke by royal\nsign-manual in 1808. He died without issue, and the estates of the family\nwent to Thomas Young, Esq. of Lough Esk, who also took the name of Brooke\nby royal sign-manual, dated 16th July 1830, and is the present possessor.\u201d\n\nDuring the troubles of 1641, the Castle of Donegal was garrisoned for\nthe king by Sir Henry Brooke, the son of Sir Basil; but was taken in May\n1651 by the Marquess of Clanricarde, who was joined by the Ulster forces\nunder Sir Phelim O\u2019Neill, when the O\u2019Reillys and the MacMahons joined\nwith him. But the castle was shortly afterwards abandoned by him, on\nreceiving intelligence of the advance of Sir Charles Coote, into whose\npossession it then fell. Since that period the Castle of Donegal has\nnever we believe been used as a residence, and no care has been taken to\nsave it from the ruined state in which it now appears. It is, however,\nto the credit of its present possessor that he has taken every care to\ndelay as much as possible the further ravages of time on a structure so\ninteresting in its associations with the past.\n\nIt is indeed impossible to look on this venerable pile without carrying\nour minds back to the days of its proud but unfortunate chiefs; and in\nour feelings of pity for their fate, indulging such sentiments as one\nof their last bards has attempted to express in the following poem,\naddressed to its ruins, and of which we give a literal translation. It is\nthe composition of Malmurry Mac-an-Ward, or the son of the bard, and was\nwritten on the demolition of the castle by Red Hugh O'Donnell in 1601.\n\n\nADDRESS TO THE RUINS OF DONEGAL CASTLE.\n\n    O, solitary fort that standest yonder,\n    What desolation dost thou not reveal!\n    How tarnished is the beauty of thine aspect,\n    Thou mansion of the chaste and gentle melodies!\n\n    Demolished lie thy towering battlements--\n    The dark loam of the earth has risen up\n    Over the whiteness of thy polished stones;\n    And solitude and ruin gird thee round.\n\n    Thy end is come, fair fortress, thou art fallen--\n    Thy magical prestige has been stripped off--\n    Thy well-shaped corner-stones have been displaced\n    And cast forth to the outside of thy ramparts.\n\n    In lieu of thy rich wine feasts, thou hast now\n    Nought but the cold stream from the firmament;\n    It penetrates thee on all sides,\n    Thou mansion like Emania the golden.\n\n    Thy doorways are, alas! filled up,\n    Thou fortress of the once bright doors!\n    The limestones of thy top lie at thy base,\n    On all the sides of thy fair walls.\n\n    Over the mouldings of thy shattered windows,\n    The music that to-day breaks forth\n    Is the wild music of the birds and winds,\n    The voices of the stormy elements!\n\n    O, many-gated Court of Donegal,\n    What spell of slumber overcame thee,\n    Thou mansion of the board of flowing goblets,\n    To make thee undergo this rueful change?\n\n    Thou wert, O, happy one of the bright walls,\n    The Fortress of the Meetings of Clann-Connell,\n    The Tara of Assemblies to Conn\u2019s offspring,\n    O, thou resplendent fount of nobleness!\n\n    Thou rivalledst Emania in Ulster,\n    Thou wert the peer of Cruachan in Connaught,\n    Or of the mansion over the bright Boyne,\n    Thou Rome of all delight for Erin!\n\n    In thee, thou fair, capacious dome,\n    Where Ulster\u2019s tributes prodigally spent,\n    And Connaught\u2019s tributes were poured into thee,\n    Deserted though thou art this night!\n\n    From thee have we beheld--delightful sight!--\n    From the high pinnacles of thy purple turrets,\n    Long lines of ships at the approach of May,\n    With masts and snow-white sails.\n\n    From the high pinnacles of thy white watch-towers\n    We have seen the fleetness of the youthful steeds,\n    The bounding of the hounds, the joyous chase,\n    Thou pleasant fastness of unnumbered plains!\n\n    Within thee at the festive board\n    We have seen the strong battalions of the Gael,\n    And outside on thy wide green court,\n    After the meeting and the feasting.\n\n    Alas for this event, O Dun-na-Gall!\n    Sad is the lethargy that trances thee,\n    It is my grief to see thee thus deserted,\n    Without thy nobles, without mirth to-night!\n\n    Although thy ruins now bestrew the soil,\n    There have come of the race of Connell\n    Some men who would have mourned thy downfall,\n    O, thou fair fortress of the smooth-clad nobles!\n\n    Manus O\u2019Donnell\u2019s noble mind,\n    Had he but heard of thy disasters,\n    O, fortress of the regal towers,\n    Would suffer deepest anguish for thee!\n\n    Could Hugh, the son of Hugh, behold\n    The desolation of thy once white walls,\n    How bitter, O, thou palace of the kings,\n    His grief would be for thy decline and fall!\n\n    If thus thou couldst have been beheld\n    By Hugh Roe, who demolished thee,\n    Methinks his triumph and delight would cease,\n    Thou beautiful, time-hallowed house of Fertas!\n\n    O, never was it dreamed that one like him,\n    That one sprung from the Tirconnellians,\n    Could bring thee to this woeful state,\n    Thou bright-streamed fortress of the embellished walls!\n\n    From Hugh O\u2019Donnell, thine own king,\n    From him has come this melancholy blow,\n    This demolition of thy walls and towers,\n    O, thou forsaken fortress o\u2019er the Easky!\n\n    Yet was it not because he wished thee ill\n    That he thus left thee void and desolate;\n    The king of the successful tribe of Dalach\n    Did not destroy thee out of hatred.\n\n    The reason that he left thee as thou art\n    Was lest the black ferocious strangers\n    Should dare to dwell within thy walls,\n    Thou fair-proportioned, speckled mansion!\n\n    Lest we should ever call thee theirs,\n    Should call thee in good earnest _Dun-na-gall_,\n    This was the reason, Fortress of the Gaels,\n    That thy fair turrets were o\u2019erthrown.\n\n    Now that our kings have all been exiled hence\n    To dwell among the reptiles of strange lands,\n    It is a woe for us to see thy towers,\n    O, bright fort of the glossy walls!\n\n    Yet, better for thee to be thus destroyed\n    By thine own king than that the truculent Galls\n    Should raise dry mounds and circles of great stones\n    Around thee and thy running waters!\n\n    He who has brought thee to this feebleness,\n    Will soon again heal all thy wounds,\n    So that thou shall not sorrow any more,\n    Thou smooth and bright-walled mansion!\n\n    As doth the surgeon, if he be a true one,\n    On due examination of his patient,\n    Thy royal chief has done by thee,\n    Thou shield and bulwark of the race of Coffey!\n\n    The surgeon, on examining his patient,\n    Knows how his illness is to be removed,\n    Knows where the secret of his health lies hid,\n    And where the secret of his malady.\n\n    Those members that are gangrened or unsound\n    He cuts away from the more healthy trunk\n    Before they mortify, and so bring death\n    Without remead upon the sufferer.\n\n    Now, thy disease is obviously the Galls,\n    And thy good surgeon is thy chief, O\u2019Donnell,\n    And thou thyself, thou art the prostrate patient\n    O, green-hued mansion of the race of Dalach!\n\n    With God\u2019s will; and by God\u2019s permission,\n    Thy beauty shall yet put to shame thy meanness,\n    Thy variegated courts shall be rebuilt\n    By that great Chief who laid thee low!\n\n    As Hugh Roe, king of the Connellians\n    Was he who laid thy speckled walls in ruins,\n    He will again renew thy greatness,\n    Yes, he will be thy best physician!\n\n                                                 P.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWickedness may well be compared to a bottomless pit, into which it is\neasier to keep oneself from falling, than having fallen into, to stay\noneself from falling infinitely.