{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54712/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54712","id":"gutenberg_54712","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54712","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - Other","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Ireland -- Periodicals"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n       NUMBER 30.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 23, 1841.      VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF MONEA, COUNTY OF FERMANAGH.]\n\nThe Castle of Monea or Castletown-Monea--properly _Magh an fhiaidh_, i.e.\nthe plain of the deer--is situated in the parish of Devinish, county\nof Fermanagh, and about five miles north-west of Enniskillen. Like the\nCastle of Tully, in the same county, of which we gave a view in a recent\nnumber, this castle affords a good example of the class of castellated\nresidences erected on the great plantation of Ulster by the British and\nScottish undertakers, in obedience to the fourth article concerning the\nEnglish and Scottish undertakers, who \u201care to plant their portions with\nEnglish and inland-Scottish tenants,\u201d which was imposed upon them by\n\u201cthe orders and conditions to be observed by the undertakers upon the\ndistribution and plantation of the escheated lands in Ulster,\u201d in 1608.\nBy this article it was provided that \u201cevery undertaker of the _greatest\nproportion_ of two thousand acres shall, within two years after the date\nof his letters patent, build thereupon a castle, with a strong court or\nbawn about it; and every undertaker of the second or _middle proportion_\nof fifteen hundred acres shall within the same time build a stone or\nbrick house thereupon, with a strong court or bawn about it. And every\nundertaker of the _least proportion_ of one thousand acres shall within\nthe same time make thereupon a strong court or bawn at least; and all the\nsaid undertakers shall cause their tenants to build houses for themselves\nand their families, near the principal castle, house, or bawn, for their\nmutual defence or strength,\u201d &c.\n\nSuch was the origin of most of the castles and villages now existing in\nthe six escheated counties of Ulster--historical memorials of a vast\npolitical movement--and among the rest this of Monea, which was the\ncastle of the _middle proportion_ of Dirrinefogher, of which Sir Robert\nHamilton was the first patentee.\n\nFrom Pynnar\u2019s Survey of Ulster, made in 1618-19, it appears that this\nproportion had at that time passed into the possession of Malcolm\nHamilton (who was afterwards archbishop of Cashel), by whom the castle\nwas erected, though the bawn, as prescribed by the conditions, was not\nadded till some years later. He says,\n\n    \u201cUpon this proportion there is a strong castle of lime and\n    stone, being fifty-four feet long and twenty feet broad, but\n    hath no bawn unto it, nor any other defence for the succouring\n    or relieving of his tenants.\u201d\n\nFrom an inquisition taken at Monea in 1630, we find, however, that this\nwant was soon after supplied, and that the castle, which was fifty feet\nin height, was surrounded by a wall nine feet in height and three hundred\nin circuit.\n\nThe Malcolm Hamilton noticed by Pynnar as possessor of \u201cthe middle\nproportion of Dirrinefogher,\u201d subsequently held the rectory of Devenish,\nwhich he retained _in commendam_ with his archbishopric till his death\nin 1629. The proportion of Dirrinefogher, however, with its castle,\nwas escheated to the crown in 1630; and shortly after, the old chapel\nof Monea was converted into a parish church, the original church being\ninconveniently situated on an island of Lough Erne.\n\nMonea Castle served as a chief place of refuge to the English and\nScottish settlers of the vicinity during the rebellion of 1641, and,\nlike the Castle of Tully, it has its tales of horror recorded in story;\nbut we shall not uselessly drag them to light. The village of Monea is\nan inconsiderable one, but there are several gentlemen\u2019s seats in its\nneighbourhood, and the scenery around it is of great richness and beauty.\n\n                                                                       P.\n\n\n\n\nON THE SUBJUGATION OF ANIMALS BY MEANS OF CHARMS, INCANTATIONS, OR DRUGS.\n\nFIRST ARTICLE.\n\nON SERPENT-CHARMING, AS PRACTISED BY THE JUGGLERS OF ASIA.\n\n\nMany of my readers will doubtless recollect that in a paper on \u201cAnimal\nTaming,\u201d which appeared some weeks back in the pages of this Journal, I\nalluded slightly to the _charming_ of animals, or _taming_ them by spells\nor drugs. It is now my purpose to enter more fully upon this subject,\nand present my readers with a brief notice of what I have been able to\nglean respecting it, as well from the published accounts of remarkable\ntravellers, as from oral descriptions received from personal friends\nof my own, who had opportunities of being eye witnesses to many of the\npractices to which I refer.\n\nThe most remarkable, and also the most ancient description of\nanimal-charming with which we are acquainted, is that which consists in\ncalling the venomous serpents from their holes, quelling their fury, and\nallaying their irritation, by means of certain charms, amongst which\nmusic stands forth in the most prominent position, though, whether it\nreally is worthy of the first place as an actual agent, or is only thus\nput forward to cover that on which the true secret depends, is by no\nmeans perfectly clear.\n\nEven in scripture we find the practice of serpent-charming noticed,\nand by no means as a novelty; in the 58th Psalm we are told that the\nwicked are like the \u201cdeaf adder that stoppeth her ear, which hearkeneth\nnot unto the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely!\u201d And in\nthe book of Jeremiah, chap. viii, the disobedient people are thus\nthreatened--\u201cBehold, I will send serpents, cockatrices, among you, which\nwill not be _charmed_.\u201d These are two very remarkable passages, and I\nthink we may, without going too far, set down as snake-charmers the\nEgyptian magi who contended against Moses and Aaron before the court of\nthe proud and vacillating Pharaoh, striving to imitate by their juggling\ntricks the wondrous miracles which Moses wrought by the immediate aid\nof God himself. The feat of changing their sticks into serpents, for\ninstance, is one of every-day performance in India, which a friend of\nmine has assured me he many times saw himself, and which has not been\nsatisfactorily explained by any one.\n\nThe serpent has long been an object of extreme veneration to the natives\nof Hindostan, and has indeed, from the very earliest ages, been selected\nby many nations as an object of worship; why, I cannot explain, unless\nit originated in a superstitious perversion of the elevation of the\nbrazen serpent in the wilderness by Moses. In India the serpent is not,\nhowever, altogether regarded as a deity--merely as a _demon_ or genius:\nand the office usually supposed to be peculiar to these creatures is that\nof _guardians_. This is perhaps one of the most widely spread notions\nrespecting the serpent that we are acquainted with. Herodotus mentions\nthe sacred serpents which guarded the citadel of Athens, and which he\nstates to have been fed monthly with cakes of honey; and adds, that\nthese serpents being sacred, were harmless, and would not hurt men. A\ndragon was said to have guarded the golden fleece (or, as some think, a\n_scaly serpent_), and protected the gardens of the Hesperides--a singular\ncoincidence, as it is of _gardens_ principally that the Indians conceive\nthe serpent to be the guardian.\n\nMedea _charmed_ the dragon by the melody of her voice. Herodotus\nmentions snakes being soothed by harmony; and Virgil, in the \u00c6neid, says\n(translated by Dryden),\n\n    \u201cHis wand and holy words the viper\u2019s rage\n    And venom\u2019d wound of serpents could assuage.\u201d\n\nEven our own island, although serpents do not exist in it--a blessing\nfor which, if we are to put faith in legendary lore, we have to thank St\nPatrick--has numberless legends and tales of crocks of treasure at the\nbottom of deep, deep lakes, or in dark and gloomy caves, in inaccessible\nand rocky mountains, guarded by a fierce and wakeful snake, a sleepless\nserpent, whose eyes are never closed, and who never for a second abated\nof his watchful care of the treasure-crock, of which he had originally\nbeen appointed guardian;[1] and, further, we are told how the daring and\ninventive genius of the son of Erin has often found out a mode of putting\na \u201c_comether_\u201d on the \u201cbig sarpint, the villain,\u201d and haply closing his\neyes in slumber, while he succeeded in possessing himself of the hoard\nwhich by his cunning and bravery he had so fairly won; in other words,\n_charming_ the snake and possessing himself of the spoil.