{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54624/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54624","id":"gutenberg_54624","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54624","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - European","Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Ireland -- Periodicals"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n        NUMBER 28.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 9, 1841.      VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: CASTLE-CAULFIELD, COUNTY OF TYRONE.]\n\nThe subject of our prefixed illustration is one of no small interest,\nwhether considered as a fine example--for Ireland--of the domestic\narchitecture of the reign of James I, or as an historical memorial of the\nfortunes of the illustrious family whose name it bears--the noble house\nof Charlemont, of which it was the original residence. It is situated\nnear the village of the same name, in the parish of Donaghmore, barony of\nDungannon, and about three miles west of Dungannon, the county town.\n\nCastle-Caulfield owes its erection to Sir Toby Caulfield, afterwards\nLord Charlemont--a distinguished English soldier who had fought in Spain\nand the Low Countries in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and commanded a\ncompany of one hundred and fifty men in Ireland in the war with O\u2019Neill,\nEarl of Tyrone, at the close of her reign. For these services he was\nrewarded by the Queen with a grant of part of Tyrone\u2019s estate, and other\nlands in the province of Ulster; and on King James\u2019s accession to the\nBritish crown, was honoured with knighthood, and made governor of the\nfort of Charlemont, and of the counties of Tyrone and Armagh. At the\nplantation of Ulster he received further grants of lands, and among them\n1000 acres called Ballydonnelly, or O\u2019Donnelly\u2019s town, in the barony of\nDungannon, on which, in 1614, he commenced the erection of the mansion\nsubsequently called Castle-Caulfield. This mansion is described by Pynnar\nin his Survey of Ulster in 1618-19, in the following words:--\n\n\u201cSir Toby Caulfield hath one thousand acres called Ballydonnell [_recte_\nBallydonnelly], whereunto is added beside what was certified by Sir\nJosias Bodley, a fair house or castle, the front whereof is eighty feet\nin length and twenty-eight feet in breadth from outside to outside, two\ncross ends fifty feet in length and twenty-eight feet in breadth: the\nwalls are five feet thick at the bottom, and four at the top, very good\ncellars under ground, and all the windows are of hewn stone. Between\nthe two cross ends there goeth a wall, which is eighteen feet high, and\nmaketh a small court within the building. This work at this time is but\nthirteen feet high, and a number of men at work for the sudden finishing\nof it. There is also a strong bridge over the river, which is of lime and\nstone, with strong buttresses for the supporting of it. And to this is\njoined a good water-mill for corn, all built of lime and stone. This is\nat this time the fairest building I have seen. Near unto this Bawne there\nis built a town, in which there is fifteen English families, who are able\nto make twenty men with arms.\u201d\n\nThe ruins of this celebrated mansion seem to justify the opinion\nexpressed by Pynnar, that it was the fairest building he had seen, that\nis, in the counties of the plantation, for there are no existing remains\nof any house erected by the English or Scottish undertakers equal to\nit in architectural style. It received, however, from the second Lord\nCharlemont, the addition of a large gate-house with towers, and also of a\nstrong keep or donjon.\n\nFrom the ancient maps of Ulster of Queen Elizabeth\u2019s time, preserved in\nthe State Paper Office, Castle-Caulfield appears to have been erected\non the site of a more ancient castle or fort, called Fort O\u2019Donallie,\nfrom the chief of the ancient Irish family of O\u2019Donghaile or O\u2019Donnelly,\nwhose residence it was, previously to the confiscation of the northern\ncounties; and the small lake in its vicinity was called Lough O\u2019Donallie.\nThis family of O\u2019Donnelly were a distinguished branch of the Kinel-Owen,\nor northern Hy-Niall race, of which the O\u2019Neills were the chiefs in the\nsixteenth century; and it was by one of the former that the celebrated\nShane or John O\u2019Neill, surnamed the proud, and who also bore the cognomen\nof Donghailach, or the Donnellian, was fostered, as appears from the\nfollowing entry in the Annals of the Four Masters, at the year 1531:--\n\n\u201cBallydonnelly was assaulted by Niall Oge, the son of Art, who was the\nson of Con O\u2019Neill. He demolished the castle, and having made a prisoner\nof the son of O\u2019Neill, who was the foster-son of O\u2019Donnelly, he carried\nhim off, together with several horses and the other spoils of the place.\u201d\n\nWe have felt it necessary to state the preceding facts relative to the\nancient history of Ballydonnelly, or Castle-Caulfield, as it is now\ndenominated, because an error of Pynnar\u2019s, in writing the ancient name as\nBallydonnell--not Ballydonnelly, as it should have been--has been copied\nby Lodge, Archdall, and all subsequent writers; some of whom have fallen\ninto a still more serious mistake, by translating the name as \u201cthe town\nof O\u2019Donnell,\u201d thus attributing the ancient possession of the locality\nto a family to whom it never belonged. That Ballydonnelly was truly,\nas we have stated, the ancient name of the place, and that it was the\npatrimonial residence of the chief of that ancient family, previously\nto the plantation of Ulster, must be sufficiently indicated by the\nauthorities we have already adduced; but if any doubt on this fact could\nexist, it would be removed by the following passage in an unpublished\nIrish MS. Journal of the Rebellion of 1641, in our own possession,\nfrom which it appears that, as usual with the representatives of the\ndispossessed Irish families on the breaking out of that unhappy conflict,\nthe chief of the O\u2019Donnellys seized upon the Castle-Caulfield mansion as\nof right his own:--\n\n\u201cOctober 1641. Lord Caulfield\u2019s castle in Ballydonnelly (_Baile I\nDonghoile_) was taken by Patrick Moder (the gloomy) O\u2019Donnelly.\u201d\n\nThe Lord Charlemont, with his family, was at this time absent from\nhis home in command of the garrison of Charlemont, and it was not his\nfate ever to see it afterwards; he was treacherously captured in his\nfortress about the same period by the cruel Sir Phelim O\u2019Neill, and was\nbarbarously murdered while under his protection, if not, as seems the\nfact, by his direction, on the 1st of March following. Nor was this\ncostly and fairest house of its kind in \u201cthe north\u201d ever after inhabited\nby any of his family; it was burned in those unhappy \u201ctroubles,\u201d and left\nthe melancholy, though picturesque memorial of sad events which we now\nsee it.\n\n                                                                       P.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAKE OF THE LOVERS, A LEGEND OF LEITRIM.\n\n\nHow many lovely spots in this our beautiful country are never embraced\nwithin those pilgrimages after the picturesque, which numbers\nperiodically undertake, rather to see what is known to many, and\ntherefore should be so to them, than to visit nature, for her own sweet\nsake, in her more devious and undistinguished haunts! For my part, I\nam well pleased that the case stands thus. I love to think that I am\ntreading upon ground unsullied by the footsteps of the now numerous\ntribe of mere professional peripatetics--that my eyes are wandering over\nscenery, the freshness of which has been impaired by no transfer to the\nportfolio of the artist or the tablets of the poetaster: that, save\nthe scattered rustic residents, there is no human link to connect its\nmemorials with the days of old, and, save their traditionary legends, no\nstory to tell of its fortunes in ancient times. The sentiment is no doubt\nselfish as well as anti-utilitarian; but then I must add that it is only\noccasional, and will so far be pardoned by all who know how delightful\nit is to take refuge in the indulgent twilight of tradition from the\nrugged realities of recorded story. At all events, a rambler in any of\nour old, and especially mountainous tracts, will rarely lack abundant\naliment for his thus modified sense of beauty, sublimity, or antiquarian\nfascination; and scenes have unexpectedly opened upon me in the solitudes\nof the hills and lakes of some almost untrodden and altogether unwritten\ndistricts, that have had more power to stir my spirit than the lauded and\ntypographed, the versified and pictured magnificence of Killarney or of\nCumberland, of