--_Sir P. Sydney._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf there be an object truly ridiculous in nature, it is an American\npatriot, signing resolutions of independence with the one hand, and with\nthe other brandishing a whip over his affrighted slaves.--_Day._\n\n\n\n\nOUR SENSATIONS.\n\nFIRST ARTICLE.\n\n\nMan has been somewhere described as a \u201cbundle of sensations;\u201d and\ncertainly if ever sensations were capable of being packed together, they\nwould make a bundle, and a good large one too. I am not a physiologist,\nor even a doctor, so cannot pretend to speak very learnedly on this\nsubject: but as we all in common have \u201cour sensations,\u201d he must be rather\na dull fellow, I should think, who would have nothing to say when they\nwere laid upon the table for discussion. Even if he were a Jew, he might\nrepeat with Shylock, \u201cHath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,\ndimensions, senses, affections, passions?\u201d and so on.\n\nWhen one considers the amazing number and variety of the feelings, or\nperceptions arising out of impressions on the senses, of which we are\ncapable, we discover a new and interesting proof that we are indeed\n\u201cfearfully and wonderfully made.\u201d I was struck by this fact the other\nday, on hearing a young medical student say that he had been reading a\n\u201cdescriptive catalogue\u201d of \u201cpains,\u201d which had been made out with great\ncare for the use of the profession. People, when going to consult a\nphysician, are often at a loss to describe the manner in which they\nare affected, and particularly the nature and character of the painful\nsensation that afflicts them. To assist them in this respect, and the\nphysician in obtaining a correct idea of the case, this catalogue was\nmade out, and highly useful I think it must be for the proposed end.\nThe patient may thus readily meet with something answering to his own\ncase, and lay his finger on the classification that suits him. I am\nsorry I have not the list by me, for I am sure it would be a curious\nnovelty to many. There are however in it the \u201cdull, aching pain,\u201d the\n\u201csharp pricking pain,\u201d the pendulum-like \u201cgoing-and-returning pain,\u201d\nthe \u201cthrobbing pain,\u201d the \u201cflying-to-the-head and sickening pain,\u201d the\nhot-scalding or burning pain, the pins and needles or nettle pain, pains\ndeep seated and pains superficial, and, in short, an infinite variety,\nmade out with nice discrimination, and all taken, I dare say, from life.\nNone indeed could have drawn it out but one who had studied in some\nlazar-house, wherein, as Milton describes,\n\n                                  \u201cwere laid\n    Numbers of all diseased; all maladies\n    Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture; qualms\n    Of heart-sick agony, all feverous kinds;\n    Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs--\n    Intestine stone and ulcer, colic pangs\u201d--&c., &c.\n\nThere is a variety in _pain_, then, as well as in every thing else;\nbut it is a variety in which few, I believe, ever found a \u201ccharm\u201d\nexperimentally. But there is a special wonder in the matter which forces\nus to exclaim, \u201cWhat a piece of workmanship is man!\u201d We are here speaking\nof sensations, or of perceptions arising from our bodily structure; and\nto these perceptions it is plainly necessary that there should be a\nchain of communication between the part of the body affected, and the\nsensorium, or seat of perception in the brain. I remember being amused\nwith the surprise of an intelligent little girl, who complained of a sore\nfinger, and a pain \u201cin the finger,\u201d on hearing for the first time that\nthe pain was _not_ \u201cin her finger,\u201d but in _her own perception of it_. It\nseemed a contradiction to her immediate experience; but on being shown\nthat the pain she felt ceased when the nervous communication between\nthe finger and the brain was interrupted, which could be easily done by\na ligature placed above the part affected, she readily understood the\ndistinction sought to be conveyed to her mind, namely, the difference\nbetween a diseased action in any part of the body, and our painful\nperception of its existence. There must be a \u201cnerve\u201d to \u201ctelegraph\u201d the\nfact to the mind, otherwise the fact would not be consciously known.\nWell, then, this being the case, only consider what an infinite number\nof these nerves there must be in the human body, merely for the purpose\nof conveying _disagreeable_ impressions, or what I may call _bad_\nnews, to _head_-quarters! They are very useful, it is true; but like\nother messengers of unpleasant intelligence, not much in favour. It is\ndangerous, however, to do them any harm. My readers have heard perhaps\nof the farrier who used to cure lame horses so rapidly, that he was\nthe astonishment of all who consulted him. A horse would be brought to\nhim scarce putting his toe to the ground, limping and shambling in a\nmiserable manner, and, as if by magic, this veterinary artist would send\nhim trotting off to all appearance quite cured. His secret consisted\nin dividing the nerve, or, as I may say, slaying the messenger of evil:\nthe consequence of which was, that the poor horse, no longer conscious\nof the malady in his hoof, leaned heavily upon it, and ultimately became\nincurably lamed for life.\n\nSo much as to our sensations of _pain_. But fortunately for us there\nis another class, and this comprising, according to some, a family\nvery nearly if not altogether as numerous--I mean our sensations of\nthe pleasurable kind. \u201cMan,\u201d saith the Scripture, \u201croasteth roast, and\nis satisfied: yea, he warmeth himself, and saith, Aha, I am warm, I\nhave seen the fire.\u201d This includes the comforts of a good dinner, and\na cheerful fire-side on a winter\u2019s evening, and most people will agree\nwith me these are no bad things, especially with a group of happy smiling\nfaces about us. The inlets to our agreeable perceptions are certainly not\nso numerous as those to the opposite kind, as we are approachable by pain\nfrom every part of the body without exception, but it is otherwise with\nour \u201cnotions of the agreeable.\u201d However, they can reach us in tolerable\nabundance through the eye, the ear, the taste (including the smell),\nand the touch. It may be as well to record here, for the benefit of\nposterity--as with the rapid increase of railroads, and other improved\nmodes of travelling and living in these days, it stands a chance of being\nforgotten hereafter--that to one who has been up all night in a close\ncoach, \u201cfour inside,\u201d or has dined at a Lord\u2019s Mayor\u2019s inauguration\ndinner, partaking largely of the good things, the warm bath is a highly\nagreeable and efficacious restorative, and that he is indebted in this\ncase to the entire envelope of his epidermis, and not to any one part\nin particular, for the pleasing sensation he experiences. There are\nother modes of exciting the pleasurable on this wholesale plan, such as\nshampooing, as it is practised in the east, and suddenly plunging into\nthe snow after stewing in vapour, as they do in Russia, and so on; but\nas I have never myself been \u201cdone\u201d by any of these processes, I do not\ntake upon me to recommend them. I am not an advocate for tickling. The\nlaughter which it excites is one to which we give way with reluctance,\nand its pleasure is equivocal. I have seen poor children tickled nearly\nto death, and feel a great horror of that mode of making my exit from all\nthe consciousnesses that belong to this mortal coil.