\n\nHaving thus glanced at the antiquity and wide spread of serpent-charming,\nI shall proceed to lay before you a short description of the mode in\nwhich the spell is cast over the animals by the modern jugglers of Arabia\nand India.\n\nOf all the Indian serpents, next to the Cobra Minelle, the Cobra Capella,\nor hooded snake (_Coluber Naja_), called in India the \u201cNaig,\u201d and also\n\u201cspectacle snake,\u201d is the most venomous. It derives its names of _hooded_\nand _spectacle_ snake from a fold of skin resembling a hood near the\nhead, which it possesses a power of enlarging or contracting at pleasure;\nand in the centre of this hood are seen, when it is distended, black and\nwhite markings, bearing no distant or fanciful likeness to a pair of\nspectacles. The mode of charming, or, at all events, all that is to be\nseen or understood by the spectators, consists in the juggler playing\nupon a flute or fife near the hole which a snake has been seen to enter,\nor which his employers have otherwise reason to suppose the reptile\ninhabits. The serpent will presently put forth his head, a portion of his\nbody will shortly follow, and in a few minutes he will creep forth from\nhis retreat, and, approaching the musician, rear himself on his tail,\nand by moving his head and neck up and down or from side to side, keep\ntolerably accurate time to the tune with which his ears are ravished.\n\nAfter having played for a short period, and apparently soothed the\nreptile into a state of dreamy unconsciousness of all that is passing,\nsave only the harmony which delights him, the juggler will gradually\nbring himself within grasp of the snake, and by a sudden snatch seize\nhim by the tail, and hold him out at arms\u2019 length. On the cessation of\nthe music, and on finding himself thus roughly assailed, the reptile\nbecomes fearfully enraged, and exerts all his energies to turn upwards,\nand bite the arm of his aggressor. His efforts are however fruitless;\nwhile held in that position, he is utterly incapable of doing any injury;\nand is, after having been held thus for a few minutes before the gaze\nof the admiring crowd, dropped into a basket ready to receive him, and\nlaid aside until the juggler has leisure and privacy to complete the\nsubjugation which his wonder-working melody had begun.\n\nWhen charmed serpents are exhibited dancing to the sound of music, the\nspectators should not crowd too closely around the seat of the juggler,\nfor, no matter how well trained they may be, there is great danger\nattending the cessation of the sweet sounds; and if from any cause the\nflute or fife suddenly stops or is checked, it not unfrequently happens\nthat the snake will spring upon some one of the company, and bite him.\nI think that it will not be amiss if I quote the description of Indian\nsnake-charming, furnished by a gentleman in the Honourable Company\u2019s\ncivil service at Madras, to the writer, who vouches for its veracity:--\n\n\u201cOne morning,\u201d says he, \u201cas I sat at breakfast, I heard a loud noise and\nshouting among my palankeen bearers. On inquiry I learned that they had\nseen a large hooded snake (or Cobra Capella), and were trying to kill\nit. I immediately went out, and saw the snake climbing up a very high\ngreen mound, whence it escaped into a hole in an old wall of an ancient\nfortification. The men were armed with their sticks, which they always\ncarry in their hands, and had attempted in vain to kill the reptile,\nwhich had eluded their pursuit, and in his hole he had coiled himself\nup secure, while we could see his bright eyes shining. I had often\ndesired to ascertain the truth of the report as to the effect of music\nupon snakes: I therefore inquired for a snake catcher. I was told there\nwas no person of the kind in the village, but, after a little inquiry I\nheard there was one in a village distant three miles. I accordingly sent\nfor him, keeping a strict watch over the snake, which never attempted\nto escape whilst we his enemies were in sight. About an hour elapsed,\nwhen my messenger returned, bringing the snake catcher. This man wore no\ncovering on his head, nor any on his person, excepting a small piece of\ncloth round his loins: he had in his hands two baskets, one containing\ntame snakes, one empty: these and his musical pipe were the only things\nhe had with him. I made the snake catcher leave his two baskets on the\nground at some distance, while he ascended the mound with his pipe alone.\nHe began to play: at the sound of the music the snake came gradually and\nslowly out of his hole. When he was entirely within reach, the snake\ncatcher seized him dexterously by the tail, and held him thus at arms\u2019\nlength, whilst the enraged snake darted his head in all directions, but\nin vain: thus suspended, he has not the power to round himself so as to\nseize hold of his tormentor. He exhausted himself in vain exertions, when\nthe snake catcher descended the bank, dropped him into the empty basket,\nand closed the lid: he then began to play, and after a short time raised\nthe lid of the basket, when the snake darted about wildly, and attempted\nto escape; the lid was shut down again quickly, the music always playing.\nThis was repeated two or three times; and in a very short interval, the\nlid being raised, the snake sat on his tail, opened his hood, and danced\nquite as quietly as the tame snakes in the other basket, nor did he again\nattempt to escape. This, having witnessed it with my own eyes, I can\nassert as a fact.\u201d\n\nI particularly request the attention of my readers to the foregoing\naccount, as, from the circumstance of its having been furnished by an\neye-witness, and a man whose public station and known character were\nsufficient to command belief in his veracity, it will prove serviceable\nto me by and bye, when I shall endeavour to disprove the ridiculous\nassertions of Abb\u00e9 Dubois[2] and others, who hold that serpent-charming\nis a mere imposition, and assert, certainly without a shade of warranty\nfor so doing, that the serpents are in these cases always previously\ntamed, and deprived of their poison bags and fangs, when they are let\nloose in certain situations for the purpose of being artfully caught\nagain, and represented as _wild_ snakes, subdued by the charms of their\npipe. I shall, however, say no more at present of Dubois, Denon, or\nothers who are sceptical on this subject, but shall leave the refutation\nof their fanciful opinions to another opportunity--my present purpose\nbeing the establishment of _facts_, ere I venture to advance a theory.\n\nI shall therefore conclude my present paper, and in my next, besides\nadducing many other important facts relative to serpent-charming, shall\nendeavour to throw some light upon the real mode by which it is effected.\n\n                                                                 H. D. R.\n\n[1] See numerous legends of the \u201cPeiste.\u201d\n\n[2] Description of the People of India, p. 469.\n\n\n\n\nGRUMBLING.\n\n\nIf it be no part of the English constitution, it is certainly part of\nthe constitution of Englishmen to grumble. They cannot help it, even if\nthey tried; not that they ever do try, quite the reverse, but they could\nnot help grumbling if they tried ever so much. A true-born Englishman is\nborn grumbling. He grumbles at the light, because it dazzles his eyes,\nand he grumbles at the darkness, because it takes away the light. He\ngrumbles when he is hungry, because he wants to eat; he grumbles when he\nis full, because he can eat no more. He grumbles at the winter, because\nit is cold; he grumbles at the summer, because it is hot; and he grumbles\nat spring and autumn, because they are neither hot nor cold. He grumbles\nat the past, because it is gone; he grumbles at the future, because it\nis not come; and he grumbles at the present, because it is neither the\npast nor the future. He grumbles at law, because it restrains him; and\nhe grumbles at liberty, because it does not restrain others. He grumbles\nat all the elements--fire, water, earth, and air. He grumbles at fire,\nbecause it is so dear; at water, because it is so foul; at the earth, in\nall its combinations of mud, dust, bricks, and sand; and at the air, in\nall its conditions of hot or cold, wet or dry. All the world seems as if\nit were made for nothing else than to plague Englishmen, and set them\na-grumbling. The Englishman must grumble at nature for its rudeness, and\nat art for its innovation; at what is old, because he is tired of it; and\nat what is new, because he is not used to it. He grumbles at everything\nthat is to