Glendalough or of Lomond. It may have been perverseness\nof taste, or the fitness of mood, or the influence of circumstance, but\nI have been filled with a feeling of the beautiful when wandering among\nnoteless and almost nameless localities to which I have been a stranger,\nwhen standing amid the most boasted beauties with the appliances of\nhand-book and of guide, with appetite prepared, and sensibilities on the\nalert. It is I suppose partly because the power of beauty being relative,\na high pitch of expectancy requires a proportionate augmentation of\nexcellence, and partly because the tincture of contrariety in our\nnature ever inclines us to enact the perverse critic, when called on to\nbe the implicit votary. This in common with most others I have often\nfelt, but rarely more so than during a casual residence some short\ntime since among the little celebrated, and therefore perhaps a little\nmore charming, mountain scenery of the county, which either has been,\nor might be, called Leitrim of the Lakes; for a tract more pleasantly\ndiversified with well-set sheets of water, it would I think be difficult\nto name. Almost every hill you top has its still and solitary tarn, and\nalmost every amphitheatre you enter, encompasses its wild and secluded\nlake--not seldom bearing on its placid bosom some little islet, linked\nwith the generations past, by monastic or castellated ruins, as its\nseclusion or its strength may have invited the world-wearied anchorite to\ncontemplation, or the predatory chieftain to defence.\n\nOn such a remote and lonely spot I lately chanced to alight, in the\ncourse of a long summer day\u2019s ramble among the heights and hollows of\nthat lofty range which for a considerable space abuts upon the borders\nof Sligo and Roscommon. The ground was previously unknown to me, and\nwith all the zest which novelty and indefiniteness can impart, I started\nstaff in hand with the early sun, and ere the mists had melted from the\npurple heather of their cloud-like summits, was drawing pure and balmy\nbreath within the lonely magnificence of the hills. About noon, as I was\ncasting about for some pre-eminently happy spot to fling my length for\nan hour or two\u2019s repose, I reached the crest of a long gradual ascent\nthat had been some time tempting me to look what lay beyond; and surely\nenough I found beauty sufficient to dissolve my weariness, had it been\ntenfold multiplied, and to allay my pulse, had it throbbed with the\nvehemence of fever. An oblong valley girdled a lovely lake on every side;\nhere with precipitous impending cliffs, and there with grassy slopes of\nfreshest emerald that seemed to woo the dimpling waters to lave their\nloving margins, and, as if moved with a like impulse, the little wavelets\nmet the call with the gentle dalliance of their ebb and flow. A small\nwooded island, with its fringe of willows trailing in the water, stood\nabout a furlong from the hither side, and in the centre of its tangled\nbrake, my elevation enabled me to descry what I may call the remnants of\na ruin--for so far had it gone in its decay--here green, there grey, as\nthe moss, the ivy, or the pallid stains of time, had happened to prevail.\nA wild duck, with its half-fledged clutch, floated fearless from its\nsedgy shore. More remote, a fishing heron stood motionless on a stone,\nintent on its expected prey; and the only other animated feature in the\nquiet scene was a fisherman who had just moored his little boat, and\nhaving settled his tackle, was slinging his basket on his arm and turning\nupward in the direction where I lay. I watched the old man toiling up\nthe steep, and as he drew nigh, hailed him, as I could not suffer him to\npass without learning at least the name, if it had one, of this miniature\nAmhara. He readily complied, and placing his fish-basket on the ground,\nseated himself beside it, not unwilling to recover his breath and recruit\nhis scanty stock of strength almost expended in the ascent. \u201cWe call it,\u201d\nsaid he in answer to my query, \u201cthe Lake of the Ruin, or sometimes, to\nsuch as know the story, the Lake of the Lovers, after the two over whom\nthe tombstone is placed inside yon mouldering walls. It is an old story.\nMy grandfather told me, when a child, that he minded his grandfather\ntelling it to him, and for anything he could say, it might have come down\nmuch farther. Had I time, I\u2019d be proud to tell it to your honour, who\nseems a stranger in these parts, for it\u2019s not over long; but I have to go\nto the Hall, and that\u2019s five long miles off, with my fish for dinner, and\nlittle time you\u2019ll say I have to spare, though it be down hill nearly all\nthe way.\u201d It would have been too bad to allow such a well-met chronicler\nto pass unpumped, and, putting more faith in the attractions of my pocket\nthan of my person, I produced on the instant my luncheon-case and\nflask, and handing him a handsome half of the contents of the former,\nmade pretty sure of his company for a time, by keeping the latter in my\nown possession till I got him regularly launched in the story, when, to\nquicken at once his recollection and his elocution, I treated him to an\ninspiring draught. When he had told his tale, he left me with many thanks\nfor the refection; and I descending to his boat, entered it, and with the\naid of a broken oar contrived to scull myself over to the island, the\nscene of the final fortunes of Connor O\u2019Rourke and Norah M\u2019Diarmod, the\nfaithful-hearted but evil-fated pair who were in some sort perpetuated in\nits name. There, in sooth, within the crumbled walls, was the gravestone\nwhich covered the dust of him the brave and her the beautiful; and\nseating myself on the fragment of a sculptured capital, that showed\nhow elaborately reared the ruined edifice had been, I bethought me how\npoorly man\u2019s existence shows even beside the work of his own hands, and\nendeavoured for a time to make my thoughts run parallel with the history\nof this once-venerated but now forsaken, and, save by a few, forgotten\nstructure; but finding myself fail in the attempt, settled my retrospect\non that brief period wherein it was identified with the two departed\nlovers whose story I had just heard, and which, as I sat by their lowly\nsepulchre, I again repeated to myself.\n\nThis lake, as my informant told me, once formed a part of the boundary\nbetween the possessions of O\u2019Rourke the Left-handed and M\u2019Diarmod the\nDark-faced, as they were respectively distinguished, two small rival\nchiefs, petty in property but pre-eminent in passion, to whom a most\nmagnificent mutual hatred had been from generations back \u201cbequeathed from\nbleeding sire to son\u201d--a legacy constantly swelled by accruing outrages,\nfor their paramount pursuits were plotting each other\u2019s detriment or\ndestruction, planning or parrying plundering inroads, inflicting or\navenging injuries by open violence or secret subtlety, as seemed more\nlikely to promote their purposes. At the name of an O\u2019Rourke, M\u2019Diarmod\nwould clutch his battle-axe, and brandish it as if one of the detested\nclan were within its sweep: and his rival, nothing behind in hatred,\nwould make the air echo to his deep-drawn imprecation on M\u2019Diarmod\nand all his abominated breed when any thing like an opportunity was\nafforded him. Their retainers of course shared the same spirit of mutual\nabhorrence, exaggerated indeed, if that were possible, by their more\nfrequent exposure to loss in cattle and in crops, for, as is wont to be\nthe case, the cottage was incontinently ravaged when the stronghold was\nprudentially respected. O\u2019Rourke had a son, an only one, who promised\nto sustain or even raise the reputation of the clan, for the youth knew\nnot what it was to blench before flesh and blood--his feet were over\nforemost, in the wolf-hunt or the foray, and in agility, in valour, or\nin vigour, none within the compass of a long day\u2019s travel could stand\nin comparison with young Connor O\u2019Rourke. Detestation of the M\u2019Diarmods\nhad been studiously instilled from infancy, of course; but although the\nyouth\u2019s cheek would flush and his heart beat high when any perilous\nadventure was the theme, yet, so far at least, it sprang more from\nthe love of prowess and applause than from the deadly hostility that\nthrilled in the pulses of his father and his followers. In the necessary\nintervals of forbearance, as in seed-time, harvest, or other brief\nbreathing-spaces, he would follow the somewhat analogous and bracing\npleasures of the chase; and often would the wolf or the stag--for shaggy\nforests then clothed these bare and desert hills--fall before his spear\nor his dogs, as he fleetly urged the sport afoot. It chanced one evening\nthat in the ardour of pursuit he had followed