\n\nAs to the innumerable sensations of agreeableness which we may receive\nthrough the eye, including all that may be seen--the ear encompassing\nall the concords of sweet sounds--the warbling of birds--the voice of\nthe beloved, and all the melody of song--through the taste, with all its\nvarieties--what gives to the peach its melting richness?--to generous\nwine its elevating gentlemanliness of flavour?--to meats, soups, and\nsauces, all their delicious gusto?--to the rose its sweetness?--to the\ncinnamon tree and the orange grove their spicy fragrance? Whence come\nall the delightful visions of the opium-eater? He lives whilst under the\ninfluence of the drug in a world of ecstacy: his soul teems with the most\npleasing fancies; all around him is soft and soothing; whatever he sees\nor hears, ministers to delight.\n\nIf you have never lit your cigar as you sallied forth with dog and gun on\na fine December morning, let me tell you, gentle reader, that you have\nmissed a sensation worth getting up to enjoy. But not to lose ourselves\nin a wilderness of sweets, or to forget our great argument, what is\nthe immediate cause of all these so agreeable effects? Why, a peculiar\norganization of our bodies, fitted to receive every imaginable impression\nfrom without, whether of the painful or the agreeable kind, and to\ntransmit that impression, when received, to the seat of perception within.\n\nWe call it the nervous system; and what I would beg my readers to\nconsider is, how wonderful, how curious, above all comprehension or\nexplanation, that apparatus in our construction must be, to which we owe\nsuch an infinite variety of sensations, and those of the most opposite\nkinds! It baffles the skill of the anatomist to unveil its mysteries: no\nneedle can trace its ligaments; yet it is a real, substantial thing, of\nwhose existence we have perfect assurance by the very palpable effects\nwhich it produces.\n\nThus much for our different and various sensations arising from outward\nimpressions; but there is yet a third class, in which, by a sort of\nreflection, our nerves perform an important function, and transmit the\naction begun in the _mind_ to the _seat of emotion_, or the soul. Hence\nthe joy of the mathematician at the discovery of some important problem,\nor of the poet at hitting upon some long-sought-for rhyme with answering\nmetre. In such cases the mind, or pure intellect, _originates_, and the\nbody \u201ctakes the signal\u201d from it. There is a reciprocity between them,\nand it is well when, like some loving couples, they dwell on good terms\ntogether. When, happily, this is the case, there is much peace \u201cat home:\u201d\nthe senses do not seek for gratifications which the mind disapproves, and\nthe mind does not apply to them for pleasures which are forbidden.\n\nHowever, I shall not enter upon this further disquisition--highly\ninteresting though it be--at present, but shall reserve it in order that\nwe may resume it with due deliberation, and do it that justice which it\nso well deserves, at another opportunity.\n\n                                                                       F.\n\n\n\n\nIRISH SUPERSTITIONS--GHOSTS AND FAIRIES.\n\nTHE RIVAL KEMPERS.\n\nBY WILLIAM CARLETON.\n\n(Second Article.)\n\n\nIn a former paper we gave an authentic account of what the country folks,\nand we ourselves at the time, looked upon as a genuine instance of\napparition. It appeared to the simple-minded to be a clear and distinct\ncase, exhibiting all those minute and subordinate details which, by an\narrangement naturally happy and without concert, go to the formation\nof truth. There was, however, but one drawback in the matter, and that\nwas the ludicrous and inadequate nature of the moral motive; for what\nunsteady and derogatory notions of Providence must we not entertain when\nwe see the order and purposes of his divine will so completely degraded\nand travestied by the fact of a human soul returning to this earth again\nfor the ridiculous object of settling the claim to a pair of breeches!\n\nWhen we see the succession to crowns and kingdoms, and the inheritance\nto large territorial property and great personal rank, all left so\ncompletely undecided that ruin and desolation have come upon nations and\nfamilies in attempting their adjustment, and when we see a laughable\ndispute about a pair of breeches settled by a personal revelation from\nanother life, we cannot help asking why the supernatural intimation was\npermitted in the one case and not in the other, especially when their\nrelative importance differed so essentially? To follow up this question,\nhowever, by insisting upon a principle so absurd, would place Providence\nin a position so perfectly unreasonable and capricious, that we do not\nwish to press the inference so far as admission of divine interference in\nsuch a manner would justify us in doing.\n\nHaving detailed the case of Daly\u2019s daughter, however, we take our\nleave of the girl and the ghost, and turn now to another case which\ncame under our own observation in connection with Frank Martin and the\nfairies. Before commencing, however, we shall by way of introduction\nendeavour to give our readers a few short particulars as to fairies,\ntheir origin, character, and conduct. And as we happen to be on this\nsubject, we cannot avoid regretting that we have not by us copies of two\nmost valuable works upon it from the pen of our learned and admirable\ncountryman, Thomas Keightly--we allude to his Fairy Mythology and his\nHistory of the Transmission of Popular Fictions; two works which cannot\nbe perused without delight at the happy manner in which so much learning\nand amusement, so much solid information, and all that is agreeable in\nextensive research, are inimitably combined. We are sorry, we repeat,\nthat we have them not by us; but we trust that we may on some early\noccasion be allowed to notice them at greater length, and to give them a\nmore formal recommendation to our countrymen.\n\nWith the etymology of the word fairy we do not intend in a publication\nlike this to puzzle our readers. It is with the tradition connected\nwith the _thing_ that we have to do, and not with a variety of learned\nspeculations, which appear after all to be yet unsettled. The general\nopinion, in Ireland at least, is, that during the war of Lucifer in\nheaven the angels were divided into three classes. The first class\nconsisted of those faithful spirits who at once and without hesitation\nadhered to the standard of the Omnipotent; the next consisted of those\nwho openly rebelled and followed the great apostate, sharing eternal\nperdition along with him; the third and last consisted of those who,\nduring the mighty clash and uproar of the contending hosts, stood timidly\naloof and refused to join either power. These, says the tradition, were\nhurled out of heaven, some upon earth and some into the waters of the\nearth, where they are to remain ignorant of their fate until the day of\njudgment. They know their own power, however, and it is said that nothing\nbut their hopes of salvation prevent them from at once annihilating the\nwhole human race. Such is the broad basis of the general superstition;\nbut our traditional history and conception of the popular fairy falls\nfar short of the historical dignity associated with its origin. The\nfairy of the people is a diminutive creature, generally dressed in\ngreen, irritable, capricious, and quite unsteady in all its principles\nand dealings with mankind. Sometimes it exhibits singular proofs of\ningenuity, but, on the contrary, is frequently overreached by mere mortal\ncapacity. It is impossible to say in dealing with it whether its conduct\nwill be found benevolent or otherwise, for it often has happened that its\nthreats of injury have ended in kindness, and its promises of protection\nterminated in malice and treachery. What is very remarkable too is, that\nit by no means appears to be a mere spirit, but a being with passions,\nappetites, and other natural wants like ourselves. Indeed, the society\nor community of fairies appears to be less self-dependent than ours,\ninasmuch as there are several offices among them which they not only\ncannot perform, but which render it necessary that we should be stolen\nand domiciled with them, for the express purpose of performing for them.