be grumbled at; and when there is nothing to grumble at, he\ngrumbles at that. Grumbling cleaves to him in all the departments of\nlife; when he is well, he grumbles at the cook; and when he is ill, he\ngrumbles at the doctor and nurse. He grumbles in his amusements, and he\ngrumbles in his devotion; at the theatres he grumbles at the players,\nand at church he grumbles at the parson. He cannot for the life of him\nenjoy a day\u2019s pleasure without grumbling. He grumbles at his enemies, and\nhe grumbles at his friends. He grumbles at all the animal creation, at\nhorses when he rides on them, at dogs when he shoots with them, at birds\nwhen he misses them, at pigs when they squeak, at asses when they bray,\nat geese when they cackle, and at peacocks when they scream. He is always\non the look-out for something to grumble at; he reads the newspapers,\nthat he may grumble at public affairs; his eyes are always open to look\nfor abominations; he is always pricking up his ears to detect discords,\nand snuffing up the air to find stinks. Can you insult an Englishman\nmore than by telling him he has nothing to grumble at? Can you by any\npossibility inflict a greater injury upon him than by convincing him he\nhas no occasion to grumble? Break his head, and he will forget it; pick\nhis pocket, and he will forgive it, but deprive him of his privilege of\ngrumbling, you more than kill him--you expatriate him. But the beauty of\nit is, you cannot inflict this injury on him; you cannot by all the logic\never invented, or by all the arguments that ever were uttered, convince\nan Englishman that he has nothing to grumble at; for if you were to do\nso, he would grumble at you so long as he lived for disturbing his old\nassociations. Grumbling is a pleasure which we all enjoy more or less,\nbut none, or but few, enjoy it in all the perfection and completeness of\nwhich it is capable. If we were to take a little more pains, we should\nfind, that having no occasion to grumble, we should have cause to grumble\nat everything. But we grow insensible to a great many annoyances, and\naccustomed to a great many evils, and think nothing of them. What a\ntremendous noise there is in the city, of carts, coaches, drays, waggons,\nbarrel-organs, fish-women, and all manner of abominations, of which\nthey in the city take scarcely any notice at all! How badly are all\nmatters in government and administration conducted! What very bad bread\ndo the bakers make! What very bad meat do the butchers kill! In a word,\nwhat is there in the whole compass of existence that is good? What is\nthere in human character that is as it should be? Are we not justified\nin grumbling at everything that is in heaven above, or in the earth\nbeneath, or in the waters under the earth? In fact, gentle reader, is the\nworld formed or governed half so well as you or I could form or govern\nit?--_From a newspaper._\n\n\n\n\nVULGARITY.\n\n\nThe very essence of vulgarity, after all, consists merely in one\nerror--in taking manners, actions, words, opinions, on trust from\nothers, without examining one\u2019s own feelings, or weighing the merits of\nthe case. It is coarseness or shallowness of taste, arising from want\nof individual refinement, together with the confidence and presumption\ninspired by example and numbers. It may be defined to be a prostitution\nof the mind or body to ape the more or less obvious defects of others,\nbecause by so doing we shall secure the suffrages of those we associate\nwith. To affect a gesture, an opinion, a phrase, because it is the rage\nwith a large number of persons, or to hold it in abhorrence because\nanother set of persons very little, if at all, better informed, cry\nit down to distinguish themselves from the former, is in either case\nequal vulgarity and absurdity. A thing is not vulgar merely because it\nis common. It is common to breathe, to see, to feel, to live. Nothing\nis vulgar that is natural, spontaneous, unavoidable. Grossness is not\nvulgarity, ignorance is not vulgarity, awkwardness is not vulgarity;\nbut all these become vulgar when they are affected and shown off on the\nauthority of others, or to fall in with the fashion or the company we\nkeep. Caliban is coarse enough, but surely he is not vulgar. We might as\nwell spurn the clod under our feet, and call it vulgar. Cobbett is coarse\nenough, but he is not vulgar. He does not belong to the herd. Nothing\nreal, nothing original, can be vulgar; but I should think an imitator of\nCobbett a vulgar man. Simplicity is not vulgarity; but the looking to\nimitation or affectation of any sort for distinction is. A Cockney is a\nvulgar character, whose imagination cannot wander beyond the suburbs of\nthe metropolis. An aristocrat, also, who is always thinking of the High\nStreet, Edinburgh, is vulgar. We want a name for this last character. An\nopinion is often vulgar that is stewed in the rank breath of the rabble;\nbut it is not a bit purer or more refined for having passed through the\nwell-cleansed teeth of a whole court. The inherent vulgarity lies in the\nhaving no other feeling on any subject than the crude, blind, headlong,\ngregarious notion acquired by sympathy with the mixed multitude, or with\na fastidious minority, who are just as insensible to the real truth,\nand as indifferent to every thing but their own frivolous pretensions.\nThe upper are not wiser than the lower orders, because they resolve to\ndiffer from them. The fashionable have the advantage of the unfashionable\nin nothing but the fashion. The true vulgar are the persons who have\na horrible dread of daring to differ from their clique--the herd of\npretenders to what they do not feel, and to do what is not natural to\nthem, whether in high or low life. To belong to any class, to move in\nany rank or sphere of life, is not a very exclusive distinction or test\nof refinement. Refinement will in all classes be the exception, not the\nrule; and the exception may occur in one class as well as another. A\nking is but a man with a hereditary title. A nobleman is only one of the\nHouse of Peers. To be a knight or alderman--above all, to desire being\neither, is confessedly a vulgar thing. The king made Walter Scott a\nbaronet, but not all the power of the Three Estates could make another\n\u201cAuthor of Waverley.\u201d Princes, heroes, are often commonplace people, and\nsometimes the reverse; Hamlet was not a vulgar character, neither was Don\nQuixote. To be an author, to be a painter, one of the many, is nothing.\nIt is a trick, it is a trade. Nay, to be a member of the Royal Academy,\nor a Fellow of the Royal Society, is but a vulgar distinction. But to\nbe a Virgil, a Milton, a Raphael, a Claude, is what falls to the lot of\nhumanity but once. I do not think those were vulgar people, though, for\nany thing I know to the contrary, the First Lord of the Bedchamber may\nbe a very vulgar man. Such are pretty much my notions with regard to\nvulgarity.--_Hazlitt\u2019s Table-Talk._\n\n\n\n\nWINTER COMES.\n\n\n    Winter comes with screech and wail,\n    Piercing blast and thundering gale;\n    Far from frozen climes he brings\n    Sleet and snow, and blanching things.\n    He has trod the North Pole round,\n    Long in icy fetters bound;\n    Swept by Greenland\u2019s frigid shore,\n    Where the western billows roar--\n    Roamed o\u2019er Lapland\u2019s ice-bound plains,\n    Where chaotic darkness reigns;\n    Rested on that land of woe\n    Where the Russian captives go;\n    Land where men of royal race,\n    Exiled by some tyrant base,\n    Pined in suffering, died in grief,\n    No fond hand to bring relief--\n    No bright eyes to shed one tear\n    O\u2019er their cold and lonely bier;\n    Dying far from wife and child\n    In Siberia\u2019s stormy wild.\n\n    Winter comes--his footsteps tread\n    O\u2019er the ocean\u2019s rugged bed;\n    As a ruthless conqueror he\n    Sends his storms from sea to sea;\n    Pity ne\u2019er hath seized his breast,\n    Sighs do ne\u2019er disturb his rest--\n    Shrieks that boom along the wave,\n    And mark the seaman\u2019s wat\u2019ry grave,\n    Fail to touch his icy soul,\n    Fail to stop the billow\u2019s roll.\n    When enthroned as ocean\u2019s king,\n    Spirits of his triumphs sing,\n    Drinking to his sovereign power\n    In the fearful midnight hour,\n    From those remnants of the dead\n    That round ocean\u2019s depths are spread.\n\n    Winter comes, with giant stride\n    O\u2019er the hills and forests wide;\n    From his aged brow he sheds\n    Hoary locks around their heads--\n    Mantles in his polar garb\n    Tree and flower and tender herb.\n    Not a leaf appears to show\n    Where the summer cowslips grow;\n    Not a bud or blossom fair\n    Scents with sweets the chilly air;\n    Not a bluebell decks the heath,\n    All are hid beneath the wreath\n    Spread by his unfriendly hand\n    O\u2019er the dark dismantled land.