TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY

BY WILLIAM CARLETON

Contents:

 Phelim O'toole's Courtship Wildgoose Lodge Tubber Derg; Or, The Red Well. Neal Malone Art Maguire; Or, The Broken Pledge. 

PHELIM O'TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 

Phelim O'Toole, who had the honor of being that interesting personage, an only son, was heir to a snug estate of half an acre, which had beenthe family patrimony since the time of his grandfather, Tyrrell O'Toole, who won it from the Sassenah at the point of his reaping-hook, during adescent once made upon England by a body of "spalpeens, " in the monthof August. This resolute little band was led on by Tyrrell, who, havingsecured about eight guineas by the excursion, returned to his owncountry, with a coarse linen travelling-bag slung across his shoulder, anew hat in one hand, and a staff in the other. On reaching once more hisnative village of Teernarogarah, he immediately took half an acre, forwhich he paid a moderate rent in the shape of daily labor as a cotter. On this he resided until death, after which event he was succeeded byhis son, Larry O'Toole, the father of the "purty boy" who is about toshine in the following pages. 

Phelim's father and mother had been married near seven years withoutthe happiness of a family. This to both was a great affliction. SheelahO'Toole was melancholy from night to morning, and Larry was melancholyfrom morning to night. Their cottage was silent and solitary; the floorand furniture had not the appearance of any cottage in which Irishchildren are wont to amuse themselves. When they rose in the morning, a miserable stillness prevailed around them; young voices were notheard--laughing eyes turned not on their parents--the melody of angrysquabbles, as the urchins, in their parents' fancy, cuffed and scratchedeach other--half, or wholly naked among the ashes in the morning, soothed not the yearning hearts of Larry and his wife. No, no; there wasnone of this. 

Morning passed in a quietness hard to be borne: noon arrived, but thedismal dreary sense of childlessness hung upon the house and theirhearts; night again returned, only to add its darkness to that whichovershadowed the sorrowful spirits of this disconsolate couple. 

For the first two or three years, they bore this privation with a strongconfidence that it would not last. The heart, however, sometimes becomestired of hoping, or unable to bear the burthen of expectation, whichtime only renders heavier. They first began to fret and pine, then tomurmur, and finally to recriminate. 

Sheelah wished for children, "to have the crathurs to spake to, " shesaid, "and comfort us when we'd get ould an' helpless. "

Larry cared not, provided they had a son to inherit the "half acre. "This was the burthen of his wishes, for in all their altercations, hisclosing observation usually was--"well, but what's to become of the halfacre?"

"What's to become of the half acre? Arrah what do I care for the halfacre? It's not that you ought to be thinkin' of, but the dismal poorhouse we have, wid not the laugh or schreech of a _single pastiah_ (*child) in it from year's end to year's end. "

"Well, Sheelah?--"

"Well, yourself, Larry? To the diouol I pitch your half acre, man. "

"To the diouol you--pitch--What do you fly at me for?"

"Who's flyin' at you? They'd have little tow on their rock that 'ud flyat you. "

"You are flyin' at me; an' only you have a hard face, you wouldn't doit. "

"A hard face! Indeed it's well come over wid us, to be tould that by thelikes o' you! ha!"

"No matther for that! You had betther keep a soft tongue in your head, an' a civil one, in the mane time. Why did the divil timpt you to take afancy to me at all?"

"That's it. Throw the _grah_ an' love I _once_ had for you in my teeth, now. It's a manly thing for you to do, an' you may be proud, of it. Dearknows, it would be betther for me I had fell in consate wid any facebut yours. "

"I wish to goodness you had! I wouldn't be as I am to-day. There's thathalf acre--"

"To the diouol, I say, I pitch yourself an' your half acre! Why do yoube comin' acrass me wid your half acre? Eh?--why do you?"

"Come now; don't be puttin' your hands agin your sides, an waggin' yourimpty head at me, like a rockin' stone. "

"An' why do you be aggravatin' at me wid your half acre?"

"Bekase I have a good right to do it. What'll become of it when I d--"

"----That for you an' it, you poor excuse!"

"When I di--"

"----That for you an' it, I say! That for you an' it, you atomy!"

"What'll become of my half acre when I die? Did you hear that?"

"You ought to think of what'll become of yourself, when you die; that'swhat you ought to think of; but little it throubles you, you sinfulreprobate! Sure the neighbors despises you. "

"That's falsity; but they know the life I lade wid you. The edge of yourtongue's well known. They pity me, for bein' joined to the likes of you. Your bad tongue's all you're good for. "

"Aren't you afeard to be flyin' in the face o' Providence the way youare? An' to be ladin' me sich a heart-scalded life for no rason?"

"It's your own story you're tellin'. Sure I haven't a day's pace widyou, or ever had these three years. But wait till next harvest, an' ifI'm spared, I'll go to England. Whin I do, I've a consate in my head, that you'll never see my face agin. "

"Oh, you know that's an' ould story wid you. Many a time you threatenedus wid that afore. Who knows but you'd be dhrowned on your way, an' thinwe'd get another husband. "

"An' be these blessed tongs, I'll do it afore I'm much oulder!"

"An' lave me here to starve an' sthruggle by myself! Desart me like avillain, to poverty an' hardship! Marciful Mother of Heaven, look downupon me this day! but I'm the ill-thrated, an' ill-used poor crathur, by a man that I don't, an' never did, desarve it from! An' all in regardthat that 'half acre' must go to strangers! Och! oh!"

"Ay! now take to the cryin', do; rock yourself over the ashes, an' wipeyour eyes wid the corner of your apron; but, I say agin, _what's tobecome of the half acre?_"

"Oh, God forgive you, Larry! That's the worst I say to you, you poorhalf-dead blaguard!"

"Why do you massacray me wid your tongue as you do?"

"Go. An--go an. I won't make you an answer, you atomy! That's what I'lldo. The heavens above turn your heart this day, and give me strinth tobear my throubles an' heart burnin', sweet Queen o' Consolation! Or takeme into the arms of Parodies, sooner nor be as I am, wid a poor baste ofa villain, that I never turn my tongue on, barrin' to tell him the kindof a man he is, the blaguard!"

"You're betther than you desarve to be!"

To this, Sheelah made no further reply; on the contrary, she satsmoking her pipe with a significant silence, that was only broken by anoccasional groan, an ejaculation, or a singularly devout upturningof the eyes to heaven, accompanied by a shake of the head, at oncecondemnatory and philosophical; indicative of her dissent from what hesaid, as well as of her patience in bearing it. 

Larry, however, usually proceeded to combat all her gestures by vivavoce argument; for every shake of her head he had an appropriate answer:but without being able to move her from the obstinate silence shemaintained. Having thus the field to himself, and feeling rather annoyedby the want of an antagonist, he argued on in the same form of dispute, whilst she, after first calming her own spirit by the composing effectsof the pipe, usually cut him short with--

"Here, take a blast o' this, maybe it'll settle you. "

This was received in silence. The good man smoked on, and every puffappeared, as an evaporation of his anger. In due time he was as placidas herself, drew his breath in a grave composed manner, laid his pipequietly on the hob, and went about his business as if nothing hadoccurred between them. 

These bickerings were strictly private, with the exception of somedisclosures made to Sheelah's mother and sisters. Even these werethrown out rather as insinuations that all was not right, than as directassertions that they lived unhappily. Before strangers they were perfectturtles. 

Larry, according to the notices of his life furnished by Sheelah, was"as good a husband as ever broke the world's bread;" and Sheelah "wasas good a poor man's wife as ever threw a gown over her shoulders. "Notwithstanding all this caution, their little quarrels took wind; theirunhappiness became known. Larry, in consequence of a failing he had, wasthe cause of this. He happened to be one of those men who can concealnothing when in a state of intoxication. Whenever he indulged inliquor too freely, the veil which discretion had drawn over theirrecriminations was put aside, and a dolorous history of theirweaknesses, doubts, hopes, and wishes, most unscrupulously given toevery person on whom the complainant could fasten. When sober, he had norecollection of this, so that many a conversation of cross-purposes tookplace between him and his neighbors, with reference to the state of hisown domestic inquietude, and their want of children. 

One day a poor mendicant came in at dinner hour, and stood as if tosolicit alms. It is customary in Ireland, when any person of thatdescription appears during meal times, to make him wait until the mealis over, after which he is supplied with the fragments. No sooner hadthe boccagh--as a certain class of beggars is termed--advanced past thejamb, than he was desired to sit until the dinner should be concluded. In the mean time, with the tact of an adept in his calling, he beganto ingratiate himself with Larry and his wife; and after sounding thesimple couple upon their private history, he discovered that want ofchildren was the occasion of their unhappiness. 

"Well good people, " said the pilgrim, after listening to a dismal storyon the subject, "don't be cast down, sure, whether or not. There's aHoly Well that I can direct yez to in the county--. Any one, wid trustin the Saint that's over it, who'll make a pilgrimage to it on thePatthern day, won't be the worse for it. When you go there, " he added, "jist turn to a Lucky Stone that's at the side of the well, say a Rosarybefore it, and at the end of every dicken (decade) kiss it once, ache ofyou. Then you're to go round the well nine times, upon your bare knees, sayin' your Pathers and Avers all the time. When that's over, lave aribbon or a bit of your dress behind you, or somethin' by way of anofferin', thin go into a tent an' refresh yourselves, an' for thatmatther, take a dance or two; come home, live happily, an' trust to theholy saint for the rest. "

A gleam of newly awakened hope might be discovered lurking in theeyes of this simple pair, who felt that natural yearning of the, heartincident to such as are without offspring. 

They looked forward with deep anxiety to the anniversary of the PatronSaint; and when it arrived, none certainly who attended it, felt a moreabsorbing interest in the success of the pilgrimage than they did. 

The days on which these pilgrimages are performed at such places arecalled Pattern or Patron days. The journey to holy wells or holy lakesis termed a Pilgrimage, or more commonly a Station. It is sometimesenjoined by the priest, as an act of penance; and sometimes undertakenvoluntarily, as a devotional, work of great merit in the sight of God. The crowds in many places amount to from five hundred to a thousand, andoften to two, three, four, or five thousand people. 

These Stations have, for the most part, been placed in situationsremarkable for wild and savage grandeur, or for soft, exquisite, andgenerally solitary beauty. They may be found on the high and ruggedmountain top; or sunk in the bottom of some still and lonely glen, farremoved from the ceaseless din of the world. Immediately beside them, orclose in their vicinity, stand the ruins of probably a picturesqueold abbey, or perhaps a modern chapel. The appearance of these gray, ivy-covered walls is strongly calculated to stir up in the minds ofthe people the memory of bygone times, when their religion, with itsimposing solemnities, was the religion of the land. It is for thisreason, probably, that patrons are countenanced; for if there be nota political object in keeping them up, it is beyond human ingenuity toconceive how either religion or morals can be improved by debauchery, drunkenness, and bloodshed. 

Let the reader, in order to understand the situation of the place we aredescribing, imagine to himself a stupendous cliff overhanging a greenglen, into which tumbles a silver stream down a height of two or threehundred feet. At the bottom of this rock, a few yards from the basinformed by the cascade, in a sunless nook, was a well of cool, deliciouswater. This was the "Holy Well, " out of which issued a slender stream, that joined the rivulet formed by the cascade. On the shrubs whichgrew out of the crag-cliffs around it, might be seen innumerable ragsbleached by the weather out of their original color, small woodencrosses, locks of human hair, buttons, and other substitutes forproperty; poverty allowing the people to offer it only by fictitiousemblems. Lower down in the glen, on the river's bank, was a smoothgreen, admirably adapted for the dance, which, notwithstanding thereligious rites, is the heart and soul of a Patron. 

On that morning a vast influx of persons, male and female, old andyoung, married and single, crowded eagerly towards the well. Among themmight be noticed the blind, the lame, the paralytic, and such as wereafflicted with various other diseases; nor were those good men and theirwives who had no offspring to be omitted. The mendicant, the pilgrim, the boccagh, together with every other description of impostors, remarkable for attending such places, were the first on the ground, allbusy in their respective vocations. The highways, the fields, and theboreens, or bridle-roads, were filled with living streams of peoplepressing forward to this great scene of fun and religion. The devoteescould in general be distinguished from the country folks by theirPharisaical and penitential visages, as well as by their not wearingshoes; for the Stations to such places were formerly made with barefeet: most persons now, however, content themselves with stripping offtheir shoes and stockings on coming within the precincts of the holyground. Human beings are not the only description of animals thatperform pilgrimages to holy wells and blessed lakes. Cows, horses, andsheep are made to go through their duties, either by way of prevention, or cure, of the diseases incident to them. This is not to be wonderedat, when it is known that in their religion every domestic animal hasits patron saint, to whom its owner may at any time pray on its behalf. When the crowd was collected, nothing in the shape of an assemblycould surpass it in the originality of its appearance. In the glen wereconstructed a number of tents, where whiskey and refreshments might behad in abundance. Every tent had a fiddler or a piper; many two of them. From the top of the pole that ran up from the roof of each tent, wassuspended the symbol by which the owner of it was known by his friendsand acquaintances. Here swung a salt herring or a turf; there ashillelah; in a third place a shoe, in a fourth place a whisp of hay, ina fifth an old hat, and so on with the rest. 

The tents stood at a short distance from the scene of devotion at thewell, but not so far as to prevent the spectator from both seeing andhearing what went on in each. Around the well, on bare knees, moved abody of people thickly wedged together, some praying, some screaming, some excoriating their neighbors' shins, and others dragging them out oftheir way by the hair of the head. Exclamations of pain from the sickor lame, thumping oaths in Irish, recriminations in broken English, andprayers in bog Latin, all rose at once to the ears of the patronsaint, who, we are inclined to think--could he have heard or seen hisworshippers--would have disclaimed them altogether. 

"For the sake of the Holy Virgin, keep your sharp elbows out o' myribs. "

"My blessin' an you, young man, an' don't be lanin' an me, i' youplase!"

"_Damnho sherry orth a rogarah ruah!_* what do you mane? Is it my backyou're brakin'?"

 * Eternal perdition on you, you red rogue. 

"Hell pershue you, you ould sinner, can't you keep the spike of yourcrutch out o' my stomach! If you love me tell me so; but, by the livin'farmer, I'll take no such hints as that!"

"I'm a pilgrim, an' don't brake my leg upon the rock, an' my blessin' anyou!"

"Oh, murdher sheery! my poor child'll be smothered!"

"My heart's curse an you! is it the ould cripple you're trampin' over?"

"Here, Barny, blood alive, give this purty young girl a lift, your sowl, or she'll soon be undhermost!"

 "'Och, 'twas on a Christmas mornin' That Jeroosillim was born in The Holy Land'----'

"Oh, my neck's broke!--the curse----Oh! I'm kilt fairly, so I am! Thecurse o' Cromwell an you, an' hould away--

 'The Holy Land adornin' All by the Baltic Say. The angels on a Station, Wor takin' raycrayation, All in deep meditation, All by the'----

contints o' the book if you don't hould away, I say agin, an' let me goon wid my _rann_ it'll be worse force for you!--

 'Wor takin' raycraytion, All by the Baltic Say!"

"Help the ould woman there. "

"Queen o' Patriots pray for us!--St. Abraham----go to the divil, youbosthoon; is it crushin' my sore leg you are?--St. Abraham pray for us!St. Isinglass, pray for us! St. Jonathan, ----musha, I wisht you worin America, honest man, instid o' twistin' my arm like a gad f-- St. Jonathan, pray for us; Holy Nineveh, look down upon us wid compressionan' resolution this day. Blessed Jerooslim, throw down compuncture an'meditation upon us Chrystyeens assembled here afore you to offer up oursins! Oh, grant us, blessed Catasthrophy, the holy virtues of Timptationan' Solitude, through the improvement an' accommodation of St. Kolumbdyl! To him I offer up this button, a bit o' the waistband o' myown breeches, an' a taste of my wife's petticoat, in remimbrance of ushaving made this holy Station; an' may they rise up in glory to prove itfor us at the last day! Amin!"

Such was the character of the prayers and ejaculations which issued fromthe lips of the motley group that scrambled, and crushed, and screamed, on their knees around the well. In the midst of this ignorance andabsurdity, there were visible, however, many instances of piety, goodness of heart, and simplicity of character. From such you could hearneither oath nor exclamation. They complied with the usages of the placemodestly and attentively: though not insensible, at the same time, tothe strong disgust which the general conduct of those who were bothsuperstitious and wicked was calculated to excite. A little from thewell, just where its waters mingled with those of the cascade, men andwomen might be seen washing the blood off their knees, and dipping suchparts of their body as Were afflicted with local complaints into thestream. This part' of the ceremony was anything but agreeable to theeye. Most of those who went round the well drank its waters; and severalof them filled flasks and bottles with it, which they brought home forthe benefit of such members of the family as could not attend in person. 

Whilst all this went forward at the well, scenes of a different kindwere enacted lower down among the tents. No sooner had the penitentsgot the difficult rites of the Station over, than they were off to thewhiskey; and decidedly, after the grinding of their bare knees uponthe hard rock--after the pushing, crushing, and exhaustion of bodilystrength which they had been forced to undergo--we say, that thecomforts and refreshments to be had in the tents were very seasonable. Here the dancing, shouting, singing, courting, drinking, and fighting, formed one wild uproar of noise, that was perfectly astounding. Theleading boys and the prettiest girls of the parish were all present, partaking in the rustic revelry. Tipsy men were staggering in everydirection; fiddles were playing, pipes were squeaking, men were rushingin detached bodies to some fight, women were doctoring the heads of suchas had been beaten, and factions were collecting their friends for afresh battle. Here you might see a grove of shillelahs up, and hearthe crash of the onset; and in another place, the heads of the dancingparties bobbing up and down in brisk motion among the crowd thatsurrounded them. 

The pilgrim, having now gone through his Station, stood hemmed in by acircle of those who wanted to purchase his beads or his scapulars. Theballad-singer had his own mob, from among whom his voice might be heardrising in its purest tones to the praise of--

 "Brave O'Connell, the Liberathur, An' great Salvathur of Ireland's Isle!"

As evening approached, the whiskey brought out the senseless prejudicesof parties and factions in a manner quite consonant to the habits of thepeople. Those who, in deciding their private quarrels, had in theearly part of the day beat and abused each other, now united as thesubordinate branches of a greater party, for the purpose of opposing inone general body some other hostile faction. These fights are usuallycommenced by a challenge from one party to another, in which a personfrom the opposite side is simply, and often very good-humoredly, invitedto assert, that "black is the white of his enemy's eye;" or to touch theold coat which he is pleased to trail after him between the two opposingpowers. This characteristic challenge is soon accepted; the knockingdown and yelling are heard; stones fly, and every available weaponis pressed into the service on both sides. In this manner the battleproceeds, until, probably, a life or two is lost. Bones, too, aresavagely broken, and blood copiously spilled, by men who scarcely knowthe remote cause of the enmity between the parties. 

Such is a hasty sketch of the Pattern, as it is called in Ireland, atwhich Larry and Sheelah duly performed their station. We, for our parts, should be sorry to see the innocent pastimes of a people abolished; but, surely, customs which perpetuate scenes of profligacy and crime shouldnot be suffered to stain the pure and holy character of religion. 

It is scarcely necessary to inform our readers that Larry O'Toole andSheelah complied with every rite of the Station. To kiss the "LuckyStone, " however, was their principal duty. Larry gave it a particularlyhonest smack, and Sheelah impressed it with all the ardor of a devotee. Having refreshed themselves in the tent, they returned home, and, insomewhat less than a year from that period, found themselves the happyparents of an heir to the half-acre, no less a personage than youngPhelim, who was called after St. Phelim, the patron of the "LuckyStone. "

The reader perceives that Phelim was born under particularly auspiciousinfluence. His face was the herald of affection everywhere. 

From the moment of his birth, Larry and Sheelah were seldom known tohave a dispute. Their whole future life was, with few exceptions, oneunchanging honeymoon. Had Phelim been deficient in comeliness, it wouldhave mattered not a _crona baun_. Phelim, on the contrary, promised tobe a beauty; both, his parents thought it, felt it, asserted it; and whohad a better right to be acquainted, as Larry said, "wid the outs an'ins, the ups an' downs of his face, the darlin' swaddy!"

For the first ten years of his life Phelim could not be said to owethe tailor much; nor could the covering which he wore be, without moreantiquarian loire than we can give to it, exactly classed under anyparticular term by which the various parts of human dress are known. Hehimself, like some of our great poets, was externally well acquaintedwith the elements. The sun and he were particularly intimate; wind andrain were his brothers, and frost also distantly related to him. Withmud he was hand and glove, and not a bog in the parish, or a quagmirein the neighborhood, but sprung up under Phelim's tread, and threw himforward with the brisk vibration of an old acquaintance. Touching hisdress, however, in the early part of his life, if he was clothed withnothing else, he was clothed with mystery. Some assert that a cast-offpair of his father's nether garments might be seen upon him each Sunday, the wrong side foremost, in accommodation with some economy of hismother's, who thought it safest, in consequence of his habits, to jointhem in this inverted way to a cape which he wore on his shoulders. Weourselves have seen one, who saw another, who saw Phelim in a pair ofstockings which covered him from his knee-pans to his haunches, where, in the absence of waistbands, they made a pause--a breach existing fromthat to the small of his back. The person who saw all this affirmed, atthe same time, that there was a dearth of cloth about the skirts ofthe integument which stood him instead of a coat. He bore no badresemblance, he said, to-a moulting fowl, with scanty feathers, runningbefore a gale in the farm yard. 

Phelim's want of dress in his merely boyish years being, in a greatmeasure, the national costume of some hundred thousand young Hiberniansin his rank of life, deserves a still more, particular notice. Hisinfancy we pass over; but from the period at which he did not enterinto small clothes, he might be seen every Sunday morning, or on someimportant festival, issuing from his father's mansion, with a piece ofold cloth tied about him from the middle to the knees, leaving a pairof legs visible, that were mottled over with characters which would, if found on an Egyptian pillar, put an antiquary to the necessity ofconstructing a new alphabet to decipher them. This, or the invertedbreeches, with his father's flannel waistcoat, or an old coat that sweptthe ground at least two feet behind him, constituted his state dress. Onweek days he threw off this finery, and contented himself, if the seasonwere summer, with appearing in a dun-colored shirt, which resembleda noun-substantive, for it could stand alone. The absence of soap andwater is sometimes used as a substitute for milling linen among thelower Irish; and so effectually had Phelim's single change been milledin this manner, that, when disenshirting at night, he usually laidit standing at his bedside where it reminded one of frosted linen ineverything but whiteness. 

This, with but little variation, was Phelim's dress until his tenthyear. Long before that, however, he evinced those powers of attractionwhich constituted so remarkable a feature in his character. He won allhearts; the chickens and ducks were devotedly attached to him; the cow, which the family always intended to buy, was in the habit of lickingPhelim in his dreams; the two goats which they actually did buy, treatedhim like I one of themselves. Among the first and last he spent a greatdeal of his early life; for as the floor of his father's house was buta continuation of the dunghill, or the dunghill a continuation of thefloor, we know not rightly which, he had a larger scope, and a moreunsavory pool than usual, for amusement. Their dunghill, indeed, was thefinest of it size and kind to be seen; quite a tasteful thing, and soconvenient, that he could lay himself down at the hearth, and rollout to its foot, after which he ascended it on his legs, with all theelasticity of a young poet triumphantly climbing Parnassus. 

One of the greatest wants which Phelim experienced in his young days, was the want of a capacious pocket. We insinuate nothing; because withrespect to his agility in climbing fruit-trees, it was only a species ofexercise to which he was addicted--the eating and carrying away of thefruit being merely incidental, or, probably, the result of abstraction, which, as every one knows, proves what is termed "the Absence ofGenius. " In these ambitious exploits, however, there is no denying thathe bitterly regretted the want of a pocket; and in connection with thiswe have only to add, that most of his solitary walks were taken aboutorchards and gardens, the contents of which he has been often seen tocontemplate with deep interest. This, to be sure, might proceed froma provident regard to health, for it is a well-known fact that hehas frequently returned home in the evenings, distended like aBoa-Constrictor after a gorge; yet no person was ever able to come atthe cause of his inflation. There were, to be sure, suspicions abroad, and it was mostly found that depredations in some neighboring orchardor garden had been committed a little before the periods in which it wassupposed the distention took place. Wo mention these things after theexample of those "d----d good-natured" biographers who write great men'slives of late, only for the purpose of showing that there could be notruth in such suspicions. Phelim, we assure an enlightened public, wasvoraciously fond of fruit; he was frequently inflated, too, after themanner of those who indulge therein to excess; fruit was alwaysmissed immediately after the periods of his distention, so that it wasimpossible he could have been concerned in the depredations thenmade upon the neighboring orchards. In addition to this, we would begmodestly to add, that the pomonian temperament is incompatible with theother qualities for which he was famous. His parents were too ignorantof those little eccentricities which, had they known them, would haveopened up a correct view of the splendid materials for village greatnesswhich he possessed, and which, probably, were nipped in their budfor the want of a pocket to his breeches, or rather by the want ofa breeches to his pocket; for such was the wayward energy of hisdisposition, that he ultimately succeeded in getting the latter, thoughit certainly often failed him to procure the breeches. In fact, it wasa misfortune to him that he was the Son of his father and mother at all. Had he been a second Melchizedec, and got into breeches in time, the virtues which circumstances suppressed in his heart might haveflourished like cauliflowers, though the world would have lost all theadvantages arising from the splendor of his talents at going naked. 

Another fact, in justice to his character, must not be omitted. Hispenchant for fruit was generally known; but few persons, at the periodwe are describing, were at all aware that a love of whiskey lurked as apredominant trait in his character, to be brought out at a future era inhis life. 

Before Phelim reached his tenth year, he and his parents had commencedhostilities. Many were their efforts to subdue some peculiarities of histemper which then began to appear. Phelim, however, being an only son, possessed high vantage ground. Along with other small matters whichhe was in the habit of picking up, might be reckoned a readinessat swearing. Several other things also made their appearance inhis parents' cottage, for whose presence there, except through hisinstrumentality, they found it rather difficult to account. Spades, shovels, rakes, tubs, frying-pans, and many other-articles of domesticuse, were transferred, as if by magic, to Larry's cabin. 

As Larry and his wife were both honest, these things were, of course, restored to their owners, the moment they could be ascertained. Still, although this honest couple's integrity was known, there were manysignificant looks turned upon Phelim, and many spirited propheciesuttered with especial reference to him, all of which hinted at theprobability of his dying something in the shape of a perpendiculardeath. This habit, then, of adding to their furniture, was one cause ofthe hostility between him and his parents; we say one, for there were atleast, a good round dozen besides. His touch, for instance, was fatal tocrockery; he stripped his father's Sunday clothes of their buttons, with great secrecy and skill; he was a dead shot at the panes of hisneighbors' windows; a perfect necromancer at sucking eggs throughpin-holes; took great delight in calling home the neighboring farmers'workingmen to dinner an hour before it was ready; and was in fact aperfect master in many other ingenious manifestations of character, erehe reached his twelfth year. 

Now, it was about this period that the small-pox made its appearance inthe village. Indescribable was the dismay of Phelim's parents, lesthe among others might become a victim to it. Vaccination, had not thensurmounted the prejudices with which every discovery beneficial tomankind is at first met; and the people were left principally to theimposture of quacks, or the cunning of certain persons called "fairymen" or "sonsie women. " Nothing remained now but that this formidabledisease should be met by all the power and resources of superstition. The first thing the mother did was to get a gospel consecrated by thepriest, for the purpose of guarding Phelim against evil. What is termeda Gospel, and worn as a kind of charm about the person, is simply a slipof paper, on which are written by the priest the few first verses of theGospel of St. John. This, however, being worn for no specific purpose, was incapable of satisfying the honest woman. Superstition had its ownpeculiar remedy for the small-pox, and Sheelah was resolved to apply it. Accordingly she borrowed a neighbor's ass, drove it home with Phelim, however, on its back, took the interesting youth by the nape of theneck, and, in the name of the Trinity, shoved him three times under it, and three times over it. She then put a bit of bread into its mouth, until the ass had mumbled it a little, after which she gave the savorymorsel to Phelim, as a _bonne bouche_. This was one preventive againstthe small-pox; but another was to be tried. 

She next clipped off the extremities of Phelim's elf locks, tied them inlinen that was never bleached, and hung them beside the Gospel abouthis neck. This was her second cure; but there was still a third to beapplied. She got the largest onion possible, which, having cut into nineparts, she hung from the roof tree of the cabin, having first put theseparated parts together. It is supposed that this has the power ofdrawing infection of any kind to itself. It is permitted to remainuntouched, until the disease has passed from the neighborhood, when itis buried as far down in the earth as a single man can dig. This wasa third cure; but there was still a fourth. She borrowed ten asses'halters from her neighbors, who, on hearing that they were for Phelim'suse, felt particular pleasure in obliging her. Having procured these, she pointed them one by one at Phelim's neck, until the number ninewas completed. The tenth, she put on him, and with the end of it inher hand, led him like an ass, nine mornings, before sunrise, to asouth-running stream, which he was obliged to cross. On doing this, twoconditions were to be fulfilled on the part of Phelim; he was bound, inthe first place, to keep his mouth filled, during the ceremony, with acertain fluid which must be nameless: in the next, to be silent from themoment he left home until his return. 

Sheelah having satisfied herself that everything calculated to save herdarling from the small-pox was done, felt considerably relieved, andhoped that whoever might be infected, Phelim would escape. On themorning when the last journey to the river had been completed, shedespatched him home with the halters. Phelim, however, wended his way toa little hazel copse, below the house, where he deliberately twinedthe halters together, and erected a swing-swang, with which he amusedhimself till hunger brought him to his dinner. 

"Phelim, you idle thief, what kep you away till now?"

"Oh; mudher, mudher, gi' me a piece o' arran? (* bread. )

"Why, here's the praties done for your dinner. What kep you?"

"Oh, be gorra, it's well you ever seen me at all, so it is!"

"Why, " said his father, "what happened you?"

"Oh, bedad, a terrible thing all out. As I was crassin' Dunroe Hill, Ithramped on hungry grass. First, I didn't know what kem over me, I gotso wake; an' every step I wint, 'twas waker an' waker I was growin', till at long last, down I dhrops, an' couldn't move hand or fut. I dunnahow long I lay there, so I don't; but anyhow, who should be _sthreelin_'acrass the hill, but an old _baccagh_. 

"'My _bouchaleen dhas_, ' says he--'my beautiful boy, ' says he--'you'rein a bad state I find. You've thramped upon Dunroe _hungry grass_, an'only for somethin' it's a _prabeen_ you'd be, afore ever you'd see home. Can you spake at all?' says he. 

"'Oh, murdher, ' says I, ' I b'lieve not. '

"'Well here, ' says the baccagh, 'open your purty gub, an' take in athrifle of this male, an' you'll soon be stout enough. ' Well, to besure, it bates the world! I had hardly tasted the male, whin I foundmyself as well as ever; bekase you know, mudher, that's the cure forit. 'Now, ' says the baccagh, 'this is the spot the fairies planted theirhungry grass, an' so you'll know it agin when you see it. What's yourname?' says he. 

"'Phelim O'Toole, ' says I. 

"'Well, ' says he, 'go home an' tell your father an' mother to offer upa prayer to St. Phelim, your namesake, in regard that only for him you'dbe a corp before any relief would a come near you; or, at any rate, widthe fairies. '"

The father and mother, although with a thousand proofs before them thatPhelim, so long as he could at all contrive a lie, would never speaktruth, yet were so blind to his well-known propensity, that theyalways believed the lie to be truth, until they discovered it to be afalsehood. When he related a story, for instance, which carried notonly improbability, but impossibility on the face of it, they neverquestioned his veracity. The neighbors, to be sure, were vexed andnettled at the obstinacy of their credulity; especially on reflectingthat they were as sceptical in giving credence to the narrative of anyother person, as all rational people ought to be. The manner of trainingup Phelim, and Phelim's method of governing them, had become a by-wordin the village. "Take a sthraw to him, like Sheelah O'Toole, " was oftenironically said to mothers remarkable for mischievous indulgence totheir children. 

The following day proved that no charm could protect Phelim from thesmall-pox. Every symptom of that disease became quite evident; and thegrief of his doting parents amounted to distraction. Neither of themcould be declared perfectly sane; they knew not how to proceed--whatregimen to adopt for him, nor what remedies to use. A week elapsed, buteach succeeding day found him in a more dangerous state. At length, bythe advice of some of the neighbors, an old crone, called "Sonsy Mary, "was called in to administer relief through the medium of certainpowers which were thought to be derived from something holy and alsosupernatural. She brought a mysterious bottle, of which he was to takeevery third spoonful, three times a day; it was to be administered bythe hand of a young girl of virgin innocence, who was also to breathethree times down his throat, holding his nostrils closed with herfingers. The father and mother were to repeat a certain number ofprayers; to promise against swearing, and to kiss the hearth-stone ninetimes--the one turned north, and the other south. All these ceremonieswere performed with care, but Phelim's malady appeared to set themat defiance; and the old crone would have lost her character inconsequence, were it not that Larry, on the day of the cure, afterhaving promised not to swear, let fly an oath at a hen, whose cacklingdisturbed Phelim. This saved her character, and threw Larry and Sheelahinto fresh despair. 

They had nothing now for it but the "fairy man, " to whom, despite theawful mystery of his character, they resolved to apply rather than seetheir only son taken from them for ever. Larry proceeded without delayto the wise man's residence, after putting a small phial of holy waterin his pocket to protect himself from fairy influence. The house inwhich this person lived was admirably in accordance with his mysteriouscharacter. One gable of it was formed by the mound of a fairy Rath, against the cabin, which stood endwise; within a mile there was no otherbuilding; the country around it was a sheep-walk, green, and beautifullyinterspersed with two or three solitary glens, in one of which might beseen a cave that was said to communicate under ground with the rath. Aridge of high-Peaked mountains ran above it, whose evening shadow, inconsequence of their form, fell down on each side of the rath, withoutobscuring its precincts. It lay south; and, such was the power ofsuperstition, that during summer, the district in which it stood wasthought to be covered with a light decidedly supernatural. In spring, itwas the first to be in verdure, and in autumn the last. Nay, in winteritself, the rath and the adjoining valleys never ceased to be green, these circumstances were not attributed to the nature of the soil, toits southern situation, nor to the fact of its being pasture land;but simply to the power of the fairies, who were supposed to keep itsverdure fresh for their own revels. 

When Larry entered the house, which had an air of comfort and snugnessbeyond the common, a tall thin pike of a man, about sixty years of age, stood before him. He wore a brown great-coat that fell far short of hisknees; his small-clothes were closely fitted to thighs not thicker thanhand telescopes; on his legs were drawn gray woollen stockings, rolledup about six inches over his small-clothes; his head was covered by abay bob-wig, on which was a little round, hat, with the edge of the leafturned up in every direction. His face was short and sallow; his chinpeaked; his nose small and turned up. If we add to this, a pair ofskeleton-like hands and arms projecting about eight inches beyond thesleeves of his coat; two fiery ferret-eyes; and a long small holly wand, higher than himself, we have the outline of this singular figure. 

"God save you, nabor, " said Larry. 

"Save you, save you, neighbor, " he replied, without pronouncing the nameof the deity. 

"This is a thryin' time, " said Larry, "to them that has childhre. "

The fairy-man fastened his red glittering eyes upon him, with a sinisterglance that occasioned Larry to feel rather uncomfortable. 

"So you venthured to come to the fairy-man?"

"It is about our son, an' he all we ha--"

"Whisht!" said the man, waving his hand with a commanding air. "Whisht;I wish you wor out o' this, for it's a bad time to be here. Listen!Listen! Do you hear nothing?"

Larry changed color. "I do, " he replied--"The Lord protect me: Is thatthem?"

"What did you hear?" said the man. 

"Why, " returned the other, "I heard the bushes of the rath all movin', jist as if a blast o' wind came among them!"

"Whisht, " said the fairy-man, "they're here; you mustn't open your lipswhile you're in the house. I know what you want, an' will see your son. Do you hear anything more? If you do, lay your forefinger along yournose; but don't spake. "

Larry heard with astonishment, the music of a pair of bagpipes. The tuneplayed was one which, according to a popular legend, was first playedby Satan; it is called: "Go to the Devil and shake yourself. " To our ownknowledge, the peasantry in certain parts of Ireland refuse to sing itfor the above reason. The mystery of the music was heightened too bythe fact of its being played, as Larry thought, behind the gable of thecabin, which stood against the side of the rath, out of which, indeed, it seemed to proceed. 

Larry laid his finger along his nose, as he had been desired; and thisappearing to satisfy the fairy-man, he waved his hand to the door, thusintimating that his visitor should depart; which he did immediately, butnot without observing that this wild-looking being closed and bolted thedoor after him. 

It is unnecessary to say that he was rather anxious to get off thepremises of the good people; he therefore lost little time until hearrived at his own cabin; but judge of his wonder when, on entering it, he found the long-legged spectre awaiting his return. 

"_Banaght dhea orrin!_" he exclaimed, starting back; "the blessing ofGod be upon us! Is it here before me you are?"

"Hould your tongue, man, " said the other, with a smile of mysterioustriumph. "Is it that you wondher at? Ha, ha! That's little of it!"

"But how did you know my name? or who I was? or where I lived at all?Heaven protect us! it's beyant belief, clane out. "

"Hould your tongue, " replied the man; "don't be axin' me any thing o'the kind. Clear out, both of ye, till I begin my pisthrogues wid thesick child. Clear out, I say. "

With some degree of apprehension, Larry and Sheelah left the house asthey had been ordered, and the Fairy-man having pulled out a flask ofpoteen, administered a dose of it to Phelim; and never yet did patientreceive his medicine with such a relish. He licked his lips, and fixedhis eye upon it with a longing look. 

"Be Gorra, " said he, "that's fine stuff entirely. Will you lave me thebottle?"

"No, " said the Fairy-man, "but I'll call an' give you a little of itwanst a day. "

"Ay do, " replied Phelim; "the divil a fear o' me, if I get enough of it. I hope I'll see you often. "

The Fairy-man kept his word; so that what with his bottle, a hardyconstitution, and light bed-clothes, Phelim got the upper hand of hismalady. In a month he was again on his legs; but, alas! his complexionthough not changed to deformity, was wofully out of joint. His principalblemish, in addition to the usual marks left by his complaint, consistedin a drooping of his left eyelid, which gave to his whole face a casthighly ludicrous. 

When Phelim felt thoroughly recovered, he claimed a pair of "leathercrackers, " * a hare-skin cap, and a coat, with a pertinacity which keptthe worthy couple in a state of inquietude, until they complied withhis importunity. Henceforth he began to have everything his own way. Hisparents, sufficiently thankful that he was spared to them, resolved tothwart him no more. 

 * Breeches made of sheep's skin, so called from the noise they make in walking or running. 

"It's well we have him at all, " said his mother; "sure if we hadn't him, we'd be breakin' our hearts, and sayin' if it 'ud plase God to send himback to us, that we'd be happy even wid givin' him his own way. "

"They say it breaks their strinth, too, " replied his father, "to becrubbin' them in too much, an' snappin' at thim for every hand's turn, an' I'm sure it does too. "

"Doesn't he become the pock-marks well, the crathur?" said the mdther. 

"Become!" said the father; "but doesn't the droop in his eye set him offall to pieces!"

"Ay, " observed the mother, "an' how the crathur went round among all theneighbors to show them the 'leather crackers!' To see his little prideout o' the hare-skin cap, too, wid the hare's ears stickin' out of histemples. That an' the droopin: eye undher them makes him look so cunnin'an' ginteel, that one can't help havin' their heart fixed upon him. "

"He'd look betther still if that ould coat wasn't sweepin' the groundbehind him; an' what 'ud you think to put a pair o' _martyeens_ on hislegs to hide the mazles! He might go anywhere thin. "

"Throth he might; but Larry, what in the world wide could be in theFairy-man's bottle that Phelim took sich a likin' for it. He tould methis mornin' that he'd suffer to have the pock agin, set in case he wascured wid the same bottle. "

"Well, the Heaven be praised, any how, that we have a son for thehalf-acre, Sheelah. '

"Amin! An' let us take good care of him, now that he's spared to us. "

Phelim's appetite, after his recovery, was anything but a joke tohis father. He was now seldom at home, except during meal times; forwherever fun or novelty was to be found, Phelim was present. He becamea regular attendant upon all the sportsmen. To such he made himself veryuseful by his correct knowledge of the best covers for game, and thebest pools for fish. He was acquainted with every rood of land in the, parish; knew with astonishing accuracy where coveys were to be sprung, and hares started. No hunt was without him; such was his wind and speedof foot, that to follow a chase and keep up with the horsemen was to himonly a matter of sport. When daylight passed, night presented him withamusements suitable to itself. No wake, for instance, could escape him;a dance without young Phelim O'Toole would have been a thing worthyto be remembered. He was zealously devoted to cock-fighting; onShrove-Tuesday he shouted loudest among the crowd that attended thesport of throwing at cooks tied to a stake; foot-ball and hurling neveroccurred without him. Bull-baiting--for it was common in hisyouth--was luxury to him; and, ere he reached fourteen, every one knewPhelim O'Toole as an adept at card-playing. Wherever a sheep, a leg ofmutton, a dozen of bread, or a bottle of whiskey was put up in a shebeenhouse, to be played for by the country gamblers at the five and ten, orspoil'd five, Phelim always took a hand and was generally successful. Onthese occasions he was frequently charged with an over-refineddexterity; but Phelim usually swore, in vindication of his owninnocence, until he got black in the face, as the phrase among suchcharacters goes. 

The reader is to consider him now about fifteen--a stout, overgrown, unwashed cub. His parents' anxiety that he should grow strong, preventedthem from training him to any kind of employment. He was eternally goingabout in quest of diversion; and wherever a knot of idlers was to befound, there was Phelim. He had, up to this period, never worn a shoe, nor a single article of dress that had been made for himself, with theexception of one or two pair of sheepskin small-clothes. In this way hepassed his time, bare-legged, without shoes, clothed in an old coat muchtoo large for him, his neck open, and his sooty locks covered with thehare-skin cap, the ears as usual sticking out above his brows. Much ofhis time was spent in setting the idle boys of the village to fight; andin carrying lying challenges from one to another. He himself was seldomwithout a broken head or a black eye; for in Ireland, he who is knownto be fond of quarrelling, as the people say, usually "gets enoughan' lavins of it. " Larry and Sheelah, thinking it now high time thatsomething should be done with Phelim, thought it necessary to givehim some share of education. Phelim opposed this bitterly as anunjustifiable encroachment upon his personal liberty; but, by bribinghim with the first and only suit of clothes he had yet got, they atlength succeeded in prevailing on him to go. 

The school to which he was sent happened to be kept in what is calledan inside Kiln. This kind of kiln is usually--but less so now thanformerly--annexed to respectable farmers' outhouses, to which, inagricultural districts, it forms a very necessary appendage. It alsoserves at the same time as a barn, the kiln-pot being sunk in the shapeof an inverted cone at one end, but divided from the barn floor bya wall about three feet high. From this wall beams run across thekiln-pot, over which, in a transverse direction, are laid a number ofrafters like the joists of a loft, but not fastened. These ribs arecovered with straw, over which again is spread a winnow-cloth to keepthe grain from being lost. The fire is sunk on a level with the bottomof the kiln-pot, that is, about eight or ten feet below the floor of thebarn. The descent to it is by stairs formed at the side wall. We havebeen thus minute in describing it, because, as the reader will presentlyperceive, the feats of Phelim render it necessary. 

On the first day of his entering the school he presented himself witha black eye; and as his character was well known to both master andscholars, the former felt no hesitation in giving him a wholesomelecture upon the subject of his future conduct. For at least a yearbefore this time, he had gained the nick-name of "Blessed Phelim, " and"Bouncing, " epithets bestowed on him by an ironical allusion to hispatron saint, and his own habits. 

"So, Blessed Phelim, " said the master, "you are comin' to school!!!Well, well! I only say that miracles will never cease. Arrah, Phelim, will you tell us candidly--ah--I beg your pardon; I mean, will you tellus the best lie you can coin upon the cause of your coming to imbibemoral and literary knowledge? Silence, boys, till we hear BlessedPhelim's lie. "

"You must hear it, masther, " said Phelim. "I'm comin' to larn to readan' write. "

"Bravo! By the bones of Prosodius, I expected a lie, but not such athumper as that. And you're comin' wid a black eye to prove it! A blackeye, Phelim, is the blackguard's coat of arms; and to do you justice, you are seldom widout your crest. "

For a few days Phelim attended the school, but learned not a letter. Themaster usually sent him to be taught by the youngest lads, with a hopeof being able to excite a proper spirit of pride and emulation in a mindthat required some extraordinary impulse. One day he called him up toascertain what progress he had actually made; the unsuspecting teachersat at the time upon the wall which separated the barn-floor from thekiln-pot, with his legs dangling at some distance from the ground. Itwas summer, any rafters used in drying the grain had been removed. Onfinding that Blessed Phelim, notwithstanding all the lessons he hadreceived, was still in a state of the purest ignorance, he lost histemper, and brought him over between his knees, that he might givehim an occasional cuff for his idleness. The lesson went on, and themaster's thumps were thickening about Phelim's ears, much to the worthyyouth's displeasure. 

"Phelim, " said the master, "I'll invert you a scarecrow for dunces. I'lllay you against the wall, with your head down and your heels up like aforked carrot. "

"But how will you manage that?" said Phelim. "What 'ud I be doin' in themane time?"

"I'll find a way to manage it, " said the master. 

"To put my head down an' my heels up, is it?" inquired Phelim. 

"You've said it, my worthy, " returned his teacher. 

"If you don't know the way, " replied the pupil, "I'll show you;" gettinghis shoulder under the master's leg, and pitching him heels over hishead into the kiln-pot. He instantly seized his cap, and ran out of theschool, highly delighted at his feat; leaving the scholars to render themaster whatever assistance was necessary. The poor man was dangerouslyhurt, for in addition to a broken arm, he received half a dozen severecontusions on the head, and in different parts of the body. 

This closed Phelim's education; for no persuasion could ever induce himto enter a school afterwards; nor could any temptation prevail on theneighboring teachers to admit him as a pupil. 

Phelim now shot up rapidly to the stature of a young man; and agraceful slip was he. From the period of fifteen until nineteen, he wasindustriously employed in idleness. About sixteen he began to lookafter the girls, and to carry a cudgel. The father in vain attemptedto inoculate him with a love of labor; but Phelim would not receive theinfection. His life was a pleasanter one. Sometimes, indeed, when hewanted money to treat the girls at fairs and markets, he would prevailon himself to labor a week or fortnight with some neighboring farmer;but the moment he had earned as much as he deemed sufficient, the spadewas thrown aside. Phelim knew all the fiddlers and pipers in the barony;was master of the ceremonies at every wake and dance that occurredwithin several miles of him. He was a crack dancer, and never attended adance without performing a horn-pipe on a door or a table; no man couldshuffle, or treble, or cut, or spring, or caper with him. Indeed it wassaid that he could dance "Moll Roe" upon the end of a five-gallon keg, and snuff a mould candle with his heels, yet never lose the time. Thefather and mother were exceedingly proud of Phelim, The former, when hefound him grown up, and associating with young men, began to feel a kindof ambition in being permitted to join Phelim and his companions, andto look upon the society of his own son as a privilege. With the girlsPhelim was a beauty without paint. They thought every wake truly a sceneof sorrow, if he did not happen to be present. Every dance was dolefulwithout him. Phelim wore his hat on one side, with a knowing butcareless air; he carried his cudgel with a good-humored, dashing spirit, precisely in accordance with the character of a man who did not care atraneen whether he drank with you as a friend or fought with you as afoe. Never were such songs heard as Phelim could sing, nor such avoice as that with which he sang them. His attitudes and action wereinimitable. The droop in his eye was a standing wink at the girls;and when he sang his funny songs, with what practised ease he gave thedarlings a roguish chuck under the chin! Then his jokes! "Why, faix, "as the fair ones often said of him, "before Phelim speaks at all, onelaughs at what he says. " This was fact. His very appearance at a wake, dance, or drinking match, was hailed by a peal of mirth. This heightenedhis humor exceedingly; for say what you will, laughter is to wit whatair is to fire--the one dies without the other. 

Let no one talk of beauty being on the surface. This is a popular error, and no one but a superficial fellow would defend it Among ten thousandyou could not get a more unfavorable surface than Phelim's. His faceresembled the rough side of a cullender, or, as he was often told inraillery, "you might grate potatoes on it. " The lid of his left eye, as the reader knows, was like the lid of a salt-box, always closed; andwhen he risked a wink with the right, it certainly gave him the look ofa man shutting out the world, and retiring into himself for the purposeof self-examination. No, no; beauty is in the mind; in the soul;otherwise Phelim never could have been such a prodigy of comelinessamong the girls. This was the distinction the fair sex drew in hisfavor. "Phelim, " they would say, "is not purty, but he's very comely. Bad end to the one of him but would stale a pig off a tether, wid hiswinnin' ways. " And so he would, too, without much hesitation, for it wasnot the first time he had stolen his father's. 

From nineteen until the close of his minority, Phelim became adistinguished man in fairs and markets. He was, in fact, the hero ofthe parish; but, unfortunately, he seldom knew on the morning of thefair-day the name of the party or faction on whose side he was to fight. This was merely a matter of priority; for whoever happened to give himthe first treat uniformly secured him. The reason of this pliabilityon his part was, that Phelim being every person's friend, by his goodnature, was nobody's foe, except for the day. He fought for fun and forwhiskey. When he happened to drub some companion or acquaintance onthe opposite side, he was ever ready to express his regret at thecircumstance, and abused, them heartily for not having treated himfirst. 

Phelim was also a great Ribbonman; and from the time he became initiatedinto the system, his eyes were wonderfully opened to the oppressions ofthe country. Sessions, decrees, and warrants he looked upon as I grossabuses; assizes, too, by which so many of his friends were put tosome inconvenience, he considered as the result of ProtestantAscendancy--cancers that ought to be cut out of the constitution. Bailiffs, drivers, tithe-proctors, tax-gatherers, policemen, andparsons, he thought were vermin that ought to be compelled to emigrateto a much warmer country than Ireland. 

There was no such hand in the county as Phelim at an alibi. Just givehim the outline--a few leading particulars of the fact--and he wouldwork wonders. One would think, indeed, that he had been born for thatespecial purpose; for, as he was never known to utter a syllable oftruth but once, when he had a design in not being believed, so there wasno risk of a lawyer getting truth out of him. No man was ever afflictedwith such convenient maladies as Phelim; even his sprains, tooth-aches, and colics seemed to have entered into the Whiteboy system. But, indeed, the very diseases in Ireland are seditious. Many a time has a tooth-achecome in to aid Paddy in obstructing the course of justice; and a colicbeen guilty of misprision of treason. Irish deaths, too, are verydisloyal, and frequently at variance with the laws: nor are our birthsmuch better; for although more legitimate than those of our Englishneighbors, yet they are in general more illegal. Phelim, in proving hisalibis, proved all these positions. On one occasion, "he slep atthe prisoner's house, and couldn't close his eye with a thief of atooth-ache that parsecuted him the whole night;" so, that in consequenceof having the tooth-ache, it was impossible that the prisoner couldleave the house without his knowledge. 

Again, the prisoner at the bar could not possibly have shot thedeceased, "bekase Mickey slept that very night at Phelim's, an' Phelim, bein' ill o' the colic, never slep at all durin' the whole night; an', by the vartue of his oath, the poor boy couldn't go out o' the houseunknownst to him. If he had, Phelim would a seen him, sure. "

Again, "Paddy Cummisky's wife tuck ill of a young one, an' Phelim wassent for to bring the midwife; but afore he kem to Paddy's, or hard o'the thing at all, the prisoner, airly in the night, comin' to sit awhilewid Paddy, went for the midwife instead o' Phelim, an' thin they sot upan' had a sup in regard of the 'casion; an' the prisoner never leftthem at all that night until the next mornin'. An' by the same token, he remimbered Paddy Cummisky barrin' the door, an' shuttin' the windies, bekase it's not lucky to have them open, for fraid that the fairies 'udthrow their _pishthrogues_ upon the young one, an' it not christened. "

Phelim was certainly an accomplished youth. As an alibist, however, hiscareer was, like that of all alibists, a short one. The fact was, thathis face soon became familiar to the court and the lawyers, so that hisname and appearance were ultimately rather hazardous to the cause of hisfriends. 

Phelim, on other occasions, when summoned as evidence against hiswell-wishers or brother Ribbonmen, usually forgot his English, and gavehis testimony by an interpreter. Nothing could equal his ignorance andwant of common capacity during these trials. His face was as free fromevery visible trace of meaning as if he had been born an idiot. No blockwas ever more impenetrable than he. 

"What is the noble gintleman sayin'?" he would ask in Irish; and onhaving that explained, he would inquire, "what is that?" then demand afresh explanation of the last one, and so on successively, until he wasgiven up in despair. 

Sometimes, in cases of a capital nature, Phelim, with the consent of hisfriends, would come forward and make disclosures, in order to have themput upon their trial and acquitted; lest a real approver, or some oneearnestly disposed to prosecute, might appear against them. Now thealibi and its usual accompaniments are all of old standing in Ireland;but the master-stroke to which we have alluded is a modern invention. Phelim would bear evidence against them; and whilst the government--forit was mostly in government prosecutions he adventured this--believedthey had ample grounds for conviction in his disclosures, it littlesuspected that the whole matter was a plan to defeat itself. Inaccordance with his design, he gave such evidence upon the table asrendered conviction hopeless. His great object was to damn his owncharacter as a witness, and to make such blunders, premeditated slips, and admissions, as just left him within an inch of a prosecution forperjury. Having succeeded in acquitting his friends, he was contentto withdraw amid a volley of pretended execrations, leaving theAttorney-General, with all his legal knowledge, outwitted and foiled. 