a tough, long-winded stag\ninto the dangerous territory of M\u2019Diarmod. The chase had taken to the\nwater of the lake, and he with his dogs had plunged in after in the\nhope of heading it; but having failed in this, and in the hot flush of\na hunter\u2019s blood scorning to turn back, he pressed it till brought down\nwithin a few spear-casts of the M\u2019Diarmod\u2019s dwelling. Proud of having\nkilled his venison under the very nose of the latter, he turned homeward\nwith rapid steps; for, the fire of the chase abated, he felt how fatal\nwould be the discovery of his presence, and was thinking with complacency\nupon the wrath of the old chief on hearing of the contemptuous feat, when\nhis eye was arrested by a white figure moving slowly in the shimmering\nmists of nightfall by the margin of the lake. Though insensible to the\nfear of what was carnal and of the earth, he was very far from being so\nto what savoured of the supernatural, and, with a slight ejaculation half\nof surprise and half of prayer, he was about changing his course to give\nit a wider berth, when his dogs espied it, and, recking little of the\nspiritual in its appearance, bounded after it in pursuit. With a slight\nscream that proclaimed it feminine as well as human, the figure fled, and\nthe youth had much to do both with legs and lungs to reach her in time to\npreserve her from the rough respects of his ungallant escort. Beautiful\nindignation lightened from the dark eyes and sat on the pouting lip of\nNorah M\u2019Diarmod--for it was the chieftain\u2019s daughter--as she turned\ndisdainfully towards him.\n\n\u201cIs it the bravery of an O\u2019Rourke to hunt a woman with his dogs? Young\nchief, you stand upon the ground of M\u2019Diarmod, and your name from the\nlips of her\u201d--she stopped, for she had time to glance again upon his\nfeatures, and had no longer heart to upbraid one who owned a countenance\nso handsome and so gallant, so eloquent of embarrassment as well as\nadmiration.\n\nHer tone of asperity and wounded pride declined into a murmur of\nacquiescence as she hearkened to the apologies and deprecations of the\nyouth, whose gallantry and feats had so often rung in her ears, though\nhis person she had but casually seen, and his voice she had never before\nheard. The case stood similar with Connor. He had often listened to the\npraises of Norah\u2019s beauty; he had occasionally caught distant glimpses of\nher graceful figure; and the present sight, or after recollection, often\nmitigated his feelings to her hostile clan, and, to his advantage, the\nrugged old chief was generally associated with the lovely dark-eyed girl\nwho was his only child.\n\nSuch being their respective feelings, what could be the result of\ntheir romantic rencounter? They were both young, generous children\nof nature, with hearts fraught with the unhacknied feelings of youth\nand inexperience: they had drunk in sentiment with the sublimities\nof their mountain homes, and were fitted for higher things than the\nvulgar interchange of animosity and contempt. Of this they soon were\nconscious, and they did not separate until the stars began to burn above\nthem, and not even then, before they had made arrangements for at least\nanother--one more secret interview. The islet possessed a beautiful\nfitness for their trysting place, as being accessible from either side,\nand little obnoxious to observation; and many a moonlight meeting--for\nthe _one_ was inevitably multiplied--had these children of hostile\nfathers, perchance on the very spot on which my eyes now rested, and\nthe unbroken stillness around had echoed to their gladsome greetings or\ntheir faltering farewells. Neither dared to divulge an intercourse that\nwould have stirred to frenzy the treasured rancour of their respective\nparents, each of whom would doubtless have preferred a connexion with\na blackamoor--if such were then in circulation--to their doing such\ngrievous despite to that ancient feud which as an heirloom had been\ntransmitted from ancestors whose very names they scarcely knew. M\u2019Diarmod\nthe Dark-faced was at best but a gentle tiger even to his only child; and\nthough his stern cast-iron countenance would now and then relax beneath\nher artless blandishments, yet even with the lovely vision at his side,\nhe would often grimly deplore that she had not been a son, to uphold the\nname and inherit the headship of the clan, which on his demise would\nprobably pass from its lineal course; and when he heard of the bold\nbearing of the heir of O\u2019Rourke, he thought he read therein the downfall\nof the M\u2019Diarmods when he their chief was gone. With such ill-smothered\nfeelings of discontent he could not but in some measure repulse the\nfilial regards of Norah, and thus the confiding submission that would\nhave sprung to meet the endearments of his love, was gradually refused\nto the inconsistencies of his caprice; and the maiden in her intercourse\nwith her proscribed lover rarely thought of her father, except as one\nfrom whom it should be diligently concealed.\n\nBut unfortunately this was not to be. One of the night marauders of his\nclan chanced in an evil hour to see Connor O\u2019Rourke guiding his coracle\nto the island, and at the same time a cloaked female push cautiously\nfrom the opposite shore for the same spot. Surprised, he crouched among\nthe fern till their landing and joyous greeting put all doubt of their\nfriendly understanding to flight; and then, thinking only of revenge or\nransom, the unsentimental scoundrel hurried round the lake to M\u2019Diarmod,\nand informed him that the son of his mortal foe was within his reach.\nThe old man leaped from his couch of rushes at the thrilling news, and,\nstanding on his threshold, uttered a low gathering-cry, which speedily\nbrought a dozen of his more immediate retainers to his presence. As he\npassed his daughter\u2019s apartment, he for the first time asked himself who\ncan the woman be? and at the same moment almost casually glanced at\nNorah\u2019s chamber, to see that all there was quiet for the night. A shudder\nof vague terror ran through his sturdy frame as his eye fell on the low\nopen window. He thrust in his head, but no sleeper drew breath within; he\nre-entered the house and called aloud upon his daughter, but the echo of\nher name was the only answer. A kern coming up put an end to the search,\nby telling that he had seen his young mistress walking down to the\nwater\u2019s edge about an hour before, but that, as she had been in the habit\nof doing so by night for some time past, he had thought but little of it.\nThe odious truth was now revealed, and, trembling with the sudden gust of\nfury, the old chief with difficulty rushed to the lake, and, filling a\ncouple of boats with his men, told them to pull for the honour of their\nname and for the head of the O\u2019Rourke\u2019s first-born.\n\nDuring this stormy prelude to a bloody drama, the doomed but unconscious\nConnor was sitting secure within the dilapidated chapel by the side\nof her whom he had won. Her quickened ear first caught the dip of an\noar, and she told her lover; but he said it was the moaning of the\nnight-breeze through the willows, or the ripple of the water among the\nstones, and went on with his gentle dalliance. A few minutes, however,\nand the shock of the keels upon the ground, the tread of many feet, and\nthe no longer suppressed cries of the M\u2019Diarmods, warned him to stand on\nhis defence; and as he sprang from his seat to meet the call, the soft\nillumination of love was changed with fearful suddenness into the baleful\nfire of fierce hostility.\n\n\u201cMy Norah, leave me; you may by chance be rudely handled in the scuffle.\u201d\n\nThe terrified but faithful girl fell upon his breast.\n\n\u201cConnor, your fate is mine; hasten to your boat, if it be not yet too\nlate.\u201d\n\nAn iron-shod hunting pole was his only weapon; and using it with his\nright arm, while Norah hung upon his left, he sprang without further\nparley through an aperture in the wall, and made for the water. But his\nassailants were upon him, the M\u2019Diarmod himself with upraised battle-axe\nat their head.\n\n\u201cSpare my father,\u201d faltered Norah; and Connor, with a mercifully\ndirected stroke, only dashed the weapon from the old man\u2019s hand, and\nthen, clearing a passage with a vigorous sweep, accompanied with the\nwell-known charging cry, before which they had so often quailed, bounded\nthrough it to the water\u2019s brink. An instant, and with her who was now\nmore than his second self, he was once more in his little boat; but,\nalas! it was aground, and so quickly fell the blows against him, that he\ndare not adventure to shove it off. Letting Norah slip from his hold,\nshe sank backwards to the bottom of the boat; and then, with both arms\nfree, he redoubled his efforts, and after a short but furious struggle\nsucceeded in getting the little skiff afloat. Maddened at the sight, the\nold chief rushed breast-deep into the water; but his right arm had been\ndisabled by a casual blow, and his disheartened followers feared, under\nthe circumstances, to come within range of that well-wielded club. But\na crafty one among them had already seized on a safer and surer plan.