\nLike us they are married and given in marriage, and rear families; but\nwhether their offspring are subject to death, is a matter not exactly\nof the clearest. Some traditions affirm that they are, and others that\nthey are as immortal as the angels, although possessing material bodies\nanalogous to our own. The fairy, in fact, is supposed to be a singular\nmixture of good and evil, not very moral in its actions or objects, often\nvery thievish, and sometimes benevolent when kindness is least expected\nfrom it. It is generally supposed by the people that this singular class\nof fictitious creatures enjoy as a kind of right the richest and best of\nall the fruits of the earth, and that the top grain of wheat, oats, &c.,\nand the ripest apple, pear, &c., all belong to them, and are taken as\ntheir own exclusive property.\n\nThey have also other acknowledged rights which they never suffer to be\nviolated with impunity. For instance, wherever a meal is eaten upon the\ngrass in an open field, and the crumbs are not shaken down upon the\nspot for their use, there they are sure to leave one of their curses\ncalled the _far gurtha_, or the hungry man: for whoever passes over\nthat particular spot for ever afterwards is liable to be struck down\nwith weakness and hunger; and unless he can taste a morsel of bread, he\nneither will nor can recover. The weakness in this instance, however, is\nnot natural, for if the person affected but tastes as much meal or flour\nas would lie on the point of a penknife, he will instantaneously break\nthe spell of the fairies, and recover his former strength. Such spots are\nsaid to be generally known by their superior verdure: they are always\nround, and the diameter of these little circles is seldom more than a\nsingle step. The grass which grows upon them is called in the north and\nparts of the north-west _hungry-grass_, and is accounted for as we have\nalready stated. Indeed, the walks and haunts of the fairies are to be\nconsidered as very sacred and inviolate. For instance, it is dangerous to\nthrow out dirty water after dusk or before sunrise, lest in doing so you\nbespatter them with a liquid as unsavoury to the smell as it is unclean\nto the touch: for these little gentry are peculiarly fond of cleanliness\nand neatness, both in dress and person. Bishop Andrews\u2019s Lamentation for\nthe Fairies gives as humorous and correct a notion of their personal\nhabits in this way, and their disposition to reward cleanliness in\nservants, as could be written.\n\nWe shall ourselves relate a short anecdote or two touching them, before\nwe come to Frank Martin\u2019s case; premising to our readers that we could if\nwe wished fill a volume--ay, three of them--with anecdotes and legends\nconnected with our irritable but good-humoured little friends.\n\nPaddy Corcoran\u2019s wife was for several years afflicted with a kind of\ncomplaint which nobody could properly understand. She was sick, and she\nwas not sick; she was well, and she was not well; she was as ladies wish\nto be who love their lords, and she was not as such ladies wish to be. In\nfact, nobody could tell what the matter with her was. She had a gnawing\nat the heart which came heavily upon her husband; for, with the help of\nGod, a keener appetite than the same gnawing amounted to could not be\nmet with of a summer\u2019s day. The poor woman was delicate beyond belief,\nand had no appetite at all, so she hadn\u2019t, barring a little relish for a\nmutton-chop, or a \u201cstaik,\u201d or a bit o\u2019 mait, anyway; for sure, God help\nher! she hadn\u2019t the laist inclination for the dhry pratie, or the dhrop\no\u2019 sour butthermilk along wid it, especially as she was so poorly: and\nindeed for a woman in her condition--for, sick as she was, poor Paddy\nalways was made to believe her in _that_ condition--but God\u2019s will be\ndone! she didn\u2019t care. A pratie an\u2019 a grain o\u2019 salt was as welcome to\nher--glory be to his name!--as the best roast an\u2019 boiled that ever was\ndressed; an\u2019 why not? There was one comfort: she wouldn\u2019t be long wid\nhim--long throublin\u2019 him; it matthered little what she got; but sure she\nknew herself that from the gnawin\u2019 at her heart, she could never do good\nwidout the little bit o\u2019 mait now and then; an\u2019, sure, if her own husband\nbegridged it to her, who else had she a betther right to expect it from?\n\nWell, as we said, she lay a bedridden invalid for long enough, trying\ndoctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes, and sizes, and all without a\nfarthing\u2019s benefit, until at the long run poor Paddy was nearly brought\nto the last pass in striving to keep her in \u201cthe bit o\u2019 mait.\u201d The\nseventh year was now on the point of closing, when one harvest day,\nas she lay bemoaning her hard condition on her bed beyond the kitchen\nfire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in a neat red cloak, comes in, and,\nsitting down by the hearth, says,\n\n\u201cWell, Kitty Corcoran, you\u2019ve had a long lair of it there on the broad\no\u2019 yer back for seven years, an\u2019 you\u2019re jist as far from bein\u2019 cured as\never.\u201d\n\n\u201cMavrone, ay,\u201d said the other; \u201cin troth that\u2019s what I was this minnit\nthinkin\u2019 ov, and a sorrowful thought it is to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s yer own fau\u2019t, thin,\u201d says the little woman; \u201can\u2019 indeed for that\nmatter, it\u2019s yer fau\u2019t that ever you wor there at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cArra, how is that?\u201d asked Kitty; \u201csure I wouldn\u2019t be here if I could\nhelp it? Do you think it\u2019s a comfort or a pleasure to me to be sick and\nbedridden?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the other, \u201cI do not; but I\u2019ll tell you the truth: for the\nlast seven years you have been annoyin\u2019 us. I am one o\u2019 the good people;\nan\u2019 as I have a regard for you, I\u2019m come to let you know the raison why\nyou\u2019ve been sick so long as you are. For all the time you\u2019ve been ill, if\nyou\u2019ll take the thrubble to remimber, you\u2019ve threwn out yer dirty wather\nafther dusk an\u2019 before sunrise, at the very time we\u2019re passin\u2019 yer door,\nwhich we pass twice a-day. Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it out\nin a different place, an\u2019 at a different time, the complaint you have\nwill lave you: so will the gnawin\u2019 at the heart; an\u2019 you\u2019ll be as well as\never you wor. If you don\u2019t follow this advice, why, remain as you are,\nan\u2019 all the art o\u2019 man can\u2019t cure you.\u201d She then bade her good-bye, and\ndisappeared.\n\nKitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, immediately complied\nwith the injunction of the fairy; and the consequence was, that the next\nday she found herself in as good health as ever she enjoyed during her\nlife.