All Phelim's accomplishments, however, were nothing when compared to hisgallantry. With personal disadvantages which would condemn any other manto old bachelorship, he was nevertheless the whiteheaded boy among thegirls. He himself was conscious of this, and made his attacks upon theirhearts indiscriminately. If he met an unmarried female only for fiveminutes, be she old or ugly, young or handsome, he devoted at least fourminutes and three-quarters to the tender passion; made love to her withan earnestness that would deceive a saint; backed all his protestationswith a superfluity of round oaths; and drew such a picture of her beautyas might suit the Houries of Mahomet's paradise. 

Phelim and his father were great associates. No two agreed better. Theywent to fairs and markets together; got drunk together; and returnedhome with their arms about each other's neck in the most loving andaffectionate manner. Larry, as if Phelim were too modest to speak forhimself, seldom met a young girl without laying siege to her for theson. He descanted upon his good qualities, glossed over his defects, anddrew deeply upon invention in his behalf. Sheelah, on the other hand, was an eloquent advocate for him. She had her eye upon half a dozen ofthe village girls, to every one of whom she found something to say inPhelim's favor. 

But it is time the action of our story should commence. When Phelim hadreached his twenty-fifth year, the father thought it was high time forhim to marry. The good man had, of course, his own motives for this. In the first place, Phelim, with all his gallantry and cleverness, hadnever contributed a shilling, either toward his own support or that ofthe family. In the second place, he was never likely to do so. In thethird place, the father found him a bad companion; for, in good truth, he had corrupted the good man's morals so evidently, that his characterwas now little better than that of his son. In the fourth place, henever thought of Phelim, that he did not see a gallows in the distance;and matrimony, he thought, might save him from hanging, as one poisonneutralizes another. In the fifth place, the half-acre Was but a shabbypatch to meet the exigencies of the family, since Phelim grew up. "Bouncing Phelim, " as he was called for more reasons than one, had thegift of a good digestion, along with his other accomplishments; and withsuch energy was it exercised, that the "half-acre" was frequently inhazard of leaving the family altogether. The father, therefore, feltquite willing, if Phelim married, to leave him the inheritance, and seeka new settlement for himself. Or, if Phelim preferred leaving him, heagreed to give him one-half of it, together with an equal division ofall his earthly goods; to wit--two goats, of which Phelim was to getone; six hens and a cock, of which Phelim was to get three hens, and thechance of a toss-up for the cock; four stools, of which Phelim was toget two; two pots--a large one and a small one--the former to go withPhelim; three horn spoons, of which Phelim was to get one, and thechance of a toss-up for a third. Phelim was to bring his own bed, provided he did not prefer getting a bottle of fresh straw as aconnubial luxury. The blanket was a tender subject; for having beenfourteen years in employment, it entangled the father and Phelim, touching the prudence of the latter claiming it all. The son wasat length compelled to give it up, at least in the character of anappendage to his marriage property. He feared that the wife, should henot be able to replace it by a new one, or should she herself not beable to bring him one, as part of her dowry, would find the honeymoonrather lively. Phelim's bedstead admitted of no dispute, the floor ofthe cabin having served him in that capacity ever since he began tosleep in a separate bed. His pillow was his small clothes, and his quilthis own coat, under which he slept snugly enough. 

The father having proposed, and the son acceded to these arrangements, the next thing to be done was to pitch upon a proper girl as his wife. This being a more important matter, was thus discussed by the father andson, one evening, at their own fireside, in the presence of Sheelah. 

"Now, Phelim, " said the father, "look about you, an' tell us what girlin the neighborhood you'd like to be married to. "

"Why, " replied Phelim, "I'll lave that to you; jist point out the girlyou'd like for your daughter-in-law, an' be she rich, poor, ould, orugly, I'll delude her. That's the chat. "

"Ah, Phelim, if you could put your comedher an Gracey Dalton, you'd be amade boy. She has the full of a rabbit-skin o' guineas. "

"A made boy! Faith, they say I'm that as it is, you know. But would youwish me to put my comedher on Gracey Dalton? Spake out. "

"To be sure I would. "

"Ay, " observed the mother, "or what 'ud you think of Miss Pattherson?That 'ud be the girl. She has a fine farm, an' five hundre pounds. She'sa Protestant, but Phelim could make a Christian of her. "

"To be sure I could, " said Phelim, "have her thumpin' her breast, and countin' her Padareens in no time. Would you wish me to have her, mudher?"

"Throth an' I would, avick. "

"That 'ud never do, " observed the father. "Sure you don't think she'dever think of the likes o' Phelim?"

"Don't make a goose of yourself, ould man, " observed Phelim. "Do youthink if I set about it, that I'd not manufacture her senses as asy asI'd peel a piatee?"

"Well, well, " replied the father, "in the name o' Goodness make up toher. Faith it ud' be somethin' to have a jauntin' car in the family!"

"Ay, but what the sorra will I do for a suit o' clo'es?" observedPhelim. "I could never go near her in these breeches. My elbows, too, are out o' this ould coat, bad luck to it! An' as for a waistcoat, why, I dunna but it's a sin to call what I'm wearin' a waistcoat at all. Thinagin--why, blood alive, sure I can't go to her barefooted, an' I dunnabut it 'ud be dacenter to do that same, than to step out in sich excusesfor brogues as these. An' in regard o' the stockins', why, I've pulledthem down, strivin' to look dacent, till one 'ud think the balls o' mylegs is at my heels. "

"The sorra word's in that but thruth, any how, " observed the father;"but what's to be done? For we have no way of gettin' them. "

"Faith, I don't know that, " said Phelim. "What if we'd borry? I couldget the loan of a pair of breeches from Dudley Dwire, an' a coat fromSam Appleton. We might thry Billy Brady for a waistcoat, an' a pair ofstockings. Barny Buckram-back, the pinsioner, 'ud lend me his pumps; an'we want nothing now but a hat. "

"Nothin' under a Caroline 'ud do, goin' there, " observed the father. 

"I think Father O'Hara 'ud oblige me wid the loan o' one for a day ortwo;" said Phelim; "he has two or three o' them, all as good as ever. "

"But, Phelim, " said the father, "before we go to all this trouble, areyou sure you could put your comedher on Miss Pattherson?"

"None o' your nonsense, " said Phelim, "don't you know I could? I hatea man to be puttin' questions to me, when he knows them himself. It's afashion you have got, an' you ought to dhrop it. "

"Well thin, " said the father, "let us set about it to-morrow. If we canborry the clo'es, thry your luck. "

Phelim and the father, the next morning, set out each in a differentdirection, to see how far they could succeed on the borrowing system. The father was to make a descent on Dudley Dwire for the breeches, andappeal to the generosity of Sam Appleton for the coat. Phelim himselfwas to lay his case before the priest, and to assail Buckram-back, thepensioner, on his way home, for the brogues. 

When Phelim arrived at the priest's house, he found none of the familyup but the housekeeper. After bidding her good morrow, and being desiredto sit down, he entered into conversation with the good woman, who feltanxious to know the scandal of the whole parish. 

"Aren't you a son of Larry Toole's, young man?"

"I am, indeed, Mrs. Doran. I'm Phelim O'Toole, my mother says. "

"I hope you're comin' to spake to the priest about your duty. "

"Why, then, be gorra, I'm glad you axed me, so I am--for only you seenthe pinance in my face, you'd never suppose sich a thing. I want to makemy confishion to him, wid the help o' Goodness. "

"Is there any news goin', Phelim?"

"Divil a much, barrin' what you hard yourself, I suppose, about FrankFogarty, that went mad yesterday, for risin' the meal on the poor, an'ate the ears off himself afore anybody could see him. "

"_Vick na hoiah_, Phelim; do you tell me so?"

"Why man o' Moses, is it possible you did not hear it, ma'am?"

"Oh, worra, man alive, not a syllable! Ate the ears off of himself!Phelim, acushla, see what it is to be hard an the poor!"

"Oh, he was ever an' always the biggest nagar livin', ma'am. Ay, an'when he was tied up, till a blessed priest 'ud be brought to maliwguethe divil out of him, he got a scythe an' cut his own two hands off. "

"No thin, Phelim!"

"Faitha, ma'am, sure enough. I suppose, ma'am, you hard about BiddyDuignan?"

"Who is she, Phelim?"

"Why the misfortunate crathurs a daughter of her father's, ould MickDuignan, of Tavenimore. "

"An' what about her, Phehm! What happened her?"

"Faix, ma'am, a bit of a mistake she met wid; but, anyhow, ould HarryConnolly's to stand in the chapel nine Sundays, an' to make threeStations to Lough Dergh for it. Bedad, they say it's as purty a crathuras you'd see in a day's thravellin'. "

"Harry Connolly! Why, I know Harry, but I never heard of Biddy Duiguan, or her father at all. Harry Connolly! Is it a man that's bent over hisstaff for the last twenty years! Hut, tut, Phelim, don't say sich athing. "

"Why, ma'am, sure he takes wid it himself; he doesn't deny it at all, the ould sinner. "

"Oh, that I mayn't sin, Phelim, if one knows who to thrust in thisworld, so they don't. Why the desateful ould--hut, Phelim, I can't giveinto it. "

"Faix, ma'am, no wondher; but sure when he confesses it himself! Bedad, Mrs. Doran, I never seen you look so well. Upon my sowl, you'd take theshine out o' the youngest o' thim!"

"Is it me, Phelim? Why, you're beside yourself. "

"Beside myself, am I? Faith, an' if I am, what I said's thruth, anyhow. I'd give more nor I'll name, to have so red a pair of cheeks as youhave. Sowl, they're thumpers. "

"Ha, ha, ha! Oh, that I mayn't sin, but that's a good joke! An ouldwoman near sixty!"

"Now, Mrs. Doran, that's nonsense, an' nothing else. Near sixty! Oh, bymy purty, that's runnin' away wid the story entirely--No, nor thirty. Faith, I know them that's not more nor five or six-an'-twenty, that 'udbe glad to borry the loan of your face for a while. Divil a word o' liein that. "

"No, no, Phelim, aroon, I seen the day; but that's past. I remimber whenthe people did say I was worth lookin' at. Won't you sit near the fire?You're in the dhraft there. "

"Thank you kindly, ma'am; faith, you have the name, far an' near, forbein' the civilest woman alive this day. But, upon my sowl, if you worten times as civil, an' say that you're not aquil to any young girl inthe parish, I'd dispute it wid you; an' say it was nothin' else than abounce. "

"Arrah, Phelim, darlin, how can you palaver me that way? I hope yourdacent father's well, Phelim, an' your honest mother. "

"Divil a fear o' them. Now, I'd hould nine to one that the purtiest o'them hasn't a sweeter mout' than you have. By dad, you have a pair o'lips, God bless them that--well, well--"

Phelim here ogled her with looks particularly wistful. 

"Phelim, you're losin' the little sense you had. "

"Faix, an' it's you that's taken them out o' me, then. A purty womanalways makes a fool o' me. Divil a word o' lie in it. Faix, Mrs. Doran, ma'am, you have a chin o' your own! Well, well! Oh, be Gorra, I wish Ihadn't come out this mornin' any how!"

"Arrah, why, Phelim? In throth, it's you that's the quare Phelim!"

"Why, ma'am--Oh bedad it's a folly to talk. I can't go widout tastin'them. Sich a pair o' timptations as your lips, barrin' your eyes, Ididn't see this many a day. "

"Tastin' what, you mad crathur?"

"Why, I'll show you what I'd like to be afther tastin'. Oh! bedad, I'llhave no refusin'; a purty woman always makes a foo----"

"Keep away, Phelim; keep off; bad end to you; what do you mane? Don'tyou see Fool Art lyin' in the corner there undher the sacks? I don'tthink he's asleep. "

"Fool Art! why, the misfortunate idiot, what about him? Sure he hasn'tsinse to know the right hand from the left. Bedad, ma'am the truth is, that a purty woman always makes a----"

"Throth an' you won't, " said she struggling. 

"Throth an' I will, thin, taste the same lips, or we'll see whosestrongest!"

A good-humored struggle took place between the housekeeper and Phelim, who found her, in point of personal strength, very near a match for him. She laughed heartily, but Phelim attempted to salute her with a faceof mock gravity as nearly resembling that of a serious man as he couldassume. In the meantime, chairs were overturned, and wooden dishestrundled about; a crash was heard here, and another there. Phelim droveher to the hob, and from the hob they both bounced into the fire, theembers and ashes of which were kicked up into a cloud about them. 

"Phelim, spare your strinth, " said the funny housekeeper, "it won't do. Be asy now, or I'll get angry. The priest, too, will hear the noise, andso will Fool Art. "

"To the divil wid Fool Art an' the priest, too, " said Phelim, "who caresabuckey about the priest when a purty woman like you is consarn--

"What's this?" said the priest, stepping down from the parlor--"What'sthe matter? Oh, ho, upon my word, Mrs. Doran! Very good, indeed! Undermy own roof, too! An' pray, ma'am, who is the gallant? Turn round youngman. Yes, I see! Why, better and better! Bouncing Phelim O'Toole, thatnever spoke truth! I think, Mr. O'Toole, that when you come a courting, you ought to consider it worth your while to appear somewhat more smoothin your habiliments. I simply venture to give that as my opinion. "

"Why sure enough, " replied Phelim, without a moment's hesitation; "yourReverence has found us out. "

"Found you out! Why, is that the tone you speak in?"

"Faith, sir, thruth's best. I wanted her to tell it to you long ago, butshe wouldn't. Howsomever, it's still time enough. --Hem! The thruth, sir, is, that Mrs. Doran an' I is goin' to get the words said as soon as wecan; so, sir, wid the help o' Goodness, I came to see if your Reverence'ud call us next Sunday wid a blessin'. "

Mrs. Doran had, for at least a dozen round years before this, been ina state-of hopelessness upon the subject of matrimony; nothing in theshape of a proposal having in the course of that period come in her way. Now we have Addison's authority for affirming, that an old woman whopermits the thoughts of love to get into her head, becomes a very oddkind of animal. Mrs. Doran, to do her justice, had not thought of it fornearly three lustres, for this reason, that she had so far overcome hervanity as to deem it possible that a proposal could be ever made to her. It is difficult, however, to know what a day may bring forth. Herewas an offer, dropping like a ripe plum into her mouth. She turnedthe matter over in her mind with a quickness equal to that of Phelimhimself. One leading thought struck her forcibly: if she refused toclose with this offer, she would never get another. 

"Is it come to this, Mrs. Doran?" inquired the priest. 

"Oh, bedad, sir, she knows it is, " replied Phelim, giving her a winkwith the safe eye. 

Now, Mrs. Doran began to have her suspicions. The wink she consideredas decidedly ominous. Phelim, she concluded with all the sagacity of awoman thinking upon that subject, had winked at her to assent only forthe purpose of getting themselves out of the scrape for the present. Shefeared that Phelim would be apt to break off the match, and take someopportunity, before Sunday should arrive, of preventing the priest fromcalling them. Her decision, however, was soon made. She resolved, ifpossible to pin down Phelim to his own proposal. 

"Is this true, Mrs. Doran?" inquired the priest, a second time. 

Mrs. Doran could not, with any regard to the delicacy of her sex, givean assent without proper emotion. She accordingly applied her apron toher eyes, and shed a few natural tears in reply to the affecting queryof the pastor. 

Phelim, in the meantime, began to feel mystified. Whether Mrs. Doran'stears were a proof that she was disposed to take the matter seriously, or whether they were tears of shame and vexation for having been caughtin the character of a romping old hoyden, he could not then exactlydecide. He had, however, awful misgivings upon the subject. 

"Then, " said the priest, "it is to be understood that I'm to call youboth on Sunday. "

"There's no use in keepin' it back from you, " replied Mrs. Doran. "Iknow it's foolish of me; but we have all our failins, and to be fondof Phelim there, is mine. Your Reverence is to call us next Sunday, asPhelim tould you. I am sure I can't tell you how he deluded me at all, the desaver o' the world!"

Phelim's face during this acknowledgment was, like Goldsmith's Haunchof Venison, "a subject for painters to study. " His eyes projected like ahare's until nothing could be seen but the balls. Even the drooping lidraised itself up, as if it were never to droop again. 

"Well, " said the priest, "I shall certainly not use a single argument toprevent you. Your choice, I must say, does you credit, particularly whenit is remembered that you have come at least to years of discretion. Indeed, many persons might affirm that you have gone beyond them; but Isay nothing. In the meantime your wishes must be complied with. I willcertainly call Phelim O'Toole and Bridget Doran on Sunday next; and onething I know, that we shall have a very merry congregation. "

Phelim's eyes turned upon the priest and the old woman alternately, with an air of bewilderment which, had the priest been a man of muchobservation, might have attracted his attention. 

"Oh murdher alive, Mrs. Doran, " said Phelim, "how am I to do for clo'es?Faith, I'd like to appear dacent in the thing, anyhow. "

"True, " said the priest. "Have you made no provision for smoothing theexternals of your admirer? Is he to appear in this trim?"

"Bedad, sir, " said Phelim, "we never thought o' that. All the worldknows, your Reverence, that I might carry my purse in my eye, an' neverfeel a mote in it. But the thruth is, sir, she was so lively on thesubject--in a kind of a pleasant, coaxin' hurry of her own--an' indeedI was so myself, too. Augh, Mrs. Doran! Be gorra, sir, she put hercomedher an me entirely, so she did. Well, be my sowl, I'll be theflower of a husband to her anyhow. I hope your Reverence 'll come to thechrist'nin'? But about the clo'es;--bad luck saize the tack I haveto put to my back, but what you see an me, if we wor to be marriedto-morrow. "

"Well, Phelim, aroon, " said Mrs. Doran, "his Reverence here has mylittle pences o' money in his hands, an' the best way is for you to getthe price of a suit from him. You must get clo'es, an' good ones, too, Phelim, sooner nor any stop should be put to our marriage. "

"Augh, Mrs. Doran, " said Phelim, ogling her from the safe eye, with atender suavity of manner that did honor to his heart; "be gorra, ma'am, you've played the puck entirely wid me. Faith, I'm gettin' fonder an'fonder of her every minute, your Reverence. "

He set his eye, as he uttered this, so sweetly and significantly uponthe old house-keeper, that the priest thought it a transgression ofdecorum in his presence. 

"I think, " said he, "you had better keep your melting looks to yourself, Phelim. Restrain your gallantry, if you please, at least until Iwithdraw. "

"Why, blood alive! sir, when people's fond of one another, it's hard tokeep the love down. Augh, Mrs. Doran! Faith, you've rendhored my heartlike a lump o' tallow. "

"Follow me to the parlor, " said the priest, "and let me know, Bridget, what sum I am to give to this melting gallant of yours. "

"I may as well get what'll do the weddin' at wanst, " observed Phelim. "It'll save throuble, in the first place; an' sackinly, it'll save time;for, plase Goodness, I'll have everything ready for houldin' the weddin'the Monday afther the last call. By the hole o' my coat, the minute Iget the clo'es we'll be spliced, an' thin for the honeymoon!"

"How much money shall I give him?" said the priest. 

"Indeed, sir, I think you ought to know that; I'm ignorant o' what 'udmake a dacent weddin'. We don't intend to get married undher a hedge;we've frinds an both sides, an' of course, we must have them about us, plase Goodness. "

"Be gorra, sir, it's no wondher I'm fond of her, the darlin'? Bad win toyou, Mrs. Doran, how did you come over me at all?"

"Bridget, " said the priest, "I have asked you a simple question, to which I expect a plain answer. What money am I to give thistallow-hearted swain of yours?"

"Why, your Reverence, whatsomever you think may be enough for full, an'plinty, an' dacency, at the weddin'. "

"Not forgetting the thatch for me, in the mane time, " said Phelim. "Nothin' less will sarve us, plase your Reverence. Maybe, sir, you'dthink 'of comin' to the weddin' yourself?"

"There are in my hands, " observed the priest, "one hundred andtwenty-two guineas of your money, Bridget. Here, Phelim, are ten foryour wedding suit and wedding expenses. Go to your wedding! No!don't suppose for a moment that I countenance this transaction in theslightest degree. I comply with your wishes, because I heartilydespise you both; but certainly this foolish old woman most. Give me anacknowledgment for this, Phelim. "

"God bless you, sir!" said Phelim, as if he had paid them a compliment. "In regard o' the acknowledgment, sir, I acknowledge it wid all myheart; but bad luck to the scrape at all I can write. "

"Well, no matter. You admit, Bridget, that I give this money to thisblessed youth by your authority and consent. "

"Surely, your Reverence; I'll never go back of it. "

"Now, Phelim, " said the priest, "you have the money; pray get married assoon as possible. "

"I'll give you my oath, " said Phelim; "an' be the blessed iron tongs inthe grate there, I'll not lose a day in gettin' myself spliced. Isn'tshe the tendher-hearted sowl, your Reverence? Augh, Mrs. Doran!"

"Leave my place, " said the priest. "I cannot forget the old proverb, that one fool makes many, but an old fool is worse than any. So it iswith this old woman. "

"Ould woman! Oh, thin, I'm sure I don't desarve this from yourReverence!" exclaimed the housekeeper, wiping her eyes: "if I'm a littleseasoned now, you know I wasn't always so. If ever there was a faithfulsarvant, I was that, an' managed your house and place as honestly asI'll manage my own, plase Goodness. "

As they left the parlor, Phelim became the consoler. 

"Whisht, you darlin'!" he exclaimed. "Sure you'll have Bouncin' Phelimto comfort you. But now that he has shut the door, what--hem--I'dtake it as a piece o' civility if you'd open my eyes a little; Imane--hem--was it--is this doin' him, or how? Are you--hem--do youundherstand me, Mrs. Doran?"

"What is it you want to know, Phelim? I think everything is very plain. "

"Oh, the divil a plainer, I suppose. But in the mane time, might oneaxe, out o' mere curiosity, if you're in airnest?"

"In airnest! Arrah, what did I give you my money for, Phelim? Well, nowthat everything is settled, God forgive you if you make a bad husband tome. "

"A bad what?"

"I say, God forgive you if you make a bad husband to me. I'm afeard, Phelim, that I'll be too foolish about you--that I'll be too fond ofyou. "

Phelim looked at her in solemn silence, and then replied--"Let us trustin God that you may be enabled to overcome the weakness. Pray to Himto avoid all folly, an' above everything, to give you a dacent stock ofdiscration, for it's a mighty fine thing for a woman of your yea--hem--amighty fine thing it is, indeed, for a sasoned woman, as you say youare. "

"When will the weddin' take place, Phelim?"

"The what?" said Phelim, opening his brisk eye with a fresh stare ofdismay. 

"Why, the weddin', acushla. When will it take place? I think the Mondayafther the last call 'ud be the best time. We wouldn't lose a day thin. Throth, I long to hear my last call over, Phelim, jewel. "

Phelim gave her another look. 

"The last call! Thin, by the vestment, you don't long half as much foryour last call as I do. "

"Arrah, Phoilim, did you take the--the--what you wor wantin' awhileagone? Throth, myself disremimbers. "

"Ay, around dozen o' them. How can you forget it?"

The idiot in the corner here gave a loud snore, but composed himself tosleep, as if insensible to all that passed. 

"Throth, an' I do forget it. Now, Phelim, you'll not go till you take acup o' tay wid myself. Throth, I do forget it, Phelim darlin', jewel. "

Phelim's face now assumed a very queer expression. He twisted hisfeatures into all possible directions; brought his mouth first round toone ear and then to the other; put his hand, as if in great pain, on thepit of his stomach; lifted one knee up till it almost touched hischin, then let it down, and instantly brought up the other in a similarmanner. 

"Phelim, darlin', what ails you?" inquired the tender old nymph. "Wurrah, man alive, aren't you well?"

"Oh, be the vestment, " said Phelim, "what's this at all? Murdher, sheery, what'll I do! Oh, I'm very bad! At death's door, so I am! Begorra, Mrs. Doran, I must be off. "

"Wurrah, Phelim dear, won't you stop till we settle everything?"

"Oh, purshuin' to the ha'p'orth I can settle till I recover o' thismurdherin' colic! All's asthray wid me in the inside. I'll see you--I'llsee you--_Hanim an dioul!_ what's this?--I must be off like a shot--oh, murdher sheery?--but--but--I'll see you to-morrow. In the mane time, I'm--I'm--for ever oblaged to you for--for--lendin' me the--loan of--oh, by the vestments, I'm a gone man!--for lendin' me the loan of the tenguineas--Oh, I'm gone!"

Phelim disappeared on uttering these words, and his strides on passingout of the house were certainly more rapid and vigorous than those ofa man laboring under pain. In fact, he never looked behind him untilone-half the distance between the priest's house and his father's cabinhad been fairly traversed. 

Some misgivings occurred to the old housekeeper, but her vanity, havingbeen revived by Phelim's blarney, would not permit her to listento them. She had, besides, other motive to fortify her faith in hisattachment. First, there was her money, a much larger sum than everPhelim could expect with any other woman, young or old; again, they wereto be called on the following Sunday, and she knew that when a marriageaffair proceeds so far, obstruction or disappointment is not to beapprehended. 

When Phelim reached home, he found the father returned after havingborrowed a full suit of clothes for him. Sam Appleton on hearing fromLarry that Bouncing Phelim was about to get a "Great Match, "* generouslylent him coat, waistcoat, hat, and small-clothes. 

 * When a country girl is said to have a large fortune, the peasantry, when speaking of her in reference to matrimony, say she's a "Great Match. "

When Phelim presented himself at home, he scarcely replied to thequeries put to him by his father and mother concerning his interviewwith the priest. He sat down, rubbed his hands, scratched his head, roseup, and walked to and fro, in a mood of mind so evidently between mirthand chagrin, that his worthy parents knew not whether to be merry ormiserable. 

"Phelim, " said the mother, "did you take anything while you wor away?"

"Did I take anything! is it? Arrah, be asy, ould woman! Did I takeanything! Faith you may say that!"

"Let us know, anyhow, what's the matther wid you?' asked the father. 

"Tare-an'-ounze!" exclaimed the son, "what is this for, at all at all?It's too killin' I am, so it is. "

"You're not lookin' at Sam Appleton's clo'es, " said the father, "that helent you the loan of, hat an' all?"

"Do you want to put an affront upon me, ould man? To the divil widhimself an' his clo'es! When I wants clo'es I'll buy them wid my ownmoney!'

"Larry, " observed the mother, "there's yourself all over--as proud asa payoock when the sup's in your head, an' 'ud spake as big widout thesign o' money in your pocket, as if you had the rint of an estate. "

"What do you say about the sign o' money?" exclaimed Phelim, with aswagger. "Maybe you'll call that the sign o' money!" he added, producingthe ten guineas in gold. The father and mother looked at it for aconsiderable time, then at each other, and shook their heads. 

"Phelim!" said the father, solemnly. "Phelim!" said the mother, awfully;and both shook their heads again. 

"You wor never over-scrupulous, " the father proceeded, "an' you knowyou have many little things to answer for, in the way of pickin' up whatdidn't belong to yourself. I think, too, you're not the same boy you worafore you tuck to swearin' the alibies. 

"Faith, an' I doubt I'll haye to get some one to swear an alibi formyself soon, " Phelim replied. 

"Why, blessed hour!" said Larry, "didn't I often tell you never to jointhe boys in anything that might turn out a hangin' matther?"

"If this is not a hangin' matther, " said Phelim, "it's something nearlyas bad: it's a marryin' matther. Sure I deluded another since you seenme last. Divil a word o' lie in it. I was clane fell in love wid thismornin' about seven o'clock. "

"But how did you get the money, Phelim?"

"Why, from the youthful sprig that fell in love wid me. Sure we're to be'called' in the Chapel on Sunday next. "

"Why thin now, Phelim! An' who is the young crathur? for in throth shemust be young to go to give the money beforehand!"

"Murdher!" exclaimed Phelim, "what's this for! Was ever any one doneas I am? Who is she! Why she's--oh, murdher, oh!--she's no otherthan--hem--divil a one else than Father O'Hara's housekeeper, ould BiddyDoran!"

The mirth of the old couple was excessive. The father laughed till hefell off his stool, and the mother till the tears ran down her cheeks. 

"Death alive; ould man! but you're very merry, " said Phelim. "If you wormy age, an' in such an' amplush, you'd laugh on the wrong side o' yourmouth. Maybe you'll tarn your tune when you hear that she has a hundhreand twenty guineas. "

"An' you'll be rich, too, " said the father. "The sprig an' you will berich!--ha, ha, ha!"

"An' the family they'll have!" said the mother, in convulsions. 

"Why, in regard o' that, " said Phelim, rather nettled, "if all fails us, sure we can do as my father and you did: kiss the Lucky Stone, an' makea Station. "

"Phelim, aroon, " said the mother, seriously, "put it out o' your head. Sure you wouldn't go to bring me a daughter-in-law oulder nor myself?"

"I'd as soon go over, " (* be transported) said Phelim; "or swing itself, before I'd marry sich a piece o' desate. Hard feelin' to her! how shedid me to my face!"

Phelim then entered into a long-visaged detail of the scene atFather O'Hara's, dwelling bitterly on the alacrity with which the oldhousekeeper ensnared him in his own mesh. 

"However, " he concluded, "she'd be a sharp one if she'd do mealtogether. We're not married yet; an' I've a consate of my own, thatshe's done for the ten guineas, any how!"

A family council was immediately held upon Phelim's matrimonialprospects. On coming close to the speculation of Miss Patterson, itwas somehow voted, notwithstanding Phelim's powers of attraction, to berather a discouraging one. Gracey Dalton was also given up. The matterwas now serious, the time short, and Phelim's bounces touching his ownfascinations with the sex in general, were considerably abated. It wastherefore resolved that he ought to avail himself of Sam Appleton'sclothes, until his own could be made. Sam, he said, would not press himfor them immediately, inasmuch as he was under obligations to Phelim'ssilence upon some midnight excursions that he had made. 

"Not, " added Phelim, "but I'm as much, an' maybe more in his power, thanhe is in mine. "

When breakfast was over, Phelim and the father, after having determinedto "drink a bottle" that night in the family of an humble young woman, named Donovan, who, they all agreed, would make an excellent wife forhim, rested upon their oars until evening. In the meantime, Phelimsauntered about the village, as he was in the habit of doing, whilst thefather kept the day as a holiday. We have never told our readers thatPhelim was in love, because in fact we know not whether he was or not. Be this as it may, we simply inform them, that in a little shed inthe lower end of the village, lived a person with whom Phelim was veryintimate, called Foodie Flattery. He was, indeed, a man after Phelim'sown heart, and Phelim was a boy after his. He maintained himself byriding country races; by handing, breeding, and feeding cocks; byfishing, poaching, and serving processes; and finally, by his knowledgeas a cow-doctor and farrier--into the two last of which he had givenPhelim some insight. We say the two last, for in most of the otheraccomplishments Phelim was fully his equal. Phelim frequently envied himhis life. It was an idle, amusing, vagabond kind of existence, justsuch a one as he felt a relish for. This man had a daughter, ratherwell-looking; and it so happened, that he and Phelim had frequentlyspent whole nights out together, no one knew on what employment. IntoFlattery's house did Phelim saunter with something like an inclinationto lay the events of the day before him, and to ask his advice upon hisfuture prospects. On entering the cabin he was much surprised to findthe daughter in a very melancholy mood; a circumstance which puzzledhim not a little, as he knew that they lived very harmoniously together. Sally had been very useful to her father; and, if fame did not belieher, was sometimes worthy Foodie's assistant in his nocturnal exploits. She was certainly reputed to be "light-handed;" an imputation whichcaused the young men of her acquaintance to avoid, in their casualconversations with her, any allusion to matrimony. 

"Sally, achora, " said Phelim, when he saw her in distress, "what's thefun? Where's your father?"

"Oh, Phelim, " she replied, bursting into tears, "long runs the fox, buthe's cotch at last. My father's in gaol. "

Phelim's jaw dropped. "In gaol! _Chorp an diouol_, no!"

"It's thruth, Phelim. Curse upon this Whiteboy business, I wish it neverhad come into the counthry at all. "

"Sally, I must see him; you know I must. But tell me how it happened?Was it at home he was taken?"

"No; he was taken this mornin' in the market. I was wid him sellin' somechickens. What'll you and Sam Appleton do, Phelim?"

"Uz! Why, what danger is there to either Sim or me, you darlin'?"

"I'm sure, Phelim, I don't know; but he tould me, that if I was providedfor, he'd be firm, an' take chance of his thrial. But, he says, poorman, that it 'ud break his heart to be thransported, lavin' me behindhim wid' nobody to take care o' me. --He says, too, if anything 'ud makehim stag, it's fear of the thrial goin' against himself; for, as he saidto me, what 'ud become of you, Sally, if anything happened me?"

A fresh flood of tears followed this disclosure, and Phelim's face, which was certainly destined to undergo on that day many variations ofaspect, became remarkably blank. 

"Sally, you insinivator, I'll hould a thousand guineas you'd never guesswhat brought me here to-day?"

"Arrah, how could I, Phelim? To plan some thin' wid my fadher, maybe. "

"No, but to plan somethin' wid yourself, you coaxin' jewel you. Nowtell me this--Would you marry a certain gay, roguish, well-built youngfellow, they call Bouncin' Phelim?"

"Phelim, don't be gettin' an wid your fun now, an' me in affliction. Sure, I know well you wouldn't throw yourself away upon a poor girl likeme, that has nothin' but a good pair of hands to live by. "

"Be me sowl, an' you live by them. Well, but set incase--supposin'--that same Bouncin' Phelim was willing to make youmistress of the Half Acre, what 'ud you be sayin'?"

"Phelim, if a body thought you worn't jokin' them--ah, the dickens gowid you, Phelim--this is more o' your thricks--but if it was thruth youwor spakin', Phelim?"

"It is thruth, " said Phelim; "be the vestment, it's nothin' else. Now, say yes or no; for if it's a thing that it's to be a match, you must goan' tell him that I'll marry you, an' he must be as firm as a rock. Butsee, Sally, by thim five crasses it's not bekase your father's in I'mmarryin' you at all. Sure I'm in love wid you, acushla! Divil a lie init. Now, yes or no?"

"Well--throth--to be sure--the sorra one, Phelim, but you have quareways wid you. Now are you downright in airnest?"

"Be the stool I'm sittin' on!"

"Well, in the name o' Goodness, I'll go to my father, an' let him knowit. Poor man, it'll take the fear out of his heart. Now can he depind onyou, Phelim?"

"Why, all I can say is, that we'll get ourselves called on Sunday next. Let himself, sure, send some one to autorise the priest to call us. An' now that's all settled, don't I desarve somethin'? Oh, be gorra, surely. "

"Behave, Phelim--oh--oh--Phelim, now--there you've tuck it--och, thecurse o' the crows on you, see the way you have my hair down! There now, you broke my comb, too. Troth, you're a wild slip, Phelim. I hope youwon't be goin' on this way wid the girls, when you get married. "

"Is it me you coaxer? No, faith, I'll wear a pair of winkers, for fraido' lookin' at them at all! Oh be gorra, no, bally, I'll lave that to thegreat people. Sure, they say, the divil a differ they make at all. "

"Go off now, Phelim, till I get ready, an' set out to my father. But, Phelim, never breathe a word about him bein' in goal. No one knows itbut ourselves--that is, none o' the neighbors. "

"I'll sing dumb, " said Phelim. "Well, _binaght lath, a rogarah!_* Tellhim the thruth--to be game, an' he'll find you an' me sweeled togetherwhin he comes out, plase Goodness. "

 * My blessing be with you, you rogue!

Phelim was but a few minutes gone, when the old military cap of Fool Artprojected from the little bed-room, which a wicker wall, plastered withmud, divided from the other part of the cabin. 

"Is he gone?" said Art. 

"You may come out, Art, " said she, "he's gone. "

"Ha!" said Art, triumphantly, "I often tould him, when he vexed me an'pelted me wid snow-balls, that I'd come along sides wid him yet. An'it's not over aither. Fool Art can snore when he's not asleep, an' seewid his eyes shut. Wherroo for Art!"

"But, Art, maybe he intinds to marry the housekeeper afther all?"

 "Hi the colic, the colic! An' ho the colic for Phelim!"

"Then you think he won't, Art?"

 "Hi the colic, the colic! An' ho the colic for Phelim!"

"Now, Art, don't say a word about my father not bein' in gaol. He's tobe back from my grandfather's in a short time, an' if we manage well, you'll see what you'll get, Art--a brave new shirt, Art. "

"Art has the lane for Phelim, but it's not the long one wid no turn init. Wherroo for Art!"

Phelim, on his return home, felt queer; here was a second matrimonialpredicament, considerably worse than the first, into which he was hookeddecidedly against his will. The worst feature in this case was thedanger to be apprehended from Foodie Flattery's disclosures, shouldhe take it into his head to 'peach upon his brother Whiteboys. Indeed, Phelim began to consider it a calamity that he ever entered into theirsystem at all; for, on running over his exploits along with them, hefelt that he was liable to be taken up any morning of the week, andlodged in one of his majesty's boarding-houses. The only security he hadwas the honesty of his confederates; and experience took the liberty ofpointing out to him many cases in which those who considered themselvesquite secure, upon the same grounds, either dangled or crossed thewater. He remembered, too, some prophecies that had been utteredconcerning him with reference both to hanging and matrimony. Touching the former it was often said, that "he'd die where the birdflies"--between heaven and earth; on matrimony, that there seldom was aswaggerer among the girls but came to the ground at last. 

Now Phelim had a memory of his own, and in turning over his situation, and the prophecies that had been so confidently pronounced concerninghim, he felt, as we said, rather queer. He found his father and motherin excellent spirits when he got home. The good man had got a gallon ofwhiskey on credit; for it had been agreed on not to break the ten goldenguineas until they should have ascertained how the matchmaking wouldterminate that night at Donovan's. 

"Phelim, " said the father, "strip yourself, an' put on Sam's clo'es: youmust send him down yours for a day or two; he says it's the least he mayhave the wearin' o' them, so long as you have his. "

"Right enough, " said Phelim; "Wid all my heart; I'm ready to make a fairswap wid him any day, for that matther. "

"I sent word to the Donovans that we're to go to coort there to night, "said Larry; "so that they'll be prepared for us; an' as it would beshabby not to have a friend, I asked Sam Appleton himself. He's to follyus. "

"I see, " said Phelim, "I see. Well, the best boy in Europe Sam is, forsuch a spree. Now, Fadher, you must lie like the ould diouol tonight. Back everything I say, an' there's no fear of us. But about what she'sto get, you must hould out for that. I'm to despise it, you know. I'llabuse you for spakin' about fortune, but don't budge an inch. "

"It's not the first time I've done that for you, Phelim; but in regardo' these ten guineas, why you must put them in your pocket for fraidthey be wantin' to get off wid layin' down guinea for guinea. You see, they don't think we have a rap; an' if they propose it we'll be up tothem. "

"Larry, " observed Sheelah, "don't make a match except they give that pigthey have. Hould out for that by all means. "

"Tare-an'-ounze!" exclaimed Phelim, "am I goin' to take the counthry outo' the face? By the vestments, I'm a purty boy! Do you know the freshnews I have for yez?"

"Not ten guineas more, Phelim?" replied the father. 

"Maybe you soodhered another ould woman, " said the mother. 

"Be asy, " replied Phelim. "No, but the five crasses, I deluded a youngone since! I went out!"

The old couple were once more disposed to be mirthful; but Phelimconfirmed his assertion with such a multiplicity of oaths, that theybelieved him. Nothing, however, could wring the secret of her nameout of him. He had reasons for concealing it which he did not wish todivulge. In fact, he could never endure ridicule, and the name of SallyFlattery, as the person whom he had "deluded, " would constitute, on hispart, a triumph quite as sorry as that which he had achieved inFather O'Hara's. In Ireland no man ever thinks of marrying a femalethief--which Sally was strongly suspected to be--except some worthyfellow, who happens to be gifted with the same propensity. 

When the proper hour arrived, honest Phelim, after having already madearrangements to be called on the following Sunday, as the intendedhusband of two females, now proceeded with great coolness to make, if possible, a similar engagement with a third. There is something, however, to be said for Phelim. His conquest over the housekeeper wasconsiderably out of the common course of love affairs. He had drawnupon his invention, only to bring himself and the old woman out of theridiculous predicament in which the priest found them. He had, moreover, intended to prevail on her to lend him the hat, in case the priesthimself had refused him. He was consequently not prepared for thevigorous manner in which Mrs. Doran fastened upon the subject ofmatrimony. On suspecting that she was inclined to be serious, hepleaded his want of proper apparel; but here again the liberality ofthe housekeeper silenced him, whilst, at the same time, it opened anexcellent prospect of procuring that which he most required--a decentsuit of clothes. This induced him to act a part that he did not feel. He saw the old woman was resolved to outwit him, and he resolved tooverreach the old woman. 

His marriage with Sally Flattery was to be merely a matter of chance. Ifhe married her at all, he knew it must be in self-defence. He felt thather father had him in his power, and that he was anything but a man tobe depended on. He also thought that his being called with her, on theSunday following, would neutralize his call with the housekeeper; justas positive and negative quantities in algebra cancel each other. But hewas quite ignorant that the story of Flattery's imprisonment was merelya plan of the daughter's to induce him to marry her. 

With respect to Peggy Donovan, he intended, should he succeed inextricating himself from the meshes which the other two had thrownaround him, that she should be the elected one to whom he was anxious tounite himself. As to the confusion produced by being called to three atonce, he knew that, however laughable in itself, it would be preciselysomething like what the parish would expect from him. Bouncing Phelimwas no common man, and to be called to three on the same Sunday, wouldbe a corroboration of his influence with the sex. It certainly chagrinedhim not a little that one of them was an old woman, and the other ofindifferent morals; but still it exhibited the claim of three womenupon one man, and that satisfied him. His mode of proceeding with PeggyDonovan was regular, and according to the usages of the country. Thenotice had been given that he and his father would go a courting, and ofcourse they brought the whiskey with them, that being the custom amongpersons in their circumstances in life. These humble courtships verymuch resemble the driving of a bargain between two chapmen; for, indeed, the closeness of the demands on the one side, and the reluctance ofconcession on the other, are almost incredible. Many a time has a matchbeen broken up by a refusal on the one part, to give a slip of a pig, or a pair of blankets, or a year-old calf. These are small mattersin themselves, but they are of importance to those who, perhaps, havenothing else on earth with which to begin the world. The house towhich Phelim and his father directed themselves was, like their own, of the-humblest description. The floor of it was about sixteen feet bytwelve; its furniture rude and scanty. To the right of the fire was abed, the four posts of which ran up to the low roof; it was curtainedwith straw mats, with the exception of an opening about a foot and ahalf wide on the side next the fire, through which those who slept in itpassed. A little below the foot of the bed were ranged a few shelves ofdeal, supported by pins of wood driven into the wall. These constitutedthe dresser. In the lower end of the house stood a potato-bin, made upof stakes driven into the floor, and wrought with strong wicker-work. Tied to another stake beside this bin stood a cow, whose hinder partprojected so close to the door, that those who entered the cabin werecompelled to push her over out of their way. This, indeed, was effectedwithout much difficulty, for the animal became so habituated to thenecessity of moving aside, that it was only necessary to lay the handupon her. Above the door in the inside, almost touching the roof, wasthe hen-roost, made also of wicker-work; and opposite the bed, on theother side of the fire, stood a meal-chest. 

Its lid on a level with the little pane of glass which served as awindow. An old straw chair, a few stools, a couple of pots, some woodenvessels and crockery, completed the furniture of the house. The pig towhich Sheolah alluded was not kept within the cabin, that filthy custombeing now less common than formerly. 

This catalogue of cottage furniture may appear to our English readersvery miserable. We beg them to believe, however, that if every cabinin Ireland were equally comfortable, the country would be comparativelyhappy. Still it is to be remembered, that the _dramatis personae_ of ourstory are of the humblest class. 

When seven o'clock drew nigh, the inmates of this little cabin placedthemselves at a clear fire; the father at one side, the mother at theother, and the daughter directly between them, knitting, for this isusually the occupation of a female on such a night. Everything in thehouse was clean; the floor swept; the ashes removed from the hearth;the parents in their best clothes, and the daughter also in her holidayapparel. She was a plain girl, neither remarkable for beauty, norotherwise. Her eyes, however, were good, so were her teeth, and ananxious look, produced of course by an occasion so interesting toa female, heightened her complexion to a blush that became her. Thecreature had certainly made the most of her little finery. Her faceshone like that of a child after a fresh scrubbing with a strong towel;her hair, carefully curled with the hot blade of a knife, had beensmoothed with soap until it became lustrous by repeated polishing, andher best red ribbon was tied tightly about it in a smart knot, thatstood out on the side of her head with something of a coquettish air. Old Donovan and his wife maintained a conversation upon some indifferentsubject, but the daughter evidently paid little attention to what theysaid. It being near the hour appointed for Phelim's arrival, she satwith an appearance of watchful trepidation, occasionally listening, andstarting at every sound that she thought bore any resemblance to a man'svoice or footstep. 

At length the approach of Phelim and his father was announced by a verseof a popular song, for singing which Phelim was famous;--

 "A sailor coorted a farmer's daughter That lived contagious to the Isle of Man, A long time coortin', an' still discoorsin' Of things consarnin' the ocean wide; At linth he saize, 'My own dearest darlint, Will you consint for to be my bride?'"

"An' so she did consint, the darlin', but what the puck would she doelse? God save the family! Paddy Donovan, how is your health? Molly, avourneen, I'm glad to hear that you're thrivin'. An' Peggy--eh? Ah, begorra, fadher, here's somethin' to look at! Give us the hand of you, youbloomer! Och, och! faith you're the daisey!"

"Phelim, " said the father, "will you behave yourself? Haven't you thenight before you for your capers? Paddy Donovan, I'm glad to see you!Molly, give us your right hand, for, in troth, I have a regard for you!Peggy, dear, how are you? But I'm sure, I needn't be axin when I look atyou! In troth, Phelim, she is somethin' to throw your eye at. "

"Larry Toole, you're welcome, " replied Donovan and his wife, "an' sois your son. Take stools both of you, an' draw near the hearth. Here, Phelim, " said the latter, "draw in an' sit beside myself. "

"Thank you kindly, Molly, " replied Phelim; "but I'll do no sich thing. . Arrah, do you think, now, that I'd begin to gosther wid an ould woman, while I have the likes o' Peggy, the darlin', beside me? I'm up to athrick worth nine of it. No, no; this chest 'll do. Sure you know, Imust help the 'duck of diamonds' here to count her stitches. "

"Paddy, " said Larry, in a friendly whisper, "put this whiskey past fora while, barrin' this bottle that we must taste for good luck. SamAppleton's to come up afther us an', I suppose, some o' your owncleavens 'll be here afther a while. "

"Thrue for you, " said Donovan. "Jemmy Burn and Antony Devlin is to comeover presently. But, Larry, this is nonsense. One bottle o' whiskey waslashins; my Goodness, what'll we be doin' wid a whole gallon?"

"Dacency or nothin', Paddy; if it was my last I'd show sperit, an' whynot? Who'd be for the shabby thing?"

"Well, well, Larry, I can't say but you're right afther all! Maybe I'ddo the same thing myself, for all I'm spakin' aginst it. "

The old people then passed round an introductory glass, after which theychatted away for an hour or so, somewhat like the members of a committeewho talk upon indifferent topics until their brethren are all assembled. 

Phelim, in the meantime, grappled with the daughter, whose knitting hespoiled by hooking the thread with his finger, jogging her elbow untilhe ran the needles past each other, and finally unravelling her clew;all which she bore with great good-humor. Sometimes, indeed, sheventured to give him a thwack upon the shoulder, with a laughing frownupon her countenance, in order to correct him for teasing her. 

When Jemmy Burn and Antony Devlin arrived, the spirits of the party gotup. The whiskey was formally produced, but as yet the subject of thecourtship, though perfectly understood, was not introduced. Phelim andthe father were anxious to await the presence of Sam Appleton, who wasconsidered, by the way, a first-rate hand at match-making. 

Phelim, as is the wont, on finding the din of the conversation raisedto the proper pitch, stole one of the bottles and prevailed on Peggy toadjourn with him to the potato-bin. Here they ensconced themselves verysnugly; but not, as might be supposed, contrary to the knowledge andconsent of the seniors, who winked at each other on seeing Phelimgallantly tow her down with the bottle under his arm. It was onlythe common usage on such occasions, and not considered any violationwhatsoever of decorum. When Phelim's prior engagements are considered, it must be admitted that there was something singularly ludicrous inthe humorous look he gave over his shoulder at the company, as he wenttoward the bin, having the bottom of the whiskey-bottle projectingbehind his elbow, winking at them in return, by way of a hint to mindtheir own business and allow him to plead for himself. The bin, however, turned out to be rather an uneasy seat, for as the potatoes lay ina slanting heap against the wall, Phelim and his sweetheart wereperpetually sliding down from the top to the bottom. Phelim could beindustrious when it suited his pleasure. In a few minutes those who satabout the fire imagined, from the noise at the bin, that the house wasabout to come about their ears. 

"Phelim, you thief, " said the father, "what's all that noise for?"

"_Chrosh orrin!_" (* The cross be about us!) said Molly Donovan, "is thattundher?"

"Devil carry these piatees, " exclaimed Phelim, raking them down withboth hands and all his might, "if there's any sittin' at all upon them!I'm levellin' them to prevint Peggy, the darlin', from slidderin' an' togive us time to be talkin', somethin' lovin' to one another. The curseo' Cromwell an them! One might as well dhrink a glass o' whiskey wid hissweetheart, or spake a tinder word to her, on the wings of a windmill ashere. There now, they're as level as you plase, acushla! Sit down, you jewel you, an' give me the egg-shell, till we have our Sup o' thecrathur in comfort. Faith, it was too soon for us to be comin' down inthe world?"

Phelim and Peggy having each emptied the egg-shell, which among thepoorer Irish is frequently the substitute for a glass, entered intothe following sentimental dialogue, which was covered by the loud andentangled conversation of their friends about the fire; Phelim's armlovingly about her neck, and his head laid down snugly against hercheek. 

"Now, Peggy, you darlin' o' the world--bad cess to me but I'm as glad astwo ten-pennies that I levelled these piatees; there was no sittin' anthem. Eh, avourneen?"

"Why, we're comfortable now, anyhow, Phelim!"

"Faith, you may say that--(a loving squeeze). Now, Peggy, begin an' tellus all about your bachelors. "

"The sarra one ever I had, Phelim. "

"Oh, murdher sheery, what a bounce! Bad cess to me, if you can spakea word o' thruth afther that, you common desaver! Worn't you an' PaddyMoran pullin' a coard?"

"No, in throth; it was given out on us, but we never wor, Phelim. Nothin' ever passed betune us but common civility. He thrated my fatheran' mother wanst to share of half a pint in the Lammas Fair, when I wasalong wid them; but he never broke discoorse wid me barrin', as I sed, in civility an' friendship. "

"An' do you mane to put it down my throath that you never had asweetheart at all?"

"The nerra one. "

"Oh, you thief! Wid two sich lips o' your own, an' two sich eyes o' yourown, an' two sich cheeks o' your own! Oh, --, by the tarn, that won'tpass. "

"Well, an' supposin' I had--behave Phelim--supposin' I had, where's theharm? Sure it's well known all the sweethearts, you had, an' have yet, Isuppose. "

"Be gorra, an' that's thruth; an' the more the merrier, you jewel you, till, one get's married. I had enough of them, in my day, but you're theflower o' them all, that I'd like to spend my life wid"--(a squeeze. )

"The sorra one word the men say a body can trust. I warrant you touldthat story to every one o' them as well as to me. Stop Phelim--it's wellknown that what you say to the colleens is no gospel. You know what theychristened you 'Bouncin' Phelim!"

"Betune you an' me, Peggy, I'll tell you a sacret; I was the boy fordeludin them. It's very well known the matches I might a got; but yousee, you little shaver, it was waitin' for yourself I was. "

"For me! A purty story indeed I'm sure it was! Oh, afther that! Why, Phelim, how can you----Well, well, did any one ever hear the likes?"

"Be the vestments, it's thruth. I had you in my eye these three years, but was waitin' till I'd get together as much money as ud' set us up inthe world dacently. Give me that egg-shell agin. Talkin's dhruthywork. _Shudorth, a rogarah!_ (* This to you you rogue) an' a pleasanthoneymoon to us!"

"Wait till we're married first, Phelim; thin it'll be time enough todhrink that. "

"Come, acushla, it's your turn now; taste the shell, an' you'll see howlovin' it'll make us. Mother's milk's a thrifle to it. "

"Well, if I take this, Phelim, I'll not touch another dhrop to-night. In the mane time here's whatever's best for us! Whoo! Oh, my! but that'sstrong! I dunna how the people can dhrink so much of it!"

"Faith, nor me; except bekase they have a regard for it, an' that it'sworth havin' a regard for, jist like yourself an' me. Upon my faix, Peggy, it bates all, the love an likin' I have for you, an' everhad these three years past. I tould you about the eyes, mavourneen, an'--an'--about the lips--"

"Phelim--behave--I say--now stop wid you--well--well--but you're thetazin' Phelim!--Throth the girls may be glad when you're married, "exclaimed Peggy, adjusting her polished hair. 