\nHe had clambered up an adjacent tree, armed with a heavy stone, and now\nstood on one of the branches above the devoted boat, and summoned him to\nyield, if he would not perish. The young chief\u2019s renewed exertions were\nhis only answer.\n\n\u201cLet him escape, and your head shall pay for it,\u201d shouted the infuriated\nfather.\n\nThe fellow hesitated. \u201cMy young mistress?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are enough here to save her, if I will it. Down with the stone, or\nby the blood----\u201d\n\nHe needed not to finish the sentence, for down at the word it came,\nstriking helpless the youth\u2019s right arm, and shivering the frail timber\nof the boat, which filled at once, and all went down. For an instant\nan arm re-appeared, feebly beating the water in vain--it was the young\nchief\u2019s broken one: the other held his Norah in its embrace, as was seen\nby her white dress flaunting for a few moments on and above the troubled\nsurface. The lake at this point was deep, and though there was a rush of\nthe M\u2019Diarmods towards it, yet in their confusion they were but awkward\naids, and the fluttering ensign that marked the fatal spot had sunk\nbefore they reached it. The strength of Connor, disabled as he was by\nhis broken limb, and trammelled by her from whom even the final struggle\ncould not dissever him, had failed; and with her he loved locked in his\nlast embrace, they were after a time recovered from the water, and laid\nside by side upon the bank, in all their touching, though, alas, lifeless\nbeauty! Remorse reached the rugged hearts even of those who had so\nruthlessly dealt by them; and as they looked on their goodly forms, thus\ncold and senseless by a common fate, the rudest felt that it would be\nan impious and unpardonable deed to do violence to their memory, by the\nseparation of that union which death itself had sanctified. Thus were\nthey laid in one grave; and, strange as it may appear, their fathers,\ncrushed and subdued, exhausted even of resentment by the overwhelming\nstroke--for nothing can quell the stubborn spirit like the extremity of\nsorrow--crossed their arms in amity over their remains, and grief wrought\nthe reconciliation which even centuries of time, that great pacificator,\nhad failed to do.\n\nThe westering sun now warning me that the day was on the wane, I gave but\nanother look to the time-worn tombstone, another sigh to the early doom\nof those whom it enclosed, and then, with a feeling of regret, again left\nthe little island to its still, unshared, and pensive loneliness.\n\n\n\n\nANCIENT IRISH LITERATURE--No. IV.\n\n\nThe composition which we have selected as our fourth specimen of the\nancient literature of Ireland, is a poem, more remarkable, perhaps,\nfor its antiquity and historical interest, than for its poetic merits,\nthough we do not think it altogether deficient in those. It is ascribed,\napparently with truth, to the celebrated poet Mac Liag, the secretary of\nthe renowned monarch Brian Boru, who, as our readers are aware, fell at\nthe battle of Clontarf in 1014; and the subject of it is a lamentation\nfor the fallen condition of Kincora, the palace of that monarch,\nconsequent on his death.\n\nThe decease of Mac Liag, whose proper name was Muircheartach, is thus\nrecorded in the Annals of the Four Masters, at the year 1015:--\n\n\u201cMac Liag, i. e. Muirkeartach, son of Conkeartach, at this time laureate\nof Ireland, died.\u201d\n\nA great number of his productions are still in existence; but none of\nthem have obtained a popularity so widely extended as the poem before us.\n\nOf the palace of Kincora, which was situated on the banks of the Shannon,\nnear Killaloe, there are at present no vestiges.\n\n\nLAMENTATION OF MAC LIAG FOR KINCORA.\n\nA Chinn-copath carthi Brian?\n\n    Oh, where, Kincora! is Brian the Great?\n    And where is the beauty that once was thine?\n    Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate\n    At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine?\n                            Where, oh, Kincora?\n\n    Oh, where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords?\n    Oh, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone?\n    Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the Golden Swords?[1]\n    And where are the warriors that Brian led on?\n                            Where, oh, Kincora?\n\n    And where is Morogh, the descendant of kings--\n    The defeater of a hundred--the daringly brave--\n    Who set but slight store by jewels and rings--\n    Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave?\n                            Where, oh, Kincora?\n\n    And where is Donogh, King Brian\u2019s worthy son?\n    And where is Conaing, the Beautiful Chief?\n    And Kian, and Corc? Alas! they are gone--\n    They have left me this night alone with my grief!\n                            Left me, Kincora!\n\n    And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth,\n    The never-vanquished son of Evin the Brave,\n    The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth,\n    And the hosts of Baskinn, from the western wave?\n                            Where, oh, Kincora?\n\n    Oh, where is Duvlann of the Swiftfooted Steeds?\n    And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy?\n    And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds\n    In the red battle-field no time can destroy?\n                            Where, oh, Kincora?\n\n    And where is that youth of majestic height,\n    The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots?--Even he,\n    As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might,\n    Was tributary, oh, Kincora, to me!\n                            Me, oh, Kincora!\n\n    They are gone, those heroes of royal birth,\n    Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust,\n    \u2019Tis weary for me to be living on the earth\n    When they, oh, Kincora, lie low in the dust!\n                            Low, oh, Kincora!\n\n    Oh, never again will Princes appear,\n    To rival the Dalcassians of the Cleaving Swords!\n    I can never dream of meeting afar or anear,\n    In the east or the west, such heroes and lords!\n                            Never, Kincora!\n\n    Oh, dear are the images my memory calls up\n    Of Brian Boru!--how he never would miss\n    To give me at the banquet the first bright cup!\n    Ah! why did he heap on me honour like this?\n                            Why, oh, Kincora?\n\n    I am Mac Liag, and my home is on the Lake:\n    Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled,\n    Came Brian to ask me, and I went for his sake.\n    Oh, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead!\n                            Dead, oh, Kincora!\n\n                                                         M.\n\n[1] _Coolg n-or_, of the swords _of gold_, i. e. of the _gold-hilted_\nswords.\n\n\n\n\nCOLUMN FOR THE YOUNG.\n\nBiography of a mouse.\n\n\n\u201cBiography of a mouse!\u201d cries the reader; \u201cwell, what shall we have\nnext?--what can the writer mean by offering such nonsense for our\nperusal?\u201d There is no creature, reader, however insignificant and\nunimportant in the great scale of creation it may appear to us,\nshort-sighted mortals that we are, which is forgotten in the care of\nour own common Creator; not a sparrow falls to the ground unknown and\nunpermitted by Him; and whether or not you may derive interest from the\nbiography even of a mouse, you will be able to form a better judgment,\nafter, than before, having read my paper.\n\nThe mouse belongs to the class _Mammalia_, or the animals which rear\ntheir young by suckling them; to the order _Rodentia_, or animals whose\nteeth are adapted for _gnawing_; to the genus _Mus_, or Rat kind, and the\nfamily of _Mus musculus_, or domestic mouse. The mouse is a singularly\nbeautiful little animal, as no one who examines it attentively, and\nwithout prejudice, can fail to discover. Its little body is plump and\nsleek; its neck short; its head tapering and graceful; and its eyes\nlarge, prominent, and sparkling. Its manners are lively and interesting,\nits agility surprising, and its habits extremely cleanly. There are\nseveral varieties of this little creature, amongst which the best known\nis the common brown mouse of our granaries and store-rooms; the Albino,\nor white mouse, with red eyes; and the black and white mouse, which is\nmore rare and very delicate. I mention these as _varieties_, for I think\nwe may safely regard them as such, from the fact of their propagating\nunchanged, preserving their difference of hue to the fiftieth generation,\nand never accidentally occurring amongst the offspring of differently\ncoloured parents.