\n\nLanty M\u2019Clusky had married a wife, and of course it was necessary to\nhire a house in which to keep her. Now, Lanty had taken a bit of a farm,\nabout six acres; but as there was no house on it, he resolved to build\none; and that it might be as comfortable as possible, he selected for the\nsite of it one of those beautiful green circles that are supposed to be\nthe play-ground of the fairies. Lanty was warned against this; but as he\nwas a headstrong man, and not much given to fear, he said he would not\nchange such a pleasant situation for his house to oblige all the fairies\nin Europe. He accordingly proceeded with the building, which he finished\noff very neatly; and as it is usual on these occasions to give one\u2019s\nneighbours and friends a house-warming, so, in compliance with this good\nand pleasant old custom, Lanty having brought home the wife in the course\nof the day, got a fiddler, and gave those who had come to see him a dance\nin the evening. This was all very well, and the fun and hilarity were\nproceeding briskly, when a noise was heard after night had set in, like a\ncrushing and straining of ribs and rafters on the top of the house. The\nfolks assembled all listened, and without doubt there was nothing heard\nbut crushing, and heaving, and pushing, and groaning, and panting, as if\na thousand little men were engaged in pulling down the roof.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d said a voice, which spoke in a tone of command, \u201cwork hard: you\nknow we must have Lanty\u2019s house down before midnight.\u201d\n\nThis was an unwelcome piece of intelligence to Lanty, who, finding\nthat his enemies were such as he could not cope with, walked out, and\naddressed them as follows:--\n\n\u201cGintlemen, I humbly ax yer pardon for buildin\u2019 on any place belongin\u2019 to\nyou; but if you\u2019ll have the civilitude to let me alone this night, I\u2019ll\nbegin to pull down and remove the house to-morrow morning.\u201d\n\nThis was followed by a noise like the clapping of a thousand tiny little\nhands, and a shout of \u201cBravo, Lanty! build half way between the two\nWhitethorns above the boreen;\u201d and after another hearty little shout of\nexultation, there was a brisk rushing noise, and they were heard no more.\n\nThe story, however, does not end here; for Lanty, when digging the\nfoundation of his new house, found the full of a _kam_ of gold: so that\nin leaving the fairies to their play-ground, he became a richer man than\never he otherwise would have been, had he never come in contact with them\nat all.\n\nThere is another instance of their interference mentioned, in which it\nis difficult to say whether their simplicity or benevolence is the most\namusing. In the north of Ireland there are spinning meetings of unmarried\nfemales frequently held at the houses of farmers, called _kemps_. Every\nyoung woman who has got the reputation of being a quick and expert\nspinner, attends where the kemp is to be held, at an hour usually before\ndaylight, and on these occasions she is accompanied by her sweetheart\nor some male relative, who carries her wheel, and conducts her safely\nacross the fields or along the road as the case may be. A kemp is indeed\nan animated and joyous scene, and one, besides, which is calculated\nto promote industry and decent pride. Scarcely any thing can be more\ncheering and agreeable than to hear at a distance, breaking the silence\nof morning, the light-hearted voices of many girls either in mirth or\nsong, the humming sound of the busy wheels--jarred upon a little, it is\ntrue, by the stridulous noise and checkings of the reels, and the voices\nof the reelers, as they call aloud the checks, together with the name\nof the girl and the quantity she has spun up to that period; for the\ncontest is generally commenced two or three hours before daybreak. This\nmirthful spirit is also sustained by the prospect of a dance--with which,\nby the way, every kemp closes; and when the fair victor is declared, she\nis to be looked upon as the queen of the meeting, and treated with the\nnecessary respect.\n\nBut to our tale. Every one knew Shaun Buie M\u2019Gaveran to be the cleanest,\nbest-conducted boy, and the most industrious too, in the whole parish\nof Faugh-a-balla. Hard was it to find a young fellow who could handle a\nflail, spade, or reaping-hook, in better style, or who could go through\nhis day\u2019s work in a more creditable or workmanlike manner. In addition\nto this he was a fine, well-built, handsome young man as you could meet\nin a fair; and so sign was on it, maybe the pretty girls weren\u2019t likely\nto pull each other\u2019s caps about him. Shaun, however, was as prudent as\nhe was good-looking; and although he wanted a wife, yet the sorrow one\nof him but preferred taking a well-handed, smart girl, who was known to\nbe well behaved and industrious like himself. Here, however, was where\nthe puzzle lay on him, for instead of one girl of that kind, there were\nin the neighbourhood no less than a dozen of them--all equally fit and\nwilling to become his wife, and all equally good-looking. There were two,\nhowever, whom he thought a trifle above the rest; but so nicely balanced\nwere Biddy Corrigan and Sally Gorman, that for the life of him he could\nnot make up his mind to decide between them. Each of them had won her\nkemp; and it was currently said by them who ought to know, that neither\nof them could overmatch the other. No two girls in the parish were better\nrespected, nor more deserved to be so; and the consequence was, they had\nevery one\u2019s good word and good wish. Now, it so happened that Shaun had\nbeen pulling a cord with each; and as he knew not how to decide between,\nhe thought he would allow them to do that themselves if they could. He\naccordingly gave out to the neighbours that he would hold a kemp on that\nday week, and he told Biddy and Sally especially that he had made up his\nmind to marry whichever of them won the kemp, for he knew right well, as\ndid all the parish, that one of them must. The girls agreed to this very\ngood-humouredly--Biddy telling Sally, that she (Sally) would surely win\nit; and Sally, not to be outdone in civility, telling the same thing to\nher.\n\nWell, the week was nearly past, there being but two days till that of\nthe kemp, when, about three o\u2019clock, there walks into the house of old\nPaddy Corrigan, a little woman dressed in high-heeled shoes and a short\nred cloak. There was no one in the house but Biddy at the time, who rose\nup and placed a chair near the fire, and asked the little red woman to\nsit down and rest herself. She accordingly did so, and in a short time a\nlively chat commenced between them.\n\n\u201cSo,\u201d said the strange woman, \u201cthere\u2019s to be a great kemp in Shaun Buie\nM\u2019Gaveran\u2019s?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed there is that, good woman,\u201d replied Biddy, smiling a little,\nand blushing to the back of that again, because she knew her own fate\ndepended on it.\n\n\u201cAnd,\u201d continued the little woman, \u201cwhoever wins the kemp, wins a\nhusband?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, so it seems.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, whoever gets Shaun will be a happy woman, for he\u2019s the moral of a\ngood boy.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s nothing but the truth, any how,\u201d replied Biddy, sighing for fear,\nyou may be sure, that she herself might lose him; and indeed a young\nwoman might sigh from many a worse reason. \u201cBut,\u201d said she, changing\nthe subject, \u201cyou appear to be tired, honest woman, an\u2019 I think you had\nbetter eat a bit, an\u2019 take a good drink of _buinnhe ramwher_ (thick milk)\nto help you on your journey.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you kindly, a colleen,\u201d said the woman; \u201cI\u2019ll take a bit, if you\nplase, hopin\u2019 at the same time that you won\u2019t be the poorer of it this\nday twelve months.\u201d\n\n\u201cSure,\u201d said the girl, \u201cyou know that what we give from kindness, ever\nand always leaves a blessing behind it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, acushla, when it _is_ given from kindness.