\n    Gardens once so bright and gay,\n    \u2019Neath the summer\u2019s solar ray,\n    Once so rich in lovely gems,\n    Hanging on their pendent stems,\n    Seem as some lone desert wild\n    Where fair beauty never smiled--\n    Where the light of summer\u2019s sun\n    Never touched or lit upon;\n    Nature lies all lone and dead,\n    \u2019Neath old Winter\u2019s frosty tread.\n\n    Winter comes, and some rejoice,\n    Glad to hear his sullen voice\n    Booming o\u2019er the crested waves,\n    Sounding through old grots and caves--\n    Sighing \u2019mid the forest trees,\n    Not in songs of summer\u2019s breeze,\n    But like mournings for the dead,\n    That as fairy flowers have fled;\n    Mounting o\u2019er the mountain\u2019s brow,\n    Where the oak-tree\u2019s trembling bough,\n    Rushing through the wooded glen,\n    Swooping o\u2019er the frightsome fen.\n    This is joy to hearts that know\n    Nothing of the drifting snow,\n    But beside the glowing hearth\n    Spend the hours in joy and mirth,\n    Laughing at the well-told tale,\n    While without the rising gale\n    Sweeps in furious mood along,\n    Heedless of their boisterous song.\n\n    Winter comes--and sorrow brings\n    On his dark foreboding wings,\n    To the poor lone helpless child\n    On whom fortune never smiled,\n    To the wretched cots and cells\n    Where want\u2019s abject sufferer dwells.\n    Round them he does cast his reins,\n    O\u2019er them brings his woes and pains.\n    O! ye lordlings of the earth,\n    Freed from pinching want by birth,\n    Let your bosoms heave one sigh\n    For the poor whose piercing cry\n    Calls for sympathy from all,\n    Loud as human woes can call,\n    Plead with you on every mind\n    To be moved with mercy kind;\n    Supplicates for help to save\n    Suffering equals from the grave.\n    Hear, O hear their melting cries\n    Rising upward to the skies;\n    Hear, and let the good which heaven\n    Kindly to your hands hath given,\n    Aid in promptly helping those\n    Steept in poverty and woes;\n    Then when earthly days are fled,\n    And the joys (now dark and dead)\n    Cease for ever from your eyes,\n    May you live beyond the skies;\n    May you hear your Saviour say,\n    Come, my servants, come away;\n    Enter in and seize your crown,\n    Be partakers of my throne;\n    For on earth you loved your lord;\n    Hearken\u2019d to his every word--\n    Heard his suffering children cry,\n    Wiped the tear-drops from their eye--\n    Inasmuch as thus your love,\n    Round their troubled souls did move,\n    So to me that love was given\n    Enter in with me to heaven.\n\n    Coleraine, December 1840. S. A.\n\n\n\n\nTALES OF MY CHILDHOOD, BY JOHN KEEGAN.\n\nNo. I.--THE BOCCOUGH RUADH.\n\nA TRADITION OF POOR-MAN\u2019S BRIDGE.\n\n    \u201cWhen ghosts, as cottage maids believe,\n    Their pebbled beds permitted leave,\n    And goblins haunt, from fire or fen,\n    Or mine or flood, the walks of men.\u201d----COLLINS.\n\n\nOne evening last winter--a holiday evening too--when the western wind was\nsweeping on wild pinions from the grey hills of Tipperary, athwart the\nrich and level plains of the Queen\u2019s County, when the blast roared down\nin the chimney, and the huge rain-drops pattered saucily against the four\ntiny panes which constituted the little kitchen window, I was sitting in\nthe cottage of a neighbouring peasant, amid a small but happy group of\nvillage rustics, and enjoying with them that enlivening mirth and sinless\ndelight which I have never found any where but at the fireside of an\nIrish peasant. The earthen floor was well scrubbed over; the \u201cbrullaws\nov furnithure\u201d were arranged with more than usual tidiness, and even the\ncrockery on the well-scoured dresser reflected the ruddy glare of the red\nfire with redoubled brilliancy, and glittered and glistened as merrily as\nif they felt conscious of the calm and tranquillity of that happy scene.\nAnd happy indeed was that scene, and happy was that time, and happier\nstill the hearts of the laughing rustics by whom I was on that occasion\nsurrounded, and amongst whom I have spent the lightest and happiest hours\nof my existence.\n\nIt was, as I said, a wild night, but even the violence of the weather\nabroad gave an additional relish to the enjoyments within. The blast\nwhistled fiercely in the bawn and in the haggard, but the huge fire\nblazed brightly on the hearth-stone. The rain fell in torrents; but, as\none of the company chucklingly remarked, \u201cthe wrong side ov the house was\nout,\u201d and I myself mentally exclaimed with Tam o\u2019 Shanter,\n\n    \u201cThe storm without may roar and rustle,\n    _We_ do not mind the storm a whustle.\u201d\n\nWhilst, to wind up the climax of our happiness, a gossoon who had been\ndispatched for a grey-beard full of \u201cthe native,\u201d now returned, and\nin a few minutes a huge jug of half and half smoked on the table, and\nwas circulated around the smiling and expectant ring, with an impetus\nof which the peasantry of Ireland will in a short time, from certain\nexisting causes, have not even the remotest idea.\n\nWell! such an evening as we had, I shall never forget; it would be vain\nto attempt a description. Those who have witnessed similar scenes require\nnone, and to those who have not, any attempt at one would be useless.\nAll therefore I shall say, is, that such a scene of fun and frolic and\nharmless waggery could not be found any where outside that ring which\nencircles the Emerald Isle, and even within that bright zone, nowhere but\nin the cabin of an Irish \u201cscullogue.\u201d\n\nThe songs of our sires, chanted with all that melancholy softness and\npathetic sweetness for which the voices of our wild Irish girls are\nremarkable, the wild legend recited with that rich brogue and waggish\nhumour peculiar alone to the Irish peasant, and the romantic and absurd\nfairy tale, told with all the reverential awe and caution which the\nsolemnity of the subject required, long amused and excited the captivated\nauditors; but at length, more\u2019s the pity, the vocalist could sing no\nmore, having \u201ca mighty great could intirely.\u201d The story-teller was \u201cas\ndry as a chip wid all he talked,\u201d and even the sides of most of the\ncompany \u201cwar ready to split wid the rale dint of laughin\u2019;\u201d whilst, as if\nto afford us another illustration of the truth of the old proverb, \u201cone\ntrouble never comes alone,\u201d even the old crone who had astonished us with\nthe richness and extent of her fairy lore, was also knocked up, or rather\nknocked _down_, for the quantity of earthly _spirits_ she had put _in_,\nentirely put _out_ all memory of _un_-earthly _spirits_, and sent her\ndisordered fancy, all confused as it was, wool-gathering to the classic\nregions of _Their-na-noge_.[3]\n\nWell, what was to be done? It was still young in the night, and, better\nthan that, a good \u201cslug\u201d still remained in the grey-beard, and as we all\nhad contributed to procure the stock, so all declared that none should\ndepart until the very last drop was drained. But how was the interval to\nbe employed? The singer was hushed, the story-teller was exhausted, and\nvollies of wit and waggery had exploded until every one was tired; yet to\nremain silent was considered by all as the highest degree of discomfort.\nIn this dilemma the man of the house scratched his pericranium, and, as\nacting by some sudden impulse, started up and handed me an old sooty\nbook, \u201choping that I would read a wollume for the edication of the\ncompany, until it would be time to retire.\u201d\n\nI agreed without hesitation, and on opening the dusty and smoke-begrimed\nvolume found that it was \u201cSir Charles Coote\u2019s Statistical Survey of\nthe Queen\u2019s County,\u201d printed in Dublin by Graisberry and Campbell, and\npublished by direction of the Dublin Society in the year 1801. Although\nwell aware that the dry details of a work professedly and almost\nexclusively statistical, were little calculated to amuse or interest\n_such_ an audience, yet, as the library of an Irish peasant is always\nunfortunately scanty, and in this instance, with the exception of a few\ntrifling works on religious subjects, limited to the book in question, I\ndetermined to make the best I could of it, and for that purpose opened\nit at Sir Charles\u2019s description of the immediate district in which we\nwere situated, namely, the barony of Maryborough West, and town-land of\nKilleany. I read on thus:--\u201cOn Sir Allen Johnson\u2019s estate stand the ruins\nof Killeany Castle; the walls are injudiciously built of very bad stones,\nthough excellent quarry is contiguous. \u2026 Poor-man\u2019s Bridge over the Nore\nwas lately widened, and is very safe, but I cannot learn the tradition\nwhy it was so called.