\n\nIt is of the white mouse that I am now about to treat, and it is an\naccount of a tame individual of that extremely pretty variety that is\ndesigned to form the subject of my present paper.\n\nWhen I was a boy of about sixteen, I got possession of a white mouse; the\nlittle creature was very wild and unsocial at first, but by dint of care\nand discipline I succeeded in rendering it familiar. The principal agent\nI employed towards effecting its domestication was a singular one, and\nwhich, though I can assure the reader its effects are speedy and certain,\nstill remains to me inexplicable: this was, ducking in cold water; and by\nresorting to this simple expedient, I have since succeeded in rendering\neven the rat as tame and as playful as a kitten. It is out of my power to\nexplain the manner in which _ducking_ operates on the animal subjected to\nit, but I wish that some physiologist more experienced than I am would\ngive his attention to the subject, and favour the public with the result\nof his reflections.\n\nAt the time that I obtained possession of this mouse, I was residing at\nOlney, in Buckinghamshire, a village which I presume my readers will\nrecollect as connected with the names of Newton and Cowper; but shortly\nafter having succeeded in rendering it pretty tame, circumstances\nrequired my removal to Gloucester, whither I carried my little favourite\nwith me. During the journey I kept the mouse confined in a small wire\ncage; but while resting at the inn where I passed the night, I adopted\nthe precaution of enveloping the cage in a handkerchief, lest by some\nuntoward circumstance its active little inmate might make its escape.\nHaving thus, as I thought, made all safe, I retired to rest. The moment\nI awoke in the morning, I sprang from my bed, and went to examine the\ncage, when, to my infinite consternation, I found it empty! I searched\nthe bed, the room, raised the carpet, examined every nook and corner, but\nall to no purpose. I dressed myself as hastily as I could, and summoning\none of the waiters, an intelligent, good-natured man, I informed\nhim of my loss, and got him to search every room in the house. His\ninvestigations, however, proved equally unavailing, and I gave my poor\nlittle pet completely up, inwardly hoping, despite of its ingratitude\nin leaving me, that it might meet with some agreeable mate amongst its\nbrown congeners, and might lead a long and happy life, unchequered by\nthe terrors of the prowling cat, and unendangered by the more insidious\nartifices of the fatal trap. With these reflections I was just getting\ninto the coach which was to convey me upon my road, when a waiter came\nrunning to the door, out of breath, exclaiming, \u201cMr R., Mr R., I declare\nyour little mouse is in the kitchen.\u201d Begging the coachman to wait an\ninstant, I followed the man to the kitchen, and there, on the hob,\nseated contentedly in a pudding dish, and devouring its contents with\nconsiderable _gout_, was my truant proteg\u00e9. Once more secured within\nits cage, and the latter carefully enveloped in a sheet of strong brown\npaper, upon my knee, I reached Gloucester.\n\nI was here soon subjected to a similar alarm, for one morning the cage\nwas again empty, and my efforts to discover the retreat of the wanderer\nunavailing as before. This time I had lost him for a week, when one\nnight, in getting into bed, I heard a scrambling in the curtains, and on\nrelighting my candle found the noise to have been occasioned by my mouse,\nwho seemed equally pleased with myself at our reunion. After having thus\nlost and found my little friend a number of times, I gave up the idea\nof confining him; and, accordingly, leaving the door of his cage open,\nI placed it in a corner of my bedroom, and allowed him to go in and out\nas he pleased. Of this permission he gladly availed himself, but would\nregularly return to me at intervals of a week or a fortnight, and at such\nperiods of return he was usually much thinner than ordinary; and it was\npretty clear that during his visits to his brown acquaintances he fared\nby no means so well as he did at home.\n\nSometimes, when he happened to return, as he often did, in the\nnight-time, on which occasions his general custom was to come into bed to\nme, I used, in order to induce him to remain with me until morning, to\nimmerse him in a basin of water, and then let him lie in my bosom, the\nwarmth of which, after his cold bath, commonly ensured his stay.\n\nFrequently, while absent on one of his excursions, I would hear an\nunusual noise in the wainscot, as I lay in bed, of dozens of mice\nrunning backwards and forwards in all directions, and squeaking in much\napparent glee. For some time I was puzzled to know whether this unusual\ndisturbance was the result of merriment or quarrelling, and I often\ntrembled for the safety of my pet, alone and unaided, among so many\nstrangers. But a very interesting circumstance occurred one morning,\nwhich perfectly reassured me. It was a bright summer morning, about four\no\u2019clock, and I was lying awake, reflecting as to the propriety of turning\non my pillow to take another sleep, or at once rising, and going forth to\nenjoy the beauties of awakening nature. While thus meditating, I heard a\nslight scratching in the wainscot, and looking towards the spot whence\nthe noise proceeded, perceived the head of a mouse peering from a hole.\nIt was instantly withdrawn, but a second was thrust forth. This latter I\nat once recognised as my own white friend, but so begrimed by soot and\ndirt that it required an experienced eye to distinguish him from his\ndarker-coated entertainers. He emerged from the hole, and running over\nto his cage, entered it, and remained for a couple of seconds within\nit; he then returned to the wainscot, and, re-entering the hole, some\nscrambling and squeaking took place. A second time he came forth, and on\nthis occasion was followed closely, to my no small astonishment, by a\nbrown mouse, who followed him, with much apparent timidity and caution,\nto his box, and entered it along with him. More astonished at this\nsingular proceeding than I can well express, I lay fixed in mute and\nbreathless attention, to see what would follow next. In about a minute\nthe two mice came forth from the cage, each bearing in its mouth a large\npiece of bread, which they dragged towards the hole they had previously\nleft. On arriving at it, they entered, but speedily re-appeared, having\ndeposited their burden; and repairing once more to the cage, again loaded\nthemselves with provision, and conveyed it away. This second time they\nremained within the hole for a much longer period than the first time;\nand when they again made their appearance, they were attended by three\nother mice, who, following their leaders to the cage, loaded themselves\nwith bread as did they, and carried away their burdens to the hole. After\nthis I saw them no more that morning, and on rising I discovered that\nthey had carried away every particle of food that the cage contained. Nor\nwas this an isolated instance of their white guest leading them forth to\nwhere he knew they should find provender. Day after day, whatever bread\nor grain I left in the cage was regularly removed, and the duration of my\npet\u2019s absence was proportionately long. Wishing to learn whether hunger\nwas the actual cause of his return, I no longer left food in his box; and\nin about a week afterwards, on awaking one morning, I found him sleeping\nupon the pillow, close to my face, having partly wormed his way under my\ncheek.\n\nThere was a cat in the house, an excellent mouser, and I dreaded lest she\nshould one day meet with and destroy my poor mouse, and I accordingly\nused all my exertions with those in whose power it was, to obtain her\ndismissal. She was, however, regarded by those persons as infinitely\nbetter entitled to protection and patronage than a mouse, so I was\ncompelled to put up with her presence. People are fond of imputing to\ncats a supernatural degree of sagacity: they will sometimes go so far\nas to pronounce them to be genuine _witches_; and really I am scarcely\nsurprised at it, nor perhaps will the reader be, when I tell him the\nfollowing anecdote.