\u201d\n\nShe accordingly helped herself to the food that Biddy placed before her,\nand appeared after eating to be very much refreshed.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said she, rising up, \u201cyou\u2019re a very good girl, an\u2019 if you are able\nto find out my name before Tuesday morning, the kemp-day, I tell you that\nyou\u2019ll win it, and gain the husband.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said Biddy, \u201cI never saw you before. I don\u2019t know who you are, nor\nwhere you live; how then can I ever find out your name?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou never saw me before, sure enough,\u201d said the old woman, \u201can\u2019 I tell\nyou that you will never see me again but once; an\u2019 yet if you have not\nmy name for me at the close of the kemp, you\u2019ll lose all, an\u2019 that will\nleave you a sore heart, for well I know you love Shaun Buie.\u201d\n\nSo saying, she went away, and left poor Biddy quite cast down at what she\nhad said, for, to tell the truth, she loved Shaun very much, and had no\nhopes of being able to find out the name of the little woman, on which it\nappeared so much to her depended.\n\nIt was very near the same hour of the same day that Sally Gorman was\nsitting alone in her father\u2019s house, thinking of the kemp, when who\nshould walk into her but our friend the little red woman?\n\n\u201cGod save you, honest woman.\u201d said Sally; \u201cthis is a fine day that\u2019s in\nit, the Lord be praised!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is,\u201d said the woman, \u201cas fine a day as one could wish for; indeed it\nis.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you no news on your travels?\u201d asked Sally.\n\n\u201cThe only news in the neighbourhood,\u201d replied the other, \u201cis this great\nkemp that\u2019s to take place at Shaun Buie M\u2019Gaveran\u2019s. They say you\u2019re\neither to win him or lose him then,\u201d she added, looking closely at Sally\nas she spoke.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not very much afraid of that,\u201d said Sally with confidence; \u201cbut even\nif I do lose him, I may get as good.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not easy gettin\u2019 as good,\u201d rejoined the old woman, \u201can\u2019 you ought\nto be very glad to win him if you can.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me alone for that,\u201d said Sally. \u201cBiddy\u2019s a good girl, I allow; but\nas for spinnin\u2019, she never saw the day she could leave me behind her.\nWon\u2019t you sit an\u2019 rest you?\u201d she added; \u201cyou\u2019re maybe tired.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s time for you to think of it,\u201d _thought_ the woman, but she spoke\nnothing; \u201cbut,\u201d she added to herself on reflection, \u201cit\u2019s better late\nthan never--I\u2019ll sit awhile, till I see a little closer what she\u2019s made\nof.\u201d\n\nShe accordingly sat down and chatted upon several subjects, such as young\nwomen like to talk about, for about half an hour; after which she arose,\nand taking her little staff in hand, she bade Sally good-bye and went her\nway. After passing a little from the house she looked back, and could not\nhelp speaking to herself as follows:--\n\n    \u201cShe\u2019s smooth and smart,\n    But she wants the heart;\n    She\u2019s tight and neat,\n    But she gave no meat.\u201d\n\nPoor Biddy now made all possible inquiries about the old woman, but to\nno purpose. Not a soul she spoke to about her had ever seen or heard\nof such a woman. She felt very dispirited and began to lose heart, for\nthere is no doubt that if she missed Shaun, it would have cost her many\na sorrowful day. She knew she would never get his equal, or at least\nany one that she loved so well. At last the kemp day came, and with it\nall the pretty girls of the neighbourhood, to Shaun Buie\u2019s. Among the\nrest, the two that were to decide their right to him were doubtless the\nhandsomest pair by far, and every one admired them. To be sure, it was a\nblythe and merry place, and many a light laugh and sweet song rang out\nfrom pretty lips that day. Biddy and Sally, as every one expected, were\nfar ahead of the rest, but so even in their spinning that the reelers\ncould not for the life of them declare which was the best. It was neck\nand neck and head and head between the pretty creatures, and all who were\nat the kemp felt themselves wound up to the highest pitch of interest and\ncuriosity to know which of them would be successful.\n\nThe day was now more than half gone, and no difference was between them,\nwhen, to the surprise and sorrow of every one present, Biddy Corrigan\u2019s\n_heck_ broke in two, and so to all appearance ended the contest in favour\nof her rival; and what added to her mortification, she was as ignorant\nof the red little woman\u2019s name as ever. What was to be done? All that\ncould be done was done. Her brother, a boy of about fourteen years of\nage, happened to be present when the accident took place, having been\nsent by his father and mother to bring them word how the match went on\nbetween the rival spinsters. Johnny Corrigan was accordingly dispatched\nwith all speed to Donnel M\u2019Cusker\u2019s, the wheelwright, in order to get\nthe heck mended, that being Biddy\u2019s last but hopeless chance. Johnny\u2019s\nanxiety that his sister should win was of course very great, and in order\nto lose as little time as possible he struck across the country, passing\nthrough, or rather close by, Kilrudden forth, a place celebrated as a\nresort of the fairies. What was his astonishment, however, as he passed a\nwhitethorn tree, to hear a female voice singing, in accompaniment to the\nsound of a spinning-wheel, the following words:\n\n    \u201cThere\u2019s a girl in this town doesn\u2019t know my name;\n    But my name\u2019s Even Trot--Even Trot.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a girl in this town,\u201d said the lad, \u201cwho\u2019s in great distress,\nfor she has broken her heck and lost a husband. I\u2019m now goin\u2019 to Donnel\nM\u2019Cusker\u2019s to get it mended.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s her name?\u201d said the little red woman.\n\n\u201cBiddy Corrigan.\u201d\n\nThe little woman immediately whipped out the heck from her own wheel, and\ngiving it to the boy, desired him to bring it to his sister, and never\nmind Donnel M\u2019Cusker.\n\n\u201cYou have little time to lose,\u201d she added, \u201cso go back and give her this;\nbut don\u2019t tell her how you got it, nor, above all things, that it was\nEven Trot that gave it to you.\u201d\n\nThe lad returned, and after giving the heck to his sister, as a matter\nof course told her that it was a little red woman called Even Trot that\nsent it to her, a circumstance which made the tears of delight start to\nBiddy\u2019s eyes, for she knew now that Even Trot was the name of the old\nwoman, and having known that, she felt that something good would happen\nto her. She now resumed her spinning, and never did human fingers let\ndown the thread so rapidly. The whole kemp were amazed at the quantity\nwhich from time to time filled her pirn. The hearts of her friends began\nto rise, and those of Sally\u2019s party to sink, as hour after hour she was\nfast approaching her rival, who now spun if possible with double speed\non finding Biddy coming up with her. At length they were again even, and\njust at that moment in came her friend the little red woman, and asks\naloud, \u201cis there any one in this kemp that knows my name?\u201d This question\nshe asked three times before Biddy could pluck up courage to answer her.\nShe at last said,\n\n    \u201cThere\u2019s a girl in this town _does_ know your name--\n    Your name is Even Trot--Even Trot.