\u201d\n\n\u201cRead that again, sir,\u201d said a fine grey-headed, patriarchal old man who\nwas present; \u201cread that again,\u201d said he emphatically. I did so.\n\n\u201c_He_ cannot learn the tradition of Poor-man\u2019s Bridge, _inagh_!\u201d said the\nold man with a sneer; \u201cfaith, I believe not; I\u2019d take his word for more\nnor that. But had he come to me when he was travelling the country making\nup his statisticks, I could open his eyes on that subject, and many\nothers too.\u201d\n\nSome of those present laughed outright at the old man\u2019s gravity of manner\nas he made this confident boast.\n\n\u201cYou need not laugh--you may shut your potato-traps,\u201d said the old man\nindignantly. \u201cGrand as he was, with his gold and silver, his coach and\nhorses, and servants with gold and scarlet livery, I could enlighten him\nmore on the ancient history and traditions of our country than all the\n_boddaghs_ of squireens whom he visited on his tour through the Queen\u2019s\nCounty.\u201d\n\nThese assertions served only to increase the storm of ridicule which was\ngathering around the old man\u2019s head; and to put a stop to any bad blood\nwhich the occasion might call forth, I requested of him to tell us the\ntradition of \u201cthe Boccough Ruadh.\u201d\n\nAfter some wheedling and flattery he complied, and told a curious story,\nof which the following is the substance.\n\nThe river Nore flows through a district of the Queen\u2019s County celebrated\nfor fertility and romantic beauty. From its source amongst the blue hills\nof Slievebloom to its termination at New Ross, where its bright ripples\ncommingle with the briny billows of the Irish sea, many excellent and\neven some beautiful bridges span its stream. Until the commencement of\nthe last century, however, except in the vicinity of towns, there were\nbut few permanent bridges across this river, and in the country districts\naccess was gained over it chiefly by means of causeways, or, as they are\ntermed, \u201cfoords,\u201d constructed of stones and huge blocks of timber fixed\nfirmly in the bed of the river, and extending in irregular succession\nfrom bank to bank. Over this pathway foot passengers crossed easily\nenough, but cattle and wheeled carriages were obliged to struggle through\nthe water as well as they could; but in time of floods, and in the winter\nseason when the waters were swollen, all communication was cut off except\nto pedestrians alone.\n\nOne of those \u201cfoords,\u201d in former times, crossed the Nore at Shanahoe, a\nvery pretty neighbourhood, about three miles northwards of the beautiful\nand rising town of Abbeyleix, in the Queen\u2019s County. The river here winds\nits course through a silent glen, and now several snug cottages and\nfarm-houses arise above its banks at either side. The country in this\nneighbourhood is remarkably beautiful. Several gentlemen\u2019s seats are\nscattered along the banks of the river in this vicinity, all elegant and\nof modern erection, whilst swelling hills, sloping dales, gloomy groves,\nand ruins of church and tower and \u201ccastle grey,\u201d ornament and diversify\nthe scene.\n\nOn a gentle eminence on the eastern bank of the river, stood, about a\nhundred years ago, the cabin of a man named Neale O\u2019Shea. At that period\nthere was not another dwelling within a long distance of the \u201cfoord,\u201d\nand many a time was Neale summoned from his midnight repose to guide the\ntraveller in his passage over the lonely and dangerous river pathway.\n\nOne wild stormy December night, when the huge limestone rocks that formed\nthe stepping-stones of the ford were lashed and chafed by the angry foam\nof the agitated river, Neale O\u2019Shea\u2019s wife fancied she heard, amid the\nfitful pausings of the wind, the cry of some mortal in distress. She\nimmediately aroused her husband, who was stretched asleep on a large\noak stool in the chimney corner, and told him to look out. Neale, ever\nwilling to relieve a fellow-creature, arose, and, flinging his grey\n\u201ctrusty\u201d over his expansive shoulders, and seizing a long iron-shod pole\nor wattle, the constant companion of his nightly excursions, hastened\ndown to the river\u2019s brink. He stood a moment at the verge of the ford,\nand tried to penetrate through the intense gloom, to see if he could\ndiscover a human form, but he could see nothing.\n\n\u201cIs there any one there?\u201d he shouted in a stentorian voice, which rose\nhigh above the whistling of the blast, and the brawling of the angry and\nswift-rushing river.\n\nA voice sounded at the other extremity of the ford, and the stout-hearted\npeasant, with steady step, crossed over the slippery stepping-stones.\n\n\u201cWho the devil are you?\u201d roughly exclaimed Neale to a man who lay\nextended on the brink of the river, convenient to the entrance of the\nford.\n\n\u201cWhoever I am,\u201d faintly replied the stranger, \u201cyou are my good angel,\nand it was surely Providence who sent you this night to rescue me from a\nwatery grave.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhoever you are,\u201d again said Neale, \u201ccome along with me, and Kathleen\nand the childre will make you welcome in my cabin until morning.\u201d\nSo saying, he seized the bending form of the wayworn stranger, and\nflinging him on his back with herculean strength, trudged over the\nstepping-stones, chuckling with delight, and gaily whistling as he went.\n\nThe dangerous pass was soon crossed, and arriving at the door, Neale\npushed it before him, and with a smile deposited his trembling burthen\non the warm hearth. A fine fire blazed merrily, and its flickering\nbeams fell brightly on the face of the stranger. He was a tall, portly\nfigure, stooped as if from extreme suffering more than age, and had a\nwooden leg. His features, which had evidently been handsome in his youth,\nwere worn, pale, and attenuated, and he might be about fifty years of\nage. His clothes were faded and ragged; he was entirely without shoes\nor stockings; and his head was covered by a broad-brimmed leathern hat,\nunder which he wore an enormous red nightcap of coarse woollen cloth.\n\nThe good Kathleen now set about preparing supper, and while thus\nemployed, the stranger gave them a brief account of his bygone life.\nHe told them that he was a native of the north of Ireland, and that\nhe had spent several years of his youth at sea; that being wounded\nin a fray with smugglers on the coast of France, and losing his leg,\nhe was discharged from his employment, and sent adrift on the world,\nwithout having one friend on earth, or a penny in his pocket. In this\nexigence he had no alternative but to apply to the commiseration of his\nfellow-creatures, and had thus for the last twenty years wandered up and\ndown, entirely dependent on the bounty and charity of the public.\n\nSupper was now ready, and having partaken of a comfortable meal, the\nwanderer went to rest in a comfortable \u201cshake-down,\u201d which the good woman\nhad prepared for him in the chimney corner. The storm died away during\nthe night, and next morning the watery beams of the winter\u2019s sun shone\nfaintly yet gaily on the smooth surface of the silvery Nore.\n\nThe stranger was up at sunrise, and was preparing to depart, but his kind\nhost and hostess would not permit him to go. They told him to stop a few\ndays to rest himself, and in the interim, that he could not do better\nthan take his stand at the ford, and ask alms of those who passed the\nway, as a great many frequented that pass; and as nothing was ever craved\nfrom them there, they would cheerfully extend their charity to an object\nworthy of relief.\n\nActing on their suggestions, the old sailor was soon sitting on a stone\nat the western extremity of the ford. With his old caubeen in his hand,\nand his head enveloped in the gigantic red nightcap, he craved alms,\nin the name of God and the Virgin, from all who passed the way; and\nbefore the sickly beams of the December sun had sunk behind the conical\n\u201cGizebo,\u201d he could show more money than ever he did before, since his\nlimb was swept off by the shot of the smuggling Frenchman.\n\nThe next morning, and every morning after, found the sailor at his post\nat the ford: he soon became well known to all the villagers, and from the\ncircumstance of his always appearing with no other head-gear than the red\nnightcap, they nicknamed him the \u201cBoccough Ruadh,\u201d[4] a name by which he\nwent ever after till his death.