\n\nI was one day entering my apartment, when I was filled with horror at\nperceiving my mouse picking up some crumbs upon the carpet, beneath\nthe table, and the terrible cat seated upon a chair watching him with\nwhat appeared to me to be an expression of sensual anticipation and\nconcentrated desire. Before I had time to interfere, Puss sprang from\nher chair, and bounded towards the mouse, who, however, far from being\nterrified at the approach of his natural enemy, scarcely so much as\nfavoured her with a single look. Puss raised her paw and dealt him a\ngentle tap, when, judge of my astonishment if you can, the little mouse,\nfar from running away, or betraying any marks of fear, raised himself\non his legs, cocked his tail, and with a shrill and angry squeak, with\nwhich any that have kept tame mice are well acquainted, sprang at and\npositively _bit_ the paw which had struck him. I was paralysed. I could\nnot jump forward to the rescue. I was, as it were, petrified where I\nstood. But, stranger than all, the cat, instead of appearing irritated,\nor seeming to design mischief, merely stretched out her nose and smelt\nat her diminutive assailant, and then resuming her place upon the chair,\npurred herself to sleep. I need not say that I immediately secured the\nmouse within his cage. Whether the cat on this occasion knew the little\nanimal to be a pet, and as such feared to meddle with it, or whether its\nboldness had disarmed her, I cannot pretend to explain: I merely state\nthe fact; and I think the reader will allow that it is sufficiently\nextraordinary.\n\nIn order to guard against such a dangerous encounter for the future,\nI got a more secure cage made, of which the bars were so close as to\npreclude the possibility of egress; and singularly enough, many a morning\nwas I amused by beholding brown mice coming from their holes in the\nwainscot, and approaching the cage in which their friend was kept, as if\nin order to condole with him on the subject of his unwonted captivity.\nSecure, however, as I conceived this new cage to be, my industrious pet\ncontrived to make his escape from it, and in doing so met his death. In\nmy room was a large bureau, with deep, old-fashioned, capacious drawers.\nBeing obliged to go from home for a day, I put the cage containing my\nlittle friend into one of these drawers, lest any one should attempt to\nmeddle with it during my absence. On returning, I opened the drawer,\nand just as I did so, heard a faint squeak, and at the same instant my\npoor little pet fell from the back of the drawer--lifeless. I took up\nhis body, and, placing it in my bosom, did my best to restore it to\nanimation. Alas! it was to no purpose. His little body had been crushed\nin the crevice at the back part of the drawer, through which he had been\nendeavouring to escape, and he was really and irrecoverably gone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNOTE ON THE FEEDING, &C., OF WHITE MICE.--Such of my juvenile readers\nas may be disposed to make a pet of one of these interesting little\nanimals, would do well to observe the following rules:--Clean the cage\nout daily, and keep it dry; do not keep it in too cold a place; in\nwinter it should be kept in a room in which there is a fire. Feed the\nmice on bread steeped in milk, having first squeezed the milk out, as\ntoo moist food is bad for them. Never give them cheese, as it is apt to\nproduce fatal disorders, though the more hardy brown mice eat it with\nimpunity. If you want to give them a treat, give them grains of wheat\nor barley, or if these are not to be procured, oats or rice. A little\ntin box of water should be constantly left in their cage, but securely\nfixed, so that they cannot overturn it. Let the wires be not too slight,\nor too long, otherwise the little animals will easily squeeze themselves\nbetween them, and let them be of iron, never of copper, as the animals\nare fond of nibbling at them, and the rust of the latter, or _verdigris_,\nwould quickly poison them. White mice are to be procured at most of the\nbird-shops in Patrick\u2019s Close, Dublin; of the wire-workers and bird-cage\nmakers in Edinburgh; and from all the animal fanciers in London,\nwhose residences are to be found chiefly on the New Road and about\nKnightsbridge. Their prices vary from one shilling to two-and-sixpence\nper pair, according to their age and beauty.\n\n                                                                 H. D. R.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSIONS.\n\n\nIf what are called the liberal professions could speak, they would\nall utter the one cry, \u201cwe are overstocked;\u201d and echo would reply\n\u201coverstocked.\u201d This has long been a subject of complaint, and yet nobody\nseems inclined to mend the matter by making any sacrifice on his own\npart--just as in a crowd, to use a familiar illustration, the man who is\nloudest in exclaiming \u201cdear me, what pressing and jostling people do keep\nhere!\u201d never thinks of lightening the pressure by withdrawing his own\nperson from the mass. There is, however, an advantage to be derived from\nthe utterance and reiteration of the complaint, if not by those already\nin the press, at least by those who are still happily clear of it.\n\nThere are many \u201cvanities and vexations of spirit\u201d under the sun, but this\nevil of professional redundancy seems to be one of very great magnitude.\nIt involves not merely an outlay of much precious time and substance to\nno purpose, but in most cases unfits those who constitute the \u201cexcess\u201d\nfrom applying themselves afterwards to other pursuits. Such persons are\nthe primary sufferers; but the community at large participates in the\nloss.\n\nIt cannot but be interesting to inquire to what this tendency may be\nowing, and what remedy it might be useful to apply to the evil. Now, it\nstrikes me that the great cause is the exclusive attention which people\npay to the great prizes, and their total inconsideration of the number of\nblanks which accompany them. Life itself has been compared to a lottery;\nbut in some departments the scheme may be so particularly bad, that it is\nnothing short of absolute gambling to purchase a share in it. So it is in\nthe professions. A few arrive at great eminence, and these few excite the\nenvy and admiration of all beholders; but they are only a few compared\nwith the number of those who linger in the shade, and, however anxious to\nenjoy the sport, never once get a rap at the ball.\n\nAgain, parents are apt to look upon the mere name of a profession as a\nprovision for their children. They calculate all the expenses of general\neducation, professional education, and then of admission to \u201cliberty to\npractise;\u201d and finding all these items amount to a tolerably large sum,\nthey conceive they have bestowed an ample portion on the son who has cost\nthem \u201cthus much monies.\u201d But unfortunately they soon learn by experience\nthat the elevation of a profession, great as it is, does not always\npossess that homely recommendation of causing the \u201cpot to boil,\u201d and that\nthe individual for whom this costly provision has been made, cannot be so\nsoon left to shift for himself. Here then is another cause of this evil,\nnamely, that people do not adequately and fairly calculate the whole cost.\n\nOf our liberal professions, the army is the only one that yields a\ncertain income as the produce of the purchase money, But in these \u201cpiping\ntimes of peace,\u201d a private soldier in the ranks might as well attempt to\nverify the old song, and\n\n    \u201cSpend half a crown out of sixpence a-day,\u201d\n\nas an ensign to pay mess-money and band-money, and all other regulation\nmonies, keep himself in dress coat and epaulettes, and all the other et\nceteras, upon his mere pay. The thing cannot be done. To live in any\ncomfort in the army, a subaltern should have an income from some other\nsource, equal at least in amount to that which he receives through the\nhands of the paymaster. The army is, in fact, an expensive profession,\nand of all others the least agreeable to one who is prevented, by\ncircumscribed means, from doing as his brother officers do. Yet the\nmistake of venturing to meet all these difficulties is not unfrequently\nadmitted, with what vain expectation it is needless to inquire. The usual\nresult is such as one would anticipate, namely, that the rash adventurer,\nafter incurring debts, or putting his friends to unlooked-for charges, is\nobliged after a short time to sell out, and bid farewell for ever to the\nunprofitable profession of arms.\n\nIt would be painful to dwell upon the situation of those who enter other\nprofessions without being duly prepared to wait their turn of employment.\nIt is recognised as a poignantly applicable truth in the profession of\nthe bar, that \u201cmany are called but few are chosen;\u201d but with very few and\nrare exceptions indeed, the necessity of _biding_ the time is certain.