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d said the old woman, \u201cand so it is; and let that name be your guide\nand your husband\u2019s through life. Go steadily along, but let your step be\neven; stop little; keep always advancing; and you\u2019ll never have cause to\nrue the day that you first saw Even Trot.\u201d\n\nWe need scarcely add that Biddy won the kemp and the husband, and that\nshe and Shaun lived long and happily together; and I have only now to\nwish, kind reader, that you and I may live longer and more happily still.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMen no more desire another\u2019s secrets, to conceal them, than they would\nanother\u2019s purse, for the pleasure only of carrying it.--_Fielding._\n\n\n\n\nWHAT ARE COMFORTS?\n\nBY MARTIN DOYLE.\n\n\nA few months ago I had the honour of passing a day in England with a\ngentleman of considerable property, who took the trouble of showing me a\nvery extensive park and tillage farm near his manor-house, around which\nevery thing indicated good taste and abundant wealth in the possessor.\n\nIt has rarely been my good fortune to view more beautiful scenery than\nthat which the demesne of F---- possesses within itself, or a place in\nwhich it would be more difficult to find a want, either in the nature or\nextent of the landscape: yet as we walked along, and were admiring some\nundulating land, about six miles distant, Mr F---- suddenly stopped, and\nremarked \u201cthat he had long wished for that hill, in order to plant on it\na clump or two of trees, as a picturesque termination to his prospect: it\nwould be such a comfort to have it! I have offered forty years\u2019 purchase\nfor that land,\u201d said he; \u201cbut the possessor is an obstinate fellow, and\nwon\u2019t part with it.\u201d\n\nI ventured to suggest that he should endeavour to prevail upon the owner\nof the hill to plant the desired clumps; but to this he gave a decided\nnegative, saying, that it would be very uncomfortable indeed to be\nindebted to such an unaccommodating person for any thing.\n\nAt dinner, the lady of the house, after asking me if I had been pleased\nwith Mr F----\u2019s farming, and proposing some other questions of that\nnature, which she considerately accommodated to my capacity, in order\nto relieve me if possible from the embarrassment natural to a man of my\nstation in life when sitting at table with his betters, and surrounded\nwith luxuries quite new to him, inquired with great suavity of manner if\nI did not think that the owner of the hill property was very \u201ctiresome\u201d\nin refusing Mr F---- the little comfort on which his heart was fixed; and\nin the course of the dessert informed me that the governess was a very\n\u201ccomfortable\u201d person to have about children: that the King of the French\nhad no \u201ccomfort\u201d in his ministers, and must find the attempts upon his\nlife very \u201ctiresome\u201d indeed.\n\nHaving got over the dinner business, during which _I_ had been really\nuncomfortable from the dread of doing something very awkward, I became\ncomposed and familiar by degrees, and asked questions in my turn; and\nwas assured that there is very little comfort to be had in a mere\ncountry life without a first-rate bailiff and gardener, newspapers, new\npublications, a billiard table, and society of a certain class within\nvisiting distance; that hot baths are indispensable comforts within the\nhouse, and that one adjoining the stables is also a great comfort to a\nhunter after a hard day\u2019s work.\n\nIt was also among their comforts to have the nursery in a remote wing,\nwhere the cry of a child could not reach the seniors of the family in\ntheir apartments, and a _very_ great comfort to have a pew in the church\nwith a fireplace in it.\n\nMy host, who would not allow me to leave Castle F---- that night, passed\nmuch of the evening in reading the papers of that day, standing at\nintervals with his back to the fire, which comfort he seemed to enjoy\nextremely, while I threw in a word now and then to him or his lady, to\nwhom I detailed the receipt for making catsup from nettles, as it appears\nin my Cyclop\u00e6dia of Agriculture. \u201cThis economical method of making\ncatsup,\u201d she was pleased to say, \u201cwould be a great comfort to the poor;\u201d\nand so it would, as I ventured to observe, if they had any thing to eat\nthat required such sauce.\n\nI was conducted at night to a bedroom, with large mirrors, a pair of wax\ncandles on the dressing-table, a luxurious chair placed opposite the\nfire, and an immensely high bedstead, curtained with damask satin. Being\nsubject to the nightmare, I mounted this (by a step-ladder) with fear and\ntrembling, lest I should roll out in the night; and the apprehension of\nthis calamity in a strange house, and among great people, kept me from\nsleeping all night, and rendered me extremely uncomfortable.\n\nI could not help thinking what Mrs Doyle and the children would say if\nthey saw me tucked under such fine bed-clothes, and stretched under such\na grand canopy; and to tell the truth, I wished myself safely out of it,\nand in my own crib at Ballyorley. Yet to the obliging inquiries of my\nentertainers, on the ensuing morning, \u201cif my bed had been comfortable?\u201d\nI was unable to say No. But what _are_ comforts? thought I to myself all\nthe time. Indeed, the consideration of this question has occupied my mind\na good deal since, for I find the notions attached to the term \u201ccomfort\u201d\nare infinitely varied.\n\nWhen I left Castle F----, the weather was cold; I mounted, however, the\nroof of a coach, and proceeded with many other passengers for Salisbury.\nWe had not gone far when rain fell in torrents, driven by a piercing\nblast; umbrellas and coats were not waterproof, and when we alighted at\nthe inn-door at Salisbury, there were none of the _outsides_ who were not\nmore or less wet and miserable.\n\nFour of us determined to remain at the inn all night; and as we threw off\ndripping cloaks and mufflers, and approached a blazing fire in a small\nsnug parlour, where a cloth, and knives and forks, and a plate-warmer,\ngave indications of a hot dinner, we all agreed that this was true\ncomfort; nor was this opinion changed when soon afterwards we sat in dry\nclothes by a fire, with--but let no one mention this to Father Mathew--a\nhot tumbler of brandy punch before each of us.\n\nBut though we were unanimous on this occasion, I soon found that the\nutmost difference of opinion prevailed on other points, as to real\ncomfort. One of the gentlemen, who sat at my right hand, whispered to me\nin confidence that there was no comfort in a single life, that his house\nwas cheerless, his servants great plagues from want of a mistress to keep\nthem in order, and his furniture going to destruction. My companion on\nthe other side, whose wife I understood to be a virago, gave a groan,\nshook his head two or three times, and whispered to me, \u201cIf the gentleman\nwishes to enjoy comfort, he will leave matrimony alone.\u201d\n\nHaving occasion to hire a good brickmaker to bring over with me to teach\nmy workmen how bricks ought to be made, I went into several cottages\ninhabited by labourers in Shropshire. In the first into which I went, and\nthis was very well furnished, were a man and his wife at breakfast. They\nhad tea and sugar, a large white quartern loaf, and some crock butter.\nVery good, said I to myself; these people are exceedingly comfortable.\nThe man was a common field labourer, and earned twelve shillings a-week\nthe year round. They had a piece of meat every day at dinner with their\ngreens or potatoes, and bread into the bargain, and bread and butter in\nthe evening.