\n\nTime passed on as usual, and the one-legged sailor still plied his\nlucrative vocation at the river pass. Neale O\u2019Shea\u2019s cabin still\ncontinued to afford him shelter every night, and all his days, from the\ncrow of the cock to the vesper song of the wood-thrush, were passed at\nthe ford, seated on that remarkable block of limestone called to this day\nthe \u201cClough-na-Boccough.\u201d[5] His hand was stretched to every stranger\nfor alms, \u201cfor the good of their souls,\u201d and very few passed without\ngiving more or less to the Boccough Ruadh. Thus he acquired considerable\nsums of money, but constantly denied having a \u201ckeenogue;\u201d but when\nbantered by any of the neighbouring urchins on the length of his purse,\nhe would get into a great rage, and swear, by the cross of his crutch,\nthat between buying the shough of tobacco and paying for other things he\nwanted, he hadn\u2019t as much as would jingle on a tomb-stone, or what would\nbuy a farthing candle to show light to his poor corpse at the last day.\nHis food was of the very worst description, and unless supplied by the\nkind-hearted Kathleen O\u2019Shea, he would sooner go to bed supperless than\nlay out one penny to buy bread. He suffered his clothes to go to rags,\nunless when any person in the neighbourhood would give him old clothes\nfor charity, and he would not pay for soap to wash his shirt once in the\ntwelvemonth. Yet no one could find out what he did with his money; he did\nnot spend two-and-sixpence in the year, and it was people\u2019s opinion that\nhe was hoarding it up to give for the benefit of his soul at his dying\nday.\n\nYears rolled away, and Neale O\u2019Shea having now waxed old, died, and\nwas gathered to his fathers in the adjacent green churchyard of\nShannikill,[6] on the banks of the winding Nore. The Boccough followed\nthe remains of his kind benefactor to his last earthly resting-place,\nand poured his sorrows over his grave in loud and long-continued\nlamentations. But though Neale was gone, Kathleen remained, and she\npromised that while she lived, neither son nor daughter should ever turn\nout the Boccough Ruadh.\n\nIt was now forty years since the Boccough first crossed the waters of\nthe Nore, and still he was constantly to be found from morning till\nnight on his favourite stone at the river side. In the mean time, all\nO\u2019Shea\u2019s children were married, and separated through various parts of\nthe country, with the exception of Terry, the youngest, a fine stout\nfellow, now about thirty-five years of age, who still remained in a state\nof single blessedness, and said he would continue so, \u201cuntil he would\nbe after laying the last sod on his poor ould mother.\u201d With gigantic\nstrength, he inherited all his father\u2019s kindness of heart and undaunted\nbravery, and he was particularly attentive to the Boccough, whom he\nregarded with the same affection as a child would a parent.\n\nOne morning in summer, the Boccough was observed to remain in bed longer\nthan was his custom, and thinking that he might be unwell, Terry went to\nhis bedside, and demanded why he was not up as usual.\n\n\u201cAh, Terry, _alanna_,\u201d said the old man sorrowfully, \u201cI will never get up\nagain until I do upon the bearer.[7] My days are spent, and I know it,\nfor there is something over me that I cannot describe, and I won\u2019t be\nalive in twenty-four hours;\u201d and as he said these words, he heaved a deep\ngroan, whilst Terry, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, wept\nbitterly.\n\n\u201cWill I go for the priest?\u201d demanded Terry, sobbing as if his heart would\nbreak.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied the old man sorrowfully, \u201cI do not want him. It is long\nsince I complied with my religious duties, and now I feel it is useless.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is mercy still,\u201d replied Terry; \u201cyou know the ould sayin\u2019,\n\n    \u2018Mercy craved and mercy found\n    Between the saddle and the ground.\u2019\u201d\n\nThe old man replied not, but shook his head, indicating his determination\nto die without the consolations of religion, whilst Terry trembled for\nhis hopeless situation.\n\n\u201cWell, since you won\u2019t have the priest, will you give me some money till\nI bring you the doctor?\u201d said Terry.\n\nThe old man\u2019s eyes literally flashed fire, his form heaved with rage, and\nhis countenance displayed demoniac indignation.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that you say?\u201d he demanded in a ferocious tone.\n\nTerry repeated the question.\n\n\u201cSend for a doctor!--give you money!\u201d echoed the old man. \u201cWhere the\ndevil would I get money to pay a doctor?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have it, and ten times as much,\u201d said Terry, \u201cand you cannot deny\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I have as much money as would buy me a coffin,\u201d said the Boccough,\n\u201cmay my soul never rest quiet in the grave.\u201d\n\nTerry crossed his brow with terror. He knew the unhappy wretch was dying\nwith a lie on his tongue, but he resolved not to press the matter further.\n\n\u201cYou are dying as fast as you can,\u201d remarked Terry; \u201chave you any thing\nto say before you go?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing,\u201d replied he faintly. \u201cBut let me be buried with my red nightcap\non me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour wish must be granted,\u201d said Terry, and he went to awake his old\nmother, who still lay asleep. When he returned, he found the old man\nbreathing his last. He uttered a convulsive groan, and expired.\n\nHe was washed and stretched, and waked, with all the honours, rites,\nand ceremonies belonging to a genuine Irish wake; and on the third day\nfollowing, being the Sabbath, he was followed to the grave by crowds of\nthe village peasantry, who remained in the churchyard until they saw his\nremains deposited, as they thought for ever, in the rank soil of the\n\u201cCity of the Dead.\u201d\n\nMany rumours were now current respecting the Boccough\u2019s money. Every one\nbut Terry believed that the \u201clob\u201d fell with Terry himself. But Terry, who\nknew better, believed and affirmed that \u201cwhat was got under the devil\u2019s\nbelly, always goes over his back,\u201d and that the \u201cold boy\u201d had taken the\nspoil, and that it lay concealed in some crevice in the bank of the river.\n\nThe night following the burial of the old sailor was passed in a very\ndisturbed and agitated manner by Terry O\u2019Shea: he could not sleep a wink;\nand when he fell into a slumber, he started and moaned, and appeared\nfrightened and annoyed.\n\n\u201cWhat ails you?\u201d affectionately demanded his old mother, who slept in the\nsame room, and who was kept awake by her son\u2019s restless and disturbed\nmanner.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know, mother,\u201d said Terry; \u201cI am so frightened and tormented\nwith dreaming of the Boccough Ruadh, that I am almost out of my natural\nsenses. Even at this moment I think I see him walking the room before me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHoly Mary, protect us!\u201d ejaculated the old woman. \u201cAnd it is no wonder\nthat his misforthunate soul would be star-gazing about--and to die\nwithout the priest, and a curse and a lie in his mouth!\u201d\n\nTerry groaned agitatedly.\n\n\u201cAnd how does he appear in your dreams?\u201d asked the old woman.\n\n\u201cAs he always was,\u201d replied Terry. \u201cBut I think I see him pointing to his\nred nightcap, and endeavouring to pull it off with his old withered hand.\u201d\n\n\u201cUmph!\u201d said the old woman, in a knowing tone. \u201cHa! ha! I have it now.\nAre you sure that the strings of his nightcap were unloosed before he was\nnailed up in the coffin?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d was the reply.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll go bail they weren\u2019t,\u201d said the old woman; \u201cand you know, or at any\nrate you ought to know, that a corpse can never rest in the grave when\nthere is a knot or a tie upon any thing belonging to its grave-dress.\u201d\n\nTerry emitted another deep groan.\n\n\u201cWell, _acushla_,\u201d said the old mother, \u201cgo to-morrow, and take a\nneighbour with you, and open the grave, and see if any thing be asthray.\nIf you find the nightcap or any thing else not as it should be, set it to\nrights, and close the grave again decently, and he will trouble you no\nmore.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod send,\u201d was Terry\u2019s brief but emphatic response.