"Bad cess to the bit, if ever I got so sweet a one in my life--thesoft end of a honeycomb's a fool to it. One thing, Peggy, I can tellyou--that I'll love you in great style. Whin we're marrid it's I that'llsoodher you up. I won't let the wind blow on you. You must give upworkin', too. All I'll ax you to do will be to nurse the childhre; an'that same will keep you busy enough, plase Goodness. "

"Upon my faix, Phelim, you're the very sarra, so you are. Will you beasy now? I'll engage when you're married, it'll soon be another storywid you. Maybe you'd care little about us thin!"

"Be the vestments, I'm spakin' pure gospel, so I am. Sure you don't knowthat to be good husbands runs in our family. Every one of them was assweet as thracle to their wives. Why, there's that ould cock, my fadher, an' if you'd see how he butthers up the ould woman to this day, it 'udmake your heart warm to any man o' the family. "

"Ould an' young was ever an' always the same to you, Phelim. Sure theouldest woman in the parish, if she happened to be single, couldn'tmiss of your blarney. It's reported you're goin' to be marrid to an ouldwoman. '

"He---hem--ahem! Bad luck to this cowld I have! it's stickin' in mythroath entirely, so it is!--hem!--to a what?"

"Why to an ould woman, wid a great deal of the hard goold!"

Phelim put his hand instinctively to his waistcoat pocket, in which hecarried the housekeeper's money. 

"Would you oblage one wid her name?"

"You know ould Molly Kavanagh well enough, Phelim. "

Phelim put up an inward ejaculation of thanks. 

"To the sarra wid her, an' all sasoned women. God be praised that thenight's line, anyhow! Hand me the shell, an' we'll take a _gauliogue_aich, an' afther that we'll begin an' talk over how lovin' an' fond o'one another we'll be. "

"You're takin' too much o' the whiskey, Phelim. Oh, for Goodness'sake!--oh--b--b--n--now be asy. Faix, I'll go to the fire, an' lave youaltogether, so I will, if you don't give over slustherin' me, that way, an' stoppin' my breath. "

"Here's all happiness to our two selves, _acushla machree!_ Now thryanother _gauliogue_, an' you'll see how deludin' it'll make you. "

"Not a sup, Phelim. "

"Arrah, nonsense! Be the vestment, it's as harmless as new milk from thecow. It'll only do you good, alanna. Come now, Peggy, don't be ondacent, an' it our first night's coortin'! Blood alive! don't make little o' myfather's son on sich a night, an' us at business like this, anyhow!"

"Phelim, by the crass, I won't take it; so that ends it. Do you wantto make little o' me? It's not much you'd think o' me in your mind, ifI'd dhrink it. "

"The shell's not half full. "

"I wouldn't brake my oath for all the whiskey in the kingdom; so don'tax me. It's neither right nor proper of you to force it an me. "

"Well, all I say is, that it's makin' little of one Phelim O'Toole, thathasn't a thought in his body but what's over head an' ears in love widyou. I must only dhrink it for you myself, thin. Here's all kinds o'good fortune to us! Now, Peggy, --sit closer to me acushla!--Now, Peggy, are you fond o' me at all? Tell thruth, now. "

"Fond o' you! Sure you know all the girls is fond of you. Aren't you theboy for deludin' them?--ha, ha, ha?"

"Come, come, you shaver; that won't do. Be sarious. If you knew how myheart's warmin' to you this minute, you'd fall in love wid my shadow. Come, now, out wid it. Are you fond of a sartin boy not far from you, called Bouncin' Phelim?"

"To be sure I am. Are you satisfied now? Phelim! I say, "--

"Faith, it won't pass, avourneen. That's not the voice for it. Don'tyou hear me, how tendher I spake wid my mouth brathin' into your ear, _acushla machree?_ Now turn about, like a purty entisin' girl, as youare, an' put your sweet bill to my ear the same way, an' whisper whatyou know into it? That's a darlin'! Will you, achora?"

"An' maybe all this time you're promised to another?"

"Be the vestments, I'm not promised to one. Now! Saize the one!"

"You'll say that, anyhow!"

"Do you see my hands acrass? Be thim five crasses, I'm not promised toa girl livin', so I'm not, nor wouldn't, bekase I had you in my eye. Nowwill you tell me what I'm wantin' you? The grace o' Heaven light downan you, an' be a good, coaxin darlin' for wanst. Be this an' be that, if ever you heerd or seen sich doin's an' times as we'll have when we'remarrid. Now the weeny whisper, a colleen dhas. "

"It's time enough yet to let you know my mind, Phelim. If you behaveyourself an' be-----Why thin is it at the bottle agin you are? Now don'tdhrink so much, Phelim, or it'll get into your head. I was sayin' thatif you behave yourself, an' be a good boy, I may tell you somethin'soon. "

"Somethin' soon! Live horse, an' you'll get grass! Peggy, if that's theway wid you, the love's all on my side, I see clearly. Are you willin'to marry me, anyhow?"

"I'm willin' to do whatsomever my father an' mother wishes. "

"I'm for havin' the weddin' off-hand; an' of coorse, if we agreeto-night, I think our best plan is to have ourselves called on Sunday. An' I'll tell you what, avourneen--be the holy vestments, if I was to be'called' to fifty on the same Sunday, you're the darlin' I'd marry. "

"Phelim, it's time for us to go up to the fire; we're long enough here. I thought you had only three words to say to me. "

"Why, if you're tired o' me, Peggy, I don't want you to stop. I wouldn'tforce myself on the best girl that ever stepped. "

"Sure you have tould me all you want to say, an' there's no use in usstayin' here. You know, Phelim, there's not a girl in the Parish 'udbelieve a word that 'ud come but o' your lips. Sure there's none o' thembut you coorted one time or other. If you could get betther, Phelim, Idunna whether you'd be here to-night at all or not. "

"Answer me this, Peggy. What do you! think your father 'ud be willin' togive you? Not that I care a _cron abaun_ about it, for I'd marry you widan inch of candle. "

"You know my father's but a poor man, Phelim, an' can give little ornothing. Them that won't marry me as I am, needn't come here to look fora fortune. "

"I know that, Peggy, an' be the same token, I want no fortune at all widyou but yourself, darlin'. In the mane time, to show you that I couldget a fortune--_Dhera Lorha Heena_, I could have a wife wid a hundre an'twenty guineas!"

Peggy received this intelligence much in the same manner as Larry andSheelah had received it. Her mirth was absolutely boisterous for atleast ten minutes. Indeed, so loud had it been, that Larry and herfather could not help asking:--

"Arrah, what's the fun, Peggy, achora?"

"Oh, nothin', " she replied, "but one o' Phelim's bounces. "

"Now, " said Phelim, "you won't believe me? Be all the books--"

Peggy's mirth prevented his oaths from being heard. In vain he declared, protested, and swore. On this occasion, he was compelled to experiencethe fate peculiar to all liars. Even truth, from his lips, was lookedupon as falsehood. 

Phelim, on finding that he could neither extort from Peggy anacknowledgment of love, nor make himself credible upon the subjectof the large fortune, saw that he had nothing for it now, in order toproduce an impression, but the pathetic. 

"Well, " said he, "you may lave me, Peggy achora, if you like; but out o'this I'll not budge, wid a blessing, till I cry my skinful, so I won't. Saize the toe I'll move, now, till I'm sick wid cryin'! Oh, murdheralive, this night! Isn't it a poor case entirely, that the girl I'dsuffer myself to be turned inside out for, won't say that she caresabout a hair o' my head! Oh, thin, but I'm the misfortunate blackguardall out! Och, oh! Peggy, achora, you'll break my heart! Hand me thatshell, acushla--for I'm in the height of affliction!"

Peggy could neither withhold it, nor reply to him. Her mirth was evenmore intense now than before; nor, if all were known, was Phelim lessaffected with secret laughter than Peggy. 

"It is makin' fun o' me you are, you thief, eh?--Is it laughin' at mygrief you are?" exclaimed Phelim. "Be the tarn' o' wor, I'll punish youfor that. "

Peggy attempted to escape, but Phelim succeeded, ere she went, in takinga salutation or two, after which both joined those who sat at the fire, and in a few minutes Sam Appleton entered. 

Much serious conversation had already passed in reference to thecourtship, which was finally entered into and debated, pro and con. 

"Now, Paddy Donovan, that we're altogether, let me tell you one thing:there's not a betther natur'd boy, nor a stouther, claner young fellowin the parish, than my Phelim. He'll make your daughther as good, ahusband as ever broke bread!"

"I'm not sayin' against that, Larry. He is a good-nathur'd boy: but Itell you, Larry Toole, that my daughter's his fill of a wife any day. An' I'll put this to the back o' that--she's a hard-workin' girl, thatates no idle bread. "

"Very right, " said Sam Appleton. "Phelim's a hairo, an' she's a beauty. Dang me, but they wor made for one another. Phelim, _abouchal_, whydon't you--oh, I see you are. Why, I was goin' to bid you make up toher. "

"Give no gosther, Sam, " replied Phelim, "but sind round the bottle, an'don't forget to let it come this way. I hardly tasted a dhrop to-night. "

"Oh, Phelim!" exclaimed Peggy. 

"Whisht!" said Phelim, "there's no use in lettin' the ould fellows becommittin' sin. Why, they're hearty (* Tipsy) as it is, the sinners. "

"Come, nabors, " said Burn, "I'm the boy that's for close work. How doesthe match stand? You're both my friends, an' may this be poison to me, but I'll spake like an honest man, for the one as well as for the other. 

"Well, then, " said Donovan, "how is Phelim to support my daughther, Larry? Sure that's a fair questin', any way. "

"Wiry, Paddy, " replied Larry, "when Phelim gets her, he'll have a patchof his own, as well as another. There's that 'half-acre, ' and a bettherpiece o' land isn't in Europe!"

"Well, but what plenishin' are they to have, Larry? A bare half acre'sbut a poor look up. "

"I'd as soon you'd not make little of it, in the mane time, " repliedLarry, rather warmly. "As good a couple as ever they wor lived on thathalf acre; along wid what they earned by hard work otherwise. "

"I'm not disparagin' it, Larry; I'd be long sorry; but about thefurniture? What are they to begin the world wid?"

"Hut, " said Devlin, "go to the sarra wid yez!--What 'ud they want, nomore nor other young people like them, to begin the world wid? Are yougoin' to make English or Scotch of them, that never marries till they'reable to buy a farm an' stock it, the nagurs. By the staff in my hand, anIrish man 'ud lash a dozen o' them, wid all then prudence! Hasn't Pheliman' Peggy health and hands, what most new-married couples in Irelandbegins the world wid? Sure they're not worse nor a thousand others?"

"Success, Antony, " said Phelim. "Here's your health for that!"

"God be thanked they have health and hands, " said Donovan. "Still, Antony, I'd like that they'd have somethin' more. "

"Well, then, Paddy, spake up for yourself, " observed Larry. "What willyou put to the fore for the colleen? Don't take both flesh an' bone!"

"I'll not spake up, till I know all that Phelim's to expect, " saidDonovan. "I don't think he has a right to be axin' anything wid sich agirl as my Peggy. "

"Hut, tut, Paddy! She's a good colleen enough; but do you think she'sabove any one that carries the name of O'Toole upon him? Still, it's butraisonable for you to wish the girl well settled. My Phelim will haveone half o' my worldly goods, at all evints. "

"Name them, Larry, if you plase. "

"Why, he'll have one o' the goats--the gray one, for she's the best o'the two, in throth. He'll have two stools; three hens, an' a toss-upfor the cock. The biggest o' the two pots; two good crocks; three goodwooden trenchers, an'--hem--he'll have his own--I say, Paddy, areyou listenin' to me?--Phelim, do you hear what I'm givin' you, _aveehonee?--his own bed!_ An' there's all I can or will do for him. Nowdo you spake up for Peggy. "

"I'm to have my own bedstead too, " said Phelim, "an' bad cess to thestouter one in Europe. It's as good this minute as it was eighteen yearsagone. "

"Paddy Donovan, spake up, " said Larry. 

"Spake up!" said Paddy, contemptuously. "Is it for three crowns' worthI'd spake up? The bedstead, Phelim! _Bedhu husth_, (* hold your tongue)man!"

"Put round the bottle, " said Phelim, "we're dhry here. "

"Thrue enough, Phelim, " said the father. "Paddy, here's towarst youan' yours--nabors--all your healths--young couple! Paddy, give us yourhand, man alive! Sure, whether we agree or not, this won't put betweenus. "

"Throth, it won't, Larry--an' I'm thankful to you. Your health, Larry, an' all your healths! Phelim an' Peggy, success to yez, whether or not!An' now, in regard o' your civility, I will spake up. My proposal isthis:--I'll put down guinea for guinea wid you. "

Now we must observe, by the way, that this was said under the firmconviction that neither Phelim nor the father had a guinea in theirpossession. 

"I'll do that same, Paddy, " said Larry; "but I'll lave it to the presentcompany, if you're not bound to put down the first guinea. Nabors, amn'tI right?"

"You are right, Larry, " said Burn; "it's but fair that Paddy should putdown the first. "

"Molly, achora, " said Donovan to the wife, who, by the way, was engagedin preparing the little feast usual on such occasions--"Molly, achora, give me that ould glove you have in your pocket. "

She immediately handed him an old shammy glove, tied up into a hardknot, which he felt some difficulty in unloosing. 

"Come, Larry, " said he, laying down a guinea-note, "cover that like aman. "

"Phelim carries my purse, " observed the father; but he had scarcelyspoken when the laughter of the company rang loudly through thehouse--The triumph of Donovan appeared to be complete, for he thoughtthe father's alusion to Phelim tantamount to an evasion. 

"Phelim! Phelim carries it! Faix, an' I, doubt he finds it a lightburdyeen. "

Phelim approached in all his glory. 

"What am I to do?" he inquired, with a swagger. 

"You're to cover that guinea-note wid a guinea, if you can, " saidDonovan. 

"Whether 'ud you prefar goold or notes, " said Phelim, looking pompouslyabout him; "that's the talk. "

This was received with another merry peal of laughter. 

"Oh, goold--goold by all manes!" replied Donovan. 

"Here goes the goold, my worthy, " said Phelim, laying down his guineawith a firm slap upon the table. 

Old Donovan seized it, examined it, then sent it round, to satisfyhimself that it was a _bona fide_ guinea. 

On finding that it was good, he became blank a little; his laugh lostits strength, much of his jollity was instantly neutralized, and hisface got at least two inches longer. Larry now had the laugh againsthim, and the company heartily joined in it. 

"Come, Paddy, " said Larry, "go an!--ha, ha, ha!"

Paddy fished for half a minute through the glove; and, after what wasapparently a hard chase, brought up another guinea, which he laid down. 

"Come, Phelim!" said he, and his eye brightened again with a hope thatPhelim would fail. 

"Good agin!" said Phelim, thundering down another, which was instantlysubjected to a similar scrutiny. 

"You'll find it good, " said Larry. "I wish we had a sackful o' them. Goan, Paddy. Go an, man, who's afeard?"

"Sowl, I'm done, " said Donovan, throwing down the purse with a heartylaugh--"give me your hand, Larry. Be the goold afore us, I thought to doyou. Sure these two guineas is for my rint, an' we mustn't let them comeatween us at all. "

"Now, " said Larry, "to let you see that my son's not widout something tobegin the world wid--Phelim, shill out the rest o' the yallow boys. "

"Faix, you ought to dhrink the ould woman's health for this, " saidPhelim. "Poor ould crathur, many a long day she was savin' up these forme. It's my mother I'm speakin' about. "

"An' we will, too, " said the father; "here's Sheelah's health, neighbors! The best poor man's wife that ever threwn a gown over hershouldhers. "

This was drank with all the honors, and the negotiation proceeded. 

"Now, " said Appleton, "what's to be done? Paddy, say what you'll do forthe girl. "

"Money's all talk, " said Donovan; "I'll give the girl the two-year ouldheifer--an' that's worth double what his father has promised Phelim;I'll give her a stone o' flax, a dacent suit o' clo'es, my blessin'--an'there's her fortune. "

"Has she neither bed nor beddin'?" inquired Larry. 

"Why, don't you say that Phelim's to have his own bed?" observedDonovan. "Sure one bed 'ill be plinty for them. "

"I don't care a damn about fortune, " said Phelim, for the first timetaking a part in the bargain--"so long as I get the darlin' herself. ButI think there 'ud be no harm in havin' a spare pair o' blankets--an', for that matther, a bedstead, too--in case a friend came to see a body. "

"I don't much mind givin' you a brother to the bedstead you have, Phelim, " replied Donovan, winking at the company, for he was perfectlyaware of the nature of Phelim's bedstead. 

"I'll tell you what you must do, " said Larry, "otherwise I'll not standit. Give the colleen a chaff bed, blankets an' all other parts complate, along wid that slip of a pig. If you don't do this, Paddy Donovan, whywe'll finish the whiskey an' part friends--but it's no match. "

"I'll never do it, Larry. The bed an' beddin' I'll give; but the pigI'll by no manner o' manes part wid. "

"Put round the bottle, " said Phelim, "we're gettin' dhry agin--sayin'nothin' is dhroothy work. Ould man, will you not bother us aboutfortune!"

"Come, Paddy Donnovan, " wid Devlin, "dang it, let out a little, considher he has ten guineas; and I give it as my downright maxim anopinion, that he's fairly entitled to the pig. "

"You're welcome to give your opinion, Antony, an' I'm welcome not tocare a rotten sthraw about it. My daughter's wife enough for him, widouta gown to her back, if he had his ten guineas doubled. "

"An' my son, " said Larry, "is husband enough for a betther girl nor evercalled you father--not makin' little, at the same time, of either you orher. "

"Paddy, " said Burn, "there's no use in spakin' that way. I agree widAntony, that you ought to throw in the 'slip. '"

"Is it what I have to pay my next gale o' rint wid? No, no! If he won'tmarry her widout it, she'll get as good that will. "

"Saize the 'slip, " said Phelim, "the darlin' herself here is all theslip I want. "

"But I'm not so, " said Larry, "the 'slip' must go in, or it's a brakeoff. Phelim can get girls that has money enough to buy us all out o'root. Did you hear that, Paddy Donovan?"

"I hear it, " said Paddy, "but I'll b'lieve as much of it as I like. "

Phelim apprehended that as his father got warm with the liquor, hemight, in vindicating the truth of his own assertion, divulge the affairof the old housekeeper. 

"Ould man, " said he "have sinse, an' pass that over, if you have anyregard for Phelim. "

"I'd not be brow-bate into anything, " observed Donovan. 

"Sowl, you would not, " said Phelim; "for my part, Paddy, I'm ready tomarry your daughther (a squeeze to Peggy) widout a ha'p'orth at all, barrin' herself. It's the girl I want, an' not the slip. "

"Thin, be the book, you'll get both, Phelim, for your dacency, " saidDonovan; "but, you see I wouldn't be bullied into' puttin' one foot pastthe other, for the best man that ever stepped on black leather. "

"Whish!" said Appleton, "that's the go! Success ould heart! Give us yourhand, Paddy, --here's your good health, an' may you never button an emptypocket!"

"Is all settled?" inquired Molly. 

"All, but about the weddin' an' the calls, " replied her husband. "Howare we to do about that, Larry?"

"Why, in the name o' Goodness, to save time, " he replied, "let them becalled on Sunday next, the two Sundays afther, an thin marrid, wid ablessin'. "

"I agree wid that entirely, " observed Molly; "an' now Phelim, clearaway, you an' Peggy, off o' that chist, till we have our bit o' supperin comfort. "

"Phelim, " said Larry, "when the suppers done, you must slip over toRoche's for a couple o' bottles more o' whiskey. We'll make a night ofit. "

"There's two bottles in the house, " said Donovan; "an', be thesaikerment, the first man that talks of bringin' in more, till these isdhrunk, is ondacent. "

This was decisive. In the meantime, the chest was turned into a table, the supper laid, and the attack commenced. All was pleasure, fun, and friendship. The reader may be assured that Phelim, during thenegotiation, had not misspent the time with Peggy, Their conversation, however, was in a tone too low to be heard by those who were themselvestalking loudly. 

One thing, however, Phelim understood from his friend Sam Appleton, which was, that some clue had been discovered to an outrage in which he(Appleton) had been concerned. Above all other subjects, that was one onwhich Phelim was but a poor comforter. He himself found circumspectionnecessary; and he told Appleton, that if ever danger approached him, hehad resolved either to enlist, or go to America, if he could command themoney. 

"You ought to do that immediately, " added Phelim. 

"Where's the money?" replied the other. "I don't know, " said Phelim;"but if I was bent on goin', the want of money wouldn't stop me as longas it could be found in the counthry. We had to do as bad for others, an' it can't be a greater sin to do that much for ourselves. "

"I'll think of it, " said Appleton. "Any rate, it's in for a penny, infor a pound, wid me. "

When supper was over, they resumed their drinking, sang songs, and toldanecdotes with great glee and hilarity. Phelim and Peggy danced jigs andreels, whilst Appleton sang for them, and the bottle also did its duty. 

On separating about two o'clock, there was not a sober man among thembut Appleton. He declined drinking, and was backed in his abstemiousnessby Phelim, who knew that sobriety on the part of Sam would leave himselfmore liquor. Phelim, therefore, drank for them both, and that to suchexcess, that Larry, by Appleton's advice, left him at his father's inconsequence of his inability to proceed homewards. It was not, however, without serious trouble that Appleton could get Phelim and the fatherseparated; and when he did, Larry's grief was bitter in the extreme. Bymuch entreaty, joined to some vigorous shoves towards the door, he wasprevailed upon to depart without him; but the old man compensated forthe son's absence, by indulging in the most vociferous sorrow as hewent along, about "Ma Phelim. " When he reached home, his grief burst outafresh; he slapped the palms of his hands together, and indulged in acontinuous howl, that one on hearing it would imagine to be the veryecho of misery, When he had fatigued himself, he fell asleep on the bed, without having undressed, where he lay until near nine o'clock the nextmorning. Having got up and breakfasted, he related to his wife, with anaching head, the result of the last night's proceedings. Everythinghe assured her was settled: Phelim and Peggy were to be called thefollowing Sunday, as Phelim, he supposed, had already informed her. 

"Where's Phelim?" said the wife; "an' why didn't he come home wid youlast night?"

"Where is Phelim? Why, Sheelah, woman sure he did come home wid me lastnight. "

"_Ghrush orrin_, Larry, no! What could happen him? Why, man, I thoughtyou knew where he was; an' in regard of his bein' abroad so often atnight, myself didn't think it sthrange. "

Phelim's absence astounded them both, particularly the father, whohad altogether forgotten everything that had happened on the precedingnight, after the period of his intoxication. He proposed to go back toDonovan's to inquire for him, and was about to proceed there when Phelimmade his appearance, dressed in his own tender apparel only. His facewas three inches longer than usual, and the droop in his eye remarkablyconspicuous. 

"No fear of him, " said the father, "here's himself. Arrah, Phelim, whatbecame of you last night? Where wor you?"

Phelim sat down very deliberately and calmly, looked dismally at hismother, and then looked more dismally at his father. 

"I suppose you're sick too, Phelim, " said the father. "My head's goin'round like a top. "

"Ate your breakfast, " said his mother; it's the best thing for you. "

"Where wor you last night, Phelim?" inquired the father. 

"What are you sayin', ould man?"

"Who wor you wid last night?"

"Do, Phelim, " said the mother, "tell us, aroon. I hope it wasn't out youwor. Tell us, avourneen?"

"Ould woman, what are you talking about?"

Phelim whistled "_ulican dim oh_, " or, "the song of sorrow. " At lengthhe bounced to his feet, and exclaimed in a loud, rapid voice:--"_Machuirp an diouol!_ ould couple, but I'm robbed of my ten guineas by SamAppleton!"

"Robbed by Sam Appleton! Heavens above!" exclaimed the father. 

"Robbed by Sam Appleton! _Gra machree_, Phelim! no, you aren't!"exclaimed the mother. 

"_Gra machree_ yourself! but I say I am, " replied Phelim; "robbed claneof every penny of it!"

Phelim then sat down to breakfast--for he was one of those happy mortalswhose appetite is rather sharpened by affliction--and immediatelyrelated to his father and mother the necessity which Appleton'sconnection had imposed on him of leaving the country; adding, that whilehe was in a state of intoxication, he had been stripped of Appleton'sclothes; that his own were left beside him; that when he awoke the nextmorning, he found his borrowed suit gone; that on searching for his own, he found, to his misery, that the ten guineas had disappeared along withAppleton, who, he understood from his father, had "left the neighborhoodfor a while, till the throuble he was in 'ud pass over. "

"But I know where he's gone, " said Phelim, "an' may the divil's luck gowid him, an' God's curse on the day I ever had anything to do widthat hell-fire Ribbon business! 'Twas he first brought me into it, thevillain; an' now I'd give the town land we're in to be fairly out ofit. "

"_Hanim an diouol!_" said the father, "is the ten guineas gone? Thecurse of hell upon him, for a black desaver! Where's the villain, Phelim?"

"He's gone to America, " replied the son* "The divil tare the tongueout o' myself, ' too! I should be puttin' him up to go there, an' to getmoney, if it was to be had. The villain bit me fairly. "

"Well, but how are we to manage?" inquired Larry. "What's to be done?"

"Why, " said the other, "to bear it an say nothin'. Even if he was in hisfather's house, the double-faced villain has me so much in his power, that I couldn't say a word about it. My curse on the Ribbon business, Isay, from my heart out!"

That day was a very miserable one to Phelim and the father. The loss ofthe ten guineas, and the feverish sickness produced from their debauch, rendered their situation not enviable. Some other small matters, too, in which Phelim was especially concerned, independent of the awkwardsituation in which he felt himself respecting the three calls on thefollowing day, which was Sunday, added greater weight to his anxiety. Heknew not how to manage, especially upon the subject of his habiliments, which certainly were in a very dilapidated state. An Irishman, however, never despairs. If he has not apparel of his own sufficiently decent towear on his wedding-day, he borrows from a friend. Phelim and his fatherremembered that there were several neighbors in the village, who wouldoblige him with a suit for the wedding; and as to the other necessaryexpenses, they did what their countrymen are famous for--they trusted tochance. 

"We'll work ourselves out of it some way, " said Larry. "Sure, if allfails us, we can sell the goats for the weddin' expenses. It's onecomfort that Paddy Donovan must find the dinner; an' all we have to getis the whiskey, the marriage money, an' some other thrifies. "

"They say, " observed Phelim, "that people have more luck whin they'remarried than whin they're single. I'll have a bout at the marriage, soI will; for worse luck I can't have, if I had half a dozen wives, than Ialways met wid. "

 * This is another absurd opinion peculiar to the Irish, and certainly one of the most pernicious that prevail among them. Indeed, I believe there is no country in which so many absurd maxims exist. 

"I'll go down, " observed Larry, "to Paddy Donovan's, an' send him to thepriest's to dive in your names to be called to-morrow. Faith, it's wellthat you won't have to appear, or I dunna how you'd get over it. "

"No, " said Phelim, "that bill won't pass. You must go to the priestyourself, an' see the curate: if you go near Father O'Hara, it 'ud knocka plan on the head that I've invinted. I'm in the notion that I'll makethe ould woman bleed agin. I'll squeeze as much out of her as I'llbring me to America, for I'm not overly safe here; or, if all fails, I'll marry her, an' run away wid the money. It 'ud bring us all across. "

Larry's interview with the curate was but a short one. He waited onDonovan, however, before he went, who expressed himself satisfied withthe arrangement, and looked forward to the marriage as certain. As forPhelim, the idea of being called to three females at the same time, wasone that tickled his vanity very much. Vanity, where the fair sex wasconcerned, had been always his predominant failing. He was not finallydetermined on marriage with any of them; but he knew that should heeven escape the three, the _eclat_, resulting from so celebrated atransaction would recommend him to the sex for the remainder of hislife. Impressed with this view of the matter, he sauntered about asusual; saw Foodie Flattery's daughter, and understood that her uncle hadgone to the priest, to have his niece and worthy Phelim called the nextday. But besides this hypothesis, Phelim had another, which, after all, was the real one. He hoped that the three applications would prevent thepriest from calling him at all. 

The priest, who possessed much sarcastic humor, on finding the name ofPhelim come in as a candidate for marriage honors with three differentwomen, felt considerably puzzled to know what he could be at. ThatPhelim might hoax one or two of them was very probable, but that heshould have the effrontery to make him the instrument of such an affair, he thought a little too bad. 

"Now, " said he to his curate, as they talked the matter over that night. "it is quite evident that this scapegrace reckons upon our refusal tocall him with any of those females to-morrow. It is also certain thatnot one of the three to whom he has pledged himself is aware that he isunder similar obligations to the other two. "

"How do you intend to act, sir?" inquired the curate. 

"Why, " said Mr. O'Hara, "certainly to call him to each: it will givethe business a turn for which he is not prepared. He will stand exposed, moreover, before the congregation, and that will be some punishment tohim. "

"I don't know as to the punishment, " replied the curate. "If ever ahuman being was free from shame, Phelim is. The fellow will consider ita joke. "

"Very possible, " observed his superior, "but I am anxious to punish thisold woman. It may prevent her from uniting herself with a fellow whocertainly would, on becoming master of her money, immediately abandonher--perhaps proceed to America. "

"It will also put the females of the parish on their guard against him, "said the innocent curate, who knew not that it would raise him highly intheir estimation. 

"We will have a scene, at all events, " said Mr. O'Hara; "for I'mresolved to expose him. No blame can be attached to those whom he hasduped, excepting only the old woman, whose case will certainly excitea great deal of mirth. That matters not, however; she has earned theridicule, and let her bear it. " It was not until Sunday morning that thethree calls occurred to Phelim in a new light. 

He forgot that the friends of the offended parties might visit upon hisproper carcase the contumely he offered to them. This, however, did notgive him much anxiety, for Phelim was never more in his element thanwhen entering upon a row. 

The Sunday in question was fine, and the congregation unusually large;one would think that all the inhabitants of the parish of Teernarogarahhad been assembled. Most of them certainly were. 

The priest, after having gone through the usual ceremonies of theSabbath worship, excepting those with which he concludes the mass, turned round to the congregation, and thus addressed them:--

"I would not, " said he, "upon any other occasion of this kind, think itnecessary to address you at all; but this is one perfectly unique, andin some degree patriarchal, because, my friends, we are informed thatit was allowed in the times of Abraham and his successors, to keepmore than one wife. This custom is about being revived by a modern, who wants, in rather a barefaced manner, to palm himself upon us as apatriarch. And who do you think, my friends, this Irish Patriarch is?Why, no other than bouncing Phelim O'Toole!"

This was received precisely as the priest anticipated: loud were thesnouts of laughter from all parts of the congregation. 

"Divil a fear o' Phelim!" they exclaimed. "He wouldn't be himself, orhe'd kick up a dust some way. "

"Blessed Phelim! Just like him! Faith, he couldn't be marrid in thecommon coorse!"

"Arrah, whisht till we hear the name o' the happy crathur that's to beblisthered with Phelim! The darlin's in luck, whoever she is, an' hasgained a blessed prize in the 'Bouncer. '"

"This bouncing patriarch, " continued the priest, "has made his selectionwith great judgment and discrimination. In the first place, he haspitched upon a hoary damsel of long standing in the world;--one blessedwith age and experience. She is qualified to keep Phelim's house well, as soon as it shall be built; but whether she will be able to keepPhelim himself, is another consideration. It is not unlikely thatPhelim, in imitation of his great prototypes, may prefer living in atent. But whether she keeps Phelim or the house, one thing is certain, that Phelim will keep her money. Phelim selected this aged woman, wepresume, for her judgment; for surely she who has given such convincingproof of discretion, must make a useful partner to one who, like Phelim, has that virtue yet to learn. I have no doubt, however, but in a shorttime he will be as discreet as his teacher. "

"Blood alive! Isn't that fine language?"

"You may say that! Begad, it's himself can discoorse! What's theProtestants to that?"

"The next upon the list is one who, though a poor man's daughter, willcertainly bring property to Phelim. There is also an aptness in thisselection, which does credit to the 'Patriarch. ' Phelim is a greatdancer, an accomplishment with which we do not read that the patriarchsthemselves were possessed: although we certainly do read that a lightheel was of little service to Jacob. Well, Phelim carries a light heel, and the second female of his choice on this list carries a 'light hand;'(* Intimating theft) it is, therefore, but natural to suppose that, ifever they are driven to extremities, they will make light of many thingswhich other people would consider as of weighty moment. Whether Phelimand she may long remain stationary in this country, is a problemmore likely to be solved at the county assizes than here. It is notimprobable that his Majesty may recommend the 'Patriarch' and one ofhis wives to try the benefit of a voyage to New South Wales, he himselfgraciously vouch-saving to bear their expenses. "

"Divil a lie in that, anyhow! If ever any one crossed the wather, Phelimwill. Can't his Reverence be funny whin he plases?"

"Many a time it was prophecized for him: an' his Reverence knows best. "

"Begad, Phelim's gettin' over the coals. But sure it's all the way thefather an' mother reared him. "

"Tunder-an'-trff, is he goin' to be called to a pair o' them?"

"Faix, so it seems. "

"Oh, the divil's clip! Is he mad? But let us hear it out. "

"The third damsel is by no means so, well adapted for Phelim as eitherof the other two. What she could have seen in him is another problemmuch more difficult than the one I have mentioned. I would advise herto reconsider the subject, and let Phelim have the full benefit of theattention she may bestow upon it. If she finds the 'Patriarch' possessedof any one virtue, except necessity, I will admit that it is prettycertain that she will soon discover the longitude, and that has puzzledthe most learned men of the world. If she marries this 'Patriarch', Ithink the angels who may visit him will come in the shape of policemen;and that Phelim, so long as he can find a cudgel, will give themanything but a patriarchal reception, is another thing of which we mayrest pretty certain. 

"I. Now publish the bans of matrimony between Phelim O'Toole ofTeernarogarah, and Bridget Doran of Dernascobe. If any person knows ofany impediment why these two should not be joined in wedlock, they arebound to declare it. 

"This Bridget Doran, my friends, is no other than my old housekeeper;but when, where, or how, Phelim could have won upon her juvenileaffections is one of those mysteries which is never to be explained. I dare say, the match was brought about by despair on her side, andnecessity on his. She despaired of getting a husband, and he had anecessity for the money. In point of age I admit she would make a veryfit wife for any 'Patriarch. '"

Language could not describe the effect which this disclosure producedupon the congregation. The fancy of every one present was tickled atthe idea of a union between Phelim and the old woman. It was followed byroars of laughter which lasted several minutes. 

"Oh, thin, the curse o' the crows upon him, was he only able to buttherup the ould woman! Oh, _Ghe dldven!_ that flogs. Why, it's a wondher hedidn't stale the ould slip, an' make a run-away match of it--ha, ha, ha!Musha, bad scran to her, but she had young notions of her own! A purtybird she picked up in Phelim!--ha, ha, ha!"

"I also publish the banns of matrimony between Phelim O'Toole ofTeernarogarah and Sally Flattery of the same place. If any of you knowsof any impediment why they should not be joined in wedlock you are boundto declare it. "

The mirth rose again, loud and general. Poodle Flattery, whose characterwas so well known, appeared so proper a father-in-law for Phelim, thathis selection in this instance delighted them highly. 

"Betther an' betther, Phelim! More power to you! You're fixed at last. Poodle Flattery's daughter--a known thief! Well, what harm? Phelimhimself has pitch on his fingers--or had, anyhow, when he was growin'up--for many a thing stuck to them. Oh, bedad, now we know what hisReverence was at when he talked about the 'Sizes, bad luck to them!Betune her an' the ould woman, Phelim 'ud be in Paradise! FoodieFlattery's daughter! Begad, she'll 'bring him property' sure enough, ashis Reverence says. "

"I also publish the banns of matrimony between Phelim O'Toole--whom wemust in future call the 'Patriarch'--of Teernarogarah, and Peggy Donovanof the same place. If any of you knows any impediment in the way oftheir marriage, you are bound to declare it. "

"Bravo! Phelim acushla. 'Tis you that's the blessed youth. Tundher-an'-whiskey, did ever any body hear of sich desate? To do threeo' them. Be sure the Bouncer has some schame in this. Well, one wouldsuppose Paddy Donovan an' his daughter had more sinse nor to think ofsich a runagate as Bouncin' Phelim. "

"No, but the Pathriark! Sure his Reverence sez that we musn't call himanything agin but the Pathriark! Oh, be gorra, that's the name!--ha, ha, ha!"

When the mirth of the congregation had subsided, and their commentsended, the priest concluded in the following words:--

"Now, my friends, here is such a piece of profligacy as I have never, in the whole course of my pastoral duties, witnessed. It is the act ofPhelim O'Toole, be it known, who did not scruple to engage himself formarriage to three females--that is, to two girls and an old woman--andwho, in addition, had the effrontery to send me his name and theirs, tobe given out all on the same Sunday; thus making me an instrument in hishands to hoax those who trusted in his word. That he can marry butone of them is quite clear; but that he would not scruple to marry thethree, and three more to complete the half-dozen, is a fact which no onewho knows him will doubt. For my part, I know not how this business mayterminate. Of a truth he has contrived to leave the claims of the threefemales in a state of excellent confusion. Whether it raise or lessenhim in their opinion I cannot pretend to determine. I am sorry forDonovan's daughter, for I know not what greater calamity could befallany honest family than a matrimonial union with Phelim O'Toole. I trustthat this day's proceedings will operate as a caution to the femalesof the parish against such an unscrupulous reprobate. It is for thispurpose only that I publish the names given in to me. His character waspretty well known before; it is now established; and having establishedit, I dismiss the subject altogether. "

Phelim's fame was now nearly at its height. Never before had such a casebeen known; yet the people somehow were not so much astonished as mightbe supposed. On the contrary, had Phelim's courtship gone off like thatof another man, they would have felt more surprised. We need scarcelysay, that the "giving out" or "calling" of Phelim and the three damselswas spread over the whole parish before the close of that Sunday. Everyone had it--man, woman, and child. It was told, repeated, and improvedas it went along. Now circumstances were added, fresh points made out, and other _dramatis personae_ brought in--all with great felicity, andquite suitable to Phelim's character. 

Strongly contrasted with the amusement of the parishioners in general, was the indignation felt by the three damsels and their friends. The oldhousekeeper was perfectly furious; so much so, indeed, that the priestgave some dark hints at the necessity of sending for a strait waistcoat. Her fellow-servants took the liberty of breaking some strong jests uponher, in return for which she took the liberty of breaking two strongchurnstaves upon them. Being a remarkably stout woman for her years, she put forth her strength to such purpose that few of them went to bedwithout sore bones. The priest was seriously annoyed at it, for he foundthat his house was a scene of battle during the remainder of the day. 

Sally Flattery's uncle, in the absence of her father, indignantlyespoused the cause of his niece. He and Donovan each went among theirfriends to excite in them a proper resentment, and to form a faction forthe purpose of chastising Phelim. Their chagrin was bitter on findingthat their most wrathful representations of the insult sustained bytheir families, were received with no other spirit than one of the mostextravagant mirth. In vain did they rage and fume, and swear; they couldget no one to take a serious view of it. Phelim O'Toole was the authorof all, and from him it was precisely what they had expected. 

Phelim himself, and the father, on hearing of the occurrence after mass, were as merry as any other two in the parish. At first the father wasdisposed to lose his temper; but on Phelim telling him he would bear no"gosther" on the subject, he thought proper to take it in good humor. About this time they had not more than a week's provision in the house, and only three shillings of capital. The joke of the three calls was toogood a one to pass off as an ordinary affair; they had three shillings, and although it was their last, neither of them could permit thematter to escape as a dry joke. They accordingly repaired to the littlepublic-house of the village, where they laughed at the world, got drunk, hugged each other, despised all mankind, and staggered home, Fagged andmerry, poor and hearty, their arms about each other's necks, perfectmodels of filial duty and paternal affection. 

The reader is aware that the history of Phelim's abrupt engagementwith the housekeeper, was conveyed by Fool Art to Sally Flattery. Herthievish character rendered marriage as hopeless to her as length ofdays did to Bridget Doran. No one knew the plan she had laid for Phelim, but this fool, and, in order to secure his silence, she had promised hima shirt on the Monday after the first call. Now Art, as was evidentby his endless habit of shrugging, felt the necessity of a shirt verystrongly. 

About ton o'clock on Monday he presented himself to Sally, and claimedhis recompense. 

"Art, " said Sally, "the shirt I intended for you is upon Squire Nugent'shedge beside their garden. You know the family's goin' up to Dublin onThursday, Art, an' they're gettin' their washin' done in time to be off. Go down, but don't let any one see you; take the third shirt on the row, an' bring it up to me till I smooth it for you. "

Art sallied down to the hedge on which the linen had been put out todry, and having reconnoitered the premises, shrugged himself, and cast alonging eye on the third shirt. With that knavish penetration, however, peculiar to such persons, he began to reflect that Sally might havesome other object in view besides his accommodation. He determined, therefore, to proceed upon new principles--sufficiently safe, hethought, to protect him from the consequences of theft. "Good-morrow, Bush, " said Art, addressing that on which the third shirt was spread. "Isn't it a burnin' shame an' a sin for you, " he continued, "to havesich a line white shirt an you, an' me widout a stitch to my back. Willyou swap?"

Having waited until the bush had due time to reply. 

"Sorra fairer, " he observed; "silence gives consint. "

In less than two minutes he stripped, put on one of the Squire's bestshirts, and spread out his own dusky fragment in its place. 

"It's a good thing, " said Art, "to have a clear conscience; a fairexchange is no robbery. "

Now, it so happened that the Squire himself, who was a humorist, andalso a justice of the peace, saw Art putting his morality in practice atthe hedge. He immediately walked out with an intention of playing offa trick upon the fool for his dishonesty; and he felt the greaterinclination to do this in consequence of an opinion long current, thatArt, though he had outwitted several, had never been outwitted himself. 

Art had been always a welcome guest in the Squire's kitchen, and neverpassed the "Big House, " as an Irish country gentleman's residence istermed, without calling. On this occasion, however, he was too cunningto go near it--a fact which the Squire observed. By taking a short cutacross one of his own fields, he got before Art, and turning the angleof a hedge, met him trotting along at his usual pace. 

"Well, Art, where now?"

"To the crass roads, your honor. "

"Art, is not this a fine place of mine? Look at these groves, and thelawn, and the river there, and the mountains behind all. Is it not equalto Sir William E-----'s?"

Sir William was Art's favorite patron. 

"Sir William, your honor, has all this at his place. "

"But I think my views are finer. "

"They're fine enough, " replied Art; "but where's the lake afore thedoor?"

The Squire said no more about his prospects. 

"Art, " he continued, "would you carry a letter from me to M-----?"

"I'll be wantin' somethin' to dhrink on the way, " said Art. 

"You shall get something to eat and drink before you go, " said theSquire, "and half-a-crown for your trouble. "

"Augh, " exclaimed Art, "be dodda, sir, you're nosed like Sir William, and chinned like Captain Taylor. " This was always Art's compliment whenpleased. 

The Squire brought him up to the house, ordered him refreshment, andwhile Art partook of it, wrote a _letter of mittimus_ to the countyjailor, authorizing him to detain the bearer in prison until he shouldhear further from him. 

Art, having received the half-crown and the letter, appeared delighted;but, on hearing the name of the person to whom it was addressed, hesmelt a trick. He promised faithfully, however, to deliver it, andbetrayed no symptoms whatever of suspicion. After getting some distancefrom the big house, he set his wits to work, and ran over in his mindthe names of those who had been most in the habit of annoying him. Atthe head of this list stood Phelim O'Toole, and on Phelim's head didhe resolve to transfer the revenge which the Squire, he had no doubt, intended to take on himself. 

With considerable speed he made way to Larry O'Toole's, where such ascene presented itself as made him for a moment forget the immediatepurport of his visit. 

Opposite Phelim, dressed out in her best finery, stood the housekeeper, zealously insisting' on either money or marriage. On one side of himstood old Donovan and his daughter, whom he had forced to come, in thecharacter of a witness, to support his charges against the gay deceiver. On the other were ranged Sally Flattery, in tears, and her uncle inwrath, each ready to pounce upon Phelim. 

Phelim stood the very emblem of patience and good-humor. When one ofthem attacked him, he winked at the other two when either of the othertwo came on, he Winked still at those who took breath. Sometimes he trodon his father's toe, lest the old fellow might lose the joke, and notunfrequently proposed their going to a public-house, and composing theirdifferences over a bottle, if any of them would pay the expenses. 

"What do you mane to do?" said the housekeeper; "but it's asy knownI'm an unprojected woman, or I wouldn't be thrated as I am. If I hadrelations livin' or near me, we'd pay you on the bones for bringin' meto shame and scandal, as you have done. "

"Upon my sanies, Mrs. Doran, I feel for your situation, so I do, " saidPhelim. You've outlived all your friends, an' if it was in my power tobring any o' them back to you I'd do it. "

"Oh, you desaver, is that the feelin' you have for me, when I thoughtyou'd be a guard an' a projection to me? You know I have the money, yousconce, an' how comfortable it 'ud keep us, if you'd only see what'sgood for you. You blarnied an' palavered me, you villain, till yougained my infections an' thin you tuck the cholic as an excuse to laveme in a state of dissolution an' disparagement. You promised to marryme, an' you had no notion of it. "

"You're not the only one he has disgraced, Mrs. Doran, " said Donovan. "A purty way he came down, himself an' his father, undher pretence ofcoortin' my daughter. He should lay down his ten guineas, too, to showus what he had to begin the world wid, the villain!--an' him had nonotion of it aither. "

"An' he should send this girl to make me go to the priest to have himand her called, the reprobate, " said Nick Flattery; "an' him had nonotion of it aither. "

"Sure he sent us all there, " exclaimed Donovan. 

"He did, " said the old woman. 

"Not a doubt of it, " observed Flattery. 

"Ten guineas!" said the housekeeper. "An' so you brought my ten guineasin your pocket to coort another girl! Aren't you a right profligate?"

"Yes, " said Donovan, "aren't you a right profligate?"

"Answer the dacent people, " said Mattery, "aren't you a rightprofligate?"

"Take the world asy, all of ye, " replied Phelim. "Mrs. Doran, there wasthree of you called, sure enough; but, be the vestments, I intinded--doyou hear me, Mrs. Doran? Now have rason--I say, do you hear me? Be thevestmints, I intinded to marry only one of you; an' that I'll do still, except I'm vexed--(a wink at the old woman). Yet you're all flyin' atme, as if I had three heads or three tails upon me. "

"Maybe the poor boy's not so much to blame, " said Mrs. Doran. "There'shussies in this world, " and here she threw an angry eye upon the othertwo, "that 'ud give a man no pace till he'd promise to marry them. "

"Why did he promise to them that didn't want him thin?" exclaimedDonovan. "I'm not angry that he didn't marry my daughther--for Iwouldn't give her to him now--but I am at the slight he put an her. "

"Paddy Donovan, did you hear what I said jist now?" replied Phelim, "Iwish to Jamini some people 'ud have sinse! Be them five crasses, I knewthim I intinded to marry, as well as I do where I'm standin'. That'splain talk, Paddy. I'm sure the world's not passed yet, I hope"--(a winkat Paddy Donovan. )

"An' wasn't he a big rascal to make little of my brother's daughter ashe did?" said Flattery; "but he'll rub his heels together for the sameact. "

"Nick Flathery, do you think I could marry three wives? Be thathorseshoe over the door, Sally Flathery, you didn't thrate me dacent. She did not, Nick, an' you ought to know that it was wrong of her tocome here to-day. "

"Well, but what do you intind to do Phelim, avourn--you profligate?"said the half-angry, half-pacified housekeeper, who, being the veteran, always led on the charge. "Why, I intind to marry one of you, " saidPhelim. "I say, Mrs. Doran, do you see thim ten fingers acrass--be thimfive crasses I'll do what I said, if nothing happens to put it aside. "

"Then be an honest man, " said Flattery, "an' tell us which o' them youwill marry. "

"Nick, don't you know I always regarded your family. If I didn't thatI may never do an ill turn! Now! But some people can't see anything. Arrah, fandher-an'-whiskey, man, would you expect me to tell out beforeall that's here, who I'll marry--to be hurtin' the feelin's of the rest. Faith, I'll never do a shabby thing. "

"What rekimpinse will you make my daughter for bringin' down her nameafore the whole parish, along wid them she oughtn't to be named in theone day wid?" said Donovan. 

"An' who is that, Paddy Donovan?" said the housekeeper, with a face offlame. 

"None of your broad hints, Paddy, " said Nick. "If it's a collusion toSally Flattery you mane, take care I don't make you ate your words. "

"Paddy, " exclaimed Phelim, "you oughtn't to be hurtin' theirfeelin's!"--(a friendly wink to Paddy. )

"If you mane me, " said the housekeeper, "by the crook on the fire, I'dlave you a mark. "

"I mane you for one, thin, since you provoke me, " replied Donovan. 

"For one, is it?" said Nick; "an' who's the other, i' you plase?"

"Your brother's daughter, " he replied. "Do you think I'd even (*compare) my daughter to a thief?"

"Be gorra, " observed Phelim, "that's too provokin', an' what I wouldn'tbear. Will ye keep the pace, I say, till I spake a word to Mrs Doran?Mrs. Doran, can I have a word or two wid you outside the house?"

"To be sure you can, " she replied; "I'd give you fair play, if thediouol was in you. "

Phelim, accordingly, brought her out, and thus accosted her, --

"Now, Mrs. Doran, you think I thrated you ondacent; but do you see thatbook?" said he, producing a book of ballads, on which he had sworn manya similar oath before? "Be the contints o' that book, as sure as you'rebeside me, it's you I intind to marry. These other two--the curse o'the crows upon them! I wish we could get them from about the place--isbothyrin' for love o' me, an' I surely did promise to get myself calledto them. They wanted it to be a promise of marriage; but, says I, 'sureif we're called together it's the same, for whin it comes to that, all'sright, '--an' so I tould both o' them, unknownst to one another. Arra, be me sowl, you'd make two like them, so you would; an' if you hadn'ta penny, I'd marry you afore aither o' them to-morrow. Now, there's thewhole sacret, an' don't be onaisy about it. Tell Father O'Hara how itis, whin you go home, an' that he must call the three o' you to me aginon next Sunday, and the Sunday afther, plase Goodness; jist that I maykeep my promise to them. You know I couldn't have luck or grace if Imarrid you wid the sin of two broken promises on me. "

"My goodness, Phelim, but you tuck a, burdyeen off o' me! Faix, you'llsee how happy we'll be. "

"To be sure we will! But I'm tould you're sometimes crass, Mrs. Doran. Now, you must promise to be kind an' lovin' to the childre, or be thevestment, I'll break off the match yet. "

"Och, an' why wouldn't I, Phelim, acushla? Sure that's but rason. "

"Well, take this book an' swear it. Be gorra, your word won't do, for it's a thing my mind's made up on. It's I that'll be fond o' thechildre. "

"An' how am I to swear it, Phelim? for I never tuck an oath myself yet. "

"Take the book in your hand, shut one eye, and say the words afther me. Be the contints o' this book, "

"Be the contints o' this book, "

"I'll be kind an' motherly, an' boistherous, "

"I'll be kind, an' motherly, an boistherous, "

"To my own childhre, "

"To my own childhre, "

"An' never bate or abuse thim, "

"An' never bate or abuse thim, "

"Barrin' whin they desarve it;"

"Barrin' whin they desarve it;"

"An' this I swear, "

"An' this I swear, "

"In the presence of St. Phelim, "

"In the presence of St. Phelim, " "Amin!"

"Amin!"

"Now, Mrs. Doran, acushla, if you could jist know how asy my conscienceis about the childhre, poor crathurs, you'd be in mighty fine spirits. There won't be sich a lovin' husband, begad, in Europe. It's I that'llcoax you, an' butther you up like a new pair o' brogues; but, begad, you must be sweeter than liquorice or sugar-candy to me. Won't you, darlin'?"

"Be the crass, Phelim, darlin', jewel, I'll be as kind a wife as everbreathed. Arrah, Phelim, won't you come down to-morrow evenin'? There'llbe no one at home but myself, an'--ha, ha, ha!--Oh, you coaxin' rogue!But, Phelim, you musn't be--Oh, you're a rogue! I see you laughin'! Willyou come darlin?"

"Surely. But, death alive! I was near for-gettin'; sure, bad luck to thepenny o' the ten guineas but I paid away. "

"Paid away! Is it my ten guineas?"

"Your ten guineas, darlin'; an' right well I managed it. Didn't I securePat Hanratty's farm by it? Sam Appleton's uncle had it as good as taken;so, begad, I came down wid the ten guineas, by way of airles, an' now wehave it. I knew you'd be plased to hear it, an' that you'd be proud togive me ten more for clo'es an' the weddin' expenses. Isn't that goodnews, avourneen? Eh, you duck o' diamonds? Faith, let Phelim alone! An'another thing--I must call you Bridget for the future! It's sweeter an'more lovin'. "

"Phelim, I wish you had consulted wid me afore you done it: but itcan't be helped. Come down to-morrow evenin', an' we'll see what's to bedone. "

"The grace o'heaven upon you, but you are the winnin'est woman alivethis day! Now take my advice, an' go home without comin' in. I'm wantin'to get this other pair off o' my hands, as well as I can, an' our bestway is to do it all widout noise. Isn't it, darlin'?"