\n\nThere stood a little boiler in a back kitchen, which I understood was for\nbrewing small beer occasionally; and nothing seemed wanting in the way of\ncomforts to this couple.\n\nI was not offered a chair, nor did either of them ask me to sit down, but\nthey answered such questions as I put to them.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m glad to see you so comfortable,\u201d said I. \u201cMay I ask if you have any\nothers in family?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, we\u2019re only ourselves. We ha\u2019n\u2019t no children, boys nor girls,\u201d said\nthe woman in rather a dissatisfied tone.\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d I rejoined, \u201cyou have the less cause for anxiety. Children\nare uncertain blessings, though certain cares: and depend upon it, you\nare much better off than many parents who have them.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is very true,\u201d replied the woman; \u201cbut still a child or two would\nbe a great comfort to us in our old age.\u201d\n\nTheir next-door neighbours had four noisy children and the same weekly\nwages. Here I was told by the parents, who were also at a tea breakfast,\nthat their childless neighbours were far better off than they, as they\nhad comforts beyond their own reach. \u201cWe can\u2019t drink no beer,\u201d said the\nman--(this was a lie, by the way, for he spent a shilling every week in\nthe jerry-shop, to the real discomfort of his family), \u201cnor eat no good\nwittals, nor have nothing comfortable.\u201d\n\nIn short, in every house into which I went there was something wanting to\nconstitute comfort.\n\nIn the dwelling of an artizan it was the want of a hot joint and a\npudding on Sundays, or the substitution of an occasional dish of potatoes\nfor bread or meat; and sometimes it was the _house_ itself which was\nuncomfortable from some cause or other. One or two of the very poorest\nfamilies which I visited were disposed to think they would have comforts\nin the Union house which they could not afford under their own roofs,\nalthough those who were within that establishment declared that they had\nno comforts at all.\n\nAn old woman in one of the cottages complained to me that John Snook\nhad stolen one of her geese when it was just ready for the market, and\nthat it would be a great comfort to her if John Snook could be taken and\ntransported.\n\nA parish schoolmaster assured me that he had no perfect comfort except in\nvacation time; the boys when at school were so unruly that he had little\npeace or comfort except by flogging them. The boys, on the other hand,\nderived no comfort from being flogged.\n\nA sick man told me that a bowl of wine whey would be of the greatest\ncomfort to him; and a woman recovering from fever, whose bed linen had\nbeen just changed, spoke within my hearing to her sister of the comfort\nwhich she felt in consequence.\n\nI hired a brickmaker in the course of that tour, and set off with him\nfor Ireland. When I reached Liverpool, a steamer was about to leave for\nWexford. Into this I entered. The steward showed me a comfortable berth,\nin which I was dreadfully sick during a passage of twenty hours, loathing\nthe sight and smell of food; yet he often came to ask me if there was any\nlittle comfort in the way of meat and drink that he could supply.\n\nA few days after I had reached home, I went into the cottages of my own\nworkpeople, and there the distinction between them and those of the\ncorresponding class in England in their estimate of what is comfortable,\nstruck me very forcibly.\n\nAlthough the principle which leads most of us to desire something more\nthan we possess in the way of comforts, as they are called--but of\nextreme luxuries in many instances--operates in the Irish labourer as\namong nine-tenths of his fellow men, _his_ notions of what is comfortable\nare truly moderate.\n\nOne of my ploughmen was at breakfast as I walked into his house. He\nand his family were seated round a table--it had no cloth I must\nadmit--helping themselves at pleasure from a dish of stirabout, and\ndipping each spoonful into a mug of milk. This I thought a far more\nsuitable breakfast for them than weak and adulterated tea and white\nbread, at a much greater expense than an oatmeal diet.\n\nI asked Pat what he would think of bread and tea every morning and\nevening, to which he very sensibly replied that it wasn\u2019t fit for him\nnor the likes of him! but that a cup of tea and some bread would be very\nagreeable to them every Sunday evening, especially so to his old mother,\nwho would think a little tea now and then a great comfort. As to meat, he\nwould like that once or twice a-week, but was not so unreasonable as to\nwish for it oftener. As long as the potatoes and the milk stood to him,\nhe had no reason to complain!\n\nThen what _are_ comforts? I again asked myself.\n\nReturning home, I called at the house of a dying widow whose character I\nhad long respected. She was very poor, but always contented, though she\ncould hardly be said at any time to have enjoyed what are considered the\nblessings of this life. I asked her if she wanted anything that I could\nsend her--any little comforts. The word excited her languid spirit. \u201cI\nhave wanted for nothing,\u201d said she, \u201cthat was really needful for me; and\nnow, O God! \u2018_thy_ comforts delight my soul.\u2019\u201d After a little time she\nsaid, \u201cBlessed be the God of all comfort;\u201d and again, \u201cI am filled with\ncomfort.\u201d\n\nThese words gave another turn to my thoughts: the subject was placed in a\nnew point of contemplation. Let my reader now in his turn, entering into\nthe widow\u2019s application of the term comfort, ponder upon the question,\n\u201cWhat is comfort?\u201d and I am much mistaken if he does not discover that it\nis something which the world cannot give.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMALARIA.--It is not a mere theory, but a well-founded opinion, that all\nthe destructive epidemics that have afflicted this globe have had their\norigin in malaria, which in a cold climate has produced typhus fever,\nin a more temperate one plague and yellow fever, and within the tropics\ncholera, each modified according to the idiosyncratic state of the\nsufferers. A few examples may be enumerated. Ancient Rome was subject to\nfrequent epidemics, generally caused by inundations of the Tiber; but in\nthe year 81 of the Christian era, after a severe rainy season succeeded\nby intense heat, the mortality was so great as to carry off 10,000\ncitizens daily. It is narrated by historians that the year 1374 was\nmarked by a comet, by excessive rain and heat, and succeeded by the most\ndreadful mortality that we have any record of, and by which two-thirds of\nthe human race were destroyed in a very brief period; many places were\nentirely depopulated; 20,000,000 died in the east in one year, 100,000\nperished in Venice, 50,000 were buried in one graveyard in London, grass\ngrew up in the streets of cities hitherto most populous, and people fled\nin boats and ships to sea, regardless of property and friends.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Printed and published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at\n    the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane,\n    College Green, Dublin--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley,\n    Paternoster Row, London; SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street,\n    Manchester; C. DAVIES, North John Street, Liverpool; J. DRAKE,\n    Birmingham; SLOCOMBE & SIMMS, Leeds; FRAZER and CRAWFORD,\n    George Street, Edinburgh; and DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate,\n    Glasgow.","title":"The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 24, December 12, 1840","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11658}