\n\nEarly next morning Terry was at the Boccough\u2019s grave, accompanied by a\nman of the neighbourhood. The coffin was opened, the corpse examined,\nand, according to the mother\u2019s prediction, the red nightcap was found\nknotted tightly under the dead man\u2019s chin. Terry proceeded to unloosen\nit, and in the act of doing so, a corner of the nightcap gave way, and\nout peeped a shining golden guinea.\n\n\u201cAh ha!\u201d mentally exclaimed Terry, \u201cthat\u2019s no blind nut any how; there\u2019s\nmore where that was, but I had better keep a hard cheek!\u201d So, without\nseeming to appear any way affected, he opened the knot, closed the\ncoffin, shut up the grave, and departed homewards, without acquainting\nhis comrade with what he had seen.\n\nThe moment Terry entered his own door, he told his mother about the\nguinea, and expressed his determination to go that very night, and fetch\nthe red nightcap home with him, \u201cbody and bones and all,\u201d \u201cfor,\u201d added\nhe, \u201cthat guinea has its comrade; and I\u2019ll hold you a halfpenny there\u2019s\nwhere the old dog has the \u2018lob\u2019 concealed, and that\u2019s what made him order\nme to have the red cap buried with him.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Asthore machree_,\u201d said the mother doubtingly, \u201cwon\u2019t you be afraid?\u201d\n\n\u201cAfraid!\u201d echoed Terry, \u201cdevil a bit--afraid indeed! and my fortune\nperhaps in the red nightcap.\u201d\n\nThe mother consented, but enjoined him to tell nobody about the matter\nfor fear of disappointment. Terry vowed implicit obedience, and retired\nto his usual avocations in the garden.\n\nWell, at last the night came, and Terry set about preparing for his\nstrange undertaking. All the arts and prayers and charms of old Kathleen\nwere put in requisition to preserve him from danger; and about the\nwitching hour of twelve, with his spade on his shoulder, and his dhudeen\nin his mouth, the bold-hearted Terry set forward all alone to the\ngrave-yard, shaping his course by the winding banks of the glassy river,\nand whistling as he went--not \u201cfor want of thought,\u201d however, for never\nwas man\u2019s mind more busily occupied than was Terry\u2019s, in predisposing of\nthe money which he expected to find in the Boccough Ruadh\u2019s nightcap.\n\nAfter a short walk, Terry arrived at the precincts of the churchyard.\nIt was a lovely summer\u2019s night, the full moon shining gloriously, and\nmyriads of pretty stars blinking and twinkling in the blue expanse, but\nall their native lustre was drowned in the borrowed splendour of the\nQueen of Heaven. Terry stood a moment to reconnoitre, and, resting on his\nspade, looked around with an anxious gaze. He could discover nothing; all\nwas silent as the departed beneath his feet, except the murmuring of the\nriver\u2019s surges in the rear, or the barking of some village cur-dog in the\nhazy distance. He advanced to the grave of the Boccough, and in a few\nminutes the ghastly moonbeams shone full on the pale grim features of the\ndead. He snatched the nightcap quickly from the bald head of the corpse,\nput it in his pocket, and, notwithstanding the awe and superhuman terror\nunder which he laboured, he chuckled with delight as he remarked the\n\u201c_dead_ weight\u201d of the Boccough\u2019s head-gear. He then closed the coffin,\nand as he proceeded to cover it, the clay and stones fell on it with an\nappalling and unearthly sound. The grave now covered up, the intrepid\nfellow again shouldered his spade, and sought the river\u2019s margin, and as\nhe strode hurriedly along its banks in the direction of his home, the\nsplash of the otter and the diving of the water-hen more than once broke\nthe thread of his lonely musings.\n\nTerry was soon at his mother\u2019s side, who since his departure had been on\nher knees, praying for his safe return. The nightcap was ripped up, and\nlo! three hundred golden guineas were the reward of Terry\u2019s churchyard\nadventure! Stitched carefully in every part of the huge nightcap, the\ngold lay secure, so as not to attract the notice of any one, or cause the\nleast suspicion of its proximity to the old man\u2019s pericranium.\n\nTerry and his mother were in ecstacies. Farms were already purchased\nin ideality, cattle bought, houses built, and even Terry began in his\nmind to make preparations for his wedding with Onny Kinshellagh, a rich\nfarmer\u2019s daughter of the neighbourhood, for whom he had breathed many a\nhopeless sigh, and who, in addition to her beauty, was possessed of fifty\npounds in hard gold, a couple of good yearlings, and a feather-bed as\nbroad as the \u201cnine acres.\u201d\n\nThe mother and son retired to bed, as happy as the certain possession\nof wealth, and the almost as certain expectations of honour and\ndistinction, could make them. After a long time spent in constructing and\ncondemning schemes for the future, Terry fell asleep. He had not slept\nlong, however, when he started up with a loud scream, crying out, \u201cthe\nBoccough! the Boccough!\u201d \u201cOch, weary\u2019s on him for a Boccough!\u201d exclaimed\nthe mother; \u201cis he coming for the nightcap and the goold?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no,\u201d said Terry, calmly; \u201cbut I was again dreaming of him, and I was\nfrightened.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you dream to-night?\u201d asked the old woman.\n\n\u201cI was dreaming that I was going over the foord by moonlight, and that I\nsaw the Boccough walking on the water towards me; that he stopped at a\ncertain big stone, and began to examine under with his hands; that I came\nup, and asked him what he was searching for, when he looked up with a\nfrightful phiz, and cried out in a horrible voice, \u2018For my red nightcap!\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cGod Almighty never opened one door but he opened two,\u201d exclaimed old\nKathleen. \u201cExamine under that stone to-morrow, and by all the cottoners\nin Cork, you\u2019ll find another \u2018lob\u2019 of money in it.\u201d\n\n\u201cFaix, maybe so,\u201d replied Terry; \u201cit\u2019s no harm to say \u2018Godsend,\u2019 and that\nGod may make a thief of you before a _liar_.\u201d\n\n\u201cAmen, _achiernah_,\u201d replied Kathleen.\n\nNext morning at daybreak, Terry got up, and proceeded to the identical\nstone where he fancied that he had seen the spirit of the Boccough. He\nexamined it closely, and after a strict search, discovered in the sand\nbeneath the rock a leathern pouch full of money. He seized it joyfully,\nand on counting its contents, found it amounted to upwards of a hundred\npounds, all in silver and copper coins.\n\n\u201cWhat a lucky born man you are, Terry O\u2019Shea!\u201d cried the overjoyed\ngold-finder, \u201cand what a bright day it was for your family that the\nBoccough Ruadh crossed over the waters of the Nore.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was not a bright day at all, but a wild, gloomy, stormy night,\u201d\nsaid the old woman, who, unperceived, had followed her son to watch the\nsuccess of his expedition.\n\n\u201cNo matter for that,\u201d said Terry; \u201cthere never was so bright a day in\nyour seven generations as that dark night; I am now the richest man of my\nname, and I would not, this mortal minute, call Lord De Vesci my uncle.\u201d\n\nIt is easier for the reader to imagine than for the writer to describe\nthe manner in which this joyful day was passed by the happy mother and\nson. Now counting and examining the gold, and again proposing plans, and\nconsidering the best purposes to which it could be applied, they passed\nthe hours until the summer sun had long sunk behind the crimson west.\n\nTerry was again in bed, when he started with a wild shriek. \u201cMother of\nmercy!\u201d he frantically vociferated, \u201chere is the Boccough Ruadh; I hear\nthe tramp of his wooden leg on the floor.\u201d\n\n\u201cLord save us!\u201d said the old woman in a trembling voice, \u201cwhat can ail\nhim now? Maybe it\u2019s more money he has hid somewhere else.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, do you hear how he rattles about! Devil a _kippeen_ in the cabin but\nhe will destroy,\u201d exclaimed poor Terry. \u201cIt\u2019s the black day to us that\never we seen himself or his dirty thrash of money; and if God saves me\ntill morning, I\u2019ll go back and lave every rap ov id where I got it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat would be a murdher to lave so much fine money moulding in the clay,\nand so many in want of it; you shall do no such thing,\u201d said the mother.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t care a straw for that,\u201d said Terry. \u201cI would not have the ould\nsinner, God rest his sowl, stravagin\u2019 every other night about my honest\ndecent cabin for all the goold in the Queen\u2019s County.