"It is, Phelim, jewel; an' I'll go. "

"Faith, Bridget, you've dealt in thracle afore now, you're so sweet. Now, acushla, farewell: an' take care of yourself till tomorrowevenin'!"

Phelim, on re-entering his father's cabin, found Larry and Peggy Donovanplaced between her father and Flattery, each struggling to keep themasunder. Phelim at first had been anxious to set them by the ears, but his interview with the old woman changed his plan of operationsaltogether. With some difficulty he succeeded in repressing theirtendency to single combat, which, having effected, he brought outFlattery and his niece, both of whom he thus addressed:--

"Be the vestment, Sally, only that my regard an' love for you isuncommon, I'd break off the affair altogether, so I would. "

"An' why would you do so, Phelim O'Toole?" inquired the uncle. 

"Bekase, " replied Phelim, "you came here an' made a show of me, when Iwished to have no _bruliagh_, at all at all. In regard of Peggy Donovan, I never spoke a word to the girl about marriage since I was christened. Saize the syllable! My father brought me down there to gosther awhile, the other night, an' Paddy sent away for whiskey. An' the curse o'Cromwell on myself! I should get tossicated. So while I was half-saesover, the two ould rip set to makin' the match--planned to have uscalled--an' me knowin' nothin' about it, good, bad, or indifferent. That's the thruth, be the sky above us. "

"An' what have you to say about the housekeeper, Phelim?"

"Why I don't know yet, who done me there. I was about takin' a farm, an'my father borried ten guineas from her. Somebody heard it--I suspect SamAppleton--an' gave in our names to the priest, to be called, makin' agood joke of it. All sorts o' luck to them, barrin' good luck, that didit; but they put me in a purty state! But never heed! I'll find them outyet. Now go home, both o' you, an' I'll slip down in half an hour, witha bottle o' whiskey in my pocket. We'll talk over what's to be done. Sure Sally here, knows that it's my own intherest to marry her and noone else. "

"If my father thought you would, Phelim, he'd not stag, even if he wasto cras the wather!"

"Go home, Sally darlin' till I get this mad Donovan an' his daughteraway. Be all that's beautiful I'll be apt to give him a taste o'my shillely, if he doesn't behave himself! Half an hour I'll beclownin--wid the bottle; an' don't you go, Nick, till you see me. "

"Phelim, " said the uncle, "you know how the case is. You must aithermarry the girl, or take a long voyage, abouchal. We'll have no bouncin'or palaver. "

"Bedad, Mick, I've great patience wid you, " said Phelim, smiling: "gooff, I say, both of you. "

They proceeded homewards, and Phelim returned to appease the anger ofDonovan, as he had that of the others. Fresh fiction was again drawnforth, every word of which the worthy father corroborated. They promisedto go down that night and drink another bottle together; a promise whichthey knew by the state of their finances, it was impossible to fulfil. The prospect of a "booze, " however, tranquillized Donovan, who in hisheart relished a glass of liquor as well as either Phelim or the father. Shaking of hands and professions of friendship were again beginning tomultiply with great rapidity, when Peggy thought proper to make a fewobservations on the merits of her admirer. 

"In regard to me, " she observed, "you may save yourself the throuble o'comin'. I wouldn't marry Phelim, afther what the priest said yistherday, if he had the riches o' the townland we're spakin' in. I never cared forhim, nor liked him; an' it was only to plase my father an' mother, thatI consinted to be called to him at all. I'll never join myself to thelikes of him. If I do, may I be a corpse the next minute!"

Having thus expressed herself, she left her father, Phelim, and Larry, to digest her sentiments, and immediately went home. 

Donovan, who was outrageous at this contempt of his authority, got hishat with the intention of compelling her to return and retract, intheir presence, what she had said; but the daughter, being the morelight-footed of the two, reached home before he could overtake her, where, backed by her mother, she maintained her resolution, andsucceeded, ere long, in bringing the father over to her opinion. 

During this whole scene in Larry's, Fool Art sat in that wildabstraction which characterizes the unhappy class to which he belonged. He muttered to himself, laughed--or rather chuckled--shrugged hisshoulders, and appeared to be as unconscious of what had taken place asan automaton. When the coast was clear he rose up and plucking Phelim'sskirt, beckoned him towards the door. 

"Phelim, " said he, when they had got out, "would you like to airn acrown?"

"Tell me how, Art?" said Phelim. 

"A letther from, the Square to the jailer of M------ jail. If you bringback an answer, you'll get a crown, your dinner, an' a quart o' strongbeer. "

"But why don't you bring it yourself, Art?"

"Why I'm afeard. Sure they'd keep ma in jail, I'm tould, if they'd catchme in it. Aha! Bo dodda, I won't go near them: sure they'd hang me forshootin' Bonypart. --Aha!"

"Must the answer be brought back today, Art?"

"Oh! It wouldn't do to-morrow, at all. Be dodda, no! Five shillins, your dinner, an' a quart of sthrong beer!--Aha! But you must give mea shillin' or two, to buy a sword; for the Square's goin' to make me acaptain: thin I'll be grand! an' I'll make you a sargin'. "

This seemed a windfall to Phelim. The unpleasant dilemma in which SallyFlattery had placed him, by the fabricated account of her father'simprisonment, made him extremely anxious to see Foodie himself, and toascertain the precise outrage for which he had been secured. Herethen was an opportunity of an interview with him, and of earningfive shillings, a good dinner, and a quart of strong beer, as alreadyspecified. 

"Art, " said he, "give me the letther, an' I'm the boy that'll soon dothe job. Long life to you, Art! Be the contints o' the book, Art, I'llnever pelt you or vex you agin, my worthy; an' I'll always call youcaptain!" Phelim immediately commenced his journey to M------, which wasonly five miles distant, and in a very short time reached the jail, sawthe jailer, and presented his letter. 

The latter, on perusing it, surveyed him with the scrutiny of a manwhose eye was practised in scanning offenders. 

Phelim, whilst the jailer examined him, surveyed the strong and massybolts with which every door and hatchway was secured. Their appearanceproduced rather an uncomfortable sensation in him; so much so, thatwhen the jailer asked him his name, he thought it more prudent, inconsequence of a touch of conscience he had, to personate Art for thepresent, inasmuch as he felt it impossible to assume any name more safethan that of an idiot. 

"My name is Art Maguire, " said he in reply to the jailer. "I'm messengerto Square S----, the one he had was discharged on Friday last. I expectsoon to be made groom, too. "

"Come this way, " said the jailer, "and you shall have an answer. "

He brought Phelim into the prison-yard, where he remained for abouttwenty minutes, laboring under impressions which he felt becominggradually more unpleasant. His anxiety was not lessened on perceivingtwenty or thirty culprits, under the management of the turnkeys, enterthe yard, where they were drawn up in a line, like a file of soldiers. 

"What's your name?" said one of the turnkeys. 

"Art Maguire, " replied Phelim. 

"Stand here, " said the other, shoving him among the prisoners. "Keepyour head up, you villain, an' don't be ashamed to look your friends inthe face. It won't be hard to identify you, at any rate, you scoundrel. A glimpse of that phiz, even by starlight, would do you, you dog. Jack, tell Mr. S. To bring in the gintlemen--they're all ready. "

Phelim's dismay on finding himself under drill with such a villainouscrew was indescribable. He attempted to parley with the turnkey, but wasnear feeling the weight of his heavy keys for daring to approach a manplaced in authority. 

While thus chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy, three gentlemen, accompanied by the jailer, entered the yard, and walked backward andforward in front of the prisoners, whose faces and persons they examinedwith great care. For a considerable time they could not recognize anyof them; but just as they were about to give up the scrutiny, one of thegentlemen approached Phelim, and looking narrowly into his countenance, exclaimed, "Here, jailer, this man I identify. I can-not be mistaken in his face;the rough visage and drooping eye of that fellow put all doubt as to hisidentity out of question. What's his' name?"

"He gives his name, sir, as Arthur Maguire. "

"Arthur what, sir?" said another of the turnkeys, looking earnestlyat Phelim. "Why, sir, this is the fellow that swore the alibis for theKellys--ay, an' for the Delaneys, an' for the O'Briens. His name isPhelim O'Toole; an' a purty boy he is, by all report. "

Phelim, though his heart sank within him, attempted to banter them outof their bad opinion of him; but there was something peculiarly dismaland melancholy in his mirth. 

"Why, gintlemen--ha, ha!--be gorra, I'd take it as a convanience--Imane, as a favor--if you'd believe me that there's a small taste ofmistake here. I was sent by Square S. Wid a letter to Mr. S-----t, an'he gave me fifty ordhers to bring him back an answer this day. As forPhelim O'Toole, if you mane the rascal that swears the alibis, faith, Ican't deny but I'm as like him, the villain, as one egg is to another. Bad luck to his 'dhroop, ' any how; little I thought that it would everbring me into throuble--ha, ha, ha! Mr. S------t, what answer have youfor the Square, sir? Bedad, I'm afeard I'll be late. "

"That letter, Master Maguire, or Toole, or whatever your name is, authorizes me to detain you as a prisoner, until I hear further from Mr. S. "

"I identify him distinctly, " said the gentleman, once more. "I neitherdoubt nor waver on the subject; so you will do right to detain him. Ishall lodge information against him immediately. "

"Sir, " said Phelim to the jailer, "the Square couldn't mane me at all, in regard that it was another person he gave the letter to, for to bringto you, the other person gave it to me. I can make my oath of that. Begorra, you're playin' your thrieks upon sthrangers now, I suppose. "

"Why, you lying rascal, " said the jailer, "have you not a few minutesago asserted to the contrary? Did you not tell me that your name wasArthur, or Art Maguire? That you are Mr. S. 's messenger, and expect tobe made his groom. And now you deny all this. "

"He's Phelim O'Toole, " said the turnkey, "I'll swear to him; but if youwait for a minute, I'll soon prove it. "

He immediately retired to the cell of a convict, whom he knew to be fromthe townland of Teernarogarah: and ordering its inmate to look throughthe bars of his window, which commanded the yard, he asked him if therewas any one among them whom he knew. 

The fellow in a few minutes replied, "Whethen, divil a one, barrin'bouncin' Phelim O'Toole. "

The turnkey brought him down to the yard, where he immediatelyrecognized Phelim as an old friend, shook hands with him, and addressedhim by his name. 

"Bad luck to you, " said Phelim in Irish, "is this a place to welcomeyour friends to!"

"There is some mystery here, " said the jailer. "I suppose the fact is, that this fellow returned a wrong name to Mr. S. , and that that accountsfor the name of Arthur Maguire being in the letter. "

All Phelim's attempts to extricate himself were useless. He gave themthe proper version of the letter affair with Fool Art, but withoutmaking the slightest impression. The jailer desired him to be locked up. 

"Divil fire you all, you villains!" exclaimed Phelim, "is it goin' to putme in crib ye are for no rason in life? Doesn't the whole parishknow that I was never off o' my bed for the last three months, wid acomplaint I had, until widin two or three days agone!"

"There are two excellent motives for putting you in crib, " said thejailer; "but if you can prove that you have been confined to your bed solong as you say, why it will be all the better for yourself. Go with theturnkey. "

"No, tarenation to the fut I'll go, " said Phelim, "till I'm carried. "

"Doesn't the gintleman identify you, you villain, " replied one of theturnkeys; "an' isn't the Square's letther in your favor?"

"Villain, is id!" exclaimed Phelim. "An' from a hangman's cousin, too, we're to bear this!--eh? Take that, anyhow, an' maybe you'll get morewhen you don't expect it. Whoo! Success, Phelim! There's blood in youstill, abouchal!"

He accompanied the words by a spring of triumph from the ground, andsurveyed the already senseless turnkey with exultation. In a moment, however, he was secured, for the purpose of being put into strong irons. 

"To the devil's warmin' pan wid ye all, " he continued, "you may do yourworst. I defy you. Ha! by the heavens above me, you'll suffer forthis, my fine gintleman. What can ye do but hang or thransport me, youvillains? I tell ye, if a man's sowl had a crust of sin on it a footthick, the best way to get it off 'ud be jist to shoot a dozen like you. Sin! Oh, the divil saize the sin at all in it. But wait! Did ye everhear of a man they call Dan O'Connell? Be my sowl, he'll make yez rubyour heels together, for keepin' an innocent boy in jail, that there'sno law or no warrant out for. This is the way we're thrated by thimthat's ridin' rough shod over us. But have a taste o' patience, yescoundrels! It won't last, I can tell yez. Our day will soon come, an'thin I'd recommend yez to thravel for your health. Hell saize the day'space or happiness ever will be seen in the country, till laws, an'judges, an' Jries, an' jails, an' jailers, an' turnkeys, an' hangmen isall swep out of it. Saize the day. An' along wid them goes the parsons, procthors, tithes an' taxes, all to the devil together. That day's notvery far off, d----d villains! An' now I tell ye, that if a hair o' myhead's touched--ay, if I was hanged to-morrow--I'd lave them behind methat 'ud put a bullet, wid the help an' blessin' O Grod, through any onethat'll injure me! So lay that to your conscience, an' do your best. Bethe crass, O'Connell I'll make you look nine ways at wanst for this!He's the boy can put the pin in your noses! He's the boy can make yezthrimble, one an' all o' yez--like a dog in a wet sack! An', wid theblessin' o' God, he'll help us to put our feet on your necks aforelong!"

"That's a prudent speech, " observed the jailer; "it will serve you verymuch. "

Phelim consigned him to a very warm settlement in reply. 

"Bring the ruffian off" added the jailer; "put him in solitaryconfinement. "

"Put me wid Foodie Flattery, " said Phelim; "you've got him here, an' I'll go nowhere else. Faith, you'll suffer for givin' me falseimprisonment. Doesn't O'Connell's name make you shake? Put me wid FoodieFlattery, I say. "

"Foodie Flattery! There is no such man here. Have you got such a personhere?" inquired the jailer of the turnkey. 

"Not at present, " said the turnkey; "but I know Foodie well. We've hadhim here twice. Come away, Phelim; follow me; you're goin' to be putwhere you'll have an opportunity of sayin' your prayers. "

He then ushered Phelim to a cell, where the reader may easily imaginewhat he felt. His patriotism rose to a high pitch; he deplored thewrongs of his country bitterly, and was clearly convinced that untiljails, judges, and assizes, together with a long train of similargrievances, were utterly abolished, Ireland could never be right, norpersecuted "boys, " like himself, at full liberty to burn or murder theenemies of their country with impunity. Notwithstanding these heroicsentiments, an indifferent round oath more than once escaped him againstRibbonism in whole and in part. He cursed the system, and the day, andthe hour on which he was inveigled into it. He cursed those who hadinitiated him; nor did his father and mother escape for their neglectof his habits, his morals, and his education. This occurred when he hadtime for reflection. Whilst thus dispensing his execrations, the jailerand the three gentlemen, having been struck with his allusion to FoodieFlattery, and remembering that Foodie was of indifferent morals, came tothe unanimous opinion that it would be a good plan to secure him; and byinforming him that Phelim was in prison upon a capital charge, endeavorto work upon his fears, by representing his companion as disposedto turn approver. The state of the country, and Foodie's character, justified his apprehension on suspicion. He was accordingly taken, and when certified of Phelim's situation, acted precisely as had beenexpected. With very little hesitation, he made a full disclosure of thenames of several persons concerned in burnings, waylayings, and robberyof arms. The two first names on the list were those of Phelim andAppleton, with several besides, some of whom bore an excellent, andothers an execrable, character in the country. 

The next day Fool Art went to Larry's, where he understood that Phelimwas on the missing list. This justified his suspicions of the Squire;but by no means lessened his bitterness against him, for the prankhe had intended to play upon him. With great simplicity, he presentedhimself at the Big House, and met its owner on the lawn, accompanied bytwo other gentlemen. The magistrate was somewhat surprised at seeing Artat large, when he imagined him to be under the jailer's lock and key. 

"Well, Art, " said he, concealing his amazement, "did you deliver myletter?"

"It went safe, your honor, " replied Art. "Did you yourself give it intohis hands, as I ordered you?"

"Whoo! Be dodda, would your honor think Art 'ud tell a lie? Sure he readit. Aha!"

"An' what did he say, Art?"

"Whoo! Why, that he didn't know which of us had the least sense. You forsendin' a fool on a message, or me for deliverin' it. "

"Was that all that happened?"

"No, sir. He said, " added the fool, with bitter sarcasm, alluding toa duel, in which the Squire's character had not come off with flyingcolors--"he said, sir, that whin you have another challenge to fight, you may get sick agin for threepence to the poticarry. "

This having been the manner in which the Squire was said to have evadedthe duel, it is unnecessary to say that Art's readiness to refresh hismemory on the subject prevented him from being received at the Big Housein future. 

Reader, remember that we only intended to give you a sketch of PhelimO'Toole's courtship. We will, however, go so far beyond our originalplan, as to apprise you of his fate. 

When it became known in the parish that he was in jail, under a chargeof felony, Sally Mattery abandoned all hopes of securing him as ahusband. The housekeeper felt suitable distress, and hoped, should thepoor boy be acquitted, that he might hould up his head wid any o' them. Phelim, through the agency of his father, succeeded in getting tenguineas from her, to pay the lawyers for defending him; not one penny ofwhich he applied to the purpose for which he obtained it. The expensesof his defence were drawn from the Ribbon fund, and the Irish readercannot forget the eloquent and pathetic, appeal made by his counsel tothe jury, on his behalf, and the strength with which the fact of hisbeing the whole support of a helpless father and mother was stated. The appeal, however, was ineffectual; worthy Phelim was convicted, andsentenced to transportation for life. When his old acquaintances heardthe nature of his destiny, they remembered the two prophecies thathad been so often uttered concerning him. One of them was certainlyfulfilled to the letter--we mean that in which it was stated, "that thegreatest swaggerer among the girls generally comes to the wall at last. "The other, though not literally accomplished, was touched at least uponthe spirit; transportation for life ranks next to hanging. We, cannotavoid mentioning a fact connected with Phelim which came to light whilehe remained in prison. By incessant trouble he was prevailed upon, orrather compelled, to attend the prison school, and on examining him, touching his religion? knowledge, it appeared that he was ignorant ofthe plainest truths of Christianity; that he knew not how or by whom theChristian religion had been promulgated; nor, indeed, any other moraltruth connected with Revelation. 

Immediately after his transportation, Larry took to drink, and hismother to begging, for she had no other means of living. In this modeof life, the husband was soon compelled to join her. They are bothmendicants, and Sheelah now appears sensible of the error in theirmanner of bringing Phelim up. 

"Ah! Larry, " she is sometimes heard to say, "I doubt that we wor wrongfor flyin' in the face o' God, becase He didn't give us childhre. An'when it plased Him to grant us a son, we oughtn't to 've spoiled him byover-indulgence, an' by lettin' him have his own head in everythin'as we did. If we had sint him to school, an' larned him to work, an'corrected him when he desarved it, instead of laughin' at his lies, an'misbehavior, and his oaths, as if they wor sport--ay, an abusin' thenabors when they'd complain of him, or tell us what he was--ay!--if wehad, it's a credit an' a comfort he'd be to us now, an' not a shame an'a disgrace, an' an affliction. We made our own bed, Larry, an' now wemust lie down an it. An' God help us! We made his bed too, poor boy, an'a hard one it is. God forgive us! but, anyhow, my heart a breakin', forbad as he was, sure we havn't him to look upon!"

"Thrue, " replied Larry. "Still he was game an' cute to the last. BiddyDoran's ten guineas will sarve him beyant, poor fellow. But sure theboys' kep their word to him, anyhow, in regard of shootin' FoodieFlattery. Myself was never betther plased in my life, than to hear thathe got the slugs into his heart, the villain!"

*****

We have attempted to draw Phelim O'Toole as closely as possible to thecharacter of that class, whose ignorance, want of education and absenceof all moral principle, constitute them the shame and reproach ofthe country. By such men the peace of Ireland is destroyed, illegalcombinations formed, blood shed, and nightly outrages committed. Thereis nothing more certain than this plain truth, that if proper religiousand moral knowledge were impressed upon the early principles of personslike Phelim, a conscience would be created capable of revolting fromcrime. Whatever the grievances of a people may be, whether real orimaginary, one thing is clear, that neither murder nor illegal violenceof any description, can be the proper mode of removing or redressingthem. We have kept Phelim's Ribbonism in the background, because itsdetails could excite only aversion, and preferred exhibiting his utterignorance of morality upon a less offensive subject, in order that thereader might be enabled to infer, rather than to witness with his mind'seye, the deeper crimes of which he was capable. 

WILDGOOSE LODGE

I had read the anonymous summons, but from its general import I believedit to be one of those special meetings convened for some purposeaffecting the usual objects and proceedings of the body; at leastthe terms in which it was conveyed to me had nothing extraordinary ormysterious in them, beyond the simple fact, that it was not to be ageneral but a select meeting: this mark of confidence flattered me, andI determined to attend punctually. I was, it is true, desired to keepthe circumstances entirely to myself, but there was nothing startlingin this, for I had often received summonses of a similar nature. I therefore resolved to attend, according to the letter of myinstructions, "on the next night, at the solemn hour of midnight, to deliberate and act upon such matters as should then and there besubmitted to my consideration. " The morning after I received thismessage, I arose and resumed my usual occupations; but, from whatevercause it may have proceeded, I felt a sense of approaching evil hangheavily upon me; the beats of my pulse were languid, and an undefinablefeeling of anxiety pervaded my whole spirit; even my face was pale, andmy eye so heavy, that my father and brothers concluded me to be ill; anopinion which I thought at the time to be correct, for I felt exactlythat kind of depression which precedes a severe fever. I could notunderstand what I experienced, nor can I yet, except by supposing thatthere is in human nature some mysterious faculty, by which, in comingcalamities, the dread of some fearful evil is anticipated, and that itis possible to catch a dark presentiment of the sensations which theysubsequently produce. For my part I can neither analyze nor define it;but on that day I knew it by painful experience, and so have a thousandothers in similar circumstances. 

It was about the middle of winter. The day was gloomy and tempestuous, almost beyond any other I remember; dark clouds rolled over the hillsabout me, and a close sleet-like rain fell in slanting drifts thatchased each other rapidly towards the earth on the course of the blast. The outlying cattle sought the closest and calmest corners of the fieldsfor shelter; the trees and young groves were tossed about, for the windwas so unusually high that it swept in hollow gusts through them, withthat hoarse murmur which deepens so powerfully on the mind the sense ofdreariness and desolation. 

As the shades of night fell, the storm, if possible, increased. The moonwas half gone, and only a few stars were visible by glimpses, as a rushof wind left a temporary opening in the sky. I had determined, if thestorm should not abate, to incur any penalty rather than attend themeeting; but the appointed hour was distant, and I resolved to bedecided by the future state of the night. 

Ten o'clock came, but still there was no change: eleven passed, and onopening the door to observe if there were any likelihood of its clearingup, a blast of wind, mingled with rain, nearly blew me off my feet. Atlength it was approaching to the hour of midnight; and on examining it athird time, I found it had calmed a little, and no longer rained. 

I instantly got my oak stick, muffled myself in my great coat, strappedmy hat about my ears, and, as the place of meeting was only a quarter ofa mile distant, I presently set out. 

The appearance of the heavens was lowering and angry, particularly inthat point where the light of the moon fell against the clouds, from aseeming chasm in them, through which alone she was visible. The edges ofthis chasm were faintly bronzed, but the dense body of the masses thathung piled on each side of her, was black and inpenetrable to sight. Inno other point of the heavens was there any part of the sky visible;a deep veil of clouds overhung the whole horizon, yet was the lightsufficient to give occasional glimpses of the rapid shifting which tookplace in this dark canopy, and of the tempestuous agitation with whichthe midnight storm swept to and fro beneath it. 

At length I arrived at a long slated house, situated in a solitary partof the neighborhood; a little below it ran a small stream, which wasnow swollen above its banks, and rushing with mimic roar over the flatmeadows beside it. The appearance of the bare slated building in sucha night was particularly sombre, and to those, like me, who knew thepurpose to which it was usually devoted, it was or ought to have beenpeculiarly so. There it stood, silent and gloomy, without any appearanceof human life or enjoyment about or within it. As I approached, the moononce more had broken out of the clouds, and shone dimly upon the wet, glittering slates and windows, with a death-like lustre, that graduallyfaded away as I left the point of observation, and entered thefolding-door. It was the parish chapel. 

The scene which presented itself here was in keeping not only with theexternal appearance of the house, but with the darkness, the storm, andthe hour, which was now a little after midnight. About forty personswere sitting in dead silence upon the circular steps of the altar. Theydid not seem to move; and as I entered and advanced, the echo of myfootsteps rang through the building with a lonely distinctness, whichadded to the solemnity and mystery of the circumstances about me. Thewindows were secured with shutters on the inside, and on the altar acandle was lighted, which burned dimly amid the surrounding darkness, and lengthened the shadow of the altar itself, and those of six orseven persons who stood on its upper steps, until they mingled in theobscurity which shrouded the lower end of the chapel. The faces of themen who sat on the altar steps were not distinctly visible, yet theirprominent and more characteristic features were in sufficient relief, and I observed, that some of the most malignant and reckless spirits inthe parish were assembled. In the eyes of those who stood at the altar, and those whom I knew to be invested with authority over the others, Icould perceive gleams of some latent and ferocious purpose, kindled, as I soon observed, into a fiercer expression of vengeance, by theadditional excitement of ardent spirits, with which they had stimulatedthemselves to a point of determination that mocked at the apprehensionof all future responsibility, either in this world or the next. 

The welcome which I received on joining them was far different fromthe boisterous good-humor that used to mark our greetings on otheroccasions; just a nod of the head from this or that person, on the partof those who sat, with a _dhud dhemur tha fhu?_ (* How are you?) in asuppressed voice, even below a common whisper: but from the standinggroup, who were evidently the projectors of the enterprise, I receiveda convulsive grasp of the hand, accompanied by a fierce and desperatelook, that seemed to search my eye and countenance, to try if I were aperson likely to shrink from whatever they had resolved to execute. It is surprising to think of the powerful expression which a moment ofintense interest or great danger is capable of giving to the eye, thefeatures and the slightest actions, especially in those whose stationin society does not require them to constrain nature, by the force ofsocial courtesies, into habits that conceal their natural emotions. None of the standing group spoke; but as each of them wrung my handin silence, his eye was fixed on mine, with an expression of drunkenconfidence and secrecy, and an insolent determination not to be gainsaidwithout peril. If looks could be translated with certainty, they seemedto say, "We are bound upon a project of vengeance, and if you do notjoin us, remember we can revenge. " Along with this grasp, they did notforget to remind me of the common bond by which we were united, foreach man gave me the secret grip of Ribbonism in a manner that made thejoints of my fingers ache for some minutes afterwards. 

There was one present, however--the highest in authority--whose actionsand demeanor were calm and unexcited. He seemed to labor under nounusual influence whatever, but evinced a serenity so placid andphilosophical, that I attributed the silence of the sitting group, andthe restraint which curbed in the outbreaking passions of those whostood, entirely to his presence. He was a schoolmaster, who taught hisdaily school in that chapel, and acted also on Sunday, in the capacityof clerk to the priest--an excellent and amiable old man, who knewlittle of his illegal connections and atrocious conduct. 

When the ceremonies of brotherly recognition and friendship were past, the Captain (by which title I shall designate the last-mentioned person)stooped, and, raising a jar of whiskey on the corner of the altar, helda wineglass to its neck, which he filled, and with a calm nod handedit to me to drink. I shrank back, with an instinctive horror, at theprofaneness of such an act, in the house, and on the altar of God, andperemptorily refused to taste the proffered I draught. He smiled mildlyat what he considered my superstition, and added quietly, and in a lowvoice, "You'll be wantin' it I'm thinkin', afther the wettin' yougot. "

"Wet or dry, " said I--

"Stop, man!" he replied, in the same tone; "spake low. But why wouldn'tyou take the whiskey? Sure there's as holy people to the fore as you:didn't they all take it? An' I wish we may never do worse nor dhrink aharmless glass o' whiskey, to keep the cowld out, any way. "

"Well, " said I, "I'll jist trust to God and the consequences, for thecowld, Paddy, ma bouchal; but a blessed dhrop of it won't be crossin' mylips, avick; so no more ghostlier about it;--dhrink it yourself if youlike. Maybe you want it as much as I do; wherein I've the patthern ofa good big-coat upon me, so thick, your sowl, that if it was rainin'bullocks, a dhrop wouldn't get undher the nap of it. "

He gave me a calm, but keen glance as I spoke. 

"Well, Jim, " said he, "it's a good comrade you've got for the weatherthat's in it; but, in the manetime, to set you a dacent patthern, I'lljust take this myself, "--saying which, with the jar still upon itsside, and the fore-finger of his left hand in his neck, he swallowedthe spirits--"It's the first I dhrank to-night, " he added, "nor wouldI dhrink it now, only to show you that I've heart an' spirit to do thething that we're all bound an' sworn to, when the proper time comes;"after which he laid down the glass, and turned up the jar, with muchcoolness, upon the altar. 

During our conversation, those who had been summoned to this mysteriousmeeting were pouring in fast; and as each person approached the altar, he received from one to two or three glasses of whiskey, according as hechose to limit himself; but, to do them justice, there were not a fewof those present, who, in despite of their own desire, and the Captain'sexpress invitation, refused to taste it in the house of God's worship. Such, however, as were scrupulous he afterwards recommended to take iton the outside of the chapel door, which they did, as, by that means, the sacrilege of the act was supposed to be evaded. 

About one o'clock they were all assembled except six: at least so theCaptain asserted, on looking at a written paper. 

"Now, boys, " said he in the same low voice, "we are all present exceptthe thraitors, whose names I am goin' to read to you; not that we are tocount thim thraitors, till we know whether or not it was in their powerto come. Any how, the night's terrible--but, boys, you're to know, thatneither fire nor wather is to prevint you, when duly summoned to attinda meeting--particularly whin the summons is widout a name, as you havebeen told that there is always something of consequence to be donethin. "

He then read out the names of those who were absent, in order that thereal cause of their absence might be ascertained, declaring that theywould be dealt with accordingly. |

After this, with his usual caution, he shut and bolted the door, andhaving put the key in his pocket, ascended the steps of the altar, and for some time traversed the little platform from which the priestusually addresses the congregation. 

Until this night I had never contemplated the man's countenance with anyparticular interest; but as he walked the platform, I had an opportunityof observing him more closely. He was slight in person, apparently notthirty; and, on a first view, appeared to have nothing remarkable in hisdress or features. I, however, was not the only person whose eyes werefixed upon him at that moment; in fact, every one present observed himwith equal interest, for hitherto he had kept the object of the meetingperfectly secret, and of course we all felt anxious to know it. It waswhile he traversed the platform that I scrutinized his features with ahope, if possible, to glean from them some evidence of what was passingwithin him. I could, however, mark but little, and that little was atfirst rather from the intelligence which seemed to subsist between himand those whom I have already mentioned as standing against the altar, than from any indication of his own. Their gleaming eyes were fixed uponhim with an intensity of savage and demon-like hope, which blazed out inflashes of malignant triumph, as upon turning, he threw a cool but rapidglance at them, to intimate the progress he was making in the subject towhich he devoted the undivided energies of his mind. But in the courseof his meditation, I could observe, on one or two occasions, a darkshade come over his countenance, that contracted his brow into a deepfurrow, and it was then, for the first time, that I saw the satanicexpression of which his face, by a very slight motion of its muscles, was capable. His hands, during this silence, closed and openedconvulsively; his eyes shot out two or three baleful glances, first tohis confederates, and afterwards vacantly into the deep gloom of thelower part of the chapel; his teeth ground against each other, likethose of a man whose revenge burns to reach a distant enemy, andfinally, after having wound himself up to a certain determination, hisfeatures relapsed into their original calm and undisturbed expression. 

At this moment a loud laugh, having something supernatural in it, rangout wildly from the darkness of the chapel; he stopped, and putting hisopen hand over his brows, peered down into the gloom, and said calmly inIrish, "_Bee dhu husth; ha nih anam inh_:--hold your tongue, it is notyet time. "

Every eye was now directed to the same spot, but, in consequence of itsdistance from the dim light on the altar, none could perceive the personfrom whom the laugh proceeded. It was, by this time, near two o'clock inthe morning. 

He now stood for a few moments on the platform, and his chest heavedwith a depth of anxiety equal to the difficulty of the design he wishedto accomplish. 

"Brothers, " said he--"for we are all brothers--sworn upon all that'sblessed an' holy, to obey whatever them that's over us, manin' amongourselves, wishes us to do--are you now ready, in the name of God, uponwhose althar I stand, to fulfil yer oaths?"

The words were scarcely uttered, when those who had stood beside thealtar during the night, sprang from their places, and descending itssteps rapidly turned round, and raising their arms, exclaimed, "By allthat's good an' holy we're willin'. "

In the meantime, those who sat upon the steps of the altar, instantlyrose, and following the example of those who had just spoken, exclaimedafter them, "To be sure--by all that's sacred an' holy we're willin'. "

"Now, boys, " said the Captain, "ar'n't ye big fools for your pains? an'one of ye doesn't know what I mane. "

"You're our Captain, " said one of those who had stood at the altar, "an'has yer ordhers from higher quarthers; of coorse, whatever ye commandupon us we're bound to obey you in. "

"Well, " said he, smiling, "I only wanted to thry yez; an' by the oathye tuck, there's not a captain in the county has as good a right to beproud of his min as I have. Well, ye won't rue it, maybe, when the righttime comes; and for that same rason every one of ye must have a glassfrom the jar; thim that won't dhrink it in the chapel can dhrink itwidout; an' here goes to open the door for thim. "

He then distributed another glass to every one who would accept it, andbrought the jar afterwards to the chapel door, to satisfy the scruplesof those who would not drink within. When this was performed, and allduly excited, he proceeded:--

"Now, brothers, you are solemnly sworn to obay me, and I'm sure there'sno thraithur here that 'ud parjure himself for a thrifle; but I'm swornto obay them that's above me, manin' still among ourselves; an' to showthat I don't scruple to do it, here goes!"

He then turned round, and taking the Missal between his hands placed itupon the altar. Hitherto every word was uttered in a low precautionarytone; but on grasping the book he again turned round, and looking uponhis confederates with the same satanic expression which marked hiscountenance before, he exclaimed, in a voice of deep determination, first kissing the book!

[Illustration: PAGE WG939-- By this sacred an' holy book of God]

"By this sacred an' holy book of God, I will perform the action which wehave met this night to accomplish, be that what it may; an' this I swearupon God's book, and God's althar!"

On concluding, he struck the book violently with his open hand, therebyoccasioning a very loud report. 

At this moment the candle which burned before him went suddenly out, andthe chapel was wrapped in pitchy darkness; the sound as if of rushingwings fell upon our ears, and fifty voices dwelt upon the last words ofhis oath with wild and supernatural tones, that seemed to echo and tomock what he had sworn. There was a pause, and an exclamation ofhorror from all present; but the Captain was too cool and steady to bedisconcerted. He immediately groped about until he got the candle, and proceeding calmly to a remote corner of the chapel, took up ahalf-burned peat which lay there, and after some trouble succeeded inlighting it again. He then explained what had taken place; which indeedwas easily done, as the candle happened to be extinguished by a pigeonwhich sat directly above it. The chapel, I should have observed, was atthis time, like many country chapels, unfinished inside, and the pigeonsof a neighboring dove-cot had built nests among the rafters of theunceiled roof; which circumstance also explained the rushing of thewings, for the birds had been affrighted by the sudden loudness ofthe noise. The mocking voices were nothing but the echoes, renderednaturally more awful by the scene, the mysterious object of the meeting, and the solemn hour of the night. 

When the candle was again lighted, and these startling circumstancesaccounted for, the persons whose vengeance had been deepening more andmore during the night, rushed to the altar in a body, where each, ina voice trembling with passionate eagerness, repeated the oath, and asevery word was pronounced, the same echoes heightened the wildnessof the horrible ceremony, by their long and unearthly tones. Thecountenances of these human tigers were livid with suppressed rage;their knit brows, compressed lips, and kindled eyes, fell under the dimlight of the taper, with an expression calculated to sicken any heartnot absolutely diabolical. 

As soon as this dreadful rite was completed, we were again startled byseveral loud bursts of laughter, which proceeded from the lower darknessof the chapel; and the Captain, on hearing them, turned to theplace, and reflecting for a moment, said in Irish, "_Gutsho nish, avohenee_--come hither now, boys. "

A rush immediately took place from the corner in which they had secretedthemselves all the night; and seven men appeared, whom we instantlyrecognized as brothers and cousins of certain persons who had beenconvicted, some time before, for breaking into the house of an honestpoor man in the neighborhood, from whom, after having treated him withbarbarous violence, they took away such fire-arms as he kept for his ownprotection. 

It was evidently not the Captain's intention to have produced thesepersons until the oath should have been generally taken, but theexulting mirth with which they enjoyed the success of his schemebetrayed them, and put him to the necessity of bringing them forwardsomewhat before the concerted moment. 

The scene which now took place was beyond all power of description;peals of wild, fiendlike yells rang through the chapel, as the partywhich stood on the altar and that which had crouched in the darknessmet; wringing of hands, leaping in triumph, striking of sticks andfire-arms against the ground and the altar itself, dancing and crackingof fingers, marked the triumph of some hellish determination. Even theCaptain for a time was unable to restrain their fury; but, at length, hemounted the platform before the altar once more, and with a stamp of hisfoot, recalled their attention to himself and the matter in hand. 

"Boys, " said he, "enough of this, and too much; an' well for us it isthat the chapel is in a lonely place, or our foolish noise might do usno good. Let thim that swore so manfully jist now, stand a one side, till the rest kiss the book one by one. "

The proceedings, however, had by this time taken too fearful a shape foreven the Captain to compel them to a blindfold oath; the first man hecalled flatly refused to answer, until he should hear the nature of theservice that was required. This was echoed by the remainder, who, takingcourage from the firmness of this person, declared generally that, untilthey first knew the business they were to execute, none of them wouldtake the oath. The Captain's lip quivered slightly, and his brow againbecame knit with the same hellish expression, which I have remarkedgave him so much the appearance of an, embodied fiend; but this speedilypassed away, and was succeeded by a malignant sneer, in which lurked, if there ever did in a sneer, "a laughing devil, " calmly, determinedlyatrocious. 

"It wasn't worth yer whiles to refuse the oath, " said he, mildly, "forthe truth is, I had next to nothing for yez to do. Not a hand, maybe, would have to rise, only jist to look on, an' if any resistance wouldbe made, to show yourselves; yer numbers would soon make them seethat resistance would be, no use whatever in the present case. At all, evints, the oath of secrecy must be taken, or woe be to him that willrefuse that; he won't know the day, nor the hour, nor the minute, whenhe'll be made a spatch-cock of. "

He then turned round, and, placing his right hand on the Missal, swore, "In the presence of God, and before his holy altar, that whatever mighttake place that night he would keep secret, from man or mortal, exceptthe priest, and that neither bribery, nor imprisonment, nor death, wouldwring it from his heart. "

Having done this, he again struck the book violently, as if to confirmthe energy with which he swore, and then calmly descending the steps, stood with a serene countenance, like a man conscious of havingperformed a good action. As this oath did not pledge those who refusedto take the other to the perpetration of any specific crime, it wasreadily taken by all present. Preparations were then made to executewhat was intended: the half burned turf was placed in a little pot;another glass of whiskey was distributed; and the door being lockedby the Captain, who kept the key as parish clerk and schoolmaster, thecrowd departed silently from the chapel. 

The moment those who lay in the darkness, during the night, made theirappearance at the altar, we knew at once the persons we were to visit;for, as I said before, they were related to the miscreants whom one ofthose persons had convicted, in consequences of their midnight attackupon himself and his family. The Captain's object in keeping them unseenwas, that those present, not being aware of the duty about to be imposedon them, might have less hesitation about swearing to its fulfilment. Our conjectures were correct; for on leaving the chapel we directed oursteps to the house in which this devoted man resided. 

The night was still stormy, but without rain: it was rather dark, too, though not so as to prevent us from seeing the clouds careering swiftlythrough the air. The dense curtain which had overhung and obscured thehorizon was now broken, and large sections of the sky were clear, andthinly studded with stars that looked dim and watery, as did indeed thewhole firmament; for in some places black clouds were still visible, threatening a continuance of tempestuous weather. The road appearedwashed and gravelly; every dike was full of yellow water; and everylittle rivulet and larger stream dashed its hoarse murmur into our ears;every blast, too, was cold, fierce, and wintry, sometimes driving usback to a standstill, and again, when a turn in the road would bringit in our backs, whirling us along for a few steps with involuntaryrapidity. At length the fated dwelling became visible, and a shortconsultation was held in a sheltered place, between the Captain and thetwo parties who seemed so eager for its destruction. Their fire-armswere now loaded, and their bayonets and short pikes, the latter shod andpointed with iron, were also got ready. The live coal which was broughtin the small pot had become extinguished; but to remedy this, two orthree persons from a remote part of the county entered a cabin on thewayside, and, under pretence of lighting their own and their comrades'pipes, procured a coal of fire, for so they called a lighted turf. Fromthe time we left the chapel until this moment a profound silence hadbeen maintained, a circumstance which, when I considered the number ofpersons present, and the mysterious and dreaded object of their journey, had a most appalling effect upon my spirits. 

At length we arrived within fifty perches of the house, walking in acompact body, and with as little noise as possible; but it seemed asif the very elements had conspired to frustrate our design, for onadvancing within the shade of the farm-hedge, two or three persons foundthemselves up to the middle in water, and on stooping to ascertain moreaccurately the state of the place, we could see nothing but one immensesheet of it--spread like a lake over the meadows which surrounded thespot we wished to reach. 

Fatal night! The very recollection of it, when associated with thefearful tempests of elements, grows, if that were possible, yet morewild and revolting. Had we been engaged in any innocent or benevolententerprise, there was something in our situation just then that had atouch of interest in it to a mind imbued with a relish for the savagebeauties of nature. There we stood, about a hundred and thirty innumber, our dark forms bent forward, peering into the dusky expanse ofwater, with its dim gleams of reflected light, broken by the welteringof the mimic waves into ten thousand fragments, whilst the few starsthat overhung it in the firmament appeared to shoot through it in brokenlines, and to be multiplied fifty-fold in the gloomy mirror on which wegazed. 

Over us was a stormy sky, and around us; a darkness through which wecould only distinguish, in outline, the nearest objects, whilst the wildwind swept strongly and dismally upon us. When it was discovered thatthe common pathway to the house was inundated, we were about to abandonour object and return home. The Captain, however, stooped down low fora moment, and, almost closing his eyes, looked along the surface of thewaters; and then, rising himself very calmly, said, in his usually quiettone, "Ye needn't go back, boys, I've found a way; jist follow me. "

He immediately took a more circuitous direction, by which we reached acauseway that had been raised for the purpose of giving a free passageto and from the house, during such inundations as the present. Alongthis we had advanced more than half way, when we discovered a breachin it, which, as afterwards appeared, had that night been made by thestrength of the flood. This, by means of our sticks and pikes, we foundto be about three feet deep, and eight yards broad. Again we were ata loss how to proceed, when the fertile brain of the Captain devised amethod of crossing it. 

"Boys, " said he, "of coorse you've all played at leap-frog; very well, strip and go in, a dozen of you, lean one upon the back of another fromthis to the opposite bank, where one must stand facing the outsideman, both their shoulders agin one another, that the outside man may besupported. Then we can creep over you, an' a dacent bridge you'll be, any way. "

This was the work of only a few minutes, and in less than ten we wereall safely over. 

Merciful Heaven! how I sicken at the recollection of what is to follow!On reaching the dry bank, we proceeded instantly, and in profoundsilence, to the house; the Captain divided us into companies, and thenassigned to each division its proper station. The two parties who hadbeen so vindictive all the night, he kept about himself; for of thosewho were present, they only were in his confidence, and knew hisnefarious purpose; their number was about fifteen. Having made thesedispositions, he, at the head of about five of them, approached thehouse on the windy side, for the fiend possessed a coolness whichenabled him to seize upon every possible advantage. That he hadcombustibles about him was evident, for in less than fifteen minutesnearly one-half of the house was enveloped in flames. On seeing this, the others rushed over to the spot where he and his gang were standing, and remonstrated earnestly, but in vain; the flames now burst forth withrenewed violence, and as they flung their strong light upon the facesof the foremost group, I think hell itself could hardly present anythingmore satanic than their countenances, now worked up into a paroxysm ofinfernal triumph at their own revenge. The Captain's look had lost allits calmness, every feature started out into distinct malignity, thecurve in his brow was deep, and ran up, to the root of the hair, dividinghis face into two segments, that did not seem to have been designedfor each other. His lips were half open, and the corners of his mouth alittle brought back on each side, like those of a man expressing intensehatred and triumph over an enemy who is in the death-struggle under hisgrasp. His eyes blazed from beneath his knit eyebrows with a fire thatseemed to be lighted up in the infernal pit itself. It is unnecessary, and only painful, to describe the rest of his gang; demons might havebeen proud of such horrible visages as they exhibited; for they workedunder all the power of hatred, revenge, and joy; and these passionsblended into one terrible scowl, enough almost to blast any human eyethat would venture to look upon it. 

When the others attempted to intercede for the lives of the inmates, there were at least fifteen guns and pistols levelled at them. 

"Another word, " said the Captain, "an' you're a corpse where you stand, or the first man who will dare to spake for them; no, no, it wasn't tospare them we came here. 'No mercy' is the pass-word for the night, an'by the sacred oath I swore beyant in the chapel, any one among yez thatwill attempt to show it, will find none at my hand. Surround the house, boys, I tell ye, I hear them stirring. 'No quarter--no mercy, ' is theordher of the night. "

Such was his command over these misguided creatures, that in an instantthere was a ring round the house to prevent the escape of the unhappyinmates, should the raging element give them time to attempt it; fornone present durst withdraw themselves from the scene, not only from anapprehension of the Captain's present vengeance, or that of his gang, but because they knew that even had they then escaped, an early andcertain death awaited them from a quarter against which they hadno means of defence. The hour now was about half-past two! o'clock. Scarcely had the last words escaped from the Captain's lips, when one ofthe windows of the house was broken, and a human head, having the hairin a blaze, was descried, apparently a woman's, if one might judgeby the profusion of burning tresses, and the softness of the tones, notwithstanding that it called, or rather shrieked aloud for help andmercy. The only reply to this was the whoop from the Captain and hisgang, of "No mercy--no mercy!" and that instant the former, and one ofthe latter, rushed to the spot, and ere the action could be perceived, the head was transfixed with a bayonet and a pike, both having enteredit together. The word "mercy" was divided in her mouth; a short silenceensued, the head hung down on the window, but was instantly tossed backinto the flames. 

This action occasioned a cry of horror from all present, except the gangand their leader, which startled and enraged the latter so much, that heran towards one of them, and had his bayonet, now reeking with the bloodof its innocent victim, raised to plunge it in his body, when, droppingthe point, he said in a piercing whisper, that hissed in the ears ofall: "It's no use now, you know; if one's to hang, all will hang; so oursafest way, you persave, is to lave none of them to tell the story. Yemay go now, if you wish; but it won't save a hair of your heads. Youcowardly set! I knew if I had tould yez the sport, that none of you, except my own boys, would come, so I jist played a thrick upon you; butremimber what you are sworn to, and stand to the oath ye tuck. "

Unhappily, notwithstanding the wetness of the preceding weather, thematerials of the house were extremely combustible; the whole dwellingwas now one body of glowing flame, yet the shouts and shrieks withinrose awfully above its crackling and the voice of the storm, for thewind once more blew in gusts, and with great violence. The doors andwindows were all torn open, and such of those within as had escaped theflames rushed towards them, for the purpose of further escape, andof claiming mercy at the hands of their destroyers; but whenever theyappeared, the unearthly cry of "no mercy" rang upon their ears for amoment, and for a moment only, for they were flung back at the points ofthe weapons which the demons had brought with them to make the work ofvengeance more certain. 

As yet there were many persons in the house, whose cry for life wasstrong as despair, and who clung to it with all the awakened powersof reason and instinct. The ear of man could hear nothing so stronglycalculated to stifle the demon of cruelty and revenge within him, as thelong and wailing shrieks which rose beyond the elements, in tones thatwere carried off rapidly upon the blast, until they died away in thedarkness that lay behind the surrounding hills. Had not the house beenin a solitary situation, and the hour the dead of night, any personsleeping within a moderate distance must have heard them, for such a cryof sorrow rising into a yell of despair was almost sufficient to haveawakened, the dead. It was lost, however, upon the hearts and ears thatheard it: to them, though in justice be it said, to only comparativelya few of them, it appeared as delightful as the tones of soft andentrancing music. 

The claims of the surviving sufferers were now modified; theysupplicated merely to suffer death by the weapons of their enemies; theywere willing to bear that, provided they should be allowed to escapefrom the flames; but no--the horrors of the conflagration werecalmly and malignantly gloried in by their merciless assassins, whodeliberately flung them back into all their tortures. In the course ofa few minutes a man appeared upon the side-wall of the house, nearlynaked; his figure, as he stood against the sky in horrible relief, wasso finished a picture of woebegone agony and supplication, that it isyet as distinct in my memory as if I were again present at the scene. Every muscle, now in motion by the powerful agitation of his sufferings, stood out upon his limbs and neck, giving him an appearance of desperatestrength, to which by this time he must have been wrought up; theperspiration poured from his frame, and the veins and arteries of hisneck were inflated to a surprising thickness. Every moment he lookeddown into the flames which were rising to where he stood; and as helooked, the indescribable horror which flitted over his features mighthave worked upon the devil himself to relent. His words were few:--

"My child, " said he, "is still safe, she is an infant, a young crathurthat never harmed you, or any one--she is still safe. Your mothers, yourwives, have young innocent childhre like it. Oh, spare her, think for amoment that it's one of your own; spare it, as you hope to meet a justGod, or if you don't, in mercy shoot me first--put an end to me, beforeI see her burned!"

The Captain approached him coolly and deliberately. "You'll prosecute noone now, you bloody informer, " said he: "you'll convict no more boys fortakin' an ould gun an' pistol from you, or for givin' you a neighborlyknock or two into the bargain. "

Just then, from a window opposite him, proceeded the shrieks of a woman, who appeared at it with the infant, in her arms. She herself was almostscorched to death; but, with the presence of mind and humanity of hersex, she was about to put the little babe out of the window. The Captainnoticed this, and, with characteristic atrocity, thrust, with a sharpbayonet, the little innocent, along with the person who endeavored torescue it, into the red flames, where they both perished. This was thework of an instant. Again he approached the man: "Your child is a coalnow, " said he, with deliberate mockery; "I pitched it in myself, on thepoint of this, "--showing the weapon--"an' now is your turn, "--sayingwhich, he clambered up, by the assistance of his gang, who stood witha front of pikes and bayonets bristling to receive the wretched man, should he attempt, in his despair, to throw himself from the wall. The Captain got up, and placing the point of his bayonet against hisshoulder, flung him into the fiery element that raged behind him. Heuttered one wild and terrific cry, as he fell back, and no more. Afterthis nothing was heard but the crackling of the fire, and the rushing ofthe blast; all that had possessed life within were consumed, amountingeither to eight or eleven persons. 

When this was accomplished, those who took an active part in the murder, stood for some time about the conflagration; and as it threw its redlight upon their fierce faces and rough persons, soiled as they now werewith smoke and black streaks of ashes, the scene seemed to be changed tohell, the murderers to spirits of the damned, rejoicing over the arrivaland the torture of some guilty soul. The faces of those who kept alooffrom the slaughter were blanched to the whiteness of death: some of themfainted, and others were in such agitation that they were compelled tolean on their comrades. They became actually powerless with horror:yet to such a scene were they brought by the pernicious influence ofRibbonism. 

It was only when the last victim went down, that the conflagration shotup into the air with most unbounded fury. The house was large, deeplythatched, and well furnished; and the broad red pyramid rose up withfearful magnificence towards the sky. Abstractedly it had sublimity, butnow it was associated with nothing in my mind but blood and terror. Itwas not, however, without a purpose that the Captain and his gang stoodto contemplate its effect. "Boys, " said he, "we had betther be sartinthat all's safe; who knows but there might be some of the sarpentscrouchin' under a hape o' rubbish, to come out an' gibbet us to-morrowor next day: we had betther wait a while, anyhow, if it was only to seethe blaze. "

Just then the flames rose majestically to a surprising height. Our eyesfollowed their direction; and we perceived, for the first time, thatthe dark clouds above, together with the intermediate air, appearedto reflect back, or rather to have caught the red hue of the fire. Thehills and country about us appeared with an alarming distinctness; butthe most picturesque part of it was the effect of reflection of theblaze on the floods that spread over the surrounding plains. These, infact, appeared to be one broad mass of liquid copper, for the motion ofthe breaking-waters caught from the blaze of the high waving column, as reflected in them, a glaring light, which eddied, and rose, andfluctuated, as if the flood itself had been a lake of molten fire. 

Fire, however, destroys rapidly. In a short time the flames sank--becameweak and flickering--by and by, they shot out only in fits--thecrackling of the timbers died away--the surrounding darknessdeepened--and, ere long, the faint light was overpowered by the thickvolumes of smoke that rose from the ruins of the house and its murderedinhabitants. 