\nIn the legal and medical professions there is no fixed income, however\nsmall, insured to the adventurer; and unless his circle of friends and\nconnections be very wide and serviceable indeed, he should make up his\nmind for a procrastinated return and a late harvest. But how many from\nday to day, and from year to year, do launch their bark upon the ocean,\nwithout any such prudent foresight! The result therefore is, that vast\nproportion of disastrous voyages and shipwrecks of which we hear so\nconstantly.\n\nSuch is the admitted evil--it is granted on all sides. The question\nis, what is to be done?--what is the remedy? Now, the remedy for an\noverstocked profession very evidently is, that people should forbear to\nenter it. I am no Malthusian on the subject of population: I desire no\nunnatural checks upon the increase and multiplication of her Majesty\u2019s\nsubjects; but I should like to drain off a surplus from certain\nsituations, and turn off the in-flowing stream into more profitable\nchannels. I would advise parents, then, to leave the choice of a liberal\nprofession to those who are able to live without one. Such parties can\nafford to wait for advancement, however long it may be in coming, or to\nbear up against disappointment, if such should be their lot. With such\nit is a safe speculation, and they may be left to indulge in it, if they\nthink proper. With others it is not so. But it will be asked, what is to\nbe done with the multitudes who would be diverted from the professions,\nif this advice were acted upon? I answer, that the money unprofitably\nspent upon their education, and in fees of admission to these expensive\npursuits, would insure them a \u201cgood location\u201d and a certain provision\nfor life in Canada, or some of the colonies; and that any honourable\noccupation which would yield a competency ought to be preferred to\n\u201cprofessions\u201d which, however \u201cliberal,\u201d hold out to the many but a very\ndoubtful prospect of that result.\n\nIt is much to be regretted that there is a prevalent notion among\ncertain of my countrymen that \u201ctrade\u201d is not a \u201cgenteel\u201d thing, and\nthat it must be eschewed by those who have any pretensions to fashion.\nThis unfortunate, and I must say unsound state of opinion, contributes\nalso, I fear, in no small degree, to that professional redundancy of\nwhich we have been speaking. The supposed absolute necessity of a high\nclassical education is a natural concomitant of this opinion. All our\nschools therefore are eminently classical. The University follows, as a\nmatter of course, and then the University leads to a liberal profession,\nas surely as one step of a ladder conducts to another. Thus the evil is\nnourished at the very root. Now, I would take the liberty of advising\nthose parents who may concur with me in the main point of over-supply in\nthe professions, to begin at the beginning, and in the education of their\nchildren, to exchange this superabundance of Greek and Latin for the less\nelegant but more useful accomplishment of \u201cciphering.\u201d I am disposed to\nconcur with that facetious but shrewd fellow, Mr Samuel Slick, upon the\ninestimable advantages of that too much neglected art--neglected, I mean,\nin our country here, Ireland. He has demonstrated that they do every\nthing by it in the States, and that without it they could do nothing.\nWith the most profound respect to my countrymen, then, I would earnestly\nrecommend them to cultivate it. But it may perhaps be said that there is\nno encouragement to mercantile pursuits in Ireland, and that if there\nwere, there would be no necessity for me to recommend \u201cciphering\u201d and\nits virtues to the people. To this I answer, that merchandize offers\nits prizes to the ingenious and venturous much rather than to those who\nwait for a \u201chighway\u201d to be made for them. If people were resolved to\nlive by trade, I think they would contrive to do so--many more, at least,\nthan at present operate successfully in that department. If more of\neducation, and more of mind, were turned in that direction, new sources\nof profitable industry, at present unthought of, would probably discover\nthemselves. Much might be said on this subject, but I shall not enter\nfurther into the speculation, quite satisfied if I have thrown out a hint\nwhich may be found capable of improvement by others.\n\n                                                                       F.\n\n\n\n\nGEESE.\n\nBY MARTIN DOYLE.\n\n\nThe rearing of geese might be more an object of attention to our small\nfarmers and labourers in the vicinity of bogs and mountain tracts than it\nis.\n\nThe general season for the consumption of fat geese is from Michaelmas to\nChristmas, and the high prices paid for them in the English markets--to\nwhich they can be so rapidly conveyed from many parts of Ireland--appear\nto offer sufficient temptation to the speculator who has the capital and\naccommodation necessary for fattening them.\n\nA well-organized system of feeding this hardy and nutritious species of\npoultry, in favourable localities, would give a considerable impulse to\nthe rearing of them, and consequently promote the comforts of many poor\nIrish families, who under existing circumstances do not find it worth\nwhile to rear them except in very small numbers.\n\nI am led to offer a few suggestions on this subject from having\nascertained that in the Fens of Lincolnshire, notwithstanding a great\ndecrease there in the breeding of geese from extensive drainage, one\nindividual, Mr Clarke of Boston, fattens every year, between Michaelmas\nand Christmas, the prodigious number of seven thousand geese, and that\nanother dealer at Spalding prepares for the poultry butcher nearly as\nmany: these they purchase in lots from the farmers\u2019 wives.\n\nPerhaps a few details of the Lincolnshire practice may be acceptable to\nsome of the readers of this Journal:--\n\nThe farmers in the Fens keep breeding stocks proportioned to the extent\nof suitable land which they can command; and in order to insure the\nfertility of the eggs, they allow one gander to three geese, which is a\nhigher proportion of males than is deemed necessary elsewhere. The number\nof goslings in each brood averages about ten, which, allowing for all\ncasualties, is a considerable produce.\n\nThere have been extraordinary instances of individual fecundity, on\nwhich, however, it would be as absurd for any goose-breeder to calculate,\nas it is proverbially unwise to reckon chickens before they are hatched;\nand this fruitfulness is only attainable by constant feeding with\nstimulating food through the preceding winter.\n\nA goose has been known to lay seventy eggs within twelve months,\ntwenty-six in the spring, before the time of incubation, and (after\nbringing out seventeen goslings) the remainder by the end of the year.\n\nThe white variety is preferred to the grey or party-coloured, as the\nbirds of this colour feed more kindly, and their feathers are worth three\nshillings a stone more than the others: the quality of the land, however,\non which the breeding stock is to be maintained, decides this matter,\ngenerally strong land being necessary for the support of the white or\nlarger kind. Under all circumstances a white gander is preferred, in\norder to have a large progeny. It has been remarked, but I know not if\nwith reason, that ganders are more frequently white than the females.\n\nTo state all the particulars of hatching and rearing would be\nsuperfluous, and mere repetition of what is contained in the various\nworks on poultry. I shall merely state some of the peculiarities of the\npractice in the county of Lincoln.\n\nWhen the young geese are brought up at different periods by the great\ndealers, they are put into pens together, according to their age, size,\nand condition, and fed on steamed potatoes and ground oats, in the ratio\nof one measure of oats to three of potatoes. By unremitting care as to\ncleanliness, pure water, and constant feeding, these geese are fattened\nin about three weeks, at an average cost of one penny per day each.\n\nThe _cramming_ system, either by the fingers or the forcing pump,\ndescribed by French writers, with the accompanying barbarities of\nblinding, nailing the feet to the floor, or confinement in perforated\ncasks or earthen pots (as is said to be the case sometimes in Poland),\nare happily unknown in Lincolnshire, and I may add throughout England,\nwith one exception--the nailing of the feet to boards. The unequivocal\nproofs of this may occasionally, but very rarely, be seen in the geese\nbrought into the London markets: these, however, may possibly be imported\nones, though I fear they are not so.\n\nThe Lincolnshire dealers do not give any of those rich greasy pellets\nof barley meal and hot liquor, which always spoil the flavour, to their\ngeese, as they well know that oats is the best feeding for them; barley,\nbesides being more expensive, renders the flesh loose and insipid, and\nrather _chickeny_ in flavour.