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d says the old woman, \u201cgo to the priest in the morning, and\nleave him the money, and let him dispose of it as he likes for the good\nof the ould vagabond\u2019s misforthunate soul.\u201d\n\nThis plan was agreed to, and the conversation dropt. The ghost of the\nBoccough still rattled and clanked about the house. He never ceased\nstumping about, from the kitchen to the room, and from the room to the\nkitchen. Pots and pans, plates and pitchers, were tossed here and there;\nthe dog was kicked, the cat was mauled, and even the raked-up fire was\nlashed out of the \u201cgree-sough.\u201d In fact, Terry declared that if the\ndevil or Captain Rock was about the place, there couldn\u2019t be more noise\nthan there was that night with the Boccough\u2019s ghost, and this continued\nwithout intermission until the bell of Abbeyleix castle clock was tolling\nthe midnight hour.\n\nTerry was up next morning at sunrise, and having packed up the money\nwhich was the cause of all his trouble in his mother\u2019s check apron,\nproceeded with a heavy heart to the residence of the priest, about two\nmiles from the present Poor-man\u2019s Bridge. The priest was not up when\nTerry arrived, but being well known to the domestics, he was admitted to\nhis bed-chamber.\n\n\u201cYou have started early,\u201d said the priest; \u201cwhat troubles you now, Terry?\u201d\n\nTerry gave a full and true account of his troubles, and concluded by\ntelling him that he brought him the money to dispose of it as he thought\nbest.\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t have any thing to do with it,\u201d said the Father. \u201cIt is not mine,\nso you may take it back again the same road.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a rap of it will ever go my road again,\u201d said Terry. \u201cCan\u2019t you give\nit for his unfortunate ould sowl?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll have no hand in it,\u201d said the priest.\n\n\u201cNor I either,\u201d said Terry. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t have the ould miser\n_polthogueing_ about my quiet floor another night for the king\u2019s ransom.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, take it to your landlord; he is a magistrate, and he will have it\nput to some public works connected with the county,\u201d said the priest.\n\n\u201cBad luck to the lord or lady I\u2019ll ever take it to,\u201d said Terry, making a\nspring, and bounding down the stairs, leaving the money, apron and all,\non the floor at the priest\u2019s bedside.\n\n\u201cCome back, come back!\u201d shouted the Father in a towering passion.\n\n\u201cGood morning to your ravirince,\u201d said Terry, as he flew with the\nswiftness of a mountain deer over the common before the priest\u2019s door.\n\u201cAy, go back, indeed; catch ould birds with chaff. You have the money\nnow, and you may make a bog or a dog of it, whichever you plaise.\u201d\n\nIn an hour after, the priest\u2019s servant man was on the road to\nMaryborough, mounted on the priest\u2019s own black gelding, with a sealed\nparcel containing the Boccough\u2019s money strapped in a portmanteau behind\nhim, and a letter to the treasurer of the Queen\u2019s County grand jury,\ndetailing the curious circumstances by which it came into his possession,\nand recommending him to convert it to whatever purpose the gentlemen of\nthe county should deem most expedient.\n\nThe summer assizes came on in a few days, and the matter was brought\nbefore the grand jury, who agreed to expend the money in constructing a\nstone bridge over the ford where it was collected.\n\nBefore that day twelvemonth, the ford had disappeared, and a noble bridge\nof seven arches spanned the sparkling waters of the Nore, which is here\npretty broad and of considerable depth. From that day to this it is\ncalled the \u201cPoor-man\u2019s Bridge,\u201d and I never cross it without thinking of\nthe strange circumstances which led to its erection.\n\nThe spirit of the Boccough Ruadh never troubled Terry O\u2019Shea after, but\noften, as people say, amid the gloom of a winter\u2019s night, or the grey\nhaze of a summer\u2019s evening, may the figure of a wan and decrepid old\nman with his head enveloped in a red nightcap, be seen wandering about\nPoor-man\u2019s Bridge, or walking quite \u201cnatural\u201d over the glassy waters of\nthe transparent Nore.\n\n[3] That imaginary region under ground, supposed by the peasantry to be\nthe residence of spirits and fairies.\n\n[4] The red beggarman.\n\n[5] Anglice, the Stone of the Cripple, or the stone of the beggarman.\nThis stone lay for many years in the position it occupied in the days of\nthe \u201cBoccough,\u201d but is now incorporated in the stonework of the parapet\nof the bridge. It was believed to be enchanted, and the peasantry of the\nneighbourhood used to affirm that it descended to the river to drink,\nevery night at the hour of twelve o\u2019clock. This belief is now almost\nexploded, but however it is affirmed to be the identical stone on which\nthe Boccough collected his wealth.\n\n[6] This is a very ancient churchyard, situated on a gentle eminence\noverhanging the western bank of the river Nore, and about half a mile\nfrom Poor-man\u2019s Bridge. The ruins of a church or monastic establishment\nstill remain in the centre of the grave-yard. It is said to have been\nerected by St Comgall, from whom it took the name of Cell-Comgall, though\n_now_ called Shankill, or Shannakill. St Comgall was born in Ulster in\n516, and was educated under St Fintan, in the monastery of Clonenagh,\nnear Mountrath, in the Queen\u2019s County. He died on the 10th of May 601.\n\n[7] The bier or hand-carriage on which the dead are borne to the grave.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAN EXCUSE.--Miravaux was one day accosted by a sturdy beggar, who asked\nalms of him. \u201cHow is this,\u201d inquired Miravaux, \u201cthat a lusty fellow like\nyou is unemployed?\u201d \u201cAh!\u201d replied the beggar, looking very piteously at\nhim, \u201cif you did but know how lazy I am!\u201d The reply was so ludicrous and\nunexpected, that Miravaux gave the varlet a piece of silver.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAN INCIDENT.--At the time Commodore Elliot commanded the navy at Norfolk\n(I think it was), happening to be conducting a number of ladies and\ngentlemen who were visiting the yard, he chanced to see a little boy who\nhad a basket full of chips, which he had gathered in the yard; probably\nto show his importance he saluted him, and asked where he got the chips.\n\u201cIn the yard,\u201d replied the boy. \u201cThen drop them,\u201d said the brave man. The\nlittle boy dropped the chips as he was ordered, and after gaining a safe\ndistance, turning round with his thumb to his nose, said, \u201cThat is the\nfirst prize you ever took, any how!\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSolon enacted, that children who did not maintain their parents in old\nage, when in want, should be branded with infamy, and lose the privilege\nof citizens; he, however, excepted from the rule those children whom\ntheir parents had taught no trade, nor provided with other means of\nprocuring a livelihood. It was a proverb of the Jews, that he who did not\nbring up his son to a trade, brought him up as a thief.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf there be a lot on earth worthy of envy, it is that of a man, good\nand tender-hearted, who beholds his own creation in the happiness\nof all those who surround him. Let him who would be happy strive to\nencircle himself with happy beings. Let the happiness of his family be\nthe incessant object of his thoughts. Let him divine the sorrows and\nanticipate the wishes of his friends.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA cheerful heart paints the world as it finds it, like a sunny landscape;\nthe morbid mind depicts it like a sterile wilderness, palled with thick\nvapours, and dark as \u201cthe shadow of death.\u201d It is the mirror, in short,\non which it is caught, which lends to the face of nature the aspect of\nits own turbulence or tranquillity.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe lazy, the dissipated, and the fearful, should patiently see the\nactive and the bold pass by them in the course. They must bring down\ntheir pretensions to the level of their talents. Those who have not\nenergy to work must learn to be humble.--_Sharp\u2019s Essays._\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; FRASER and CRAWFORD,\n    George Street, Edinburgh; and DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate,\n    Glasgow.","title":"The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 30, January 23, 1841","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11557}