"Now, boys, " said the Captain, "all is safe--we may go. Remember, every man of you, what you've sworn this night, on the book an' altar ofGod--not on a heretic Bible. If you perjure yourselves, you may hangus; but let me tell you, for your comfort, that if you do, there isthem livin' that will take care the lease of your own lives will be butshort. "

After this we dispersed every man to his own home. 

Reader, --not many months elapsed ere I saw the bodies of this Captain, whose name was Patrick Devann, and all those who were actively concernedin the perpetration of this deed of horror, withering in the wind, wherethey hung gibbeted, near the scene of their nefarious villany; andwhile I inwardly thanked Heaven for my own narrow and almost undeservedescape, I thought in my heart how seldom, even in this world, justicefails to overtake the murder, and to enforce the righteous judgment ofGod--that "whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed. "

*****

This tale of terror is, unfortunately, too true. The scene of hellishmurder detailed in it lies at Wildgoose Lodge, in the county of Louth, within about four miles of Carrickmacross, and nine of Dundalk. No suchmultitudinous murder has occurred, under similar circumstances, exceptthe burning of the Sheas, in the county of Tipperary. The name of thefamily burned in Wildgoose Lodge was Lynch. One of them had, shortlybefore this fatal night, prosecuted and convicted some of theneighboring Ribbonmen, who visited him with severe marks of theirdispleasure, in consequence of his having refused to enrol himself asa member of their body. The language of the story is partly fictitious;but the facts are pretty closely such as were developed during thetrial of the murderers. Both parties were Roman Catholics, and eithertwenty-five or twenty-eight of those who took an active part in theburning, were hanged and gibbeted in different parts of the county ofLouth. Devann, the ringleader, hung for some months in chains, withinabout a hundred yards of his own house, and about half a mile fromWildgoose Lodge. His mother could neither go into nor out of her cabinwithout seeing his body swinging from the gibbet. Her usual exclamationon looking at him was--"God be good to the sowl of my poor marthyr!"The peasantry, too, frequently exclaimed, on seeing him, "Poor Paddy!" Agloomy fact that speaks volumes!

TUBBER DERG; Or, THE RED WELL. 

The following story owes nothing to any coloring or invention ofmine; it is unhappily a true one, and to me possesses a peculiar andmelancholy interest, arising from my intimate knowledge of the man whosefate it holds up as a moral lesson to Irish landlords. I knew him well, and many a day and hour have I played about his knee, and ran, in myboyhood, round his path, when, as he said to himself, the world was notrouble to him. 

On the south side of a sloping tract of light ground, lively, warm, and productive, stood a white, moderate-sized farm-house, which, inconsequence of its conspicuous situation, was a prominent and, we mayadd, a graceful object in the landscape of which it formed a part. Thespot whereon it stood was a swelling natural terrace, the soil of whichwas heavier and richer than that of the adjoining lands. On each sideof the house stood a clump of old beeches, the only survivors of thatspecies then remaining in the country. These beeches extended behind thehouse in a land of angle, with opening, enough at their termination toform a vista, through which its white walls glistened with beautifuleffect in the calm splendor of a summer evening. Above the mound onwhich it stood, rose two steep hills, overgrown with furze and fern, except on their tops, which were clothed with purple heath; they werealso covered with patches of broom, and studded with gray rocks, whichsometimes rose singly or in larger masses, pointed or rounded intocurious and fantastic shapes. Exactly between these hills the sun wentdown during the month of June, and nothing could be in finer reliefthan the rocky and picturesque outlines of their sides, as crowned withthorns and clumps of wild ash, they appeared to overhang the valleywhose green foliage was gilded by the sun-beams, which lit up the sceneinto radiant beauty. The bottom of this natural chasm, which openedagainst the deep crimson of the evening sky, was nearly upon a levelwith the house, and completely so with the beeches that surrounded it. Brightly did the sinking sun fall upon their tops, whilst the neat whitehouse below, in their quiet shadow, sent up its wreath of smokeamong their branches, itself an emblem of contentment, industry, andinnocence. It was, in fact, a lovely situation; perhaps the brighterto me, that its remembrance is associated with days of happiness andfreedom from the cares of a world, which, like a distant mountain, darkens as we approach it, and only exhausts us in struggling to climbits rugged and barren paths. 

There was to the south-west of this house another little hazel glen, that ended in a precipice formed, by a single rock some thirty feet, high, over which tumbled a crystal cascade into a basin worn in itshard bed below. From this basin the stream murmured away through thecopse-wood, until it joined a larger rivulet that passed, with many awinding, through a fine extent of meadows adjoining it. Across the footof this glen, and past the door of the house we have described, ran abridle road, from time immemorial; on which, as the traveller ascendedit towards the house, he appeared to track his way in blood, for achalybeate spa arose at its head, oozing out of the earth, and spreaditself in a crimson stream over the path in every spot whereon afoot-mark could be made. From this circumstance it was called TubberDerg, or the Red Well. In the meadow where the glen terminated, wasanother spring of delicious crystal; and clearly do I remember theever-beaten pathway that led to it through the grass, and up the greenfield which rose in a gentle slope to the happy-looking house of OwenM'Carthy, for so was the man called who resided under its peaceful roof. 

I will not crave your pardon, gentle reader, for dwelling at such lengthupon a scene so clear to my heart as this, because I write not now somuch for your gratification as my own. Many an eve of gentle May haveI pulled the Maygowans which grew about that well, and over that smoothmeadow. 

Often have I raised my voice to its shrillest pitch, that I might hearits echoes rebounding in the bottom of the green and still glen, wheresilence, so to speak, was deepened by the continuous murmur of thecascade above; and when the cuckoo uttered her first note from among thehawthorns on its side, with what trembling anxiety did I, an urchin ofsome eight or nine years, look under my right foot for the white hair, whose charm was such, that by keeping it about me the first female nameI should hear was destined, I believed in my soul, to be that of myfuture wife. * Sweet was the song of the thrush, and mellow the whistleof the blackbird, as they rose in the stillness of evening over the"hirken shaws" and green dells of this secluded spot of rural beauty. Far, too, could the rich voice of Owen M'Carthy be heard along the hillsand meadows, as, with a little chubby urchin at his knee, and another inhis arms, he sat on a bench beside his own door, singing the "Trouglia". In his native Irish; whilst Kathleen his wife, with her two maids, eachcrooning a low song, sat before the door milking the cows, whose sweetbreath mingled its perfume with the warm breeze of evening. 

Owen M'Carthy was descended from a long-line of honest ancestors, whose names had never, within the memory of man, been tarnished bythe commission of a mean or disreputable action. They were always akind-hearted family, but stern and proud in the common intercourse oflife. They believed; themselves to be, and probably were, a branch ofthe MacCarthy More stock; and, although only the possessors of a smallfarm, it was singular to observe the effect which this convictionproduced upon their bearing and manners. To it might, perhaps, be attributed the high and stoical integrity for which they wereremarkable. This severity, however, was no proof that they wantedfeeling, or were insensible to the misery and sorrows of others: inall the little cares and perplexities that chequered the peacefulneighborhood in which they lived, they were ever the first to console, or, if necessary, to support a distressed neighbor with the means whichGod had placed in their possession; for, being industrious, they wereseldom poor. Their words were few, but sincere, and generally promisedless than the honest hearts that dictated them intended to perform. There is in some persons a hereditary feeling of just principle, theresult neither of education nor of a clear moral sense, but rather akind of instinctive honesty which descends, like a constitutionalbias, from father to son, pervading every member of the family. It isdifficult to define this, or to assign its due position in the scaleof human virtues. It exists in the midst of the grossest ignorance, andinfluences the character in the absence of better principles. Such wasthe impress which marked so strongly the family of which I speak. No onewould ever think of imputing a dishonest act to the M'Carthys; nor wouldany person acquainted with them, hesitate for a moment to consider theirword as good as the bond of another. I do not mean to say, however, thattheir motives of action were not higher than this instinctive honesty;far from it: but I say, that they possessed it in addition to a strongfeeling of family pride, and a correct knowledge of their moral duties. 

 * Such is the superstition; and, as I can tell, faithfully is it believed. 

I can only take up Owen M'Carthy at that part of the past to which mymemory extends. He was then a tall, fine-looking young man; silent, butkind. One of the earliest events within my recollection is his wedding;after that the glimpse of his state and circumstances are imperfect; butas I grew up, they became more connected, and I am able to remember himthe father of four children; an industrious, inoffensive small farmer, beloved, respected, and honored. No man could rise, be it ever so early, who would not find Owen up before him; no man could anticipate him in anearly crop, and if a widow or a sick acquaintance were unable to get intheir harvest, Owen was certain to collect the neighbors to assist them;to be the first there himself, with quiet benevolence, encouragingthem to a zealous performance of the friendly task in which they wereengaged. 

It was, I believe, soon after his marriage, that the lease of the farmheld by him expired. Until that time he had been able to live withperfect independence; but even the enormous rise of one pound per acre, though it deprived him in a great degree of his usual comforts, did notsink him below the bare necessaries of life. For some years after thathe could still serve a deserving neighbor; and never was the hand ofOwen M'Carthy held back from the wants and distresses of those whom heknew to be honest. 

I remember once an occasion upon which a widow Murray applied to him fora loan of five pounds, to prevent her two cows from being auctionedfor a half year's rent, of which she only wanted that sum. Owen sat atdinner with his family when she entered the house in tears, and, as wellas her agitation of mind permitted, gave him a detailed account of herembarrassment. 

"The blessin' o' God be upon all here, " said she, on entering. 

"The double o' that to you, Rosha, " replied Owen's wife: "won't you sitin an' be atin'?--here's a sate beside Nanny; come over, Rosha. "

Owen only nodded to her, and continued to eat his dinner, as if he feltno interest in her distress. Rosha sat down at a distance, and with thecorner of a red handkerchief to her eyes, shed tears in that bitternessof feeling which marks the helplessness of honest industry under thepressure of calamity. 

"In the name o' goodness, Rosha, " said Mrs. M'Carthy, "what ails you, asthore? Sure Jimmy--God spare him to you--wouldn't be dead?"

"Glory be to God! no, avourneen machree. Och, och! but it 'ud be theblack sight, an' the black day, that 'ud see my brave, boy, the staffof our support, an' the bread of our mouth, taken away from us!--No, no, Kathleen dear, it's not that bad wid me yet. I hope we'll never live tosee his manly head laid down before us. 'Twas his own manliness, indeed, brought it an him--backin' the sack when he was bringin' home our last_meldhre_ * from the mill; for you see he should do it, the crathur, toshow his strinth, an' the sack, when he got it an was too heavy for him, an' hurted the small of his back; for his bones, you see, are too young, an' hadn't time to fill up yet. No, avourneen. Glory be to God! he'sgettin' betther wid me!" and the poor creature's eyes glistened withdelight through her tears and the darkness of her affliction. 

Without saying a word, Owen, when she finished the eulogium on herson, rose, and taking her forcibly by the shoulder, set her down at thetable, on which a large potful of potatoes had been spread out, witha circle in the middle for a dish of rashers and eggs, into which dishevery right hand of those about it was thrust, with a quickness thatclearly illustrated the principle of competition as a stimulus toaction. 

"Spare your breath, " said Owen, placing her rather roughly upon theseat, "an' take share of what's goin': when all's cleared off we'll hearyou, but the sorra word till then. "

"Musha, Owen, " said the poor woman, "you're the same man still; surewe all know your ways; I'll strive, avourneen, to ate--I'll strive, asthore--to plase you, an' the Lord bless you an' yours, an' may younever be as I an' my fatherless childhre are this sorrowful day!" andshe accompanied her words by a flood of tears. 

 * Meldhre--whatever quantity of grain is brought to the mill to be ground on one occasion. 

Owen, without evincing the slightest sympathy, withdrew himself from thetable. Not a muscle of his face was moved; but as the cat came about hisfeet at the time, he put his foot under her, and flung her as easily aspossible to the lower end of the kitchen. 

"Arrah, what harm did the crathur do, " asked his wife, "that you'd kickher for, that way? an' why but you ate out your dinner?"

"I'm done, " he replied, "but that's no rason that Rosha, an' you, an'thim boys that has the work afore them, shouldn't finish your male'smate. "

Poor Rosha thought that by his withdrawing he had already suspectedthe object of her visit, and of course concluded that her chance ofsucceeding was very slender. 

The wife, who guessed what she wanted, as well as the nature of hersuspicion, being herself as affectionate and obliging as Owen, revertedto the subject, in order to give her an opportunity of proceeding. 

"Somethin' bitther an' out o' the common coorse, is a throuble to you, Rosha, " said she, "or you wouldn't be in the state you're in. The Lordlook down on you this day, you poor crathur--widout the father of yourchildhre to stand up for you, an' your only other depindance laid on thebroad of his back, all as one as a cripple; but no matther, Rosha; trustto Him that can be a husband to you an' a father to your orphans--trustto Him, an' his blessed mother in heaven, this day, an' never fear butthey'll rise up a frind for you. Musha, Owen, ate your dinner as youought to do, wid your capers! How can you take a spade in your hand uponthat morsel?"

"Finish your own, " said her husband, "an' never heed me; jist let mealone. Don't you see that if I wanted it, I'd ate it, an' what morewould you have about!"

"Well, acushla, it's your own loss, sure, of a sartinty. An' Rosha, whisper, ahagur, what can Owen or I do for you? Throth, it would be abad day we'd see you at a _deshort_ * for a friend, for you never wornothin' else nor a civil, oblagin' neighbor yourself; an' him that'sgone before--the Lord make his bed in heaven this day--was as good awarrant as ever broke bread, to sarve a friend, if it was at the hour ofmidnight. "

 * That is at a loss; or more properly speaking, taken short, which it means. 

"Ah! when I had him!" exclaimed the distracted widow, "I never hadoccasion to trouble aither friend or neighbor; but he s gone an' nowit's otherwise wid me--glory be to God for all his mercies--a wurrahdheelish! Why, thin, since I must spake, an' has no other frind to goto--but somehow I doubt Owen looks dark upon me--sure I'd put my hand toa stamp, if my word wouldn't do for it, an' sign the blessed crass thatsaved us, for the payment of it; or I'd give it to him in oats, for Ihear you want some, Owen--Phatie oates it is, an' a betther shouldheredor fuller-lookin' grain never went undher a harrow--indeed it's itthat's the beauty, all out, if it's good seed you want. "

"What is it for, woman alive?" inquired Owen, as he kicked athree-legged stool out of his way. "

"What is it for, is it? Och, Owen darlin', sure my two brave cows islavin' me. Owen M'Murt, the driver, is over wid me beyant, an' has themready to set off wid. I reared them both, the two of them, wid my ownhands; _Cheehoney_, that knows my voice, an' would come to me from thefardest corner o' the field, an' nothin' will we have--nothin' will mypoor sick boy have--but the black wather, or the dhry salt; besides thebutther of them being lost to us for rent, or a small taste of it, of anodd time, for poor Jimmy. Owen, next to God, I have no friend to depindupon but yourself!"

"Me!" said Owen, as if astonished. "Phoo, that's quare enough! Now doyou think, Rosha, --hut, hut, woman alive! Come, boys, you're all done;out wid you to your spades, an' finish that _meerin_ (* a marsh ditch, aboundary) before night. Me!--hut, tut!"

"I have it all but five pounds, Owen, an' for the sake of him that's inhis grave--an' that, maybe, is able to put up his prayer for you"--

"An' what would you want me to do, Rosha? Fitther for you to sit downan' finish your dinner, when it's before you. I'm goin' to get an ouldglove that's somewhere about this chist, for I must weed out that bitof oats before night, wid a blessin', " and, as he spoke he passed intoanother room, as if he had altogether forgotten her solicitation, and ina few minutes returned. 

"Owen, avick!--an' the blessin' of the fatherless be upon you, sure, an'many a one o' them you have, any how, Owen!"

"Well, Rosha--well?"

"Och, och, Owen, it's low days wid me to be depindin' upon thesthranger? little thim that reared me ever thought it 'ud come to this. You know I'm a dacent father's child, an' I have stooped to you, OwenM'Carthy--what I'd scorn to do to any other but yourself--poor an'friendless as I stand here before you. Let them take the cows, thin, from my childhre; but the father of the fatherless will support thim an'me. Och, but it's well for the O'Donohoes that their landlord lives athome among themselves, for may the heavens look down on me, I wouldn'tknow where to find mine, if one sight of him 'ud save me an' my childrefrom the grave! The Agent even, he lives in Dublin, an' how could I lavemy sick boy, an' small girshas by themselves, to go a hundre miles, an'maybe not see him afther all. Little hopes I'd have from him, even if Idid; he's paid for gatherin' in his rents; but it's well known he wantsthe touch of nathur for the sufferins of the poor, an' of them that'shonest in their intintions. "

"I'll go over wid you, Rosha, if that will be of any use, " replied Owen, composedly; "come, I'll go an' spake to Frank M'Murt. ''

"The sorra blame I blame him, Owen, " replied Rosha, "his bread'sdepindin' upon the likes of sich doins, an' he can't get over it; but aword from you, Owen, will save me, for who ever refused to take the wordof a M'Carthy?"

When Owen and the widow arrived at the house of the latter, they foundthe situation of the bailiff laughable in the extreme. Her eldest son, who had been confined to his bed by a hurt received in his back, wasup, and had got the unfortunate driver, who was rather old, wedged inbetween the dresser and the wall, where his cracked voice--for he wasasthmatic--was raised to the highest pitch, calling for assistance. Beside him was a large tub half-filled with water, into which the littleones were emptying small jugs, carried at the top of their speed froma puddle before the door. In the meantime, Jemmy was tugging at thebailiff with all his strength--fortunately for that personage, it wasbut little--with the most sincere intention of inverting him into thetub which contained as much muddy water as would have been sufficient tomake him a subject for the deliberation of a coroner and twelve honestmen. Nothing could be more conscientiously attempted than the taskwhich Jemmy had proposed to execute: every tug brought out his utmoststrength, and when he failed in pulling down the bailiff, he compensatedhimself for his want of success by cuffing his ribs, and peeling hisshins by hard kicks; whilst from those open points which the driver'sgrapple with his man naturally exposed, were inflicted on him by therejoicing urchins numberless punches of tongs, potato-washers, andsticks whose points were from time to time hastily thrust into thecoals, that they might more effectually either blind or disable him insome other manner. 

As one of the little ones ran out to fill his jug, he spied his motherand Owen approaching, on which, with the empty vessel in his hand, heflew towards them, his little features distorted by glee and ferocity, wildly mixed up together. 

"Oh mudher, mudher--ha, ha, ha!--don't come in yet; don't come in, Owen, till Jimmy un' huz, an' the Denisses, gets the bailie drownded. We'llsoon have the _bot_ (* tub) full; but Paddy an' Jack Denis have theeyes a'most pucked out of him; an' Katty's takin' the rapin' hook from, behind the _cuppet_, to get it about his neck. "

Owen and the widow entered with all haste, precisely at the moment whenFrank's head was dipped, for the first time, into the vessel. 

"Is it goin' to murdher him ye are?" said Owen, as he seized Jemmy witha grasp that transferred him to the opposite end of the house; "houldback ye pack of young divils, an' let the man up. What did he come todo but his duty? I tell you, Jimmy, if you wor at yourself, an' in fullstrinth, that you'd have the man's blood on you where you stand, andwould suffer as you ought to do for it. "

"There, let me, " replied the lad, his eyes glowing and his veinsswollen with passion; "I don't care if I did. It would be no sin, an' nodisgrace, to hang for the like of him; dacenter to do that, than stale acreel of turf, or a wisp of straw, 'tanny rate. "

In the meantime the bailiff had raised his head out of the water, andpresented a visage which it was impossible to view with gravity. Thewidow's anxiety prevented her from seeing it in a ludicrous light; butOwen's severe face assumed a grave smile, as the man shook himself andattempted to comprehend the nature of his situation. The young urchins, who had fallen back at the appearance of Owen and the widow, now burstinto a peal of mirth, in which, however, Jemmy, whose fiercer passionshad been roused, did not join. 

"Frank M'Murt, " said the widow, "I take the mother of heaven to witness, that it vexes my heart to see you get sich thratement in my place; an'I wouldn't for the best cow I have that sich a _brieuliagh_ (* squabble)happened. _Dher charp agusmanim_, (** by my soul and body) Jimmy, butI'll make you suffer for drawin' down this upon my head, and me hadenough over it afore. "

"I don't care, " replied Jemmy; "whoever comes to take our property fromus, an' us willin' to work will suffer for it. Do you think I'd see thimcrathurs at their dhry phatie, an' our cows standin' in a pound for norason? No; high hangin' to me, but I'll split to the skull the first manthat takes them; an' all I'm sorry for is, that it's not the vagaboneLandlord himself that's near me. That's our thanks for paying manya good pound, in honesty and dacency, to him an' his; lavin' us to aschamin' agent, an' not even to that same, but to his undher-strap-pers, that's robbin' us on both sides between them. May hard fortune attindhim, for a landlord! You may tell him this, Frank, --that his wisest planis to keep clear of the counthry. Sure, it's a gambler he is, they say;an' we must be harrished an' racked to support his villany! But wait abit; maybe there's a good time comin', when we'll pay our money to thimthat won't be too proud to hear our complaints wid their own ears, an' who won't turn us over to a divil's limb of an agent. He had need, anyhow, to get his coffin sooner nor he thinks. What signifies hangin'in a good cause?" said he, as the tears of keen indignation burst fromhis glowing eyes. "It's a dacent death, an' a happy death, when it'sfor the right, " he added--for his mind was evidently fixed upon thecontemplation of those means of redress, which the habits of thecountry, and the prejudices of the people, present to them in the firstmoments of passion. 

"It's well that Frank's one of ourselves, " replied Owen, coolly, "otherwise, Jemmy, you said words that would lay you up by the heels. As for you, Frank, you must look over this. The boy's the son of dacentpoor parents, an' it's a new thing for him to see the cows druv from theplace. The poor fellow's vexed, too, that he has been so long laid upwid a sore back; an' so you see one thing or another has put him throughother. Jimmy is warm-hearted afther all, an' will be sorry for it whenhe cools, an' renumbers that you wor only doin' your duty. "

"But what am I to do about the cows? Sure, I can't go back widout eitherthim or the rint?" said Frank, with a look of fear and trembling atJemmy. 

"The cows!" said another of the widow's sons who then came in; "why, youdirty spalpeen of a rip, you may whistle on the wrong side o' your mouthfor them. I druv them off of the estate; an' now take them, if you dar!It's conthrairy to law, " said the urchin; "an' if you'd touch them, I'dmake my mudher sarve you wid a _lattitat_ or _fiery-flashes_. "

This was a triumph to the youngsters, who, began to shake their littlefists at him, and to exclaim in a chorus--"Ha, you dirty rip! wait tillwe get you out o' the house, an' if we don't put you from ever drivin'!Why, but you work like another!--ha, you'll get it!"--and every littlefist was shook in vengeance at him. 

"Whist wid ye, " said Jemmy to the little ones; "let him alone, he gotenough. There's the cows for you; an keen may the curse o' the widowan' orphans light upon you, and upon them that sent you, from first tolast!--an' that's the best we wish you!"

"Frank, " said Owen to the bailiff, "is there any one in the town belowthat will take the rint, an' give a resate for it? Do you think, man, that the neighbors of an honest, industrious woman 'ud see the cattletaken out of her byre for a thrifle? Hut tut! no, man alive--no sichthing! There's not a man in the parish, wid manes to do it, would seethem taken away to be canted, at only about a fourth part of theirvalue. Hut, tut, --no!"

As the sterling fellow spoke, the cheeks of the widow were suffused withtears, and her son Jemmy's hollow eyes once more kindled, but with a fardifferent expression from that which but a few minutes before flashedfrom them. 

"Owen, " said he, and utterance nearly failed him: "Owen, if I was wellit wouldn't be as it is wid us; but--no, indeed it would not; but--mayGod bless you for this! Owen, never fear but you'll be paid; may Godbless you, Owen!"

As he spoke the hand of his humble benefactor was warmly grasped in his. A tear fell upon it: for with one of those quick and fervid transitionsof feeling so peculiar to the people, he now felt a strong, generousemotion of gratitude, mingled, perhaps, with a sense of wounded pride, on finding the poverty of their little family so openly exposed. 

"Hut, tut, Jimmy, avick, " said Owen, who understood his feelings; "phoo, man alive! hut--hem!--why, sure it's nothin' at all, at all; anybodywould do it--only a bare five an' twenty shillins [it was five pound]:any neighbor--Mick Cassidy, Jack Moran, or Pether M'Cullagh, would doit. --Come, Frank, step out; the money's to the fore. Rosha, putyour cloak about you, and let us go down to the agint, or clerk, orwhatsomever he is--sure, that makes no maxin anyhow;--I suppose hehas power to give a resate. Jemmy, go to bed again, you're pale, poorbouchal; and, childhre, ye crathurs ye, the cows won't be taken fromye this bout. --Come, in the name of God, let us go, and see-everythingrightified at once--hut, tut--come. "

Many similar details of Owen M'Carthy's useful life could be given, inwhich he bore an equally benevolent and Christian part. Poor fellow! hewas, ere long, brought low; but, to the credit of our peasantry, muchas is said about their barbarity, he was treated, when helpless, withgratitude, pity, and kindness. 

Until the peace of 1814, Owen's regular and systematic industryenabled him to struggle successfully against a weighty rent and suddendepression in the price of agricultural produce; that is, he was able, by the unremitting toil of a man remarkable alike for an unbendingspirit and a vigorous frame of body, to pay his rent with tolerableregularity. It is true, a change began to be visible in his personalappearance, in his farm, in the dress of his children, and in theeconomy of his household. Improvements, which adequate capital wouldhave enabled, him to effect, were left either altogether unattempted, or in an imperfect state, resembling neglect, though, in reality, theresult of poverty. His dress at mass, and in fairs and markets, had, by degrees, lost that air of comfort and warmth which bespeak theindependent farmer. The evidences of embarrassment began to disclosethemselves in many small points--inconsiderable, it is true, but notthe less significant. His house, in the progress of his decliningcircumstances, ceased to be annually ornamented by a new coat ofwhitewash; it soon assumed a faded and yellowish hue, and sparkled notin the setting sun as in the days of Owen's prosperity. It had, in fact, a wasted, unthriving look, like its master. The thatch became blackand rotten upon its roof; the chimneys sloped to opposite points; thewindows were less neat, and ultimately, when broken, were patched with acouple of leaves from the children's blotted copy-books. His out-housesalso began to fail. The neatness of his little farm-yard, and thecleanliness which marked so conspicuously the space fronting hisdwelling-house, disappeared in the course of time. Filth began toaccumulate where no filth had been; his garden was not now planted soearly, nor with such taste and neatness as before; his crops were later, and less abundant; his haggarts neither so full nor so trim as they werewont to be, nor his ditches and enclosures kept in such good repair. Hiscars, ploughs, and other farming implements, instead of being put undercover, were left exposed to the influence of wind and weather, wherethey soon became crazy and useless. 

Such, however, were only the slighter symptoms of his bootless struggleagainst the general embarrassment into which the agricultural interestswere, year after year, so unhappily sinking. 

Had the tendency to general distress among the class to which hebelonged become stationary, Owen would have continued by toil andincessant exertion to maintain his ground; but, unfortunately, there wasno point at which the national depression could then stop. Year afteryear produced deeper, more extensive, and more complicated misery; andwhen he hoped that every succeeding season would bring an improvementin the market, he was destined to experience not merely a freshdisappointment, but an unexpected depreciation in the price of his corn, butter, and other disposable commodities. 

When a nation is reduced to such a state, no eye but that of God himselfcan see the appalling wretchedness to which a year of disease andscarcity strikes down the poor and working classes. 

Owen, after a long and noble contest for nearly three years, sank, atlength, under the united calamities of disease and scarcity. The fatherof the family was laid low upon the bed of sickness, and those of hislittle ones who escaped it were almost consumed by famine. This two-foldshock sealed his ruin; his honest heart was crushed--his hardy frameshorn of its strength, and he to whom every neighbor fled as to afriend, now required friendship at a moment when the widespread povertyof the country rendered its assistance hopeless. 

On rising from his bed of sickness, the prospect before him required hisutmost fortitude to bear. He was now wasted in energy both of mind andbody, reduced to utter poverty, with a large family of children, tooyoung to assist him, without means of retrieving his circumstances, hiswife and himself gaunt skeletons, his farm neglected, his house wrecked, and his offices falling to ruin, yet every day bringing the half-year'sterm nearer! Oh, ye who riot on the miseries of such men--ye who rollround the easy circle of fashionable life, think upon this picture! Tovile and heartless landlords, who see not, hear not, know not those towhose heart-breaking toil ye owe the only merit ye possess--that ofrank in society--come and contemplate this virtuous man, as unfriended, unassisted, and uncheered by those who are bound by a strong moral dutyto protect and aid him, he looks shuddering into the dark, cheerlessfuture! Is it to be wondered at that he, and such as he, should, in themisery of his despair, join the nightly meetings, be lured to associatehimself with the incendiary, or seduced to grasp, in the stupid apathyof wretchedness, the weapon of the murderer? By neglecting the people;by draining them, with merciless rapacity, of the means of life; bygoading them on under a cruel system of rack rents, ye become not theirnatural benefactors, but curses and scourges, nearly as much in realityas ye are in their opinion. 

When Owen rose, he was driven by hunger, direct and immediate, to sellhis best cow; and having purchased some oatmeal at an enormous price, from a well-known devotee in the parish, who hoarded up this commodityfor a "dear summer, " he laid his plans for the future, with as muchjudgment as any man could display. One morning after breakfast headdressed his wife as follows:

"Kathleen, mavourneen, I want to consult wid you about what we ought todo; things are low wid us, asthore; and except our heavenly Father putsit into the heart of them I'm goin' to mention, I don't know what welldo, nor what'll become of these poor crathurs that's naked and hungryabout us. God pity them, they don't know--and maybe that same's somecomfort--the hardships that's before them. Poor crathurs! see how quietand sorrowful they sit about their little play, passin' the time forthemselves as well as they can! Alley, acushla machree, come over tome. Your hair is bright and fair, Alley, and curls so purtily that thefinest lady in the land might envy it; but, acushla, your color's gone, your little hands are wasted away, too; that sickness was hard and soreupon you, a _colleen machree_ (* girl of my heart) and he that 'ud spendhis heart's blood for you, darlin', can do nothin' to help you!"

He looked at the child as he spoke, and a slight motion in the musclesof his face was barely preceptible, but it passed away; and, afterkissing her, he proceeded:

"Ay, ye crathurs--you and I, Kathleen, could earn our bread forourselves yet, but these can't do it. This last stroke, darlin', haslaid us at the door of both poverty and sickness, but blessed be themother of heaven for it, they are all left wid us; and sure that's ablessin' we've to be thankful for--glory be to God!"

"Ay, poor things, it's well to have them spared, Owen dear; sure I'drather a thousand times beg from door to door, and have my childher tolook at, than be in comfort widout them. "

"Beg: that 'ud go hard wid me, Kathleen. I'd work--I'd live on next tonothing all the year round; but to see the crathurs that wor dacentlybred up brought to that, I couldn't bear it, Kathleen--'twould breakthe heart widin in me. Poor as they are, they have the blood of kingsin their veins; and besides, to see a M'Carthy beggin' his bread in thecountry where his name was once great--The M'Carthy More, that was theirtitle-no, acushla, I love them as I do the blood in my own veins; butI'd rather see them in the arms of God in heaven, laid down dacentlywith their little sorrowful faces washed, and their little bodiesstretched out purtily before my eyes--I would--in the grave-yard therebeyant, where all belonging to me lie, than have it cast up to them, orhave it said, that ever a M'Carthy was seen beggin' on the highway. "

"But, Owen, can you strike out no plan for us that 'ud put us in the wayof comin' round agin? These poor ones, if we could hould out for two orthree year, would soon be able to help us. "

"They would--they would. I'm thinkin' this day or two of a plan: but I'mdoubtful whether it 'ud come to anything. "

"What is it, acushla? Sure we can't be worse nor we are, any way. "

"I'm goin' to go to Dublin. I'm tould that the landlord's come home fromFrance, and that he's there now; and if I didn't see him, sure I couldsee the agent. Now, Kathleen, my intintion 'ud be to lay our case beforethe head landlord himself, in hopes he might hould back his hand, andspare us for a while. If I had a line from the agent, or a scrape of apen, that I could show at home to some of the nabors, who knows but Icould borry what 'ud set us up agin! I think many of them 'ud be sorryto see me turned out; eh, Kathleen?"

The Irish are an imaginative people; indeed, too much so for eithertheir individual or national happiness. And it is this and superstition, which also depends much upon imagination, that makes them so easilyinfluenced by those extravagant dreams that are held out to them bypersons who understand their character. 

When Kathleen heard the plan on which Owen founded his expectations ofassistance, her dark melancholy eye flashed with a portion of its formerfire; a transient vivacity lit up her sickly features, and she turned asmile of hope and affection upon her children, then upon Owen. 

"Arrah, thin, who knows, indeed!--who knows but he might do somethingfor us? And maybe we might be as well as ever yet! May the Lord put itinto his heart, this day! I declare, ay!--maybe it was God put it intoyour heart, Owen!"

"I'll set off, " replied her husband, who was a man of decision; "I'llset off on other morrow mornin'; and as nobody knows anything about it, so let there not be a word said upon the subject, good or bad. If I havesuccess, well and good; but if not, why, nobody need be the wiser. "

The heart-broken wife evinced, for the remainder of the day, a lightnessof spirits which she had not felt for many a month before. Even Owenwas less depressed than usual, and employed himself in makingsuch arrangements as he knew would occasion his family to feel theinconvenience of his absence less acutely. But as the hour of hisdeparture drew nigh, a sorrowful feeling of affection rising intogreater strength and tenderness threw a melancholy gloom around hishearth. According to their simple view of distance, a journey to Dublinwas a serious undertaking, and to them it was such. Owen was in weakhealth, just risen out of illness, and what was more trying than anyother consideration was, that since their marriage they had never beenseparated before. 

On the morning of his departure, he was up before daybreak, and so werehis wife and children, for the latter had heard the conversation alreadydetailed between them, and, with their simple-minded parents, enjoyedthe gleam of hope which it presented; but this soon changed--when he waspreparing to go, an indefinite sense of fear, and a more vivid clingingof affection marked their feelings. He himself partook of this, andwas silent, depressed, and less ardent than when the speculation firstpresented itself to his mind. His resolution, however, was taken, and, should he fail, no blame at a future time could be attached to himself. It was the last effort; and to neglect it, he thought, would have beento neglect his duty. When breakfast was ready, they all sat down insilence; the hour was yet early, and a rushlight was placed in a woodencandlestick that stood beside them to afford light. There was somethingsolemn and touching in the group as they sat in dim relief, every facemarked by the traces of sickness, want, sorrow, and affection. Thefather attempted to eat, but could not; Kathleen sat at the meal, butcould taste nothing; the children ate, for hunger at the moment waspredominant over every other sensation. At length it was over, and Owenrose to depart; he stood for a minute on the floor, and seemed to take asurvey of his cold, cheerless house, and then of his family; he clearedhis throat several times, but did not speak. 

"Kathleen, " said he, at length, "in the name of God I'll go; and may hisblessin' be about you, asthore machree, and guard you and these darlinstill I come back to yez. "

Kathleen's faithful heart could bear no more; she laid herself on hisbosom--clung to his neck, and, as the parting kiss was given, she weptaloud, and Owen's tears fell silently down his worn cheeks. The childrencrowded about them in loud wailings, and the grief of this virtuous andafflicted family was of that profound description, which is ever thecompanion, in such scenes, of pure and genuine love. 

"Owen!" she exclaimed; "Owen, _a-suilish mahuil agus machree!_ (* lightof my eyes and of my heart) I doubt we wor wrong in thinkin' of thisjourney. How can you, mavourneen, walk all the way to Dublin, and you soworn and weakly with that sickness, and the bad feedin' both before andsince? Och, give it up, achree, and stay wid us, let what will happen. You're not able for sich a journey, indeed you're not. Stay wid meand the childher, Owen; sure we'd be so lonesome widout you--will you, agrah? and the Lord will do for us some other way, maybe. "

Owen pressed his faithful wife to his heart, and kissed her chaste lipswith a tenderness which the heartless votaries of fashionable life cannever know. 

"Kathleen, asthore, " he replied, in those terms of endearment which flowso tenderly through the language of the people; "sure whin I remimberyour fair young face--your yellow hair, and the light that was in youreyes, acushla machree--but that's gone long ago--och, don't ax me tostop. Isn't your lightsome laugh, whin you wor young, in my ears? andyour step that 'ud not bend the flower of the field--Kathleen, I can't, indeed I can't, bear to think of what you wor, nor of what you are now, when in the coorse of age and natur, but a small change ought to be uponyou! Sure I ought to make every struggle to take you and these sorrowfulcrathurs out of the state you're in. "

The children flocked about them, and joined their entreaties to those oftheir mother. "Father, don't lave us--we'll be lonesome if you go, andif my mother 'ud get unwell, who'd be to take care of her? Father, don'tlave your own 'weeny crathurs' (a pet name he had for them)--maybethe meal 'ud be eat out before you'd come back; or maybe something 'udhappen you in that strange place. "

"Indeed, there's truth in what they say, Owen, " said, the wife; "dobe said by your own Kathleen for this time, and don't take sich a longjourney upon you. Afther all, maybe, you wouldn't see him--sure thenabors will help us, if you could only humble yourself to ax them!"

"Kathleen, " said Owen, "when this is past you'll be glad I went--indeedyou will; sure it's only the tindher feelin' of your hearts, darlins. Who knows what the landlord may do when I see himself, and show himthese resates--every penny paid him by our own family. Let me go, acushla; it does cut me to the heart to lave yez the way yez are in, even for a while; but it's far worse to see your poor wasted faces, widout havin' it in my power to do anything for yez. "

He then kissed them again, one by one; and pressing the affectionatepartner of his sorrows to his breaking heart, he bade God bless them, and set out in the twilight of a bitter March morning. He had not gonemany yards from the door when little Alley ran after him in tears; hefelt her hand upon the skirts of his coat, which, she plucked with asmile of affection that neither tears nor sorrow could repress. "Father, kiss me again, " said she. He stooped down, and kissed her tenderly. Thechild then ascended a green ditch, and Owen, as he looked back, saw herstanding upon it; her fair tresses were tossed by the blast about herface, as with straining eyes she watched him receding from her view. Kathleen and the other children stood at the door, and also with deepsorrow watched his form, until the angle of the bridle-road rendered himno longer visible; after which they returned slowly to the fire and weptbitterly. 

We believe no men are capable of bearing greater toil or privation thanthe Irish. Owen's viaticum was only two or three oaten cakes tied in alittle handkerchief, and a few shillings in silver to pay for his bed. With this small stock of food and money, an oaken stick in his hand, andhis wife's kerchief tied about his waist, he undertook a journey of onehundred and ten miles, in quest of a landlord who, so far from beingacquainted with the distresses of his tenantry, scarcely knew even theirnames, and not one of them in person. 

Our scene now changes to the metropolis. One evening, about half pastsix o'clock, a toil-worn man turned his steps to a splendid! mansion inMountjoy Square; his appearance was drooping, fatigued, and feeble. Ashe went along, he examined the numbers on the respective doors, untilhe reached a certain one--before which he stopped for a moment; hethen stepped out upon the street, and looked through the windows, as ifwilling to ascertain whether there was any chance of his object beingattained. Whilst in this situation a carriage rolled rapidly up, andstopped with a sudden check that nearly threw back the horses on theirhaunches. In an instant the thundering knock of the servant intimatedthe arrival of some person of rank; the hall door was opened, and Owen, availing himself of that opportunity, entered the hall. Such a visitor, however, was too remarkable to escape notice. The hand of the menialwas rudely placed against his breast; and, as the usual impertinentinterrogatories were put to him, the pampered ruffian kept pushing himback, until the afflicted man stood upon the upper step leading to thedoor. 

"For the sake of God, let me spake but two words to him. I'm his tenant;and I know he's too much of a jintleman to turn away a man that haslived upon his honor's estate, father and son, for upwards of threehundred years. My name's Owen ------"

"You can't see him, my good fellow, at this hour. Go to Mr. M------, his Agent: we have company to dinner. He never speaks to a tenant onbusiness; his Agent manages all that. Please, leave the way, here's morecompany. "

As he uttered the last word, he pushed Owen back; who, forgetting thatthe stairs were behind him, fell, --received a severe cut, and was socompletely stunned, that he lay senseless and bleeding. Another carriagedrove up, as the fellow now much alarmed, attempted to raise him fromthe steps; and, by order of the gentleman who came in it, he was broughtinto the hall. The circumstance now made some noise. It was whisperedabout, that one of Mr. S------'s tenants, a drunken fellow from thecountry, wanted to break in forcibly to see him; but then it was alsoasserted, that his skull was broken, and that he lay dead in the hall. Several of the gentlemen above stairs, on hearing that a man hadbeen killed, immediately assembled about him, and, by the means ofrestoratives, he soon recovered, though the blood streamed copiouslyfrom the wound in the back of his head. 

"Who are you, my good man?" said Mr. S------. 

Owen looked about him rather vacantly; but soon collected himself, and implied in a mournful and touching tone of voice--"I'm one ofyour honor's tenants from Tubber Derg; my name is Owen M'Carthy, yourhonor--that is, if you be Mr. S------. "

"And pray, what brought you to town, M'Carthy?"

"I wanted to make an humble appale to your honor's feelins, in regard tomy bit of farm. I, and my poor family, your honor, have been broken downby hard times and the sickness of the sason--God knows how they axe. "

"If you wish to speak to me about that, my good man, you must know Irefer all these matters to my Agent. Go to him--he knows them best;and whatever is right and proper to be done for you, he will do it. Sinclair, give him a crown, and send him to the ------ Dispensary, toget his head dressed, I say, Carthy, go to my Agent; he knows whetheryour claim is just or not, and will attend to it accordingly. "

"Plase, your honor, I've been wid him, and he says he can do nothin'whatsomever for me. I went two or three times, and couldn't see him, he was so busy; and, when I did get a word or two wid him, he tould methere was more offered for my land than I'm payin'; and that if I didnot pay up, I must be put out, God help me!"

"But I tell you, Carthy, I never interfere between him and my tenants. "

"Och, indeed! and it would be well, both for your honor's tenants andyourself, if you did, sir. Your honor ought to know, sir, more aboutus, and how we're thrated. I'm an honest man, sir, and I tell you so foryour good. "

"And pray, sir, " said the Agent, stepping forward, for he had arriveda few minutes before, and heard the last observation of M'Carthy--"prayhow are they treated, you that know so well, and are so honest aman?--As for honesty, you might have referred to me for that, I think, "he added. 

"Mr. M------, " said Owen, "we're thrated very badly. Sir, you needn'tlook at me, for I'm not afeerd to spake the thruth; no bullyin', sir, will make me say anything in your favor that you don't desarve. You'vebroken the half of them by severity; you've turned the tenants aginstyourself and his honor here; and I tell you now, though you're to thefore, that, in the coorse of a short time, there'll be bad work upon theestate, except his honor, here, looks into his own affairs, and hearsthe complaints of the people. Look at these resates, your honor; they'llshow you, sir, --"

"Carthy, I can hear no such language against the gentleman to whom Ientrust the management of my property; of course, I refer the mattersolely to him. I can do nothing in it. "

"Kathleen, avourneen!" claimed the poor man, as he looked updespairingly to heaven; "and ye, poor darlins of my heart! is this thenews I'm to have for yez whin I go home?--As you hope for mercy, sir, don't turn away your ear from my petition, that I'd humbly make toyourself. Cowld, and hunger, and hardship, are at home before me, yerhonor. If you'd be plased to look at these resates, you'd see that Ialways paid my rint; and 'twas sickness and the hard times--"

"And your own honesty, industry, and good conduct, " said the Agent, giving a dark and malignant sneer at him. "Carthy, it shall be mybusiness to see that you do not spread a bad spirit through the tenantrymuch longer. --Sir, you have heard the fellow's admission. It is animplied threat he will give us much serious trouble. There is not suchanother incendiary on your property--not one, upon my honor. "

"Sir, " said a servant, "dinner is on the table. "

"Sinclair, " said his landlord, "give him another crown, and tell himto trouble me no more. " Saying; which, he and the Agent went up tothe drawing-room, and, in a moment, Owen saw a large party sweepdown stairs, full of glee and vivacity, by whom both himself and hisdistresses were as completely forgotten as if they had never existed. 

He now slowly departed, and knew not whether the house-steward had givenhim money or not until he felt it in his hand. A cold, sorrowful weightlay upon his heart; the din of the town deadened his affliction intoa stupor; but an overwhelming sense of his disappointment, and aconviction of the Agent's diabolical falsehood, entered like barbedarrows into his heart. 

On leaving the steps, he looked up to heaven in the distraction ofhis agonizing thoughts; the clouds were black and lowering--the windstormy--and, as it carried them on its dark wing along the sky, hewished, if it were the will of God, that his head lay in the quietgrave-yard where the ashes of his forefathers reposed in peace. But heagain remembered his Kathleen and their children; and the large tears ofanguish, deep and bitter, rolled slowly down his cheeks. 

We will not trace him into an hospital, whither the wound on his headoccasioned him to be sent, but simply state, that, on the second weekafter this, a man, with his head bound in a handkerchief, lame, bent, and evidently laboring under a severe illness or great affliction, might be seen toiling slowly up the little hill that commanded a view ofTubber Derg. On reaching the top he sat down to rest for a few minutes, but his eye was eagerly turned to the house which contained all that wasdear to him on this earth. The sun was setting, and shone, with half hisdisk visible, in that dim and cheerless splendor which produces almostin every temperament a feeling of melancholy. His house which, inhappier days, formed so beautiful and conspicuous an object in theview, was now, from the darkness of its walls, scarcely discernible. The position of the sun, too, rendered it more difficult to be seen; andOwen, for it was he, shaded his eyes with his hand, to survey it moredistinctly. Many a harrowing thought and remembrance passed through hismind, as his eye traced its dim outline in the fading-light'. He haddone his duty--he had gone to the fountain-head, with a hope that hissimple story of affliction might be heard; but all was fruitless: theonly gleam, of hope that opened upon their misery had now passed intodarkness and despair for ever. He pressed his aching forehead withdistraction as he thought of this; then clasped his hands bitterly, andgroaned aloud. 

At length he rose, and proceeded with great difficulty, for the shortrest had stiffened his weak and fatigued joints. As he approached homehis heart sank; and as he ascended the blood-red stream which coveredthe bridle-way that led to his house, what with fatigue and affliction, his agitation weakened him so much that, he stopped, and leaned on hisstaff several times, that he might take breath. 

"It's too dark, maybe, for them to see me, or poor Kathleen would sendthe darlins to give me the _she dha veha_ (* the welcome). Kathleen, avourneen machree! how my heart beats wid longin' to see you, asthore, and to see the weeny crathurs--glory be to Him that has left them tome--praise and glory to His name!"

He was now within a few perches of thy door; but a sudden misgiving shotacross his heart when he saw it shut, and no appearance of smoke fromthe chimney, nor of stir or life about the house. He advanced--

"Mother of glory, what's this!--But, wait, let me rap agin. Kathleen, Kathleen!--are you widin, avourneen? Owen--Alley--arn't ye widin, childhre? Alley, sure I'm come back to you all!" and he rapped moreloudly than before. A dark breeze swept through the bushes as he spoke, but no voice nor sound proceeded from the house;--all was still as deathwithin. "Alley!" he called once more to his little favorite; "I'm comehome wid something for you, asthore! I didn't forget you, alanna!--Ibrought it from Dublin, all the way. Alley!" but the gloomy murmur ofthe blast was the only reply. 

Perhaps the most intense of all that he knew as misery was that whichhe then felt; but this state of suspense was soon terminated by theappearance of a neighbor who was passing. 

"Why, thin, Owen, but yer welcome home agin, my poor fellow; and I'msorry that I haven't betther news for you, and so are all of us. "

He whom he addressed had almost lost the power of speech. 

"Frank, " said he, and he wrung his hand, "What--what? was death amongthem? For the sake of heaven, spake!"

The severe pressure which he received in return ran like a shoot, ofparalysis to his heart. 

"Owen, you must be a man; every one pities yez, and may the Almightypity and support yez! She is, indeed, Owen, gone; the weeny fair-hairedchild, your favorite Alley, is gone. Yestherday she was berrid; anddacently the nabors attinded the place, and sent in, as far as theyhad it, both mate and dhrink to Kathleen and the other ones. Now, Owen, you've heard it; trust in God, an' be a man. "

A deep and convulsive throe shook him to the heart. "Gone!--thefair-haired one!--Alley!--Alley!--the pride of both our hearts; thesweet, the quiet, and the sorrowful child, that seldom played wid therest, but kept wid mys--! Oh, my darlin', my darlin'! gone from my eyesfor ever!--God of glory; won't you support me this night of sorrow andmisery!"

With a sudden yet profound sense of humility, he dropped on his kneesat the threshold, and, as the tears rolled down his convulsed cheeks, exclaimed, in a burst of sublime piety, not at all uncommon among ourpeasantry--"I thank you, O my God! I thank you, an' I put myself an' myweeny ones, my _pastchee boght_ (* my poor children) into your hands. Ithank you, O God, for what has happened! Keep me up and support me--och, I want it! You loved the weeny one, and you took her; she was the lightof my eyes, and the pulse of my broken heart, but you took her, blessedFather of heaven! an' we can't be angry wid you for so doin'! Still ifyou had spared her--if--if--O, blessed Father, my heart was in the veryone you took--but I thank you, O God! May she rest in pace, now and forever, Amin!"

He then rose up, and slowly wiping the tears from his eyes, departed. 

"Let me hould your arm, Frank, dear, " said he, "I'm weak and tired wida long journey. Och, an' can it be that she's gone--the fair-hairedcolleen! When I was lavin' home, an' had kissed them all--'twas thefirst time we ever parted, Kathleen and I, since our marriage--theblessed child came over an' held up her mouth, sayin', 'Kiss me agin, father;' an' this was afther herself an' all of them had kissed meafore. But, och! oh! blessed Mother! Frank, where's my Kathleen and therest?--and why are they out of their own poor place?"

"Owen, I tould you awhile agone, that you must be a man. I gave you theworst news first, an' what's to come doesn't signify much. It was toodear; for if any man could live upon it you could:--you have neitherhouse nor home, Owen, nor land. An ordher came from the Agint; your lastcow was taken, so was all you had in the world--hem--barrin' a thrifle. No, --bad manners to it! no, --you're not widout a home anyway. Thefamily's in my barn, brave and comfortable, compared to what your ownhouse was, that let in the wather through the roof like a sieve; and, while the same barn's to the fore, never say you want a home. "

"God bless you, Frank, for that goodness to them and me; if you're notrewarded for it here you will in a betther place. Och, I long to seeKathleen and the childher! But I'm fairly broken down, Frank, and hardlyable to mark the ground; and, indeed, no wondher, if you knew but all:still, let God's will be done! Poor Kathleen, I must bear up afore her, or she'll break her heart; for I know how she loved the golden-haireddarlin' that's gone from us. Och, and how did she go, Frank, for I lefther betther?"

"Why, the poor girsha took a relapse, and wasn't strong enough to bearup aginst the last attack; but it's one comfort that you know she'shappy. "

Owen stood for a moment, and, looking solemnly in his neighbor's face, exclaimed, in a deep and exhausted voice, "Frank!"

"What are you goin' to say, Owen?"

"The heart widin me's broke--broke!"

The large tears rolled down his weather-beaten cheeks, and he proceededin silence to the house of his friend. There was, however, a feelingof sorrow in his words and manner which Frank could not withstand. Hegrasped Owen's hand, and, in a low and broken voice, simply said--"Keepyour spirits up--keep them up. "

When they came to the barn in which his helpless family had taken uptheir temporary residence, Owen stood for a moment to collect himself;but he was nervous, and trembled with repressed emotion. They thenentered; and Kathleen, on seeing her beloved and affectionate husband, threw herself on his bosom, and for some time felt neither joy norsorrow--she had swooned. The poor man embraced her with a tendernessat once mournful and deep. The children, on seeing their father safelyreturned, forgot their recent grief, and clung about him with gladnessand delight. In the meantime Kathleen recovered, and Owen for manyminutes could not check the loud and clamorous grief, now revived bythe presence of her husband, with which the heart-broken and emaciatedmother deplored her departed child; and Owen himself, on once morelooking among the little ones, on seeing her little frock hanging up, and her stool vacant by the fire--on missing her voice and her bluelaughing eyes--and remembering the affectionate manner in which, as witha presentiment of death, she held up her little mouth and offered himthe last kiss--he slowly pulled the toys and cakes he had purchased forher out of his pocket, surveyed them for a moment, and then, puttinghis hands on his face, bent his head upon his bosom, and wept with thevehement outpouring of a father's sorrow. 

The reader perceives that he was a meek man; that his passions were notdark nor violent; he bore no revenge to those who neglected or injuredhim, and in this he differed from too many of his countrymen. No; hisspirit was broken down with sorrow, and had not room for the fiercer andmore destructive passions. His case excited general pity. Whatever hisneighbors could, do to soothe him and alleviate his affliction was done. His farm was not taken; for fearful threats were held out against thosewho might venture to occupy it. In these threats he had nothing to do;on the contrary, he strongly deprecated them. Their existence, however, was deemed by the Agent sufficient to justify him in his callous andmalignant severity towards him. 