\n\nEvery point of economy on this subject is matter of great moment, on the\nvast scale pursued by Mr Clarke, who pays seven hundred pounds a-year\nfor the mere conveyance of his birds to the London market; a fact which\ngives a tolerable notion of the great extent of capital employed in this\nbusiness, the extent of which is scarcely conceivable by my agricultural\ncountrymen.\n\nLittle cost, however, is incurred by those who breed the geese, as the\nstock are left to provide for themselves, except in the laying season,\nand in feeding the goslings until they are old enough to eat grass or\nfeed on the stubbles. I have no doubt, however, that the cramp would be\nless frequently experienced, if solid food were added to the grass, when\nthe geese are turned out to graze, although Mr Clarke attributes the\ncramp, as well as gout and fever, to too close confinement alone. This\nopinion does not correspond with my far more limited observation, which\nleads me to believe that the cramp attacks goslings most frequently when\nthey are at large, and left to shift for themselves on green food alone,\nand that of the poorest kind. I should think it good economy to give\nthem, and the old stagers too, all spare garden vegetables, for loss of\ncondition is prejudicial to them as well as to other animals. Mr Cobbett\nused to fatten his young geese, from June to October, on Swedish turnips,\ncarrots, white cabbages, or lettuces, with some corn.\n\nSwedish turnips no doubt will answer very well, but not so well as\nfarinaceous potatoes, when immediate profit is the object. The experience\nof such an extensive dealer as Mr Clarke is worth volumes of theory\nand conjecture as to the mode of feeding, and he decides in favour of\npotatoes and oats.\n\nThe treatment for cramp and fever in Lincolnshire is bleeding--I know not\nif it be hazarded in gout--but as it is not successful in the cases of\ncramp in one instance out of twenty, it may be pronounced inefficacious.\n\nI have had occasion lately to remark in this Journal on the general\ndisinclination in England to the barbarous custom of plucking geese\nalive. In Lincolnshire, however, they do so with the breeding stock three\ntimes in the year, beginning at midsummer, and repeating the operation\ntwice afterwards, at intervals of six weeks between the operations.\n\nThe practice is defended on the plea, that if the feathers be matured,\nthe geese are better for it, while it is of course admitted that the\nbirds must be injured more or less--according to the handling by the\npluckers--if the feathers be not ripe. But as birds do not moult three\ntimes in the year, I do not understand how it should be correctly said\nthat the feathers _can_ be ripe on these three occasions. How does nature\nsuggest the propriety of stripping the feathers so often? Where great\nnumbers are kept, the loss by allowing the feathers to drop on the ground\nwould be serious, and on this account alone can even one stripping be\njustified.\n\nIn proof of the general opinion that the goose is extremely long-lived,\nwe have many recorded facts; among them the following:--\u201cIn 1824 there\nwas a goose living in the possession of Mr Hewson of Glenham, near\nMarket Rasen, Lincolnshire, which was then upwards of a century old. It\nhad been throughout that term in the constant possession of Mr Hewson\u2019s\nforefathers and himself, and on quitting his farm he would not suffer\nit to be sold with his other stock, but made a present of it to the\nin-coming tenant, that the venerable fowl might terminate its career on\nthe spot where its useful life had been spent such a length of days.\u201d\n\nThe taste which has long prevailed among gourmands for the liver of a\ngoose, and has led to the enormous cruelties exercised in order to cause\nits enlargement by rendering the bird diseased in that organ through high\nand forced feeding in a warm temperature and close confinement, is well\nknown; but I doubt if many are aware of the influence of _charcoal_ in\nproducing an unnatural state of the liver.\n\nI had read of charcoal being put into a trough of water to sweeten it for\ngeese when cooped up; but from a passage in a recent work by Liebig it\nwould appear that the charcoal acts not as a sweetener of the water, but\nin another way on the constitution of the goose.\n\nI am tempted to give the extract from its novelty:--\u201cThe production of\nflesh and fat may be artificially increased: all domestic animals, for\nexample, contain much fat. We give food to animals which increases the\nactivity of certain organs, and is itself capable of being transformed\ninto fat. We add to the quantity of food, or we lessen the progress\nof respiration and perspiration by preventing motion. The conditions\nnecessary to effect this purpose in birds are different from those in\nquadrupeds; and it is well known that charcoal powder produces such an\nexcessive growth in the liver of a goose as at length causes the death of\nthe animal.\u201d\n\nWe are much inferior to the English in the art of preparing poultry for\nthe market; and this is the more to be regretted in the instance of\ngeese, especially as we can supply potatoes--which I have shown to be\nthe chief material of their fattening food--at half their cost in many\nparts of England. This advantage alone ought to render the friends of our\nagricultural poor earnest in promoting the rearing and fattening of geese\nin localities favourable for the purpose.\n\n\n\n\nIRISH MANUFACTURES.\n\n\nThe encouragement of our native manufactures is now a general topic of\nconversation and interest, and we hope the present excitement of the\npublic mind on this subject will be productive of permanent good. We also\nhope that the encouragement proposed to be given to articles of Irish\nmanufacture will be extended to the productions of the head as well as to\nthose of the hands; that the manufacturer of Irish wit and humour will be\ndeemed worthy of support as well as those of silks, woollens, or felts;\nand, that Irishmen shall venture to estimate the value of Irish produce\nfor themselves, without waiting as heretofore till they get \u201cthe London\nstamp\u201d upon them, as our play-going people of old times used to do in the\ncase of the eminent Irish actors.\n\nWe are indeed greatly inclined to believe that our Irish manufactures\nare rising in estimation in England, from the fact which has come to\nour knowledge that many thousands of our Belfast hams are sold annually\nat the other side of the water as genuine Yorkshire, and also that many\nof those Belfast hams with the Yorkshire stamp find their way back into\n\u201cOuld Ireland,\u201d and are bought as English by those who would despise\nthem as Irish. Now, we should like our countrymen not to be gulled in\nthis way, but depend upon their own judgment in the matter of hams, and\nin like manner in the matter of articles of Irish literary manufacture,\nwithout waiting for the London stamp to be put on them. The necessity\nfor such discrimination and confidence in their own judgment exists\nequally in hams and literature. Thus certain English editors approve so\nhighly of our articles in the Irish Penny Journal, that they copy them\nby wholesale, not only without acknowledgment, but actually do us the\nfavour to father them as their own! As an example of this patronage, we\nmay refer to a recent number of the Court Gazette, in which its editor\nhas been entertaining his aristocratic readers with a little piece of\n_badinage_ from our Journal, expressly written for us, and entitled \u201cA\nshort chapter on Bustles,\u201d but which he gives as written for the said\nCourt Gazette! Now, this is really very considerate and complimentary,\nand we of course feel grateful. But, better again, we find our able and\nkind friend the editor of the _Monitor_ and _Irishman_, presenting, no\ndoubt inadvertently, this very article to his Irish readers a few weeks\nago--not even as an Irish article that had got the London stamp upon it,\nbut as actually one of true British manufacture--the produce of the Court\nGazette.\n\nNow, in perfect good humour, we ask our friend, as such we have reason to\nconsider him, could he not as well have copied this article from our own\nJournal, and given us the credit of it--and would it not be worthy of the\nconsistency and patriotism of the _Irishman_, who writes so ably in the\ncause of Irish manufactures, to extend his support, as far as might be\ncompatible with truth and honesty, to the native literature of Ireland?\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.--Sold by all Booksellers.","title":"The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 28, January 9, 1841","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11864}