We did not write this story for effect. Our object was to relate factsthat occurred. In Ireland, there is much blame justly attached tolandlords, for their neglect and severity, in such depressed times, towards their tenants: there is also much that is not only indefensiblebut atrocious on the part of the tenants. But can the landed proprietorsof Ireland plead ignorance or want of education for their neglect andrapacity, whilst the crimes of the tenants, on the contrary, may ingeneral be ascribed to both? He who lives--as, perhaps, his forefathershave done--upon any man's property, and fails from unavoidable calamity, has as just and clear a light to assistance from the landlord as if theamount of that aid were a bonded debt. Common policy, common sense, andcommon justice, should induce the Irish landlords to lower their rentsaccording to the market for agricultural produce, otherwise poverty, famine, crime, and vague political speculations, founded upon idle hopesof a general transfer of property, will spread over and convulse thekingdom. Any man who looks into our poverty may see that our landlordsought to reduce their rents to a standard suitable to the times and tothe ability of the tenant. 

But to return. Owen, for another year, struggled on for his family, without success; his firm spirit was broken; employment he could notget, and even had it been regular, he would have found it impracticableto support his helpless wife and children by his labor. The next yearunhappily was also one of sickness and of want; the country was not onlya wide waste of poverty, but overspread with typhus fever. One Saturdaynight he and the family found themselves without food; they had nottasted a morsel for twenty-four hours. There were murmuring andtears and, finally, a low conversation among them, as if they helda conference upon some subject which filled them with both grief andsatisfaction. In this alternation of feeling did they pass the timeuntil the sharp gnawing of hunger was relieved by sleep. A keen Decemberwind blew with a bitter blast on the following morning; the rain wasborne along upon it with violence, and the cold was chill and piercing. Owen, his wife, and their six children, issued at day-break out of thebarn in which, ever since their removal from Tubber Derg, they had liveduntil then; their miserable fragments of bed-clothes were tied in abundle to keep them dry; their pace was slow, need we say sorrowful; allwere in tears. Owen and Kathleen went first, with a child upon theback, and another in the hand, of each. Their route lay by their formerdwelling, the door of which was open, for it had not been inhabited. Onpassing it they stood a moment; then with a simultaneous impulse bothapproached--entered--and took one last look of a spot to which theirhearts clung with enduring attachment. They then returned; and as theypassed, Owen put forth his hand, picked a few small pebbles out of thewall, and put them in his pocket. 

"Farewell!" said he, "and may the blessing of God rest upon you! Wenow lave you for ever! We're goin' at last to beg our bread through theworld wide, where none will know the happy days we passed widin yourwalls! We must lave you; but glory be to the Almighty, we are goin'wid a clear conscience; we took no revenge into our own hands, but lefteverything to God above us. We are poor, but there is neither blood, normurder, nor dishonesty upon our heads. Don't cry, Kathleen--don't cry, childher; there is still a good god above who can and may do somethingfor us yet, glory be to his holy name!"

He then passed on with his family, which, including himself, made inall, eight paupers, being an additional burden upon the country, whichmight easily have been avoided. His land was about two years waste, and when it was ultimately taken, the house was a ruin, and the moneyallowed by the landlord for building a new one, together with theloss of two years' rent, would if humanely directed, have enabled OwenM'Carthy to remain a solvent tenant. 

When an Irish peasant is reduced to pauperism, he seldom commences themelancholy task of soliciting alms in his native place. The trial isalways a severe one, and he is anxious to hide his shame and misery fromthe eyes of those who know him. This is one reason why some systemof poor laws should be introduced into the country. Paupers of thisdescription become a burden upon strangers, whilst those who are capableof entering with friendly sympathy into their misfortunes have noopportunity of assisting them. Indeed this shame of seeking alms fromthose who have known the mendicant in better days, is a proof thatthe absence of poor laws takes away from the poorer classes one of thestrongest incitements to industry; for instance, if every Pauper inIreland were confined to his own parish, and compelled to beg from hisacquaintances, the sense of shame alone would, by stirring them up togreater industry, reduce the number of mendicants one-half. There is astrong spirit of family pride in Ireland, which would be sufficient tomake many poor, of both sexes, exert themselves to the uttermost ratherthan cast a stain upon their name, or bring a blush to the face of theirrelations. But now it is not so: the mendicant sets out to beg, and inmost instances commences his new mode of life in some distant part ofthe country, where his name and family are not known. 

Indeed, it is astonishing how any man can, for a moment, hesitate toform his opinion upon the subject of poor laws. The English and Scotchgentry know something about the middle and lower classes of theirrespective countries, and of course they have a fixed system ofprovision for the poor in each. The ignorance of the Irish gentry, uponalmost every subject connected with the real good of the people, is onlyin keeping with their ignorance of the people themselves. It is to befeared, however, that their disinclination to introduce poor laws arisesless from actual ignorance, than from an illiberal selfishness. Thefacts of the case are these: In Ireland the whole support of theinconceivable multitude of paupers, who swarm like locusts over thesurface of the country, rests upon the middle and lower classes, orrather upon the latter, for there is scarcely such a thing in thisunhappy country as a middle class. In not one out of a thousandinstances do the gentry contribute to the mendicant poor. In the firstplace, a vast proportion of our landlords are absentees, who squanderupon their own pleasures or vices, in the theatres, saloons, orgaming-houses of France, or in the softer profligacies of Italy, thatwhich ought to return in some shape to stand in the place of dutiesso shamefully neglected. These persons contribute nothing to the poor, except the various evils which their absence entails upon them. 

On the other hand, the resident gentry never in any case assist abeggar, even in the remote parts of the country, where there are noMendicity Institutions. Nor do the beggars ever think of applying tothem. They know that his honor's dogs would be slipped at them; or thatthe whip might be laid, perhaps, to the shoulders of a broken-heartedfather, with his brood of helpless children wanting food; perhaps, uponthe emaciated person of a miserable widow, who begs for her orphans, only because the hands that supported, and would have defended both herand them, are mouldered into dust. 

Upon the middle and lower classes, therefore, comes directly the heavyburden of supporting the great mass of pauperism that presses uponIreland. It is certain that the Irish landlords know this, and that theyare reluctant to see any law enacted which might make the performance oftheir duties to the poor compulsory. This, indeed, is natural in men whohave so inhumanly neglected them. 

But what must the state of a country be where those who are on the wayto pauperism themselves are exclusively burdened with the support ofthe vagrant poor? It is like putting additional weight on a man alreadysinking under the burden he bears. The landlords suppose, that becausethe maintenance of the idle who are able, and of the aged and infirm whoare not able to work, comes upon the renters of land, they themselvesare exempted from their support. This, if true, is as bitter a stigmaupon their humanity as upon their sense of justice: but it is not true. Though the cost of supporting such an incredible number of the idleand helpless does, in the first place, fall upon the tenant, yet, bydiminishing his means, and by often compelling him to purchase, towardsthe end of the season, a portion of food equal to that which he hasgiven away in charity, it certainly becomes ultimately a clear deductionfrom the landlord's rent. In either case it is a deduction, but inthe latter it is often doubly so; inasmuch as the poor tenants mustfrequently pay, at the close of a season, double, perhaps treble, theprice which provision brought at the beginning of it. 

Any person conversant with the Irish people must frequently have heardsuch dialogues as the following, during the application of a beggar foralms:--

Mendicant. --"We're axin your charity for God's sake!"

Poor Tenant. --"Why thin for His sake you would get it, poor crathur, ifwe had it; but it's not for you widin the four corners of the house. It'ud be well for us if we had now all we gave away in charity durin' theWhole year; we wouldn't have to be buyin' for ourselves at three prices. Why don't you go up to the Big House? They're rich and can afford it. "

Mendicant, with a shrug, which sets all his coats and bags inmotion--"Och! och! The Big House, inagh! Musha, do you want me an' thechildhre here, to be torn to pieces wid the dogs? or lashed wid a whipby one o' the sarvints? No, no, avourneen!" (with a hopeless shake ofthe head. ) "That 'ud be a blue look-up, like a clear evenin'. "

Poor Tenant. --"Then, indeed, we haven't it to help you, now, poor man. We're buyin' ourselves. "

Mendicant. --"Thin, throth, that's lucky, so it is! I've as purty a graino' male here, as you'd wish to thicken wather wid, that I sthruv to gettogether, in hopes to be able to buy a quarther o' tobaccy, along wid apair o' new bades an' scapular for myself. I'm suspicious that there'sabout a stone ov it, altogether. You can have it anunder the marketprice, for I'm frettin' at not havin' the scapular an me. Sure the Lordwill sind me an' the childhre a bit an' sup some way else--glory to hisname!--beside a lock of praties in the corner o' the bag here, that'lldo us for this day, any way. "

The bargain is immediately struck, and the poor tenant is glad topurchase, even from a beggar, his stone of meal, in consequence ofgetting it a few pence under market price. Such scenes as this, whichare of frequent occurrence in the country parts of Ireland, need nocomment. 

This, certainly, is not a state of things which should be permitted toexist. Every man ought to be compelled to support the poor of hisnative parish according to his means. It is an indelible disgrace to thelegislature so long to have neglected the paupers of Ireland. Is it tobo thought of with common patience that a person rolling in wealth shallfeed upon his turtle, his venison, and his costly luxuries ofevery description, for which he will not scruple to pay the highestprice--that this heartless and selfish man, whether he reside at home orabroad, shall thus unconscionably pamper himself with viands purchasedby the toil of the people, and yet not contribute to assist them, whenpoverty, sickness, or age, throws them upon the scanty support of casualcharity?

Shall this man be permitted to batten in luxury in a foreign land, or athome; to whip our paupers from his carriage; or hunt them, like beastsof prey, from his grounds, whilst the lower classes--the graduallydecaying poor--are compelled to groan under the burden of their support, in addition to their other burdens? Surely it is not a question whichadmits of argument. This subject has been darkened and made difficult byfine-spun and unintelligible theories, when the only knowledge necessaryto understand it may be gained by spending a few weeks in some poorvillage in the interior of the country. As for Parliamentary Committeesupon this or any other subject, they are, with reverence be it spoken, thoroughly contemptible. They will summon and examine witnesses who, forthe most part, know little about the habits or distresses of the poor;public money will be wasted in defraying their expenses and in printingreports; resolutions will be passed; something will be said about itin the House of Commons; and, in a few weeks, after resolving andre-resolving, it is as little thought of, as if it had never been thesubject of investigation. In the meantime the evil proceeds--becomesmore inveterate--eats into the already declining prosperity of thecountry--whilst those who suffer under it have the consolation ofknowing that a Parliamentary Committee sat longer upon it than so manygeese upon their eggs, but hatched nothing. Two circumstances, connectedwith pauperism in Ireland, are worthy of notice. The first is this--theRoman Catholics, who certainly constitute the bulk of the population, feel themselves called upon, from the peculiar tenets of their religion, to exercise indiscriminate charity largely to the begging poor. They actunder the impression that eleemosynary good works possess the power ofcancelling sin to an extent almost incredible. Many of their religiouslegends are founded upon this view of the case; and the reader will findan appropriate one in the Priest's sermon, as given in our tale of the"Poor Scholar. " That legend is one which the author has many a timeheard from the lips of the people, by whom it was implicitly believed. A man who may have committed a murder overnight, will the next dayendeavor to wipe away his guilt by alms given for the purpose of gettingthe benefit of "the poor man's prayer. " The principle of assisting ourdistressed fellow-creatures, when rationally exercised, is one of thebest in society; but here it becomes entangled with error, superstition, and even with crime--acts as a bounty upon imposture, and in some degreepredisposes to guilt, from an erroneous belief that sin may be cancelledby alms and the prayers of mendicant impostors. The second point, inconnection with pauperism, is the immoral influence that I proceedsfrom the relation in which the begging poor in Ireland stand towards theclass by whom they are supported. These, as we have already said, are the poorest, least educated, and consequently the most ignorantdescription of the people. They are also the most numerous. There havebeen for centuries, probably since the Reformation itself, certainopinions floating among the lower classes in Ireland, all tending toprepare them for some great change in their favor, arising fromthe discomfiture of heresy, the overthrow of their enemies, and theexaltation of themselves and their religion. 

Scarcely had the public mind subsided after the Rebellion ofNinety-eight, when the success of Buonaparte directed the eyes and thehopes of the Irish people towards him, as the person designed to betheir deliverer. Many a fine fiction has the author of this work heardabout that great man's escapes, concerning the bullets that convenientlyturned aside from his person, and the sabres that civilly declined tocut him down. Many prophecies too were related, in which the glory ofthis country under his reign was touched off in the happiest colors. Pastorini also gave such notions an impulse. Eighteen twenty-five wasto be the year of their deliverance: George the Fourth was never to fillthe British throne; and the mill of Lowth was to be turned three timeswith human blood. "The miller with the two thumbs was then living, "said the mendicants, for they were the principal propagators of theseopinions, and the great expounders of their own prophecies; so that ofcourse there could be no further doubt upon the subject. Several of themhad seen him, a red-haired man with broad shoulders, stout legs, exactlysuch as a miller ought to have, and two thumbs on his right hand; allprecisely as the prophecy had stated. Then there was _Beal-derg_, andseveral others of the fierce old Milesian chiefs, who along with theirarmies lay in an enchanted sleep, all ready to awake and take a part inthe delivery of the country. "Sure such a man, " and they would name onein the time of the mendicant's grandfather, "was once going to a fair tosell a horse--well and good; the time was the dawn of morning, a littlebefore daylight: he met a man who undertook to purchase his horse; theyagreed upon the price, and the seller of him followed the buyer intoa Bath, where he found a range of horses, each with an armed soldierasleep by his side, ready to spring upon him if awoke. The purchasercautioned the owner of the horse as they were about to enter thesubterraneous dwelling, against touching either horse or man; but thecountryman happening to stumble, inadvertently laid his hand, upon asleeping soldier, who immediately leaped up, drew his sword, and asked, 'Wuil anam inh?' 'Is the time in it? Is the time arrived?' To which thehorse-dealer of the Bath replied, '_Ha niel. Gho dhee collhow areesht_. ''No: go to sleep again. ' Upon this the soldier immediately sank down inhis former position, and unbroken sleep reigned throughout the cave. "The influence on the warm imaginations of an ignorant people, of suchfictions concocted by vagrant mendicants, is very pernicious. They filltheir minds with the most palpable absurdities, and, what is worse, withopinions, which, besides being injurious to those who receive them, inevery instance insure for those who propagate them a cordial and kindreception. 

These mendicants consequently pander, for their own selfish ends, to theprejudices of the ignorant, which they nourish and draw out in amanner that has in no slight degree been subversive of the peace of thecountry. Scarcely any political circumstance occurs which they do notimmediately seize upon and twist to their own purposes, or, in otherwords, to the opinions of those from whom they derive their support. When our present police first appeared in their uniforms and blackbelts, another prophecy, forsooth, was fulfilled. Immediately before thedownfall of heresy, a body of "Black Militia" was to appear; the police, then, are the black militia, and the people consider themselves anotherstep nearer the consummation of their vague speculations. 

In the year Ninety-eight, the Irish mendicants were active agents, clever spies, and expert messengers on the part of the people; and tothis day they carry falsehood, and the materials of outrage in its worstshape, into the bosom of peaceable families, who would, otherwise, neverbecome connected with a system which is calculated to bring ruin anddestruction upon those who permit themselves to join it. 

This evil, and it is no trifling one, would, by the introduction ofpoor-laws, be utterly abolished, the people would not only be moreeasily improved, but education, when received, would not be corruptedby the infusion into it of such ingredients as the above. In many otherpoints of view, the confirmed and hackneyed mendicants of Ireland are agreat evil to the morals of the people. We could easily detail them, butsuch not being our object at present, we will now dismiss the subject ofpoor-laws, and resume our narrative. 

Far--far different from this description of impostors, were OwenM'Carthy and his family. Their misfortunes were not the consequencesof negligence or misconduct on their own part. They struggled long butunavailingly against high rents and low markets; against neglect on thepart of the landlord and his agent; against sickness, famine, and death. They had no alternative but to beg or starve. Owen was willing towork, but he could not procure employment: and provided he could, themiserable sum of sixpence a day, when food was scarce and dear, wouldnot support him, his wife, and six little ones. He became a pauper, therefore, only to avoid starvation. 

Heavy and black was his heart, to use the strong expression of thepeople, on the bitter morning when he set out to encounter the dismaltask of seeking alms, in order to keep life in himself and his family. The plan was devised on the preceding night, but to no mortal, excepthis wife, was it communicated. The honest pride of a man whose mind wasabove committing a mean action, would not permit him to reveal what heconsidered the first stain that ever was known to rest upon the name ofM'Carthy; he therefore sallied out under the beating of the storm, and proceeded, without caring much whither he went, until he gotconsiderably beyond the bounds of his own parish. 

In the meantime hunger pressed deeply upon him and them. The day hadno appearance of clearing up; the heavy rain and sleet beat into theirthin, worn garments, and the clamor of his children for food began togrow more and more importunate. They came to the shelter of a hedgewhich inclosed on one side a remote and broken road, along which, in order to avoid the risk of being recognized, they had preferredtravelling. Owen stood here for a few minutes to consult with his wife, as to where and when they should "make a beginning;" but on lookinground, he found her in tears. 

"Kathleen, asthore, " said he, "I can't bid you not to cry; bear up, acushla machree; bear up: sure, as I said when we came out this mornin', there's a good God above us, that can still turn over the good lafe forus, if we put our hopes in him. "

"Owen, " said his sinking wife, "it's not altogether bekase we're broughtto this that I'm cryin'; no, indeed. "

"Thin what ails you, Kathleen darlin'?"

The wife hesitated, and evaded the question for some time; but atlength, upon his pressing her for an answer, with a fresh gush ofsorrow, she replied, "Owen, since you must know--och, may God pity us!--since you must know, it's wid hunger--wid hunger! I kept, unknownst, a little bit of breadto give the childhre this mornin', and that was part of it I gave youyesterday early--I'm near two days fastin'. "

"Kathleen! Kathleen! Och! sure I know your worth, avillish. You were toogood a wife, an' too good a mother, a'most! God forgive me, Kathleen! Ifretted about beginnin', dear; but as my Heavenly Father's above me, I'mnow happier to beg wid you by my side, nor if I war in the best houseof the province widout you! Hould up, avour-neen, for a while. Come on, childhre, darlins, an' the first house we meet we'll ax their char--, their assistance. Come on, darlins, and all of yees. Why my heart'sasier, so it is. Sure we have your mother, childhre, safe wid us, an'what signifies anything so long as she's left to us?"

He then raised his wife tenderly, for she had been compelled to sit fromweakness, and they bent their steps to a decent farmhouse that stood afew perches off the road, about a quarter of a mile before them. 

As they approached the door, the husband hesitated a moment; his facegot paler than usual, and his lip quivered, as he said--"Kathleen--"

"I know what you're goin' to say, Owen. No, acushla, you won't; I'll axit myself. "

"Do, " said Owen, with difficulty; "I can't do it; but I'll overcome mypride afore long, I hope. It's thryin' to me, Kathleen, an' you know itis--for you know how little I ever expected to be brought to this. "

"Husht, avillish! We'll thry, then, in the name o' God. "

As she spoke, the children, herself, and her husband entered, to beg, for the first time in their lives, a morsel of food. Yes! timidly--witha blush, of shame, red even to crimson, upon the pallid featuresof Kathleen--with grief acute and piercing--they entered the housetogether. 

For some minutes they stood and spoke not. The unhappy woman, unaccustomed to the language of supplication, scarcely knew in whatterms to crave assistance. Owen himself stood back, uncovered, hisfine, but much changed features overcast with an expression ofdeep affliction. Kathleen cast a single glance, at him, as if forencouragement. Their eyes met; she saw the upright man--the last remnantof the M'Carthy--himself once the friend of the poor, of the unhappy, ofthe afflicted--standing crushed and broken down by misfortunes which hehad not deserved, waiting with patience for a morsel of charity. Owen, too, had his remembrances. He recollected the days when he sought andgained the pure and fond affections of his Kathleen: when beauty, andyouth, and innocence encircled her with their light and their grace, asshe spoke or moved; he saw her a happy wife and mother in her ownhome, kind and benevolent to all who required her good word or her goodoffice, and remembered the sweetness of her light-hearted song; but nowshe was homeless. He remembered, too, how she used to plead with himselffor the afflicted. It was but a moment; yet when their eyes met, thatmoment was crowded by recollections that flashed across their minds witha keen, sense of a lot so bitter and wretched as theirs. Kathleen couldnot speak, although she tried; her sobs denied her utterance; and Oweninvoluntarily sat upon a chair, and covered his face with his hand. 

To an observing eye it is never difficult to detect the cant ofimposture, or to perceive distress when it is real. The good woman ofthe house, as is usual in Ireland, was in the act of approaching them, unsolicited, with a double handful of meal--that is what the Scotch andnorthern Irish call a goivpen, or as much as both hands locked togethercan contain--when, noticing their distress, she paused a moment, eyedthem more closely, and exclaimed--

"What's this? Why there's something wrong wid you, good people! Butfirst an' foremost take this, in the name an' honor of God. "

"May the blessin' of the same _Man_* rest upon yees!" replied Kathleen. "This is a sorrowful thrial to us; for it's our first day to be upon theworld; an' this is the first help of the kind we ever axed for, or evergot; an' indeed now I find we haven't even a place to carry it in. I'veno--b--b--cloth, or anything to hould it. "

 * God is sometimes thus termed in Ireland. By "Man" here is meant person or being. He is also called the "Man above;" although this must have been intended for, and often is applied to, Christ only. 

"Your first, is it?" said the good woman. "Your first! May the marcifulqueen o' heaven look down upon yees, but it's a bitther day yees wardriven out in! Sit down, there, you poor crathur. God pity you, I praythis day, for you have a heart-broken look! Sit down awhile, near thefire, you an' the childre! Come over, darlins, an' warm yourselves. Och, oh! but it's a thousand pities to see sich fine childre--handsome an'good lookin' even as they are, brought to this! Come over, good man; getnear the fire, for you're wet an' could all of ye. Brian, ludher themtwo lazy thieves o' dogs out o' that. _Eiree suas, a wadhee bradagh, agus go mah a shin!_--be off wid yez, ye lazy divils, that's not worthyour feedin'! Come over, honest man. " Owen and his family were placednear the fire; the poor man's heart was full, and he sighed heavily. 

"May He that is plased to thry us, " he exclaimed, "reward you for this!We are, " he continued, "a poor an' a sufferin' family; but it's thewill of God that we should be so; an' sure we can't complain widoutcommittin' sin. All we ax now, is, that it may be plasin' to him thatbrought us low, to enable us to bear up undher our thrials. We wouldtake it to our choice to beg an' be honest, sooner, nor to be wealthy, an' wicked! We have our failings, an' our sins, God help us; but stillthere's nothin' dark or heavy on our consciences. Glory be to the nameo' God for it!"

"Throth, I believe you, " replied the farmer's wife; "there's thruth an'honesty in your face; one may easily see the remains of dacency aboutyou all. Musha, throw your little things aside, an' stay where ye aretoday: you can't bring out the childre under the teem of rain an' sleetthat's in it. Wurrah dheelish, but it's the bitther day all out! Faix, Paddy will get a dhrookin, so he will, at that weary fair wid thestirks, poor bouchal--a son of ours that's gone to Bally-boulteen tosell some cattle, an' he'll not be worth three hapuns afore he comesback. I hope he'll have sinse to go into some house, when he's done, an' dhry himself well, anyhow, besides takin' somethin' to keep out thecould. Put by your things, an' don't, think of goin' out sich a day. "

"We thank you, " replied Owen. "Indeed we're glad to stay undher yourroof; for poor things, they're badly able to thravel sich a day--thesechildre. "

"Musha, ye ate no breakfast, maybe?" Owen and his family were silent. The children looked wistfully at their parents, anxious that they shouldconfirm what the good woman surmised; the father looked again at hisfamished brood and his sinking wife, and nature overcame him. 

"Food did not crass our lips this day, " replied Owen; "an' I may sayhardly anything yestherday. "

"Oh, blessed mother! Here, Katty Murray, drop scrubbin' that dresser, an' put down, the midlin' pot for stirabout. Be livin' _manim andiouol_, woman alive, handle yourself; you might a had it boilin' bythis. God presarve us!--to be two days widout atin! Be the crass, Katty, if you're not alive, I'll give you a douse o' the churnstaff that'llbring the fire to your eyes! Do you hear me?"

"I do hear you, an' did often feel you, too, for fraid hearin' wouldn'tdo. You think there's no places in the world but your own, I b'lieve. Faix, indeed! it's well come up wid us, to be randied about wid no lessa switch than a churnstaff!"

"Is it givin' back talk, you are? Bad end to me, if you look crucked butI'll lave you a mark to remimber me by. What woman 'ud put up wid youbut myself, you shkamin flipe? It wasn't to give me your bad tongue Ihired you, but to do your business; and be the crass above us, if youturn your tongue on me agin, I'll give you the weight o' the churnstaff. Is it bekase they're poor people that it plased God to bring to this, that you turn up your nose at doin' anything to sarve them? There's notwather enough there, I say--put in more what signifies all the stiraboutthat 'ud make? Put plinty in: it's betther always to have too much thantoo little. Faix, I tell you, you'll want a male's meat an' a night'slodgin' afore you die, if you don't mend your manners. "

"Och, musha, the poor girl is doin' her best, " observed Kathleen; "an'I'm sure she wouldn't be guilty of usin' pride to the likes of us, or toany one that the Lord has laid his hand upon. "

"She had betther not, while I'm to the fore, " said her mistress. "Whatis she herself? Sure if it was a sin to be poor, God help the world. No;it's neither a sin nor a shame. "

"Thanks be to God, no, " said Owen: "it's neither the one nor the other. So long as we keep a fair name, an' a clear conscience, we can't eversay that our case is hard. "

After some further conversation, a comfortable breakfast was preparedfor them, of which they partook with an appetite sharpened by their longabstinence from food. Their stay here was particularly fortunate, for asthey were certain of a cordial welcome, and an abundance of that whichthey much wanted--wholesome food--the pressure of immediate distresswas removed. They had time to think more accurately upon the littlepreparations for misery which were necessary, and, as the day's leisurewas at their disposal, Kathleen's needle and scissors were industriouslyplied in mending the tattered clothes of her husband and her children, in order to meet the inclemency of the weather. 

On the following morning, after another abundant breakfast, andsubstantial marks of kindness from their entertainers, they preparedto resume their new and melancholy mode of life. As they were about todepart, the farmer's wife addressed them in the following terms--thefarmer himself, by the way, being but the shadow of his worthy partnerin life--

Wife--"Now, good people, you're takin' the world on your heads--"

Farmer--"Ay, good people, you're takin' the world on your heads--"

Wife--"Hould your tongue, Brian, an' suck your dhudeen. It's me that'sspakin' to them, so none of your palaver, if you plase, till I'm done, an' then you may prache till Tib's Eve, an' that's neither beforeChristmas nor afther it. "

Farmer--"Sure I'm sayin' nothin', Elveen, barrin' houldin' my tongue, ashuchar" (* my sugar). 

Wife--"Your takin' the world on yez, an' God knows 'tis a heavy load tocarry, poor crathurs. "

Farmer--"A heavy load, poor crathurs! God he knows it's that. "

Wife--"Brian! _Gluntho ma?_--did you hear me? You'll be puttin' in yourgab, an' me spakin'? How-an-iver, as I was sayin', our house was thefirst ye came to, an' they say there's a great blessin' to thim thatgives, the first charity to a poor man or woman settin' out to look fortheir bit. "

Farmer--"Throgs, ay! Whin they set out; to look for their bit. "

Wife--"By the crass, Brian, you'd vex a saint. What have you to say init, you _pittiogue_?* Hould your whisht now, an' suck your dhudeen, Isay; sure I allow you a quarther o' tobaccy a week, an' what right haveyou to be puttin' in your gosther when other people's spakin'?"

 * Untranslatable--but means a womanly man a poor, effeminate creature. 

Farmer--"Go an. "

Wife--"So, you see, the long an' the short of it is that whenever youhappen to be in this side of the counthry, always come to us. You knowthe ould sayin'--when the poor man comes he brings a blessin', an' whenhe goes he carries away a curse. You have as much, meal as will last yeza day or two; an' God he sees you're heartily welcome to all ye got?"

Farmer--"God he sees you're heartily welcome--"

Wife--"_Chorp an diouol_, Brian, hould your tongue, Or I'll turn you outo' the kitchen. One can't hear their own ears for you, you poor squakin'dhrone. By the crass, I'll--eh? Will you whisht, now?"

Farmer--"Go an. Amn't I dhrawin' my pipe?"

Wife--"Well dhraw it; but don't dhraw me down upon you, barrin--. Do youhear me? an' the sthrange people to the fore, too! Well, the Lord be widyez, an' bless yez! But afore yez go, jist lave your blessin' wid us;for it's a good thing to have the blessin' of the poor?"

"The Lord bless you, an yours!" said Owen, fervently. "May you and themnever--oh, may you never--never suffer what we've suffered; nor knowwhat it is to want a male's mate, or a night's lodgin'!"

"Amin!" exclaimed Kathleen; "may the world flow upon you! for your good, kind heart desarves it. "

Farmer--"An' whisper; I wish you'd offer up a prayer for the rulin' o'the tongue. The Lord might hear you, but there's no great hopes thatever he'll hear me; though I've prayed for it almost ever since I wasmarried, night an' day, winther and summer; but no use, she's as bad asever. "

This was said in a kind of friendly insinuating undertone to Owen; who, on hearing it, simply nodded his head, but made no other reply. 

They then recommenced their journey, after having once more blessed, and been invited by their charitable entertainers, who made them promisenever to pass their house without stopping a night with them. 

It is not our intention to trace Owen M'Carthy and his wife throughall the variety which a wandering pauper's life affords. He never couldreconcile himself to the habits of a mendicant. His honest pride andintegrity of heart raised him above it: neither did he sink into thewhine and cant of imposture, nor the slang of knavery. No; there wasa touch of manly sorrow about him, which neither time, nor familiaritywith his degraded mode of life, could take away from him. His usualobservation to his wife, and he never made it without a pang of intensebitterness, was--"Kathleen, dar-lin', it's thrue we have enough to atean' to dhrink; but we have no home--no home!" to a man like him it was athought of surpassing bitterness, indeed. 

"Ah! Kathleen, " he would observe, "if we had but the poorest shed thatcould be built, provided it was our own, wouldn't we be happy? The breadwe ate, avourneen, doesn't do us good. We don't work for it; it's thebread of shame and idleness: and yet it's Owen M'Carthy that ates it!But, avourneen, that's past; an' we'll never see our own home, orour own hearth agin. That's what's cuttin' into my heart, Kathleen. Never!--never!"

Many a trial, too, of another kind, was his patience called upon tosustain; particularly from the wealthy and the more elevated inlife, when his inexperiences as a mendicant led him to solicit theirassistance. 

"Begone, sirrah, off my grounds!" one would say. "Why don't you work, you sturdy impostor, " another would exclaim, "rather than stroll aboutso lazily, training your brats to the gallows?"

"You should be taken up, fellow, as a vagrant, " a third would observe;"and if I ever catch you coming up my avenue again, depend upon it, Iwill slip my dogs at you and your idle spawn. "

Owen, on these occasions, turned away in silence; he did not curse them;but the pangs of his honest heart went before Him who will, sooner orlater, visit upon the heads of such men their cruel spurning and neglectof the poor. 

"Kathleen, " he observed to his wife, one day, about a, year or moreafter they had begun to beg; "Kathleen, I have been turnin' it in mymind, that some of these childhre might sthrive to earn their bit an'sup, an' their little coverin' of clo'es, poor things. We might put themto herd cows in the summer, an' the girshas to somethin' else in thefarmers' house. What do you think, asthore?"

"For God's sake do, Owen; sure my heart's crushed to see them--my ownchildhre, that I could lay down my life for--beggin' from door to door. Och, do something for them that way, Owen, an' you'll relieve the heartthat loves them. It's a sore sight to a mother's eye, Owen, to see herchildhre beggin' their morsel. "

"It is darlin'--it is; we'll hire out the three eldest--Brian, an' Owen, an' Pether, to herd cows; an' we may get Peggy into some farmer'shouse to do loose jobs an' run of messages. Then we'd have only littleKathleen an' poor Ned along wid us. I'll try any way, an' if I can getthem places, who knows what may happen? I have a plan in my head thatI'll tell you, thin. "

"Arrah, what is it, Owen, jewel. Sure if I know it, maybe when I'msorrowful, that thinkin' of it, an' lookin' forrid to it will make mehappier. An' I'm sure, acushla, you would like that. "

"But maybe, Kathleen, if it wouldn't come to pass, that thedisappointment 'ud be heavy on you?"

"How could it, Owen? Sure we can't be worse nor we are, whateverhappens?"

"Thrue enough, indeed, I forgot that; an' yet we might, Kathleen. Surewe'd be worse, if we or the childhre had bad health. "

"God forgive me thin, for what I said! We might be worse. Well, but whatis the plan, Owen?"

"Why, when we got the childhre places, I'll sthrive to take a littlehouse, an' work as a cottar. Then, Kathleen, we'd have a home of ourown. I'd work from light to light; I'd work before hours an' aftherhours; ay, nine days in the week, or we'd be comfortable in our ownlittle home. We might be poor, Kathleen, I know that, an' hard pressedtoo; but then, as I said, we'd have our own home, an' our own hearth;our morsel, if it 'ud be homely, would be sweet, for it would be thefruits of our own labor. "

"Now, Owen, do you think you could manage to get that?"

"Wait, acushla, till we get the childhre settled. Then I'll thry theother plan, for it's good to thry anything that could take us out ofthis disgraceful life. "

This humble speculation was a source of great comfort to them. Manya time have they forgotten their sorrows in contemplating the simplepicture of their happy little cottage. Kathleen, in particular, drewwith all the vivid coloring of a tender mother, and an affectionatewife, the various sources of comfort and contentment to be found evenin a cabin, whose inmates are blessed with a love of independence, industry, and mutual affection. 

Owen, in pursuance of his intention, did not neglect, when the properseason arrived, to place out his eldest children among the farmers. The reader need not be told that there was that about him which gainedrespect. He had, therefore, little trouble in obtaining his wishes onthis point, and to his great satisfaction, he saw three of them hiredout to earn their own support. 

It was now a matter of some difficulty for him to take a cabin and getemployment. They had not a single article of furniture, and neither bednor bedding, with the exception of blankets almost worn past use. He wasresolved, however, to give up, at all risks, the life of a mendicant. For this purpose, he and the wife agreed to adopt a plan quite usual inIreland, under circumstances somewhat different from his: this was, that Kathleen should continue to beg for their support, until thefirst half-year of their children's service should expire; and in themeantime, that he, if possible, should secure employment for himself. By this means, his earnings and that of his children might remainuntouched, so that in half a year he calculated upon being able tofurnish a cabin, and proceed, as a cotter, to work for, and support hisyoung children and his wife, who determined, on her part, not to be idleany more than her husband. As the plan was a likely one, and as Owenwas bent on earning his bread, rather than be a burthen to others, itis unnecessary to say that it succeeded. In less than a year he foundhimself once more in a home, and the force of what he felt on sitting, for the first time since his pauperism, at his own hearth, may easily beconceived by the reader. For some years after this, Owen got on slowlyenough; his wages as a daily laborer being so miserable, that itrequired him to exert every nerve to keep the house over their head. What, however, will not carefulness and a virtuous determination, joinedto indefatigable industry, do?

After some time, backed as he was by his wife, and even by his youngestchildren, he, found himself beginning to improve. In the mornings andevenings he cultivated his garden and his rood of potato-ground. He alsocollected with a wheelbarrow, which he borrowed, from an acquaintance, compost from the neighboring road; scoured an old drain before his door;dug rich earth, and tossed, it into the pool of rotten water beside thehouse, and in fact adopted several other modes of collecting manure. Bythis means he had, each spring, a large portion of rich stuff on whichto plant his potatoes. His landlord permitted him to spread this forplanting upon his land; and Owen, ere long, instead of a rood, was ableto plant half an acre, and ultimately, an acre of potatoes. The produceof this, being more than sufficient for the consumption of his family, he sold the surplus, and with the money gained by the sale was enabledto sow half an acre of oats, of which, when made into meal, he disposedof the greater share. 

Industry is capital; for even when unaided by capital it creates it;whereas, idleness with capital produces only poverty and ruin. Owen, after selling his meal and as much potatoes as he could spare, foundhimself able to purchase a cow. Here was the means of making moremanure; he had his cow, and he had also straw enough for her provenderduring the winter. The cow by affording milk to his family, enabled themto live more cheaply; her butter they sold, and this, in addition to hissurplus meal and potatoes every year, soon made him feel that he had afew guineas to spare. He now bethought him of another mode of helpinghimself forward in the world: after buying the best "slip" of a pig hecould find, a sty was built for her, and ere long he saw a fine litterof young pigs within a snug shed. These he reared until they were abouttwo months old, when he sold them, and found that he had considerablygained by the transaction. This, department, however, was under themanagement of Kathleen, whose life was one of incessant activity andemployment. Owen's children, during the period of his struggles andimprovements, were, by his advice, multiplying their little capital asfast as himself. The two boys, who had now shot up into the stature ofyoung men, were at work as laboring servants in the neighborhood. Thedaughters were also engaged as servants with the adjoining farmers. Theboys bought each a pair of two-year old heifers, and the daughter one. These they sent to graze up in the mountains at a trifling charge, forthe first year or two: when they became springers, they put them to richinfield grass for a few months, until they got a marketable appearance, after which their father brought them to the neighboring fairs, wherethey usually sold to great advantage, in consequence of the small outlayrequired in rearing them. 

In fact, the principle of industry ran through the family. There wasnone of them idle; none of them a burthen or a check upon the profitsmade by the laborer. On the contrary, "they laid their shoulderstogether, " as the phrase is, and proved to the world, that when theproper disposition is followed up by suitable energy and perseverance, it must generally reward him who possesses it. 

It is certainly true that Owen's situation in life now was essentiallydifferent from that which it had been during the latter years of hisstruggles an a farmer. It was much more favorable, and far bettercalculated to develop successful exertion. If there be a class of mendeserving public sympathy, it is that of the small farmers of Ireland. Their circumstances are fraught with all that is calculated to depressand ruin them; rents far above their ability, increasing poverty, andbad markets. The land which, during the last war, might have enabled therenter to pay three pounds per acre, and yet still maintain himself withtolerable comfort, could not now pay more than one pound, or, at themost, one pound ten; and yet, such is the infatuation of landlords, that, in most instances, the terms of leases taken out then arerigorously exacted. Neither can the remission of yearly arrears be saidto strike at the root of the evils under which they suffer. The factof the disproportionate rent hanging over them is a dishearteningcircumstance, that paralyzes their exertion, and sinks their spirits. Ifa landlord remit the rent for one term, he deals more harshly with thetenant at the next; whatever surplus, if any, his former indulgenceleaves in the tenant's hands, instead of being expended upon hisproperty as capital, and being permitted to lay the foundation ofhope and prosperity, is drawn from him, at next term, and the poor, struggling tenant is thrown back into as much distress, embarrassment, and despondency as ever. There are, I believe, few tenants in Irelandof the class I allude to, who are not from one gale to three in arrear. Now, how can it be expected that such men will labor with spirit andearnestness to raise crops which they may never reap? crops which thelandlord may seize upon to secure as much of his rent as he can. 

I have known a case in which the arrears were not only remitted, but therent lowered to a reasonable standard, such as, considering the markets, could be paid. And what was the consequence? The tenant who was lookedupon as a negligent man, from whom scarcely any rent could be got, tookcourage, worked his farm with a spirit and success which he had notevinced before; and ere long was in a capacity to pay his gales to thevery day; so that the judicious and humane landlord was finally a gainerby his own excellent economy. This was an experiment, and it succeededbeyond expectation. 

Owen M'Carthy did not work with more zeal and ability as an humblecotter than he did when a farmer; but the tide was against him as alandholder, and instead of having advanced, he actually lost grounduntil he became a pauper. No doubt the peculiarly unfavorable run of twohard seasons, darkened by sickness and famine, were formidable obstaclesto him; but he must eventually have failed, even had they not occurred. They accelerated his downfall, but did not cause it. 

The Irish people, though poor, are exceedingly anxious to beindependent. Their highest ambition is to hold a farm. So strong is thisprinciple in them, that they will, without a single penny of capital, orany visible means to rely on, without consideration or forethought, comeforward and offer a rent which, if they reflected only for a moment, they must feel to be unreasonably high. This, indeed, is a great evilin Ireland. But what, in the meantime, must we think of those imprudentlandlords, and their more imprudent agents, who let their land tosuch persons, without proper inquiry into their means, knowledge ofagriculture, and general character as moral and industrious men? A farmof land is to be let; it is advertised through the parish; applicationis to be made before such a day, to so and so. The day arrives, theagent or the land-steward looks over the proposals, and after singlingout the highest, bidder, declares him tenant, as a matter of course. Now, perhaps, this said tenant does not possess a shilling in theworld, nor a shilling's worth. Most likely he is a new-married man, with nothing but his wife's bed and bedding, his wedding-suit, and hisblackthorn cudgel, which we may suppose him to keep in reserve for thebailiff. However, he commences his farm; and then follow the shiftings, the scramblings, and the fruitless struggles to succeed, where successis impossible. His farm is not half tilled; his crops are miserable; thegale-day has already passed; yet, he can pay nothing until he takes itout of the land. Perhaps he runs away--makes a moonlight flitting--and, by the aid of his friends, succeeds in bringing the crop with him. Thelandlord, or agent, declares he is a knave; forgetting that the manhad no other alternative, and that they were the greater knaves andfools too, for encouraging him to undertake a task that was beyond hisstrength. 

In calamity we are anxious to derive support from the sympathy of ourfriends; in our success, we are eager to communicate to them the powerof participating in our happiness. When Owen once more found himselfindependent and safe, he longed to realize two plans on which he hadfor some time before been seriously thinking. The first was to visit hisformer neighbors, that they might at length know that Owen McCarthy'sstation in the world was such as became his character. The second was, if possible, to take a farm in his native parish, that he might closehis days among the companions of his youth, and the friends of hismaturer years. He had, also, another motive; there lay the burying-placeof the M'Carthys, in which slept the mouldering dust of his own"golden-haired" Alley. With them--in his daughter's grave--he intendedto sleep his long sleep. Affection for the dead is the memory of theheart. In no other graveyard could he reconcile it to himself to beburied; to it had all his forefathers been gathered; and thoughcalamity had separated him from the scenes where they had passed throughexistence, yet he was resolved that death should not deprive him of itslast melancholy consolation;--that of reposing with all that remained ofthe "departed, " who had loved him, and whom he had loved. He believed, that to neglect this, would be to abandon a sacred duty, and felt sorrowat the thought of being like an absent guest from the assembly of hisown dead; for there is a principle of undying hope in the heart, thatcarries, with bold and beautiful imagery, the realities of life into thesilent recesses of death itself. 

Having formed the resolution of visiting his old friends at Tubber Derg, he communicated it to Kathleen and his family; Ids wife received theintelligence with undisguised delight. 

"Owen, " she replied, "indeed I'm glad you mintioned it. Many a time thethoughts of our place, an' the people about it, comes over me. I know, Owen, it'll go to your heart to see it; but still, avourneen, you'dlike, too, to see the ould faces an' the warm hearts of them that pitiedus, an' helped us, as well as they could, whin we war broken down. "

"I would, Kathleen; but I'm not going merely to see thim an' the place. I intind, if I can, to take a bit of land somewhere near Tubber Derg. I'm unasy in my mind, for 'fraid I'd not sleep in the grave-yard whereall belongin' to me lie. "

A chord of the mother's heart was touched; and in a moment the memory oftheir beloved child brought the tears to her eyes. 

"Owen, avourneen, I have one requist to ax of you, an' I'm sure youwon't refuse it to me; if I die afore you, let me be buried wid Alley. Who has a right to sleep so near her as her own mother?"

"The child's in my heart still, " said Owen, suppressing his emotion;"thinkin' of the unfortunate mornin' I wint to Dublin, brings herback to me. I see her standin', wid her fair pale face--pale--oh, myGod!--wid hunger an' sickness--her little thin clo'es, an' her gooldenhair, tossed about by the dark blast--the tears in her eyes, an' thesmile, that she once had, on her face--houldin' up her mouth, an' sayin''Kiss me agin, father;' as if she knew, somehow, that I'd never seeher, nor her me, any more. An' whin I looked back, as I was turnin' thecorner, there she stood, strainin' her eyes after her father, that shewas then takin' the last sight of until the judgment-day. "

His voice here became broken, and he sat in silence for a few minutes. 

"It's sthrange, " he added, with more firmness, "how she's so often in mymind!"

"But, Owen, dear, " replied Kathleen, "sure it was the will of God thatshe should lave us. She's now a bright angel in heaven, an' I dunna ifit's right--indeed, I doubt it's sinful for us to think so much abouther. Who knows but her innocent spirit is makin' inthercession for usall, before the blessed Mother o' God! Who knows but it was her that gotus the good fortune that flowed in upon us, an' that made our strugglin'an' our laborin' turn out so lucky. "

The idea of being lucky or unlucky is, in Ireland, an enemy to industry. It is certainly better that the people should believe success in lifeto be, as it is, the result of virtuous exertion, than of contingentcircumstances, over which they themselves have no control. Still therewas something beautiful in the superstition of Kathleen's affections;something that touched the heart and its! dearest associations. 

"It's very true, Kathleen, " replied her husband; "but God is ever readyto help them that keeps an honest heart, an' do everything in theirpower to live creditably. They may fail for a time, or he may thry themfor awhile, but sooner or later good, intintions and honest labor willbe rewarded. Look at ourselves--blessed be his name!"

"But whin do you mane to go to Tubber Derg, Owen!"

"In the beginnin' of the next week. An', Kathleen, ahagur, if youremimber the bitther mornin' we came upon the world--but we'll notbe spakin' of that now. I don't like to think of it. Some other time, maybe, when we're settled among our ould friends, I'll mintion it. "

"Well, the Lord bliss your endayvors, anyhow! Och, Owen, do thry an'get us a snug farm somewhere near them. But you didn't answer me aboutAlley, Owen?"

"Why, you must have your wish, Kathleen, although I intended to keepthat place for myself. Still we can sleep one on aich side of her; an'that may be aisily done, for our buryin'-ground is large: so set yourmind at rest on that head. I hope God won't call us till we see ourchildhre settled dacently in the world. But sure, at all evints, let hisblessed will be done!"

"Amin! amin! It's not right of any one to keep their hearts fixed toomuch upon the world; nor even, they say, upon one's own childhre. "

"People may love their childhre as much as they plase, Kathleen, if theydon't let their _grah_ for them spoil the crathurs, by givin' them theirown will, till they become headstrong an' overbearin'. Now, let my linenbe as white as a bone before Monday, plase goodness; I hope, by thattime, that Jack Dogherty will have my new clo'es made; for I intind togo as dacent as ever they seen me in my best days. "

"An' so you will, too, avillish. Throth, Owen, it's you that'll be theproud man, steppin' in to them in all your grandeur! Ha, ha, ha! Thespirit o' the M'Carthys is in you still, Owen. "

"Ha, ha, ha! It is, darlin'; it is, indeed; an' I'd be sarry it wasn't. I long to see poor Widow Murray. I dunna is her son, Jemmy, married. Who knows, afther all we suffered, but I might be able to helpher yet?--that is, if she stands in need of it. But, I suppose, herchildhre's grown up now, an' able to assist her. Now, Kathleen, mindMonday next; an' have everything ready. I'll stay away a week or so, atthe most, an' afther that I'll have news for you about all o' them. "

When Monday morning arrived, Owen found himself ready to set out forTubber Derg. The tailor had not disappointed him; and Kathleen, to doher justice, took care that the proofs of her good housewifery shouldbe apparent in the whiteness of his linen. After breakfast, he dressedhimself in all his finery; and it would be difficult to say whetherthe harmless vanity that peeped out occasionally from his simplicityof character, or the open and undisguised triumph of his faithful wife, whose eye rested on him with pride and affection, was most calculated toproduce a smile. 

"Now, Kathleen, " said he, when preparing for his immediate departure, "I'm, thinkin' of what they'll say, when they see, me so smooth an'warm-lookin'. I'll engage they'll be axin' one another, 'Musha, how, didOwen M'Carthy get an, at all, to be so well to do in the world, as heappears to be, afther failin' on his ould farm?'"

"Well, but Owen, you know how to manage them. "

"Throth, I do that. But there is one thing they'll never get out o' me, any way. "

"You won't tell that to any o' them, Owen?"

"Kathleen, if I thought they only suspected it, I'd never show my facein Tubber Derg agin. I think I could bear to be--an' yet it 'ud be ahard struggle with me too--but I think I could bear to be buried amongblack strangers, rather than it should be said, over my grave, amongmy own, 'there's where Owen M'Carthy lies--who was the only man, of hisname, that ever begged his morsel on the king's highway. There he lies, the descendant of the great M'Carthy Mores, an' yet he was a beggar. 'I know, Kathleen achora, it's neither a sin nor a shame to ax one's bitfrom our fellow-creatures, whin, fairly brought to it, widout any faultof our own; but still I feel something in me, that can't bear to thinkof it widout shame an' heaviness of heart. "

"Well, it's one comfort, that nobody knows it but ourselves. The poorchildhre, for their own sakes, won't ever breathe it; so that it'slikely the sacret 'll be berrid wid us. "

"I hope so, acushla. Does this coat sit asy atween the shouldhers? Ifeel it catch me a little. "

"The sorra nicer. There; it was only your waistcoat that was turned downin the collar. Here--hould your arm. There now--it wanted to be pulleddown a little at the cuffs. Owen, it's a beauty; an' I think I have goodright to be proud of it, for it's every thread my own spinnin'. "

"How do I look in it, Kathleen? Tell me thruth, now. "

"Throth, you're twenty years younger; the never a day less. "

"I think I needn't be ashamed to go afore my ould friends in it, anyway. Now bring me my staff, from undher the bed above; an', in the nameo' God, I'll set out. "

"Which o' them, Owen? Is it the oak or the blackthorn?"

"The oak, acushla. Oh, no; not the blackthorn. It's it that I broughtto Dublin wid me, the unlucky thief, an' that I had while we wor ashaughran. Divil a one o' me but 'ud blush in the face, if I broughtit even in my hand afore them. The oak, ahagur; the oak. You'll get itatween the foot o' the bed an' the wall. "

When Kathleen placed the staff in his hand, he took off his hat andblessed himself, then put it on, looked at his wife, and said--"Nowdarlin', in the name o' God, I'll go. Husht, avillish machree, don't becryin'; sure I'll be back to you in a week. "

"Och! I can't help it, Owen. Sure this is the second time you wor everaway from me more nor a day; an' I'm thinkin' of what happened bothto you an' me, the first time you wint. Owen, acushla, I feel that ifanything happened you, I'd break my heart. "

"Arrah, what 'ud happen me, darlin', wid God to protect me? Now, Godbe wid you, Kathleen dheelish, till I come back to you wid good news, I hope. I'm not goin' in sickness an' misery, as I wint afore, to see aman that wouldn't hear my appale to him; an' I'm lavin' you comfortable, agrah, an' wantin' for nothin'. Sure it's only about five-an'-twentymiles from this--a mere step. The good God bless an' take care of you, my darlin' wife, till I come home to you!"

He kissed the tears that streamed from her eyes; and, hemming severaltimes, pressed her hand, his face rather averted, then grasped hisstaff, and commenced his journey. 

Scenes like this were important events to our humble couple. Life, whenuntainted by the crimes and artificial manners which destroy its purity, is a beautiful thing to contemplate among the virtuous poor; and, wherethe current of affection runs deep and smooth, the slightest incidentwill agitate it. So it was with Owen M'Carthy and his wife. Simplicity, truth, and affection, constituted their character. In them there was nocomplication of incongruous elements. The order of their virtues was notbroken, nor the purity of their affections violated, by the anomalousblending together of opposing principles, such as are to be found inthose who are involuntarily contaminated by the corruption of humansociety. 

Owen had not gone far, when Kathleen called to him: "Owen, ahagur--stand, darlin'; but don't come back a step, for fraid o' badluck. "*

 * When an Irish peasant sets out on a journey, or to transact business in fair or market, he will not, if possible, turn back. It is considered unlucky: as it is also to be crossed by a hare, or met by a red-haired woman. 

"Did I forget anything, Kathleen?" he inquired. "Let me see; no; sureI have my beads an' my tobaccy box, an' my two clane shirts an'handkerchers in the bundle. What is it, acushla?"

"I needn't be axin' you, for I know you wouldn't forget it; but for'fraid you might--Owen, whin you're at Tubber Derg, go to little Alley'sgrave, an' look at it; an' bring me back word how it appears. You mightget it cleaned up, if there's weeds or anything growin' upon it; an'Owen, would you bring me a bit o' the clay, tied up in your pocket. Whinyou're there, spake to her; tell her it was the lovin' mother that bidyou, an' say anything that you think might keep her asy, an' give herpleasure. Tell her we're not now as we wor whin she was wid us; that wedon't feel hunger, nor cowld, nor want; an' that nothin' is a throubleto us, barrin' that we miss her--ay, even yet--_a suillish machree_ (*light of my heart), that she was--that we miss her fair face an' gooldenhair from among us. Tell her this; an' tell her it was the lovin' motherthat said it, an' that sint the message to her. "

"I'll do it all, Kathleen; I'll do it all--all, An' now go in, darlin', an' don't be frettin'. Maybe we'll soon be near her, plase God, where wecan see the place she sleeps in, often. "

They then separated again; and Owen, considerably affected by thematernal tenderness of his wife, proceeded on his journey. He had not, actually, even at the period of his leaving home, been able to determineon what particular friend he should first call. That his welcome wouldbe hospitable, nay, enthusiastically so, he was certain. In the meantimehe vigorously pursued his journey; and partook neither of refreshmentnor rest, until he arrived, a little after dusk, at a turn of thewell-known road, which, had it been daylight, would have opened to him aview of Tubber Derg. He looked towards the beeches, however, under whichit stood; but to gain a sight of it was impossible. His road now lyinga little to the right, he turned to the house of his sterling friend, Frank Farrell, who had given him and his family shelter and support, when he was driven, without remorse, from his own holding. In ashort time he reached Frank's residence, and felt a glow of sinceresatisfaction at finding the same air of comfort and warmth about itas formerly. Through the kitchen window he saw the strong light of theblazing fire and heard, ere he presented himself, the loud hearty laughof his friend's wife, precisely as light and animated as it had beenfifteen years before. 

Owen lifted the latch and entered, with that fluttering of the pulsewhich every man feels on meeting with a friend, after an interval ofmany years. 

"Musha, good people, can ye tell me is Frank Farrell at home?"

"Why, thin, he's not jist widin now, but he'll be here in no timeentirely, " replied one of his daughters. "Won't you sit down, honestman, an' we'll sind for him. "

"I'm thankful to you, " said Owen. "I'll sit, sure enough, till he comesin. "

"Why thin!--eh! it must--it can be no other!" exclaimed Farrell's wife, bringing! over a candle and looking Owen earnestly in the face; "sureI'd know that voice all the world over! Why, thin, marcifulFather--Owen M'Carthy, --Owen M'Carthy, is it your four quarthers that'slivin' an' well? Queen o' heaven, Owen M'Carthy darlin', you'rewelcome!" the word was here interrupted by a hearty kiss from the kindhousewife;--welcome a thousand an' a thousand times! _Vick ne hoiah!_Owen dear, an' are you livin' at all? An' Kathleen, Owen, an' thechildhre, an' all of yez--an' how are they?"

"Throth, we're livin' an' well, Bridget; never was betther, thanks be toGod an' you, in our lives. "

Owen was now surrounded by such of Farrell's children as were old enoughto remember him; every one of whom he shook hands with, and kissed. 

"Why, thin, the Lord save my sowl, Bridget, " said he, "are these thelittle bouchaleens an' colleens that were runnin' about my feet whinI was here afore? Well, to be sure! How they do shoot up! An' is thisAtty?"

"No: but this is Atty, Owen; faix, Brian outgrew him; an' here's Mary, an' this is Bridget Oge. "

"Well!--well! But where did these two; young shoots come from? this boyan' the colleen here? They worn't to the fore, in my time, Bridget. "

"This is Owen, called afther yourself, --an' this is Kathleen. I needn'ttell you who she was called afther. "

"_Gutsho, alanna? thurm pogue?_--come here, child, and kiss me, " saidOwen to his little namesake; "an' sure I can't forget the little womanhere; _gutsho, a colleen_, and kiss: me too. "

Owen took her on his knee, and kissed her twice. 

"Och, but poor Kathleen, " said he, "will be the proud woman of this, when she hears it; in throth she will be that. "

"Arrah! what's comin' over me!" said Mrs. Farrell. "Brian, run up toMicky Lowrie's for your father, An' see, Brian, don't say who's wantin'him, till we give him a start. Mary, come here, acushla, " she added toher eldest daughter in a whisper--"take these two bottles an' fly upto Peggy Finigan's for the full o' them o' whiskey. Now be back beforeyou're there, or if you don't, that I mightn't, but you'll see whatyou'll get. Fly, aroon, an' don't let the grass grow undher your feet. An' Owen, darlin'--but first sit over to the fire:--here get over tothis side, it's the snuggest;--arrah, Owen--an' sure I dunna what to axyou first. You're all well? all to the fore?"

"All well, Bridget, an' thanks be to heaven, all to the fore. "

"Glory be to God! Throth it warms my heart to hear it. An' the childre'sall up finely, boys an' girls?"

"Throth, they are, Bridget, as good-lookin' a family o' childre asyou'd wish to see. An' what is betther, they're as good as they'regood-lookin'. "

"Throth, they couldn't but be that, if they tuck at all afther theirfather an' mother. Bridget, aroon, rub the pan betther--an' lay theknife down, I'll cut the bacon myself, but go an' get a dozen o' thefreshest eggs;--an' Kathleen, Owen, how does poor Kathleen look? Doesshe stand it as well as yourself?"

"As young as ever you seen her. God help her!--a thousand degreesbetther nor whin you seen her last. "

"An' well to do, Owen?--now tell the truth? Och, musha, I forget who I'mspakin' to, or I wouldn't disremimber the ould sayin' that's abroad thismany a year:--'who ever knew a M'Carthy of Tubber Derg to tell a lie, break his word, or refuse to help a friend in distress. ' But, Owen, you're well to do in' the world?"

"We're as well, Bridget, or may be betther, nor you ever knew us, except, indeed, afore the ould lase was run out wid us. "

"God be praised again? Musha, turn round a little, Owen, for 'fraidFrank 'ud get too clear a sight of your face at first. Arrah, do youthink he'll know you? Och, to be sure he will; I needn't ax. Your voicewould tell upon you, any day. "

"Know me! Indeed Frank 'ud know my shadow. He'll know me wid half alook. "

And Owen was right, for quickly did the eye of his old friend recognizehim, despite of the little plot that was laid to try his penetration. To describe their interview would be to repeat the scene we have alreadyattempted to depict between Owen and Mrs. Farrell. No sooner were therites of hospitality performed, than the tide of conversation began toflow with greater freedom. Owen ascertained one important fact, which wewill here mention, because it produces, in a great degree, the wantof anything like an independent class of yeomanry in the country. Oninquiring after his old acquaintances, he discovered that a great manyof them, owing to high rents, had emigrated to America. They belongedto that class of independent farmers, who, after the expiration oftheir old leases, finding the little capital they had saved beginningto diminish, in consequence of rents which they could not pay, deemed itmore prudent, while anything remained in their hands, to seek a countrywhere capital and industry might be made available. Thus did thelandlords, by their mismanagement and neglect, absolutely drive offtheir estates, the only men, who, if properly encouraged, were capableof becoming the strength and pride of the country. It is this system, joined to the curse of middlemen and sub-letting, which has left thecountry without any third grade of decent, substantial yoemen, who mightstand as a bond of peace between the highest and the lowest classes. Itis this which has split the kingdom into two divisions, constitutingthe extreme ends of society--the wealthy and the wretched, If this thirdclass existed, Ireland would neither be so political nor discontented asshe is; but, on the contrary, more remarkable for peace and industry. Atpresent, the lower classes, being too poor, are easily excited by thosewho promise them a better order of things than that which exists. Thesetheorists step into the exercise of that legitimate influence which thelanded proprietors have lost by their neglect. There is no middle classin the country, who can turn round to them and say, "Our circumstancesare easy, we want nothing; carry your promises to the poor, for thatwhich you hold forth to their hopes, we enjoy in reality. " The poorsoldier, who, because he was wretched, volunteered to go on theforlorn hope, made a fortune; but when asked if he would go on a secondenterprise of a similar kind, shrewdly replied, "General, I am now anindependent man; send some poor devil on your forlorn hope who wants tomake a fortune. "

Owen now heard anecdotes and narratives of all occurrences, whetherinteresting or strange, that had taken place during his abscence. Amongothers, was the death of his former landlord, and the removal of theagent who had driven him to beggary. Tubber Derg, he found, was then theproperty of a humane and considerate man, who employed a judicious andbenevolent gentleman to manage it. 

"One thing, I can tell you, " said Frank; "it was but a short time in thenew agent's hands, when the dacent farmers stopped goin' to America. "

"But Frank, " said Owen, and he sighed on putting the question, "who isin Tubber Derg, now?"

"Why, thin, a son of ould Rousin' Redhead's of Tullyvernon--young ConRoe, or the Ace o' Hearts--for he was called both by the youngsters--ifyou remimber him. His head's as red an' double as big, even, as hisfather's was, an' you know that no hat would fit ould Con, until he senthis measure to Jemmy Lamb, the hatter. Dick Nugent put it out onhim, that Jemmy always made Rousin' Red-head's hat, either upon thehalf-bushel pot or a five-gallon keg of whiskey. 'Talkin' of the keg, 'says Dick, 'for the matther o' that, ' says he, 'divil a much differ thehat will persave; for the one'--meanin' ould Con's head, who was a harddhrinker--' the one, ' says Con, 'is as much a keg as the other--ha! ha!ha!' Dick met Rousin' Redhead another day: 'Arrah, Con, ' says he, 'whydo you get your hats made upon a pot, man alive? Sure that's the rasonthat you're so fond o' poteen. ' A quare mad crathur was Dick, an' wouldgo forty miles for a fight. Poor fellow, he got his skull broke in ascrimmage betwixt the Redmonds and the O'Hanlons; an' his last wordswere, 'Bad luck to you, Redmond--O'Hanlon, I never thought you, aboveall men dead and gone, would be the death o' me. ' Poor fellow! he wasfor pacifyin' them, for a wondher, but instead o' that he got pacifiedhimself. "

"An' how is young Con doin', Frank?"

"Hut, divil a much time he has to do aither well or ill, yit. There wasfour tenants on Tubber Derg since you left it, an' he's the fifth. It'shard to say how he'll do; but I believe he's the best o' thim, for sofar. That may be owin' to the landlord. The rent's let down to him; an'I think he'll be able to take bread, an' good bread too, out of it. "

"God send, poor man!"

"Now, Owen, would you like to go back to it?"

"I can't say that. I love the place, but I suffered too much in it. No;but I'll tell you, Frank, if there was e'er a snug farm near it that Icould get rasonable, I'd take it. "

Frank slapped his knee exultingly. "Ma chuirp!--do you say so, Owen?"

"Indeed, I do. "

"Thin upon my song, thats the luckiest thing I ever knew. There's, thisblessed minute, a farm o' sixteen acres, that the Lacys is lavin'--goin'to America--an' it's to be set. They'll go the week afther next, an'the house needn't be cowld, for you can come to it the very day aftherthey Live it. "

"Well, " said Owen, "I'm glad of that. Will you come wid me to-morrow, an' we'll see about it?"

"To be sure I will; an' what's betther, too; the Agint is a son of ouldMisther Rogerson's, a man that knows you, an' the history o' them youcame from, well. An', another thing, Owen! I tell you, whin it's abroadthat you want to take the farm, there's not a man in the parish will bidagin you. You may know that yourself. "

"I think, indeed, they would rather sarve me than otherwise, " repliedOwen; "an', in the name o' God, we'll see what can be done. MistherRogerson, himself, 'ud spake to his son for me; so that I'll be sure ofhis intherest. Arrah, Frank, how is an ould friend o' mine, that I havea great regard for--poor Widow Murray?"

"Widow Murray. Poor woman, she's happy. "

"You don't mane she's dead?"

"She's dead, Owen, and happy, I trust, in the Saviour. She died lastspring was a two years. "

"God be good to her sowl! An' are the childhre in her place still? It'sshe that was the dacent woman. "

"Throth, they are; an' sorrow a betther doin' family in the parish thanthey are. It's they that'll be glad to see you, Owen. Many a time I seentheir poor mother, heavens be her bed, lettin' down the tears, whinshe used to be spakin' of you, or mintion how often you sarved her;espeshially, about some way or other that you privinted her cows frombein' canted for the rint. She's dead now, an' God he knows, an honesthard-workin' woman she ever was. "

"Dear me, Frank, isn't it a wondher to think how the people dhrop off!There's Widow Murray, one o' my ouldest frinds, an' Pether M'Mahon, an'Barny Lorinan--not to forget pleasant Rousin' Red-head--all taken away!Well!--Well! Sure it's the will o' God! We can't be here always. "

After much conversation; enlivened by the bottle, though but sparinglyused on the part of Owen, the hour of rest arrived, when the familyseparated for the night. 

The gray dawn of a calm, beautiful summer's morning found Owen up andabroad, long before the family of honest Frank had risen. When dressinghimself, with an intention of taking an early walk, he was asked by hisfriend why he stirred so soon, or if he--his host--should accompany him. "No, " replied Owen; "lie still; jist let me look over the counthry whileit's asleep. When I'm musin' this a-way I don't like anybody to be alongwid me. I have a place to go an' see, too--an' a message--a tendhermessage, from poor Kathleen, to deliver, that I wouldn't wish a secondperson to hear. Sleep, Frank. I'll jist crush the head o' my pipe agin'one o' the half-burned turf that the fire was raked wid, an' walk outfor an hour or two. Afther our breakfast we'll go-an' look about thisnew farm. "

He sallied out as he spoke, and closed the door after him in thatquiet, thoughtful way for which he was ever remarkable. The season wasmidsummer, and the morning wanted at least an hour of sunrise. Owenascended a little knoll, above Frank's house, on which he stoodand surveyed the surrounding country with a pleasing but melancholyinterest. As his eye rested on Tubber Derg, he felt the differencestrongly between the imperishable glories of nature's works, and thosewhich are executed by man. His house he would not have known, exceptby its site. It was not, in fact, the same house, but another which hadbeen built in its stead. This disappointed and vexed him. An object onwhich his affections had been placed was removed. A rude stone housestood before him, rough and unplastered; against each end of which wasbuilt a stable-and a cow-house, sloping down from the gables to lowdoors at booh sides; adjoining these rose two mounds of filth, largeenough to be easily distinguished from the knoll on which he stood. Hesighed as he contrasted it with the neat and beautiful farm-house, whichshone there in his happy days, white as a lily, beneath the coveringof the lofty beeches. There was no air of comfort, neatness, orindependence, about it; on the contrary, everything betrayed theevidence of struggle and difficulty, joined, probably, to want both ofskill and of capital. He was disappointed, and turned his gaze upon thegeneral aspect of the country, and the houses in which either his oldacquaintances or their children lived. The features of the landscapewere, certainly, the same; but even here was a change for the worse. Thewarmth of coloring which wealth and independence give to the appearanceof a cultivated country, was gone. Decay and coldness seemed to broodupon everything, he saw. The houses, the farm-yards, the ditches, andenclosures, were all marked by the blasting proofs of national decline. Some exceptions there were to this disheartening prospect, but they wereonly sufficient to render the torn and ragged evidences of poverty, and its attendant--carelessness--more conspicuous. He left the knoll, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and putting it into his waistcoatpocket, ascended a larger hill, which led to the grave-yard, where hischild lay buried. On his way to this hill, which stood about half a miledistant, he passed a few houses of an humble description, with whoseinhabitants he had been well acquainted. Some of these stood nearly ashe remembered them; but others were roofless, with their dark mudgables either fallen in or partially broken down. He surveyed theirsmoke-colored walls with sorrow; and looked, with a sense of thetransient character of all man's works upon the chickweed, docks, andnettles, which had shot up so rankly on the spot where many a chequeredscene of joy and sorrow had flitted over the circumscribed circle ofhumble life, ere the annihilating wing of ruin swept away them and theirhabitations. 

When he had ascended the hill, his eye took a wider range. The moredistant and picturesque part of the country lay before him. "Ay!" saidhe in a soliloquy, "Lord bless us, how sthrange is this world!--an'what poor crathurs are men! There's the dark mountains, the hills, therivers, an' the green glens, all the same; an' nothin' else a'most but'schanged! The very song of that blackbird, in the thorn-bushes an' hazelsbelow me, is like the voice of an ould friend to my ears. Och, indeed, hardly that, for even the voice of man changes; but that song is thesame as I heard it for the best part o' my life. That mornin' star, too, is the same bright crathur up there that it ever was! God helpus! Hardly any thing changes but man, an' he seems to think that hecan never change; if one is to judge by his thoughtlessness, folly, an'wickedness!"

A smaller hill, around the base of which went the same imperfect roadthat crossed the glen of Tubber Derg, prevented him from seeing thegrave-yard to which he was about to extend his walk. To this road hedirected his steps. On reaching it he looked, still with a strong memoryof former times, to the glen in which his children, himself, and hisancestors had all, during their day, played in the happy thoughtlessnessof childhood and youth. But the dark and ragged house jarred upon hisfeelings. He turned from it with pain, and his eye rested upon thestill green valley with evident relief. He thought of his "buriedflower"--"his-golden-haired darlin', " as he used to call her--andalmost fancied that he saw her once more wandering waywardly through itstangled mazes, gathering berries, or strolling along the green meadow, with a garland of gowans about her neck. Imagination, indeed, cannotheighten the image of the dead whom we love; but even if it could, therewas no standard of ideal beauty in her father's mind beyond that ofher own. She had been beautiful; but her beauty was pensive: a fair yetmelancholy child; for the charm that ever encompassed her was one ofsorrow and tenderness. Had she been volatile and mirthful, as childrenusually are, he would not have carried so far into his future life thelove of her which he cherished. Another reason why he still loved herstrongly, was a consciousness that her death had been occasioned bydistress and misery; for, as he said, when looking upon the scenes ofher brief but melancholy existence--"Avour-neen machree, I remimber tosee you pickin' the berries; but asthore--asthore--it wasn't for playyou did it. It was to keep away the cuttin' of hunger from your heart!Of all our childhre every one said that you wor the M'Carthy--neversayin' much, but the heart in you ever full of goodness and affection. God help me, I'm glad--an', now, that I'm comin' near it--loth to seeher grave. "

He had now reached the verge of the graveyard. Its fine old ruin stoodthere as usual, but not altogether without the symptoms of change. Somepersons had, for the purposes of building, thrown down one of itsmost picturesque walls. Still its ruins clothed with ivy, its mullionsmoss-covered, its gothic arches and tracery, gray with age, were thesame in appearance as he had ever seen them. 

On entering this silent palace of Death, he reverently uncovered hishead, blessed himself, and, with feelings deeply agitated, sought thegrave of his beloved child. He approached it; but a sudden transitionfrom sorrow to indignation took place in his mind, even before hereached the spot on which she lay. "Sacred Mother!" he exclaimed, "whohas dared to bury in our ground? Who has--what villain has attimpted tocome in upon the M'Carthys--upon the M'Carthy Mores, of Tubber Derg? Whocould--had I no friend to prev--eh? Sacred Mother, what's this? Fatherof heaven forgive me! Forgive me, sweet Saviour, for this bad feelin'I got into! Who--who--could raise a head-stone over the darlin' o' myheart, widout one of us knowin' it! Who--who could do it? But let me seeif I can make it out. Oh, who could do this blessed thing, for the pooran' the sorrowful?" He began, and with difficulty read as follows:--

"Here lies the body of Alice M'Carthy, the beloved daughter of Owen andKathleen M'Carthy, aged nine years. She was descended from the M'CarthyMores. 

"Requiescat in pace. 

"This head-stone was raised over her by widow Murray, and her son, JamesMurray, out of grateful respect for Owen and Kathleen M'Carthy, whonever suffered the widow and orphan, or a distressed neighbor, to craveassistance from them in vain, until it pleased God to visit them withaffliction. "

"Thanks to you, my Saviour!" said Owen, dropping on his knees over thegrave, --"thanks an' praise be to your holy name, that in the middle ofmy poverty--of all my poverty--I was not forgotten! nor my darlin' childlet to lie widout honor in the grave of her family! Make me worthy, blessed Heaven, of what is written down upon me here! An' if thedeparted spirit of her that honored the dust of my buried daughter isunhappy, oh, let her be relieved, an' let this act be remimbered to her!Bless her son, too, gracious Father, an' all belonging to her on thisearth! an', if it be your holy will, let them never know distress, orpoverty, or wickedness?"

He then offered up a Pater Noster for the repose of his child's soul, and another for the kind-hearted and grateful widow Murray, after whichhe stood to examine the grave with greater accuracy. 

There was, in fact, no grave visible. The little mound, under which laywhat was once such a touching image of innocence, beauty, and feeling, had sunk down to the level of the earth about it. He regretted this, inasmuch as it took away, he thought, part of her individuality. Stillhe knew it was the spot wherein she had been buried, and with much ofthat vivid feeling, and strong figurative language, inseparable from thehabits of thought and language of the old Irish families, he deliveredthe mother's message to the inanimate dust of her once beautiful andheart-loved child. He spoke in a broken voice, for even the mention ofher name aloud, over the clay that contained her, struck with a freshburst of sorrow upon his heart. 

"Alley, " he exclaimed in Irish, "Alley, _nhien machree_, your fatherthat loved you more nor he loved any other human crathur, brings amessage to you from the mother of your heart, avourneen! She bid me callto see the spot where you're lyin', my buried flower, an' to tell youthat we're not now, thanks be to God, as we wor whin you lived wid us. We are well to do now, _acushla oge machree_, an' not in hunger, an'sickness, an' misery, as we wor whin you suffered them all! You willlove to hear this, pulse of our hearts, an' to know that, through all wesuffered--an' bittherly we did suffer since you departed--we never letyou out of our memory. No, _asthore villish_, we thought of you, an'cried afther our poor dead flower, many an' many's the time. An' she bidme tell you, darlin' of my heart, that we feel: nothin' now so much asthat you are not wid us to share our comfort an' our happiness. Oh, whatwouldn't the mother give to have you back wid her; but it can't be--an'what wouldn't I give to have you before my eyes agin, in health an'in life--but it can't be. The lovin' mother sent this message to you, Alley. Take it from her; she bid me tell you that we are well an' happy;our name is pure, and, like yourself, widout spot or stain. Won't youpray for us before God, an' get him an' his blessed Mother to look onus wid favor an' compassion? Farewell, Alley asthore! May you slelp inpeace, an' rest on the breast of your great Father in Heaven, until weall meet in happiness together. It's your father that's spakin' to you, our lost flower; an' the hand that often smoothed your goolden head isnow upon your grave. "

He wiped his eyes as he concluded, and after lifting a little of theclay from her grave, he tied it carefully up, and put it into hispocket. 

Having left the grave-yard, he retraced his steps towards FrankFarrell's house. The sun had now risen, and as Owen ascended the largerof the two hills which we have mentioned, he stood again to view thescene that stretched beneath him. About an hour before all was still, the whole country lay motionless, as if the land had been a land of thedead. The mountains, in the distance, were covered with the thin mistsof morning; the milder and richer parts of the landscape had appeared inthat dim gray distinctness which gives to distant objects such a clearoutline. With the exception of the blackbird's song, every thing seemedas if stricken into silence; there was not a breeze stirring; bothanimate and inanimate nature reposed as if in a trance; the very treesappeared asleep, and their leaves motionless, as if they had been ofmarble. But now the scene was changed. The sun had flung his splendorupon the mountain-tops, from which the mists were tumbling in brokenfragments to the valleys between them. A thousand birds poured theirsongs upon the ear; the breeze was up, and the columns of smoke from thefarm-houses and cottages played, as if in frolic, in the air. A whitehaze was beginning to rise from the meadows; early teams were afoot;and laborers going abroad to their employment. The lakes in thedistance shone like mirrors; and the clear springs on the mountain-sidesglittered in the sun, like gems on which the eye could scarcely rest. Life, and light, and motion, appear to be inseparable. The dew ofmorning lay upon nature like a brilliant veil, realizing the beautifulimage of Horace, as applied to woman:

 Vultus nimium lubricus aspici. 

By-and-by the songs of the early workmen were heard; nature had awoke, and Owen, whose heart was strongly, though unconsciously, alive to theinfluence of natural religion, participated in the general elevationof the hour, and sought with freshened spirits the house of hisentertainer. 

As he entered this hospitable roof, the early industry of his friend'swife presented him with a well-swept hearth and a pleasant fire, beforewhich had been placed the identical chair that they had appropriatedto his own use. Frank was enjoying "a blast o' the pipe, " after havingrisen; to which luxury the return of Owen gave additional zest andplacidity. In fact, Owen's presence communicated a holiday spirit to thefamily; a spirit, too, which declined not for a moment during the periodof his visit. 

"Frank, " said Owen, "to tell you the thruth, I'm not half plased wid youthis mornin'. I think you didn't thrate me as I ought to expect to bethrated. "

"Musha, Owen M'Carthy, how is that?"

"Why, you said nothin' about widow Murray raisin' a head-stone over ourchild. You kept me in the dark there, Frank, an' sich a start I nevergot as I did this mornin', in the grave-yard beyant. "

"Upon my sowl, Owen, it wasn't my fau't, nor any of our fau'ts; for, to tell you the thruth, we had so much to think and discoorse of lastnight, that it never sthruck me, good or bad. Indeed it was Bridget thatput it first in my head, afther you wint out, an' thin it was too late. Ay, poor woman, the dacent strain was ever in her, the heaven's be herbed. "

"Frank, if any one of her family was to abuse me till the dogs wouldn'tlick my blood, I'd only give them back good for evil afther that. Oh, Frank, that goes to my heart! To put a head-stone over my weenygoolden-haired darlin', for the sake of the little thrifles I sarvedthim in! Well! may none belongin' to her ever know poverty or hardship!but if they do, an' that I have it----How-an'-iver, no matther. Godbless thim! God bless thim! Wait till Kathleen hears it!"

"An' the best of it was, Owen, that she never expected to see one ofyour faces. But, Owen, you think too much about that child. Let us talkabout something else. You've seen Tubber Derg wanst more?"

"I did; an' I love it still, in spite of the state it's in. "

"Ah! it's different from what it was in your happy days. I was spakin'to Bridget about the farm, an' she advises us to go, widout losin' aminute, an' take it if we can. "

"It's near this place I'll die, Frank. I'd not rest in my grave if Iwasn't berrid among my own; so we'll take the farm if possible. "

"Well, then, Bridget, hurry the breakfast, avourneen; an' in the name o'goodness, we'll set out, an' clinch the business this very day. "

Owen, as we said, was prompt in following up his determinations. Afterbreakfast they saw the agent and his father, for both lived together. Old Rogerson had been intimately acquainted with the M'Carthys, and, asFrank had anticipated, used his influence with the agent in procuringfor the son of his old friend and acquaintance the farm which he sought. 

"Jack, " said the old gentleman, "you don't probably know the historyand character of the Tubber Derg M'Carthys so well as I do. No man everrequired the written bond of a M'Carthy; and it was said of them, andis said still, that the widow and orphan, the poor man or the stranger, never sought their assistance in vain. I, myself, will go security, ifnecessary, for Owen M'Carthy. "

"Sir, " replied Owen, "I'm thankful to you; I'm grateful to you. ButI wouldn't take the farm, or bid for it at all, unless I could bringforrid enough to stock it as I wish, an' to lay in all that's wantin' towork it well. It 'ud be useless for me to take it--to struggle a yearor two--impoverish the land--an' thin run away out of it. No, no; I havewhat'll put me upon it wid dacency an' comfort. "

"Then, since my father has taken such an interest in you, M'Carthy, you must have the farm. We shall get leases prepared, and the businesscompleted in a few days; for I go to Dublin on this day week. Father, I now remember the character of this family; and I remember, too, thesympathy which was felt for one of them, who was harshly ejectedabout seventeen or eighteen years ago, out of the lands on which hisforefathers had lived, I understand, for centuries. "

"I am that man, sir, " returned Owen. "It's too long a story to tell now;but it was only out o' part of the lands, sir, that I was put. WhatI held was but a poor patch compared to what the family held in mygrandfather's time. A great part of it went out of our hands at hisdeath. "

"It was very kind of you, Misther Rogerson, to offer to go security forhim, " said Frank; "but if security was wantin, sir, Id not be willin' tolet anybody but myself back him. I'd go all I'm worth in the world--an'by my sowl, double as much--for the same man. "

"I know that, Frank, an' I thank you; but I could put security in Mr. Rogerson's hands, here, if it was wanted. Good-mornin' an' thank youboth, gintleman. To tell yez the thruth, " he added, with a smile, "Ilong to be among my ould friends--manin' the people, an' the hills, an'the green fields of Tubber Derg--agin; an' thanks be to goodness, sure Iwill soon. "

In fact, wherever Owen went, within the bounds of his native parish, his name, to use a significant phrase of the people, was before him. His arrival at Frank Farrel's was now generally known by all hisacquaintances, and the numbers who came to see him were almost beyondbelief. During the two or three successive days, he went among hisold "cronies;" and no sooner was his arrival at any particular houseintimated, than the neighbors all flocked to him. Scythes were leftidle, spades were stuck in the earth, and work neglected for the timebeing; all crowded about him with a warm and friendly interest, notproceeding from idle curiosity, but from affection and respect for theman. 

The interview between him and widow Murray's children was affecting. Owen felt deeply the delicate and touching manner in which they hadevinced their gratitude for the services he had rendered them; and youngMurray remembered with a strong gush of feeling, the distresses underwhich they lay when Owen had assisted them. Their circumstances, owingto the strenuous exertions of the widow's eldest son, soon afterwardsimproved; and, in accordance with the sentiments of hearts naturallygrateful, they had taken that method of testifying what they felt. Indeed, so well had Owen's unparalleled affection for his favorite childbeen known, that it was the general opinion about Tubber Derg that herdeath had broken his heart. 

"Poor Owen, he's dead, " they used to say; "the death of his weeny one, while he was away in Dublin, gave him the finishin' blow. It broke hisheart. "

Before the week was expired, Owen had the satisfaction of depositing thelease of his new farm, held at a moderate rent, in the hands of FrankFarrel; who, tying it up along with his own, secured it in the"black chest. " Nothing remained now but to return home forthwith, andcommunicate the intelligence to Kathleen. Frank had promised, as soon asthe Lacy's should vacate the house, to come with a long train of cars, and a number of his neighbors, in order to transfer Owen's family andfurniture to his new dwelling. Everything therefore, had been arranged;and Owen had nothing to do but hold himself in readiness for the welcomearrival of Frank and his friends. 

Owen, however, had no sense of enjoyment when not participated in by hisbeloved Kathleen. If he felt sorrow, it was less as a personal feelingthan as a calamity to her. 

If he experienced happiness, it was doubly sweet to him as reflectedfrom his' Kathleen. All this was mutual between them. Kathleen lovedOwen precisely as he loved Kathleen. Nor let our readers suppose thatsuch characters are not in humble life. It is in humble life, wherethe Springs of feeling are not corrupted by dissimulation and evilknowledge, that the purest, and tenderest, and strongest virtues are tobe found. 

As Owen approached his home, he could not avoid contrasting thecircumstances of his return now with those under which, almostbroken-hearted after his journey to Dublin, he presented himself to hissorrowing and bereaved wife about eighteen years before. He raisedhis hat, and thanked God for the success which had, since that period, attended him, and, immediately after his silent thanksgiving, enteredthe house. 

His welcome, our readers may be assured, was tender and affectionate. The whole family gathered about him, and, on his informing them thatthey were once more about to reside on a farm adjoining to their belovedTubber Derg, Kathleen's countenance brightened, and the tear of delightgushed to her eyes. 

"God be praised, Owen, " she exclaimed; "we will have the ould placeafore our eyes, an' what is betther, we will be near where Alley islyin'. But that's true, Owen, " she added, "did you give the light of ourhearts the mother's message?"

Owen paused, and his features were slightly overshadowed, but only bythe solemnity of the feeling. 

"Kathleen, " said he, "I gave her your message; but, avourneen, havesthrange news for you about Alley. "

"What, Owen? What is it, acushla? Tell me quick?"

"The blessed child was not neglected--no, but she was honored in ourabsence. A head-stone was put over her, an' stands there purtily thisminute. "

"Mother of Glory, Owen!"

"It's thruth. Widow Murray an' her son Jemmy put it up, wid words uponit that brought the tears to my eyes. Widow Murray is dead, but herchildher's doin' well. May God bless an' prosper them, an' make herhappy!"

The delighted mother's heart was not proof against the widow'sgratitude, expressed, as it had been, in a manner so affecting. Sherocked herself to and fro in silence, whilst the tears fell in showersdown her cheeks. The grief, however, which this affectionate couple feltfor their child, was not always such as the reader has perceived it tobe. It was rather a revival of emotions that had long slumbered, butnever died; and the associations arising from the journey to TubberDerg, had thrown them back, by the force of memory, almost to the periodof her death. At times, indeed, their imagination had conjured her upstrongly, but the present was an epoch in the history of their sorrow. 

There is little more to be said. Sorrow was soon succeeded bycheerfulness and the glow of expected pleasure, which is ever themore delightful, as the pleasure is pure. In about a week their oldneighbors, with their carts and cars, arrived; and before the day wasclosed on which Owen removed to his new residence, he found himself oncemore sitting at his own hearth, among the friends of his youth, and thecompanions of his maturer years. Ere the twelvemonth elapsed, he had hishouse perfectly white, and as nearly resembling that of Tubber Derg inits better days as possible. About two years ago we saw him one eveningin the month of June, as he sat on a bench beside the door, singing witha happy heart his favorite song of "_Colleen dhas crootha na mo_. " Itwas about an hour before sunset. The house stood on a gentle eminence, beneath which a sweep of green meadow stretched away to the skirts ofTubber Derg. Around him was a country naturally fertile, and, in spiteof the national depression, still beautiful to contemplate. Kathleenand two servant maids were milking, and the whole family were assembledabout the door. 

"Well, childher, " said the father, "didn't I tell yez the bitthermornin' we left Tubber Derg, not to cry or be disheartened--that therewas a 'good God above who might do somethin' for us yet?' I never didgive up may trust in Him, an' I never will. You see, afther all ourlittle troubles, He has wanst more brought us together, an' made ushappy. Praise an' glory to His name!"

I looked at him as he spoke. He had raised his eyes to heaven, and agleam of elevated devotion, perhaps worthy of being-called sublime, irradiated his features. The sun, too, in setting, fell upon his broadtemples and iron-gray locks, with a light solemn and religious. The effect to me, who knew his noble character, and all that he hadsuffered, was as if the eye of God then rested upon the decline of avirtuous man's life with approbation;--as if he had lifted up theglory of his countenance upon him. Would that many of his thoughtlesscountrymen had been present! They might have blushed for their crimes, and been content to sit and learn wisdom at the feet of Owen M'Carthy. 

NEAL MALONE. 

There never was a greater souled or doughtier tailor than little NealMalone. Though but four feet; four in height, he paced the earth withthe courage and confidence of a giant; nay, one would have imagined thathe walked as if he feared the world itself was about to give way underhim. Lot none dare to say in future that a tailor is but the ninthpart of a man. That reproach has been gloriously taken away from thecharacter of the cross-legged corporation by Neal Malone. He has wipedit off like a stain from the collar of a second-hand coat; he haspressed this wrinkle out of the lying front of antiquity; he has drawntogether this rent in the respectability of his profession. No. By himwho was breeches-maker to the gods--that is, except, like Highlanders, they eschewed inexpressibles--by him who cut Jupiter's frieze jocks forwinter, and eke by the bottom of his thimble, we swear, that Neal Malonewas more than the ninth part of a man!

Setting aside the Patagonians, we maintain that two-thirds of mortalhumanity were comprised in Neal; and, perhaps, we might venture toassert, that two-thirds of Neal's humanity were equal to six-thirds ofanother man's. It is right well known that Alexander the Great was alittle man, and we doubt whether, had Alexander the Great been bred tothe tailoring business, he would have exhibited so much of the heroas Neal Malone. Neal was descended from a fighting family, who hadsignalized themselves in as many battles as ever any single heroof antiquity fought. His father, his grandfather, and his greatgrandfather, were all fighting men, and his ancestors in general, up, probably, to Con of the Hundred Battles himself. No wonder, therefore, that Neal's blood should cry out against the cowardice of his calling;no wonder that he should be an epitome of all that was valorous andheroic in a peaceable man, for we neglected to inform the reader thatNeal, though "bearing no base mind, " never fought any man in his ownperson. That, however, deducted nothing from his courage. If he did notfight, it was simply because he found cowardice universal. No man wouldengage him; his spirit blazed in vain; his thirst for battle was doomedto remain unquenched, except by whiskey, and this only increased it. Inshort, he could find no foe. He has often been known to challenge thefirst cudgel-players and pugilists of the parish; to provoke men offourteen stone weight; and to bid mortal defiance to faction heroes ofall grades--but in vain. There was that in him which told them that anencounter with Neal would strip them of their laurels. Neal saw all thiswith a lofty indignation; he deplored the degeneracy of the times, andthought it hard that the descendant of such a fighting family should bedoomed to pass through life peaceably, while so many excellent rows andriots took place around him. It was a calamity to see every man's headbroken but his own; a dismal thing to observe his neighbors go aboutwith their bones in bandages, yet his untouched; and his friends beatblack and blue, whilst his own cuticle remained undiscolored. 

"Blur-an'-agers!" exclaimed Neal one day, when half-tipsy in the fair, "am I never to get a bit of fightin'? Is there no cowardly spalpeen tostand afore Neal Malone? Be this an' be that, I'm blue-mowlded for wantof a batin'! I'm disgracin' my relations by the life I'm ladin'! Willnone o' ye fight me aither for love, money, or whiskey--frind or inimy, an' bad luck to ye? I don't care a traneen which, only out o' purefrindship, let us have a morsel o' the rale kick-up, 'tany rate. Frindor inimy, I say agin, if you regard me; sure that makes no differ, onlylet us have the fight. "

This excellent heroism was all wasted; Neal could not find a singleadversary. Except he divided himself like Hotspur, and went to buffets, one hand against the other, there was no chance of a fight; no personto be found sufficiently magnanimous to encounter the tailor. On thecontrary, every one of his friends--or, in other words, every man in theparish--was ready to support him. He was clapped on the back, until hisbones were nearly dislocated in his body; and his hand shaken, until hisarm lost its cunning at the needle for half a week afterwards. This, tobe sure, was a bitter business--a state of being past endurance. Everyman was his friend--no man was his enemy. A desperate position for anyperson to find himself in, but doubly calamitous to a martial tailor. 

Many a dolorous complaint did Neal make upon the misfortune of havingnone to wish him ill; and what rendered this hardship doubly oppressive, was the unlucky fact that no exertions of his, however offensive, couldprocure him a single foe. In vain did lie insult, abuse, and malign allhis acquaintances. In vain did he father upon them all the rascalityand villany he could think of; he lied against them with a force andoriginality that would have made many a modern novelist blush forwant of invention--but all to no purpose. The world for once becameastonishingly Christian; it paid back all his efforts to excite itsresentment with the purest of charity; when Neal struck it on theone cheek, it meekly turned unto him the other. It could scarcelybe expected that Neal would bear this. To have the whole world infriendship with a man is beyond doubt rather an affliction. Not to havethe face of a single enemy to look upon, would decidedly be considereda deprivation of many agreeable sensations by most people, as well as byNeal Malone. Let who might sustain a loss, or experience a calamity, itwas a matter of indifference to Neal. They were only his friends, and hetroubled neither his head nor his heart about them. 

Heaven help us! There is no man without his trials; and Neal, thereader perceives, was not exempt from his. What did it avail him that hecarried a cudgel ready for all hostile contingencies? or knit his browsand shook his kipjoeen at the fiercest of his fighting friends? Themoment he appeared, they softened into downright cordiality. Hispresence was the signal of peace; for, notwithstanding his unconquerablepropensity to warfare, he went abroad as the genius of unanimity, thoughcarrying in his bosom the redoubtable disposition the a warrior; just asthe sun, though the source of light himself, is said to be dark enoughat bottom. 

It could not be expected that Neal, with whatever fortitude he mightbear his other afflictions, could bear such tranquillity like a hero. Tosay that he bore it as one, would be to basely surrender his character;for what hero ever bore a state, of tranquillity with courage? Itaffected his cutting out! It produced what Burton calls "a windiemelancholie, " which was nothing else than an accumulation of couragethat had no means of escaping, if courage can without indignity be eversaid to escape. He sat uneasy on his lap-board. Instead of cutting outsoberly, he nourished his scissors as if he were heading a faction; hewasted much chalk by scoring his cloth in wrong places, and even caughthis hot goose without a holder. These symptoms alarmed, his friends, whopersuaded him to go to a doctor. Neal went, to satisfy them; but he knewthat no prescription could drive the courage out of him--that he was toofar gone in heroism to be made a coward of by apothecary stuff. Nothingin the pharmacopoeia could physic him into a pacific state. His diseasewas simply the want of an enemy, and an unaccountable superabundance offriendship on the part of his acquaintances. How could a doctor remedythis by a prescription? Impossible. The doctor, indeed, recommendedbloodletting; but to lose blood in a peaceable manner was not onlycowardly, but a bad cure for courage. Neal declined it: he would loseno blood for any man until he could not help it; which was giving thecharacter of a hero at a single touch. His blood was not to be thrownaway in this manner; the only lancet ever applied to his relations wasthe cudgel, and Neal scorned to abandon the principles of his family. 

His friends finding that he reserved his blood for more heroic purposesthan dastardly phlebotomy, knew not what to do with him. His perpetualexclamation was, as we have already stated, "I'm blue-mowlded for wantof a batin'!" They did everything in their power to cheer him with thehope of a drubbing; told him he lived in an excellent country for a manafflicted with his malady; and promised, if it were at all possible, to create him a private enemy or two, who, they hoped in heaven, mighttrounce him to some purpose. 

This sustained him for a while; but as day after day passed, and noappearance of action presented itself, he could not choose but increasein courage. His soul, like a sword-blade too long in the scabbard, wasbeginning to get fuliginous by inactivity. He looked upon the point ofhis own needle, and the bright edge of his scissors, with a bitter pang, when he thought of the spirit rusting within him: he meditated freshinsults, studied new plans, and hunted out cunning devices for provokinghis acquaintances to battle, until by degrees he began to confound hisown bram, and to commit more grievous oversights in his business thanever. Sometimes he sent home to one person a coat, with the legs of apair of trousers attached to it for sleeves, and despatched to anotherthe arms of the aforesaid coat tacked together as a pair of trousers. 

Sometimes the coat was made to button behind instead of before, and hefrequently placed the pockets in the lower part of the skirts, as if hehad been in league with cut-purses. 

This was a melancholy situation, and his friends pitied him accordingly. 

"Don't bo cast down, Neal, " said they, "your friends feel for you, poorfellow. "

"Divil carry my frinds, " replied Neal, "sure there's not one o' yezfrindly enough to be my inimy. Tare-an'-ounze! what'll I do? I'mblue-rhowlded for want of a batin'!"

Seeing that their consolation was thrown away upon him, they resolvedto leave him to his fate; which they had no sooner done than Neal hadthoughts of taking to the _Skiomachia_ as a last remedy. In this mood helooked with considerable antipathy at his own shadow for several nights;and it is not to be questioned, but that some hard battles would havetaken place between them, were it not for the cunning of the shadow, which declined to fight him in any other position than with its backto the wall. This occasioned him to pause, for the wall was a fearfulantagonist, inasmuch that it knew not when it was beaten; but there wasstill an alternative left. He went to the garden one clear day aboutnoon, and hoped to have a bout with the shade, free from interruption. Both approached, apparently eager for the combat, and resolved toconquer or die, when a villanous cloud happening to intercept the light, gave the shadow an opportunity of disappearing; and Neal found himselfonce more without an opponent. 

"It's aisy known, " said Neal, "you haven't the blood in you, or you'dcome up to the scratch like a man. "

He now saw that fate was against him, and that any further hostilitytowards the shadow was only a tempting of Providence. He lost hishealth, spirits, and everything but his courage. His countenance becamepale and peaceful looking; the bluster departed from him; his bodyshrunk up like a withered parsnip. Thrice was he compelled to take inhis clothes, and thrice did he ascertain that much of his time would benecessarily spent in pursuing his retreating person through the solitudeof his almost deserted garment. 

God knows it is difficult to form a correct opinion upon a situationso paradoxical as Neal's was. To be reduced to skin and bone by thedownright friendship of the world, was, as the sagacious reader willadmit, next to a miracle. We appeal to the conscience of any man whofinds himself without an enemy, whether he be not a greater skeletonthan the tailor; we will give him fifty guineas provided he can showa calf to his leg. We know he could not; for the tailor had none, andthat was because he had not an enemy. No man in friendship with theworld ever has calves to his legs. To sum up all in a paradox of ourown invention, for which we claim the full credit of originality, wenow assert, that more men have risen in the world by the injury of theirenemies, than have risen by the kindness of their friends. You may takethis, reader, in any sense; apply it to hanging if you like, it is stillimmutably and immovably true. 

One day Neal sat cross-legged, as tailors usually sit, in the act ofpressing a pair of breeches; his hands were placed, backs up, upon thehandle of his goose, and his chin rested upon the back of his hands. Tojudge from his sorrowful complexion one would suppose that he sat ratherto be sketched as a picture of misery, or of heroism in distress, thanfor the industrious purpose of pressing the seams of a garment. Therewas a great deal of New Burlington-street pathos in his countenance;his face, like the times, was rather out of joint; "the sun was justsetting, and his golden beams fell, with a saddened splendor, athwartthe tailor's"----the reader may fill up the picture. 

In this position sat Neal, when Mr. O'Connor, the schoolmaster, whoseinexpressibles he was turning for the third time, entered the workshop. Mr. O'Connor, himself, was as finished a picture of misery as thetailor. There was a patient, subdued kind of expression in his face, which indicated a very full-portion of calamity; his eye seemed chargedwith affliction of the first water; on each side of his nose might betraced two dry channels which, no doubt, were full enough while thetropical rains of his countenance lasted. Altogether, to conclude fromappearances, it was a dead match in affliction between him and thetailor; both seemed sad, fleshless, and unthriving. 

"Misther O'Connor, " said the tailor, when the schoolmaster entered, "won't you be pleased to sit down?"

Mr. O'Connor sat; and, after wiping his forehead, laid his hat upon thelap-board, put his half handkerchief in his pocket, and looked upon thetailor. The tailor, in return, looked upon Mr. O'Connor; but neither ofthem spoke for some minutes. Neal, in fact, appeared to be wrapped upin his own misery, and Mr. O'Connor in his; or, as we often have muchgratuitous sympathy for the distresses of our friends, we question butthe tailor was wrapped up in Mr. O'Connor's misery, and Mr. O'Connor inthe tailor's. 

Mr. O'Connor at length said--"Neal, are my inexpressibles finished?"

"I am now pressin' your inexpressibles, " replied Neal; "but, be my sowl, Mr. O'Connor, it's not your inexpressibles I'm thinkin' of. I'm not theninth part of what I was. I'd hardly make paddin' for a collar now. "

"Are you able to carry a staff still, Neal?"

"I've a light hazel one that's handy, " said the tailor; "but where'sthe use of carryin' it, whin I can get no one to fight wid. Sure I'mdisgracing my relations by the life I'm leadin'. I'll go to my gravewidout ever batin' a man, or bein' bate myself; that's the vexation. Divil the row ever I was able to kick up in my life; so that I'm fairlyblue-mowlded for want of a batin'. But if you have patience----"

"Patience!" said Mr. O'Connor, with a shake of the head, that wasperfectly disastrous even to look at; "patience, did you say, Neal?"

"Ay, " said Neal, "an', be my sowl, if you deny that I said patience, I'll break your head!"

"Ah, Neal, " returned the other, "I don't deny it--for though I amteaching philosophy, knowledge, and mathematics, every day in my life, yet I'm learning patience myself both night and day. No, Neal; I haveforgotten to deny anything. I have not been guilty of a contradiction, out of my own school, for the last fourteen years. I once expressedthe shadow of a doubt about twelve years ago, but ever since I haveabandoned even doubting. That doubt was the last expiring effort atmaintaining my domestic authority--but I suffered for it. "

"Well, " said Neal, "if you have patience, I'll tell you what afflicts mefrom beginnin' to endin'. "

"I will have patience, " said Mr. O'Connor, and he accordingly heard adismal and indignant tale from the tailor. 

"You have told me that fifty times over, " said Mr. O'Connor, afterhearing the story. "Your spirit is too martial for a pacific life. Ifyou follow my advice, I will teach you how to ripple the calm currentof your existence to some purpose. Marry a wife. For twenty-five years Ihave given instructions in three branches, viz. --philosophy, knowledge, and mathematics--I am also well versed in matrimony, and I declare that, upon my misery, and by the contents of all my afflictions, it is mysolemn and melancholy opinion, that, if you marry a wife, you will, before three months pass over your concatenated state, not have a singlecomplaint to make touching a superabundance of peace and tranquillity, or a love of fighting. "

"Do you mean to say that any woman would make me afeard?" said thetailor, deliberately rising up and getting his cudgel. "I'll thank youmerely to go over the words agin till I thrash you widin an inch o' yourlife. That's all. "

"Neal, " said the schoolmaster, meekly, "I won't fight; I have been toooften subdued ever to presume on the hope of a single victory. My spiritis long since evaporated: I am like one, of your own shreds, a mereselvage. Do you not know how much my habiliments have shrunk in, evenwithin the last five years? Hear me, Neal; and venerate my words asif they proceeded from the lips of a prophet. If you wish to taste theluxury of being subdued--if you are, as you say, blue-moulded for wantof a beating, and sick at heart of a peaceful existence--why, marry awife. Neal, send my breeches home with all haste, for they are wanted, you understand. Farewell!"

Mr. O'Connor, having thus expressed himself, departed, and Neal stood, with the cudgel in his hand, looking at the door out of which he passed, with an expression of fierceness, contempt, and reflection, stronglyblended on the ruins of his once heroic visage. 

Many a man has happiness within his reach if he but knew it. The tailorhad been, hitherto, miserable because he pursued a wrong object. Theschoolmaster, however, suggested a train of thought upon which Nealnow fastened with all the ardor of a chivalrous temperament. Nay, hewondered that the family spirit should have so completely seizedupon the fighting side of his heart, as to preclude all thoughts ofmatrimony; for he could not but remember that his relations were asready for marriage as for fighting. To doubt this, would have been tothrow a blot upon his own escutcheon. He, therefore, very prudentlyasked himself, to whom, if he did not marry, should he transmit hiscourage. He was a single man, and, dying as such, he would be the soledepository of his own valor, which, like Junius's secret, must perishwith, him. If he could have left it, as a legacy, to such of his friendsas were most remarkable for cowardice, why, the case would be altered;but this was impossible--and he had now no other means of preserving itto posterity than by creating a posterity to inherit it. He saw, too, that the world was likely to become convulsed. Wars, as everybodyknew, were certainly to break out; and would it not be an excellentopportunity for being father to a colonel, or, perhaps, a general, thatmight astonish the world. 

The change visible in Neal, after the schoolmaster's last visit, absolutely thunder-struck all who knew him. The clothes, which he hadrashly taken in to fit his shrivelled limbs, were once more let out. Thetailor expanded with a new spirit; his joints ceased to be supple, asin the days of his valor; his eye became less fiery, but more brilliant. From being martial, he got desperately gallant; but, somehow, he couldnot afford to act the hero and lover both at the same time. This, perhaps, would be too much to expect from a tailor. His policy wasbetter. He resolved to bring all his available energy to bear uponthe charms of whatever fair nymph he should select for the honor ofmatrimony; to waste his spirit in fighting would, therefore, be adeduction from the single purpose in view. 

The transition from war to love is by no means so remarkable as we mightat first imagine. We quote Jack Falstaff in proof of this, or, if thereader be disposed to reject our authority, then we quote Ancient Pistolhimself--both of whom we consider as the most finished specimens ofheroism that ever carried a safe skin. Acres would have been a hero hadhe won gloves to prevent the courage from oozing out at his palms, ornot felt such an unlucky antipathy to the "snug lying in the Abbey;" andas for Captain Bobadil, he never had an opportunity of putting his plan, for vanquishing an army, into practice. We fear, indeed, that neitherhis character, nor Ben Jonson's knowledge of human nature, is properlyunderstood; for it certainly could not be expected that a man, whosespirit glowed to encounter a whole host, could, without tarnishing hisdignity, if closely pressed, condescend to fight an individual. Butas these remarks on courage may be felt by the reader as an invidiousintroduction of a subject disagreeable to him, we beg to hush it for thepresent and return to the tailor. 

No sooner had Neal begun to feel an inclination to matrimony, than hisfriends knew that his principles had veered, by the change now visiblein his person and deportment. They saw he had ratted from courage, andjoined love. Heretofore his life had been all winter, darkened by stormand hurricane. The fiercer virtues had played the devil with him; everyword was thunder, every look lightning; but now all that had passedaway;--before, he was the Jortiter in re, at present he was the suaviterin modo. His existence was perfect spring--beautifully vernal. All theamiable and softer qualities began to bud about his heart; a genialwarmth was diffused over him; his soul got green within him; every daywas serene; and if a cloud happened to be come visible, there wasa roguish rainbow astride of it, on which sat a beautiful Iris thatlaughed down at him, and seemed to say, "why the dickens, Neal, don'tyou marry a wife?"

Neal could not resist the afflatus which descended on him; an ethereallight dwelled, he thought, upon the face of nature; the color of thecloth, which he cut out from day to day, was to his enraptured eye likethe color of Cupid's wings--all purple; his visions were worth theirweight in gold; his dreams, a credit to the bed he slept on; and hisfeelings, like blind puppies, young and alive to the milk of love andkindness which they drew from his heart. Most of this delight escapedthe observation of the world, for Neal, like your true lover, becameshy and mysterious. It is difficult to say what he resembled; no darklantern ever had more light shut up within itself, than Neal had in hissoul, although his friends were not aware of it. They knew, indeed, thathe had turned his back upon valor; but beyond this their knowledge didnot extend. 

Neal was shrewd enough to know that what he felt must be love;--nothingelse could distend him with happiness, until his soul felt light andbladder-like, but love. As an oyster opens, when expecting the tide, sodid his soul expand at the contemplation of matrimony. Labor ceased tobe a trouble to him; he sang and sewed from morning to night; his hotgoose no longer burned him, for his heart was as hot as his goose; thevibrations of his head, at each successive stitch, were no longer sadand melancholy. There was a buoyant shake of exultation in them whichshowed that his soul was placid and happy within him. 

Endless honor be to Neal Malone for the originality with which hemanaged the tender sentiment! He did not, like your commonplace lovers, first discover a pretty girl, and afterwards become enamored of her. Nosuch thing, he had the passion prepared beforehand--cut out and made upas it were, ready for any girl whom it might fit. This was falling inlove in the abstract, and let no man condemn it without a trial; formany a long-winded argument could be urged in its defence. It is alwayswrong to commence business without capital, and Neal had a good stockto begin with. All we beg is, that the reader will not confound it withPlatonism, which never marries; but he is at full liberty to call itSocratism, which takes unto itself a wife, and suffers accordingly. 

Let no one suppose that Neal forgot the schoolmaster's kindness, orfailed to be duly grateful for it. Mr. O'Connor was the first personwhom he consulted touching his passion. With a cheerful soul--he waitedon that melancholy and gentleman-like man, and in the very luxury of hisheart told him that he was in love. 

"In love, Neal!" said the schoolmaster. "May I inquire with whom?"

"Wid nobody in particular, yet, " replied Neal; "but of late I'm gotdivilish fond o' the girls in general. "

"And do you call that being in love, Neal?" said Mr. O'Connor. 

"Why, what else would I call it?" returned the tailor. "Amn't I fond ofthem?"

"Then it must be what is termed the Universal Passion, Neal, " observedMr. O'Connor, "although it is the first time I have seen such anillustration of it as you present in your own person. "

"I wish you would advise me how to act, " said Neal; "I'm as happy as aprince since I began to get fond o' them, an' to think of marriage. "

The schoolmaster shook his head again, and looked rather miserable. Nealrubbed his hands with glee, and looked perfectly happy. The schoolmastershook his head again, and looked more miserable than before. Neal'shappiness also increased on the second rubbing. 

Now, to tell the secret at once, Mr. O'Connor would not have appeared somiserable, were it not for Neal's happiness; nor Neal so happy, were itnot for Mr. O'Connor's misery. It was all the result of contrast; butthis you will not understand unless you be deeply read in modern novels. 

Mr. O'Connor, however, was a man of sense, who knew, upon thisprinciple, that the longer he continued to shake his head, the moremiserable he must become, and the more also would he increase Neal'shappiness; but he had no intention of increasing Neal's happiness athis own expense--for, upon the same hypothesis, it would have been forNeal's interest had he remained shaking his head there, and gettingmiserable until the day of judgment. He consequently declined giving thethird shake, for he thought that plain conversation was, after all, more significant and forcible than the most eloquent nod, however ablytranslated. 

"Neal, " said he, "could you, by stretching your imagination, contrive torest contented with nursing your passion in solitude, and love the sexat a distance?"

"How could I nurse and mind my business?" replied the tailor. I'll nevernurse so long as I'll have the wife; and as for imagination it dependsupon the grain of it, whether I can stretch it or not. I don't know thatI ever made a coat of it in my life. "

"You don't understand me, Neal, " said the schoolmaster. "In recommendingmarriage, I was only driving one evil out of you by introducing another. Do you think that, if you abandoned all thoughts of a wife, you wouldget heroic again?--that is, would you, take once more to the love offighting?"

"There is no doubt but I would, " said the tailor: "If I miss the wife, I'll kick up such a dust as never was seen in the parish, an' you'rethe first man that I'll lick. But now that I'm in love, " he continued, "sure, I ought to look out for the wife. "

"Ah! Neal, " said the schoolmaster, "you are tempting destiny: yourtemerity be, with all its melancholy consequences, upon your own head. "

"Come, " said the tailor, "it wasn't to hear you groaning to the tune of'Dhrimmind-hoo, ' or 'The ould woman rockin' her cradle, ' that I came;but to know if you could help me in makin' out the wife. That's thediscoorse. "

"Look at me, Neal, " said the schoolmaster, solemnly; "I am at thismoment, and have been any time for the last fifteen years, a livingcaveto against matrimony. I do not think that earth possesses such aluxury as a single solitary life. Neal, the monks of old were happy men:they were all fat and had double chins; and, Neal, I tell you, that allfat men are in general happy. Care cannot come at them so readily asat a thin man; before it gets through the strong outworks, of fleshand blood with which they are surrounded, it becomes treacherous to itsoriginal purpose, joins the cheerful spirits it meets in the system, anddances about the heart in all the madness of mirth; just like a sincereecclesiastic, who comes to lecture a good fellow against drinking, butwho forgets his lecture over his cups, and is laid under the table withsuch success, that he either never comes to finish his lecture, orcomes often; to be laid under the table, Look at me Neal, how wasted, fleshless, and miserable, I stand before you. You know how my garmentshave shrunk in, and what a solid man I was before marriage. Neal, pause, I beseech you: otherwise you stand a strong chance of becoming anonentity like myself. "

"I don't care what I become, " said the tailor; "I can't think that you'dbe so: unsonable as to expect that any of the Malones; should passout of the world widout either bein' bate or marrid. Have rason, Mr. O'Connor, an' if you can help me to the wife, I promise to take in yourcoat the next time--for nothin'. "

"Well, then, " said Mr. O'Connor, "what-would you think of the butcher'sdaughter, Biddy Neil? You have always had a thirst for blood, and hereyou may have it gratified in an innocent manner, should you ever becomesanguinary again. 'Tis true, Neal, she is twice your size, and possessesthree times your strength; but for that very reason, Neal, marry her ifyou can. Large animals are placid; and heaven preserve those bachelors, whom I wish well, from a small wife: 'tis such who always wield thesceptre of domestic life, and rule their husbands with a rod of iron. "

"Say no more, Mr. O'Connor, " replied the tailor, "she's the very girlI'm in love wid, an' never fear, but I'll overcome her heart if I it canbe done by man. Now, step over the way to my house, an' we'll have a supon the head of it. Who's that calling?"

"Ah! Neal, I know the tones--there's a shrillness in them not to bemistaken. Farewell! I must depart; you have heard the proverb, 'thosewho are bound must obey. ' Young Jack, I presume, is squalling, and Imust either nurse him, rock the cradle, or sing comic tunes for him, though heaven knows with what a disastrous heart I often sing, 'Begonedull care, ' the 'Rakes of Newcastle, ' or 'Peas upon a Trencher. ' Neal, I say again, pause before you take this leap in the dark. Pause, Neal, Ientreat you. Farewell!"

Neal, however, was gifted with the heart of an Irishman, and scornedcaution as the characteristic of a coward; he had, as it appeared, abandoned all design of fighting, but the courage still adhered to himeven in making love. He consequently conducted the siege of Biddy Neil'sheart with a degree of skill and valor which would not have come amissto Marshal Gerald at the siege of Antwerp. Locke or Dugald Stewart, indeed, had they been cognizant of the tailor's triumph, might haveillustrated the principle on which he succeeded--as to ourselves, wecan only conjecture it. Our own opinion is, that they were both animatedwith a congenial spirit. Biddy was the very pink of pugnacity, andcould throw in a body blow, or plant a facer, with singular energyand science. Her prowess hitherto had, we confess, been displayed onlywithin the limited range of domestic life; but should she ever findit necessary to exercise it upon a larger scale, there was no doubtwhatsoever, in the opinion of her mother, brothers, and sisters, everyone of whom she had successively subdued, that she must undoubtedlydistinguish herself. There was certainly one difficulty which the tailorhad not to encounter in the progress of his courtship; the field washis own; he had not a rival to dispute his claim. Neither was there anyopposition given by her friends; they were, on the contrary, all anxiousfor the match; and when the arrangements were concluded, Neal felt hishand squeezed by them in succession, with an expression more resemblingcondolence than joy. Neal, however, had been bred to tailoring, and notto metaphysics; he could cut out a coat very well, but we do not saythat he could trace a principle--as what tailor, except Jeremy Taylor, could?

There was nothing particular in the wedding. Mr. O'Connor was asked byNeal to be present at it: but he shook his head, and told him thathe had not courage to attend it, or inclination to witness any man'ssorrows but his own. He met the wedding party by accident, and was heardto exclaim with a sigh, as they flaunted past him in gay exuberance ofspirits--"Ah, poor Neal! he is going like one of her father's cattle tothe shambles! Woe is me for having suggested matrimony to the tailor! Hewill not long-be under the necessity of saying that he 'is blue-mouldedfor want of a beating. ' The butcheress will fell him like a Kerry ox, and I may have his blood to answer for, and his discomfiture to feelfor, in addition to my own miseries. "

On the evening of the wedding-day, about the hour of ten o'clock, Neal--whose spirits were uncommonly exalted, for his heart luxuriatedwithin him--danced with his bride's maid; after the dance he sat besideher, and got eloquent in praise of her beauty; and it is said, too, thathe whispered to her, and chucked her chin with considerable gallantry. The tete-a-tete continued for some time without exciting particularattention, with one exception; but that exception was worth a wholechapter of general rules. Mrs. Malone rose up, then sat down again, andtook off a glass of the native; she got up a second time--all the wiferushed upon her heart--she approached them, and in a fit of the mostexquisite sensibility, knocked the bride's maid down, and gave thetailor a kick of affecting pathos upon the inexpressibles. The wholescene was a touching one on both sides. The tailor was sent on all-foursto the floor; but Mrs. Malone took him quietly up, put him under her armas one would a lap dog, and with stately step marched him away to theconnubial, apartment, in which everything remained very quiet for therest of the night. 

The next morning Mr. O'Connor presented himself to congratulate thetailor on his happiness. Neal, as his friend shook hands with him, gavethe schoolmaster's fingers a slight squeeze, such as a man gives whowould gently entreat your sympathy. The schoolmaster looked at him, andthought he shook his head. Of this, however, he could not be certain;for, as he shook his own during the moment of observation, he concludedthat it might be a mere mistake of the eye, or perhaps the result of amind predisposed to be credulous on the subject of shaking heads. 

We wish it were in our power to draw a veil, or curtain, or blind ofsome description, over the remnant of the tailor's narrative that is tofollow; but as it is the duty of every faithful historian to givethe secret causes of appearances which the world in general do notunderstand, so we think it but honest to go on, impartially andfaithfully, without shrinking from the responsibility that is frequentlyannexed to truth. 

For the first three days after matrimony, Neal felt like a man who hadbeen translated to a new and more lively state of existence. He hadexpected, and flattered himself, that, the moment this event shouldtake place, he would once more resume his heroism, and experiencethe pleasure of a drubbing. This determination he kept a profoundsecret--nor was it known until a future period, when he disclosed it toMr. O'Connor. He intended, therefore, that marriage should be nothingmore than a mere parenthesis in his life--a kind of asterisk, pointing, in a note at the bottom, to this single exception in his generalconduct--a _nota bene_ to the spirit of a martial man, intimating thathe had been peaceful only for a while. In truth, he was, during theinfluence of love over him, and up to the very day of his marriage, secretly as blue-moulded as ever for want of a beating. The heroicpenchant lay snugly latent in his heart, unchecked and unmodified. Heflattered himself that he was achieving a capital imposition upon theworld at large--that he was actually hoaxing mankind in general--andthat such an excellent piece of knavish tranquillity had never beenperpetrated before his time. 

On the first week after his marriage, there chanced to be a fair inthe next market-town. Neal, after breakfast, brought forward a bunch ofshillelahs, in order to select the best; the wife inquired the purposeof the selection, and Neal declared that he was resolved to have a fightthat day, if it were to be had, he said, for love or money. "The thruthis, " he exclaimed, strutting with fortitude about the house, "the thruthis, that I've done the whole of yez--I'm as _blue-mowlded_ as ever forwant of a batin'. "

"Don't go, " said the wife. 

"I will go, " said Neal, with vehemence; "I'll go if the whole parish wasto go to prevint me. "

In about another half-hour Neal sat down quietly to his business, instead of going to the fair!

Much ingenious speculation might be indulged in, upon this abrupttermination to the tailor's most formidable resolution; but, for our ownpart, we will prefer going on with the narrative, leaving the readerat liberty to solve the mystery as he pleases. In the mean time, we saythis much--let those who cannot make it out, carry it to their tailor;it is a tailor's mystery, and no one has so good a right to understandit--except, perhaps, a tailor's wife. 

At the period of his matrimony, Neal had become as plump and as stoutas he ever was known to be in his plumpest and stoutest days. He and theschoolmaster had been very intimate about this time; but we know not howit happened that soon afterwards he felt a modest bridelike reluctancein meeting with that afflicted gentleman. As the eve of his unionapproached, he was in the habit, during the schoolmaster's visits tohis workshop, of alluding, in rather a sarcastic tone, considering theunthriving appearance of his friend, to the increasing lustiness ofhis person. Nay, he has often leaped up from his lap-board, and, in thestrong spirit of exultation, thrust out his leg in attestation of hisassertion, slapping it, moreover, with a loud laugh of triumph, thatsounded like a knell to the happiness of his emaciated acquaintance. The schoolmaster's philosophy, however, unlike his flesh, never departedfrom him; his usual observation was, "Neal, we are both receding fromthe same point; you increase in flesh, whilst I, heaven help me, am fastdiminishing. "

The tailor received these remarks with very boisterous mirth, whilstMr. O'Connor simply shook his head, and looked sadly upon his limbs, now shrouded in a superfluity of garments, somewhat resembling a slenderthread of water in a shallow summer stream, nearly wasted away, andsurrounded by an unproportionate extent of channel. 

The fourth month after the marriage arrived. Neal, one day, near itsclose, began to dress himself in his best apparel. Even then, whenbuttoning his waistcoat, he shook his head after the manner of Mr. O'Connor, and made observations upon the great extent to which itover-folded him. 

Well, thought he, with a sigh--this waistcoat certainly did fit me to aT: but it's wondherful to think how--cloth stretches. 

"Neal, " said the wife, on perceiving him dressed, "where are you boundfor?"

"Faith, for life, " replied Neal, with a mitigated swagger; "and I'd assoon, if it had been the will of Provid--"

He paused. 

"Where are you going?" asked the wife, a second time. 

"Why, " he answered, "only to the dance at Jemmy Connolly's; I'll be backearly. "

"Don't go, " said the wife. "I'll go, " said Neal, "if the wholecounthry was to prevent me. Thunder an' lightnin, ' woman, who am I?" heexclaimed, in a loud but rather infirm voice; "arn't I Neal Malone, thatnever met a man who'd fight him! Neal Malone, that was never beat byman! Why, tare-an-ounze, woman! Whoo! I'll get enraged some time, an'play the divil? Who's afeard, I say?"

"Don't go, " added the wife a third time, giving Neal a significant lookin the face. 

In about another half-hour, Neal sat down quietly to his business, instead of going to the dance!

Neal now turned himself, like many a sage in similar circumstances, tophilosophy; that is to say--he began to shake his head upon principle, after the manner of the schoolmaster. He would, indeed, have preferredthe bottle upon principle; but there was no getting at the bottle, except through the wife; and it so happened that by the time it reachedhim, there was little consolation left in it. Neal bore all in silence;for silence, his friend had often told him, was a proof of wisdom. 

Soon after this, Neal, one evening, met Mr. O'Connor by chance upon aplank which crossed a river. This plank was only a foot in breadth, sothat no two individuals could pass each other upon it. We cannot findwords in which to express the dismay of both, on finding that theyabsolutely glided past one another without collision. 

Both paused, and surveyed each other solemnly; but the astonishment wasall on the side of Mr. O'Connor. 

"Neal, " said the schoolmaster, "by all the household gods, I conjure youto speak, that I may be assured you live!"

The ghost of a blush crossed the churchyard visage of the tailor. 

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "why the devil did you tempt me to marry a wife. "

"Neal, " said his friend, "answer me in the most solemn mannerpossible--throw into your countenance all the gravity you can assume;speak as if you were under the hands of the hangman, with the rope aboutyour neck, for the question is, indeed, a trying-one which I am about toput. Are you still 'blue-moulded for want of beating?'"

The tailor collected himself to make a reply; he put one leg out--thevery leg which he used to show in triumph to his friend; but, alas, howdwindled! He opened his waistcoat, and lapped it round him, until helooked like a weasel on its hind legs. He then raised himself up on histip toes, and, in an awful whisper, replied, "No!!! the devil a bit I'mblue-mowlded for want of a batin. "

The schoolmaster shook his head in his own miserable manner; but, alas!he soon perceived that the tailor was as great an adept at shaking thehead as himself. Nay, he saw that there was a calamitous refinement--adelicacy of shake in the tailor's vibrations, which gave to his own noda very commonplace character. 

The next day the tailor took in his clothes; and from time to timecontinued to adjust them to the dimensions of his shrinking person. The schoolmaster and he, whenever they could steal a moment, met andsympathized together. Mr. O'Connor, however, bore up somewhat betterthan Neal. The latter was subdued in heart and in spirit; thoroughly, completely, and intensely vanquished. His features became sharpenedby misery, for a termagant wife is the whetstone on which all thecalamities of a hen-pecked husband are painted by the devil. He nolonger strutted as he was wont to do; he no longer carried a cudgelas if he wished to wage a universal battle with mankind. He was now amarried man. --Sneakingiy, and with a cowardly crawl did he creep alongas if every step brought him nearer to the gallows. The schoolmaster'smarch of misery was far slower than Neal's: the latter distanced him. Before three years passed, he had shrunk up so much, that he could notwalk abroad of a windy day without carrying weights in his pockets tokeep him firm on the earth, which he once trod with the step of a giant. He again sought the schoolmaster, with whom indeed he associated asmuch as possible. Here he felt certain of receiving sympathy; nor washe disappointed. That worthy, but miserable, man and Neal, often retiredbeyond the hearing of their respective wives, and supported each otherby every argument in their power. Often have they been heard, in thedusk of evening, singing behind a remote hedge that melancholy ditty, "Let us both be unhappy together;" which rose upon the twilight breezewith a cautious quaver of sorrow truly heart-rending and lugubrious. 

"Neal, " said Mr. O'Connor, on one of those occasions, "here is a bookwhich I recommend to your perusal; it is called 'The Afflicted Man'sCompanion;' try if you cannot glean some consolation out of it. "

"Faith, " said Neal, "I'm forever oblaged to you, but I don't want it. I've had 'The Afflicted Man's Companion' too long, and divil an atom ofconsolation I can get out of it. I have one o' them I tell you; but, beme sowl, I'll not undhertake a pair o' them. The very name's enough forme. " They then separated. 

The tailor's _vis vitae_ must have been powerful, or he would have died. In two years more his friends could not distinguish him from his ownshadow; a circumstance which was of great inconvenience to him. Severalgrasped at the hand of the shadow instead of his; and one man was near, paying it five and sixpence for making a pair of smallclothes. Neal, itis true, undeceived him with some trouble; but candidly admitted that hewas not able to carry home the money. It was difficult, indeed, for thepoor tailor to bear what he felt; it is true he bore it as long ashe could; but at length he became suicidal, and often had thoughts of"making his own quietus with his bare bodkin. " After many deliberationsand afflictions, he ultimately made the attempt; but, alas! he foundthat the blood of the Malones refused to flow upon so ignominious anoccasion. So he solved the phenomenon; although the truth was, that hisblood was not "i' the vein" for't; none was to be had. What then was tobe done? He resolved to get rid of life by some process; and the nextthat occurred to him was hanging. In a solemn spirit he prepared aselvage, and suspended himself from the rafter of his workshop; but hereanother disappintment awaited him--he would not hang. Such was his wantof gravity, that his own weight proved insufficient to occasion hisdeath by mere suspension. His third attempt was at drowning, but hewas too light to sink; all the elements, --all his own energies joinedthemselves, he thought, in a wicked conspiracy to save his life. Havingthus tried every avenue to destruction, and failed in all, he felt likea man doomed to live for ever. Henceforward he shrunk and shrivelled byslow degrees, until in the course of time he became so attenuated, thatthe grossness of human vision could no longer reach him. 

This, however, could not last always. Though still alive, he was, to allintents and purposes, imperceptible. He could now only be heard; he wasreduced to a mere essence--the very echo of human existence, _voxel praiterea nihil_. It is true the schoolmaster asserted that heoccasionally caught passing glimpses of him; but that was because hehad been himself nearly spiritualized by affliction, and his visual raypurged in the furnace of domestic tribulation. By and by Neal's voicelessened, got fainter and more indistinct, until at length nothing buta doubtful murmur could be heard, which ultimately could scarcely bedistinguished from a ringing in the ears. 

Such was the awful and mysterious fate of the tailor, who, as a hero, could not of course die; he merely dissolved like an icicle, wasted intoimmateriality, and finally melted away beyond the perception of mortalsense. Mr. O'Connor is still living, and once more in the fulness ofperfect health and strength. His wife, however, we may as well hint, hasbeen dead more than two years. 

ART MAGUIRE;

OR, THE BROKEN PLEDGE. 

PREFACE. 

In proposing to write a series of "Tales for the Irish People, " theauthor feels perfectly conscious of the many difficulties by which heis surrounded, and by which he may be still met in his endeavors toaccomplish that important task. In order, however, to make everything asclear and intelligible as possible, he deems it necessary, in the firstplace, to state what his object is in undertaking it: that object issimply to improve their physical and social condition--generally;and through the medium of vivid and striking, but unobjectionablenarratives, to inculcate such principles as may enable Irishmen to thinkmore clearly, reason more correctly, and act more earnestly upon thegeneral duties, which, from their position in life, they are called uponto perform. With regard to those who feel apprehensive that anythingcalculated to injure the doctrinal convictions of the Catholic peoplemay be suffered to creep into these Tales, the author has only to assurethem--that such an object comes within the scope neither of his planor inclinations. It is not his intention to make these productions thevehicles of Theology or Polemics; but studiously to avoid anything andeverything that even approaches the sphere of clerical duty. Hisobject, so far from that, is the inculcation of general, not peculiar, principles--principles which neither affect nor offend any creed, butwhich are claimed and valued by all. In this way, by making amusementthe handmaiden of instruction, the author believes it possible to letinto the cabin, the farm-house, and even the landlord's drawing-room, a light by which each and all of them may read many beneficiallessons--lessons that will, it is hoped, abide with them, settle downin their hearts, and by giving them a, clearer sense of their respectiveduties, aid in improving and regenerating their condition. 

To send to the poor man's fireside, through the medium of Tales thatwill teach his heart and purify his affections, those simple lessonswhich may enable him to understand his own value--that will generateself-respect, independence, industry, love of truth, hatred of deceitand falsehood, habits of cleanliness, order, and punctuality--togetherwith all those lesser virtues which help to create a proper sense ofpersonal and domestic comfort--to assist in working out these healthfulpurposes is the Author's anxious wish--a task in which any man may feelproud to engage. 

Self-reliance, manly confidence in the effect of their own virtues, respect for the virtues that ought to adorn rank, rather than forrank itself, and a spurning of that vile servility which is only thehereditary remnant of bygone oppression, will be taught the peoplein such a way as to make them feel how far up in society a high moralcondition can and ought to place them. Nor is this all;--the darkerpage of Irish life shall be laid open before them--in which they will betaught, by examples that they can easily understand, the fearful detailsof misery, destitution, banishment, and death, which the commission of asingle crime may draw down, not only upon the criminal himself, but uponthose innocent and beloved connections whom he actually punishes by hisguilt. 

It is, indeed, with fear and trembling that the Author undertakes such agreat and important task as this. If he fail, however, he may well say--

"_Quem si non tenuifc, tamon magnis excidit ausis_. "

Still he is willing to hope that, through the aid of truthful fiction, operating upon the feelings of his countrymen, and on their knowledge ofpeasant life, he may furnish them with such a pleasing Encyclopedia ofsocial duty--now lit up with their mirth, and again made tender withtheir sorrow--as will force them to look upon him as a benefactor--toforget his former errors--and to cherish his name with affection, whenhe himself shall be freed forever from those cares and trials of lifewhich have hitherto been his portion. 

In the following simple narrative of "The Broken Pledge, " it was hisaim, without leading his readers out of the plain paths of every-daylife or into the improbable creations of Romance, to detail thecharacter of such an individual as almost every man must have often seenand noticed within the society by which he is surrounded. He trusts thatthe moral, as regards both husband and wife, is wholesome and good, and calculated to warn those who would follow in the footsteps of "ArtMaguire. "

Dubin, July 4, 1845. 

It has been often observed, and as frequently inculcated, through themedium of both press and pulpit, that there is scarcely any human beingwho, how striking soever his virtues, or how numerous his good qualitiesmay be, does not carry in his moral constitution some particularweakness or failing, or perhaps vice, to which he is especially subject, and which may, if not properly watched and restrained, exercise aninjurious and evil influence over his whole life. Neither have theadmonitions of press or pulpit ended in merely laying down this obviousand undeniable truth, but, on the contrary, very properly proceeded toadd, that one of the most pressing duties of man is to examine his ownheart, in order to ascertain what this particular vice or failing in hiscase may be, in order that, when discovered, suitable means be taken toremove or overcome it. 

The man whose history we are about to detail for the reader'sinstruction, was, especially during the latter years of his life, atouching, but melancholy illustration of this indisputable truth; inother words, he possessed the weakness or the vice, as the reader mayconsider it, and found, when too late, that a yielding resolution, or, to use a phrase perhaps better understood, a good intention, was but afeeble and inefficient instrument with which to attempt its subjection. Having made these few preliminary observations, as being suitable, inour opinion, to the character of the incidents which follow, we proceedat once to commence our narrative. 

Arthur, or, as he was more familiarly called by the people, Art Maguire, was the son of parents who felt and knew that they were descended fromhigher and purer blood than could be boasted of by many of the familiesin their neighborhood. Art's father was a small farmer, who held aboutten acres of land, and having a family of six children--three sons, andas many daughters--he determined upon putting one or two of the formerto a trade, so soon as they should be sufficiently grown up for thatpurpose. This, under his circumstances was a proper and providentresolution to make. His farm was too small to be parceled out, as is toofrequently the case, into small miserable patches, upon each of whicha young and inconsiderate couple are contented to sit down, with theprospect of rearing up and supporting a numerous family with wofullyinadequate means; for although it is generally a matter of certaintythat the families of these young persons will increase, yet it is aperfectly well-known fact that the little holding will not, and theconsequence is, that families keep subdividing on the one hand, andincreasing on the other, until there is no more room left for them. Poverty then ensues, and as poverty in such cases begets competition, and competition crime, so we repeat that Condy Maguire's intention, as being one calculated to avoid such a painful state of things, was aproof of his own good sense and forethought. 

Arthur's brother, Frank, was a boy not particularly remarkable for anypeculiar brilliancy of intellect, or any great vivacity of disposition. When at school he was never in a quarrel, nor engaged in any of thosewild freaks which are sore annoyances to a village schoolmaster, anddaring outrages against his authority. He was consequently a favoritenot only with the master, but with all the sober, well-behaved boysof the school, and many a time has Teague Rooney, with whom he waseducated, exclaimed, as he addressed him:

"Go to your sate, Frank abouchal; faith, although there are boys endowedwid more brilliancy of intellect than has fallen to your lot, yet youare the very youth who understands what is due to legitimate authority, at any rate, an' that's no small gift in itself; go to your sate, sorrowtaw will go to your substratum this bout, for not having your lesson;for well I know it wasn't idleness that prevented you, but the naturalsobriety and slowness of intellect you are gifted wid. If you are slow, however, you are sure, and I'll pledge my reputaytion aginst that of thegreat O'Flaherty himself, that you and your brinoge of a brother willboth live to give a beautiful illustration of the celebrated racebetween the hare and the tortoise yet. Go to your sate wid impunity, andtell your dacent mother I was inquiring for her. "

Such, indeed, was a tolerably correct view of Frank's character. He wasquiet, inoffensive, laborious, and punctual; though not very social orcommunicative, yet he was both well-tempered and warm-hearted, pointswhich could not, without considerable opportunities of knowing him, bereadily perceived. Having undertaken the accomplishment of an object, hepermitted no circumstance to dishearten or deter him in working outhis purpose; if he said it, he did it; for his word was a sufficientguarantee that he would; his integrity was consequently respected, and his resolution, when he expressed it, was seldom disputed by hiscompanions, who knew that in general it was inflexible. After what wehave said, it is scarcely necessary to add that he was both courageousand humane. 

These combinations of character frequently occur. Many a man notremarkable for those qualities of the head that impress themselves moststrikingly upon the world, is nevertheless gifted with those excellentprinciples of the heart which, although without much show, and scarcelyany noise, go to work out the most useful purposes of life. Arthur, onthe contrary, was a contrast to his brother, and a strong one, too, onmany points; his intellect was far superior to that of Frank's, but, on the other hand, he by no means possessed his brother's steadiness orresolution. We do not say, however, that he was remarkable for the wantof either, far from it; he could form a resolution, and work it out aswell as his brother, provided his course was left unobstructed: nay, more, he could overcome difficulties many and varied, provided only thathe was left unassailed by, one solitary temptation--that of an easyand good-humored vanity. He was conscious of his talents, and of hisexcellent qualities, and being exceedingly vain, nothing gave himgreater gratification than to hear himself praised for possessingthem--for it is a fact, that every man who is vain of any particulargift, forgets that he did not bestow that gift upon himself, and thatinstead of priding himself upon the possession of it, he should only behumbly thankful to the Being who endowed him with it. 

Art was social, communicative, and, although possessing what might beconsidered internal resources more numerous, and of a far higher orderthan did his brother, yet, somehow, it was clear that he had not thesame self-dependence that marked the other. He always wanted, as it. Were, something to lean upon, although in truth he did not at allrequire it, had he properly understood himself. The truth is, likethousands, he did not begin to perceive, or check in time, those earlytendencies that lead a heart naturally indolent, but warm and generous, to the habit of relying first, in small things, upon external sourcesand objects, instead of seeking and finding within itself thosematerials for manly independence, with which every heart is supplied, were its possessor only aware of the fact, and properly instructed howto use them. 

Art's enjoyments, for instance, were always of a social nature, andnever either solitary or useful in their tendencies; of this characterwas every thing he engaged in. He would not make a ship of waterflaggons by himself, nor sail it by himself--he would not spin a top, nor trundle a hoop without a companion--if sent upon a message, or todig a basket of potatoes in the field, he would rather purchase thesociety of a companion with all the toys or playthings he possessed thando either alone. His very lessons he would not get unless his brotherFrank got his along with him. The reader may thus perceive that heacquired no early habit of self-restraint, no principle of either laboror enjoyment within, himself, and of course could acquire none at allof self-reliance. A social disposition in our amusements is not onlyproper, but natural, for we believe it is pretty generally known, thathe who altogether prefers such amusements is found to be deficientin the best and most generous principles of our nature. Every thing, however, has its limits and its exceptions. Art, if sent to do a day'swork alone, would either abandon it entirely, and bear the brunt of hisfather's anger, or he would, as we have said, purchase the companionshipof some neighbor's son or child, for, provided he had any one to whom hecould talk, he cared not, and having thus succeeded, he would finish ittriumphantly. 

In due time, however, his great prevailing weakness, vanity, became wellknown to his family, who, already aware of his peculiar aversion to anykind of employment that was not social, immediately seized upon it, and instead of taking rational steps to remove it, they nursed it intostronger life by pandering to it as a convenient means of regulating, checking, or stimulating the whole habits of his life. His family werenot aware of the moral consequences which they were likely to produceby conduct such as this, nor of the pains they were ignorantly taking tolay the foundation of his future misfortune and misery. 

"Art, my good boy, will you take your spade and clane out the remaindhero' that drain, between the Hannigans and us, " said his father. 

"Well, will Frank come?"

"Sure you know he can't; isn't he weedin' that bit of _blanther_ inCrackton's park, an' afther that sure he has to cut scraws on thePirl-hill for the new barn. "

"Well, I'll help him if he helps me; isn't that fair? Let us join. "

"Hut, get out o' that, avourneen; go yourself; do what you're bid, Art. "

"Is it by myself? murdher alive, father, don't ax me; I'll give him mynew Cammon if he comes. "

"Throth you won't; the sorra hand I'd ever wish to see the same Cammonin but your own; faix, it's you that can handle it in style. Well now, Art, well becomes myself but I thought I could play a Cammon wid theface o' clay wanst in my time, but may I never sin if ever I could matchyou at it; oh, sorra taste o' your Cammon you must part wid; sure I'drather scower the drain myself. "

"Bedad I won't part wid it then. "

"I'd rather, I tell you, scower it myself--an' I will, too. Sure if Irenew the ould cough an me I'll thry the _Casharawan_, (* Dandelion) thatdid me so much good the last time. "

"Well, that's purty! Ha, ha, ha! you to go! Oh, ay, indeed--as if I'dstand by an' let you. Not so bad as that comes to, either--no. Is thespade an' shovel in the shed?"

"To be sure they are. Throth, Art, you're worth the whole o' them--thesorra lie in it. Well, go, avillish. "

This was this fine boy's weakness played upon by those who, it is true, were not at all conscious of the injury they were inflicting upon him atthe time. He was certainly the pride of the family, and even while theyhumored and increased this his predominant and most dangerous foible, weare bound to say that they gratified their own affection as much as theydid his vanity. 

His father's family consisted, as we have said, of three sons and threedaughters. The latter were the elder, and in point of age Art, as wehave said, was the youngest of them all. The education that he and hisbrothers received was such as the time and the neglected state of thecountry afforded them. They could all read and write tolerably well, andknew something of arithmetic. This was a proof that their education hadnot been neglected. And why should it? Were they not the descendants ofthe great Maguires of Fermanagh? Why, the very consciousness of theirblood was felt as a proud and unanswerable argument against ignorance. The best education, therefore, that could be procured by persons intheir humble sphere of life, they received. The eldest brother, whosename was Brian, did not, as is too frequently the case with the eldestsons of small farmers, receive so liberal a portion of instruction asFrank or Art. This resulted from the condition and necessities of hisfather, who could not spare him from his farm--and, indeed, it cost theworthy man many a sore heart. At all events, time advanced, and the twoyounger brothers were taken from school with a view of being apprenticedto some useful trade. The character of each was pretty well inaccordance with their respective dispositions. Frank had no enemies, yetwas he by no means so popular as Art, who had many. The one possessednothing to excite envy, and never gave offence; the other, by the verysuperiority of his natural powers, exultingly paraded, as they were, atthe expense of dulness or unsuccessful rivalry, created many vindictivemaligners, who let no opportunity pass of giving him behind his back theharsh word which they durst not give him to his face. In spite of allthis, his acknowledged superiority, his generosity, his candor, andutter ignorance or hatred of the low chicaneries of youthful cunning, joined to his open, intrepid, and manly character, conspired to renderhim popular in an extraordinary degree. Nay, his very failings addedto this, and when the battle of his character was fought, all thetraditionary errors of moral life were quoted in his favor. 

"Ay, ay, the boy has his faults, and who has not; I'd be glad to know?If he's lively, it's betther to be that, than a mosey, any day. Hisbrother Frank is a good boy, but sure divil a squig of spunk or spiritsis in him, an', my dear, you know the ould proverb, that a standin'pool always stinks, while the runnin' strame is sweet and clear to thebottom. If he's proud, he has a right to be proud, and why shouldn't he, seein' that it's well known he could take up more larnin' than half theschool. "

"Well, but poor Frank's a harmless boy, and never gave offence tomortual, which, by the same token, is more than can be said of Art thelad. "

"Very well, we know all that; and maybe it 'ud be betther for himselfif he had a sharper spice of the dioual in him--but sure the poor boyhasn't the brain for it. Offence! oh, the dickens may seize the offencepoor Frank will give to man or woman, barrin' he mends his manners, andgats a little life into him--sure he was a year and a day in the FiveCommon Rules, an' three blessed weeks gettin' the Multiplication Table. "

Such, in general, was the estimate formed of their respectivecharacters, by those who, of course, had an opportunity of knowing thembest. Whether the latter were right or wrong will appear in the sequel, but in the meantime we must protest, even in this early stage of ournarrative, against those popular exhibitions of mistaken sympathy, whichin early life--the most dangerous period too--are felt and expressedfor those who, in association with weak points of character, give strongindications of talent. This mistaken generosity is pernicious to theindividual, inasmuch as it confirms him in the very errors which heshould correct, and in the process of youthful reasoning, which ismost selfish, induces him not only to doubt the whisperings of hisown conscience, but to substitute in their stead the promptings of thesilliest vanity. 

Having thus given a rapid sketch of these two brothers in theirschoolboy life, we now come to that period at which their father thoughtproper to apprentice them. The choice of the trade he left to their ownnatural judgment, and as Frank was the eldest, he was allowed to choosefirst. He immediately selected that of a carpenter, as being clean, respectable, and within-doors; and, as he added--

"Where the wages is good--and then I'm tould that one can work aftherhours, if they wish. "

"Very well, " said the father, "now let us hear, Art; come, alanna, whatare you on for?"

"I'll not take any trade, " replied Art. 

"Not take any trade, Art! why, my goodness, sure you knew all along thatyou war for a trade. Don't you know when you and Frank grow up, and, ofcourse, must take the world on your heads, that it isn't this strip of afarm that you can depend on. "

"That's what I think of, " said Frank; "one's not to begin the world widempty pockets, or, any way, widout some ground to put one's foot on. "

"The world!" rejoined Art; "why, what the sorra puts thoughts o' theworld into your head, Frank? Isn't it time enough for you or me to thinko' the world these ten years to come?"

"Ay, " replied Frank, "but when we come to join it isn't the time tobegin to think of it; don't you know what the ould saying says--_ha nhala na guiha la na scuillaba_--it isn't on the windy day that you are tolook for your scollops. "*

 * The proverb inculcates forethought and provision. Scollop is an osier sharpened at both ends, by which the thatch of a house is fastened down to the roof. Of a windy day the thatch alone would be utterly useless, if there were no scollops to keep it firm. 

"An' what 'ud prevent you, Art, from goin' to larn a trade?" asked hisfather. 

"I'd rather stay with you, " replied the affectionate boy; "I don't liketo leave you nor the family, to be goin' among strangers. "

The unexpected and touching nature of his motive, so different from whatwas expected, went immediately to his father's heart. He looked at hisfine boy, and was silent for a minute, after which he wiped the moisturefrom his eyes. Art, on seeing his father affected, became so himself, and added--

"That's my only raison, father, for not goin'; I wouldn't like to laveyou an' them, if I could help it. "

"Well, acushla, " replied the father, while his eyes beamed on him withtenderness and affection, "sure we wouldn't ax you to go, if we couldany way avoid it--it's for your own good we do it. Don't refuse to go, Art; sure for my sake you won't?"

"I will go, then, " he replied; "I'll go for your sake, but I'll miss youall. "

"An' we'll miss you, ahagur. God bless you, Art dear, it's jist likeyou. Ay, will we in throth miss you; but, then, think what a brave finething it'll be for you to have a grip of a dacent independent trade, that'll keep your feet out o' the dirt while you live. "

"I will go, " repeated Art, "but as for the trade, I'll have none butFrank's. I'll be a carpenter, for then he and I can be together. "

In addition to the affectionate motive which Art had mentioned to hisfather--and which was a true one--as occasioning his reluctance to learna trade, there was another, equally strong and equally tender. In theimmediate neighborhood there lived a family named Murray, between whomand the Maguires there subsisted a very kindly intimacy. Jemmy Murraywas in fact one of the wealthiest men in that part of the parish, aswealth then was considered--that is to say, he farmed about forty acres, which he held at a moderate rent, and as he was both industrious andfrugal, it was only a matter of consequence that he and his were wellto do in the world. It is not likely, however, that even a passingacquaintance would ever have taken place between them, were it not forthe consideration of the blood which was known to flow in the veinsof the Fermanagh Maguires. Murray was a good deal touched withpurse-pride--the most offensive and contemptible description of pridein the world--and would never have suffered an intimacy, were it not forthe reason I have alleged. It is true he was not a man of such stainlessintegrity as Condy Maguire, because it was pretty well known that inthe course of his life, while accumulating money, he was said tohave stooped to practices that were, to say the least of them, highlydiscreditable. For instance, he always held over his meal, until therecame what is unfortunately both too well known and too well felt inIreland, --a dear year--a year of hunger, starvation, and famine. For thesame reason he held over his hay, and indeed on passing his haggard youwere certain to perceive three or four immense stacks, bleached by thesun and rain of two or three seasons into a tawny yellow. Go into hislarge kitchen or storehouse, and you saw three or four immensedeal chests filled with meal, which was reserved for a season ofscarcity--for, proud as Farmer Murray was, he did not disdain to fattenupon human misery. Between these two families there was, as we havesaid, an intimacy. It was wealth and worldly goods on the one side;integrity and old blood on the other. Be this as it may, Farmer Murrayhad a daughter, Margaret, the youngest of four, who was much about theage of Arthur Maguire. Margaret was a girl whom it was almost impossibleto know and not to love. Though then but seventeen, her figure was full, rich, and beautifully formed. Her abundant hair was black and glossy asebony, and her skin, which threw a lustre like ivory itself, had--notthe whiteness of snow--but a whiteness a thousand times more natural--awhiteness that was fresh, radiant, and spotless. She was arch and fullof spirits, but her humor--for she possessed it in abundance--was soartless, joyous, and innocent, that the heart was taken with it beforeone had time for reflection. Added, however, to this charming vivacityof temperament were many admirable virtues, and a fund of deep andfervent feeling, which, even at that early period of her life, had madeher name beloved by every one in the parish, especially the poor anddestitute. The fact is, she was her father's favorite daughter, and hecould deny her nothing. The admirable girl was conscious of this, butinstead of availing herself of his affection for her in a way thatmany--nay, we may say, most--would have done, for purposes of dress orvanity, she became an interceding angel for the poor and destitute; andclosely as Murray loved money, yet it is due to him to say, that, onthese occasions, she was generally successful. Indeed, he was so farfrom being insensible to his daughter's noble virtues, that he feltpride in reflecting that she possessed them, and gave aid ten timesfrom that feeling for once that he did from a more exalted one. Suchwas Margaret Murray, and such, we are happy to say--for we know it--arethousands of the peasant girls of our country. 

It was not to be wondered at, then, that in addition to the reluctancewhich a heart naturally affectionate, like Art's, should feel on leavinghis relations for the first time, he should experience much secretsorrow at being deprived of the society of this sweet and winning girl. 

Matters now, however, were soon arranged, and the time, nay, the veryday for their departure was appointed. Art, though deeply smitten withthe charms of Margaret Murray, had never yet ventured to breathe to hera syllable of love, being deterred naturally enough by the distance inpoint of wealth which existed between the families. Not that this alone, perhaps, would have prevented him from declaring his affection for her;but, young as he was, he had not been left unimpressed by his father'shereditary sense of the decent pride, strict honesty, and independentspirit, which should always mark the conduct and feelings of any onedescended from the great Fermanagh Maguires. He might, therefore, probably have spoken, but that his pride dreaded a repulse, and that hecould not bear to contemplate. This, joined to the natural diffidence ofyouth, sufficiently accounts for his silence. 

There lived, at the period of which we write, which is not a thousandyears ago, at a place called "the Corner House, " a celebrated carpenternamed Jack M'Carroll. He was unquestionably a first-rate mechanic, kepta large establishment, and had ample and extensive business. To him hadArt and Frank been apprenticed, and, indeed, a better selection couldnot have been made, for Jack was not only a good workman himself, but anexcellent employer, and an honest man. An arrangement had been enteredinto with a neighboring farmer regarding their board and lodging, so that every thing was settled very much to the satisfaction of allparties. 

When the day of their departure had at length arrived, Art felt hisaffections strongly divided, but without being diminished, betweenMargaret Murray and his family; while Frank, who was calm andthoughtful, addressed himself to the task of getting ready such luggageas they had been provided with. 

"Frank, " said Art, "don't you think we ought to go and bid farewell to afew of our nearest neighbors before we lave home?"

"Where's the use of that?" asked Frank; "not a bit, Art; the best planis jist to bid our own people farewell, and slip away without noise ornonsense. "

"You may act as you plaise, Frank, " replied the other; "as for me, I'llcall on Jemmy Hanlon and Tom Connolly, at all events; but hould, " saidhe, abruptly, "ought I to do that? Isn't it their business to come tous?"

"It is, " replied Frank, "and so they would too, but that they thinkwe won't start till Thursday; for you know we didn't intend to go tillthen. "

"Well, " said Art, "that's a horse of another color: I will call on them. Wouldn't they think it heartless of us to go off widout seein' them? An'besides, Frank, why should we steal away like thieves that had the hueand cry at their heels? No, faith, as sure as we go at all, we'll goopenly, an' like men that have nothing to be afraid of. "

"Very well, " replied his brother, "have it your own way, so far asyou're consarned, as for me, I look upon it all as mere nonsense. "

It is seldom that honest and manly affection fails to meet its reward, be the period soon or late. Had Art been guided by Frank's apparentindifference--who, however, acted in this matter solely for the sake ofsparing his brother's feelings--he would have missed the opportunity ofbeing a party to an incident which influenced his future life in all heever afterwards enjoyed and suffered. He had gone, as he said, to bidfarewell to his neighbors, and was on his return home in order to takehis departure, when whom should he meet on her way to her father'shouse, after having called at his father's "to see the girls, " as shesaid, with a slight emphasis upon the word girls, but Margaret Murray. 

As was natural, and as they had often done before under similarcircumstances, each paused on meeting, but somehow on this occasionthere was visible on both sides more restraint than either had ever yetshown. At length, the preliminary chat having ceased, a silence ensued, which, after a little time, was broken by Margaret, who, Art couldperceive, blushed deeply as she spoke. 

"So, Art, you and Frank are goin' to lave us. "

"It's not with my own consint I'm goin', Margaret, " he replied. As heuttered the words he looked at her; their eyes met, but neither couldstand the glance of the other; they were instantly withdrawn. 

"I'll not forget my friends, at all events, " said Art; "at least, there's some o' them I won't, nor wouldn't either, if I was to get amillion o' money for doin' so. "

Margaret's face and neck, on hearing this, were in one glow of crimson, and she kept her eyes still on the ground, but made no reply. Atlength she raised them, and their glances met again; in that glance theconsciousness of his meaning was read by both, the secret was disclosed, and their love told. 

The place where they stood was in one of those exquisitely wild butbeautiful green country lanes that are mostly enclosed on each sideby thorn hedges, and have their sides bespangled with a profusionof delicate and fragrant wild flowers, while the pathway, from theunfrequency of feet, is generally covered with short daisy-gemmed grass, with the exception of a trodden line in the middle that is made solelyby foot-passengers. Such was the sweet spot in which they stood at themoment the last glance took place between them. 

At length Margaret spoke, but why was it that her voice was such musicto him now? Musical and sweet it always was, and he had heard it athousand times before, but why, we ask, was it now so delicious to hisear, so ecstatic to his heart? Ah, it was that sweet, entrancing littlecharm which trembled up from her young and beating heart, through itssoftest intonations; this low tremor it was that confirmed the talewhich the divine glance of that dark, but soft and mellow eye, had justtold him. But to proceed, at length she spoke--

"Arthur, " said the innocent girl, unconscious that she was about to doan act for which many will condemn her, "before you go, and I know Iwill not have an opportunity of seein' you again, will you accept of akeepsake from me?"

[Illustration: PAGE AM994-- At length Margaret spoke]

"Will I? oh, Margaret, Margaret!"--he gazed at her, but could notproceed, his heart was too full. 

"Take this, " said she, "and keep it for my sake. "

Ho took it out of her hand, he seized the hand itself, another glance, and they sank into each other's arms, each trembling with an excess ofhappiness. Margaret wept. This gush of rapture relieved and lightenedtheir young and innocent hearts, and Margaret having withdrawnherself from his arms, they could now speak more freely. It is not ourintention, however, to detail their conversation, which may easily beconjectured by our readers. On looking at the keepsake, Art found thatit was a tress of her rich and raven hair, which, we may add here, hetied about his heart that day, and on that heart, or rather the dust ofthat heart, it lies on this. 

It was fortunate for Art that he followed! his brother's judgment inselecting the same trade. Frank, we have said, notwithstanding hiscoldness of manner, was by no means deficient in feeling or affection;he possessed, however, the power of suppressing their externalmanifestations, a circumstance which not unfrequently occasioned it tohappen that want of feeling was often imputed to him without any justcause. At all events, he was a guide, a monitor, and a friend to hisbrother, whom he most sincerely and affectionately loved; he kindlypointed out to him his errors, matured his judgment by sound practicaladvice: where it was necessary, he gave him the spur, and on other, occasions held him in. Art was extremely well-tempered, as was Frankalso, so that it was impossible any two brothers could agree better, orlive in more harmony than they did. In truth, he had almost succeededin opening Art's eyes to the weak points in his character, especiallyto the greatest, and most dangerous of all--his vanity, or insatiableappetite for praise. They had not been long in M'Carroll's establishmentwhen the young man's foibles were soon seen through, and of course beganto be played upon; Frank, however, like a guardian angel, was always athand to advise or defend him, as the case might be, and as both, in aphysical contest, were able and willing to fight their own battles, weneed not say that in a short time their fellow-workmen ceased to playoff their pranks upon either of them. Everything forthwith passed verysmoothly; Art's love for Margaret Murray was like an apple of gold inhis heart, a secret treasure of which the world knew nothing; they saweach other at least once a month, when their vows were renewed, and, surely, we need not say, that their affection on each subsequentinterview only became more tender and enduring. 

The period of Frank's and Art's apprenticeship had now nearly expired, and it is not too much to say that their conduct reflected the highestcredit upon themselves. Three or four times, we believe, Art had beenseduced, in the absence of his brother, by the influence of bad company, to indulge in drink, even to intoxication. This, during the greater partof a whole apprenticeship, considering his temperament, and the almostdaily temptations by which he was beset, must be admitted on the wholeto be a very moderate amount of error in that respect. On the morningafter his last transgression, however, apprehending very naturally astrong remonstrance from his brother, he addressed him as follows, inanticipation of what he supposed Frank was about to say:--

"Now, Frank, I know you're goin' to scould me, and what is more, I knowI disarve all you could say to me; but there's one thing you don't know, an' that is what I suffer for lettin' myself be made a fool of lastnight. Afther the advices you have so often given me, and afther whatmy father so often tould us to think of ourselves, and afther the solemnpromises I made to you--and that I broke, I feel as if I was nothin'more or less than a disgrace to the name. "

"Art, " said the other, "I'm glad to hear you speak as you do; for it'sa proof that repentance is in your heart. I suppose I needn't say thatit's your intention not to be caught be these fellows again. "

"By the sacred--"

"Whisht, " said Frank, clapping his hand upon his mouth; "there's no useat all in rash oaths, Art. If your mind is made up honestly and firmlyin the sight of God--and dependin' upon his assistance, that is enough--and a great deal betther, too, than a rash oath made in a sudden fitof repentance--ay, before you're properly recovered from your liquor. Now say no more, only promise me you won't do the like, again. "

"Frank, listen to me--by all the--"

"Hould, Art, " replied Frank, stopping him again; "I tell you once more, this rash swearin' is a bad sign--I'll hear no rash oaths; but listenyou to me; if your mind is made up against drinkin' this way again, jistlook me calmly and steadily in the face, and answer me simply by yesor no. Now take your time, an' don't be in a hurry--be cool--becalm--reflect upon what you're about to say; and whether it's yoursolemn and serious intention to abide by it. My question 'll be veryshort and very simple; your answer, as I said, will be merely yes or no. Will you ever allow these fellows to make you drunk again? Yes or no, an' not another word. "

"No. "

"That will do, " said Frank; "now give me your hand, and a single wordupon what has passed you will never hear from me. "

In large manufactories, and in workshops similar to that in which thetwo brothers were now serving their apprenticeship, almost everyone knows that the drunken and profligate entertain an unaccountableantipathy against the moral and the sober. Art's last fit ofintoxication was not only a triumph over himself, but, what was stillmore, a triumph over his brother, who had so often prevented him fromfalling into their snares and joining in their brutal excesses. Itso happened, however, that about this precise period, Art had, unfortunately, contracted an intimacy with one of the class I speak of, an adroit fellow with an oily tongue, vast powers of flattery, andstill greater powers of bearing liquor--for Frank could observe, thatnotwithstanding all their potations, he never on any occasionobserved him affected by drink, a circumstance which raised him in hisestimation, because he considered that he was rather an obliging, civilyoung fellow, who complied so far as to give these men his society, butyet had sufficient firmness to resist the temptations to drink beyondthe bounds of moderation. The upshot of all this was, that Frank, notentertaining any suspicion particularly injurious to Harte, for suchwas his name, permitted his brother to associate with him much morefrequently than he would have done, had he even guessed at his realcharacter. 

One day, about a month after the conversation which we have justdetailed between the two brothers, the following conversation took placeamong that class of the mechanics whom we shall term the profligates:--

"So he made a solemn promise, Harte, to _Drywig_"--this was a nicknamethey had for Frank--"that he'd never smell liquor again. "

"A most solemnious promise, " said Harte ironically; "a most solemn andsolemnious promise; an' only that I know he's not a Methodist, I coulda'most mistake him for Paddy M'Mahon, the locality preacher, when hetould me--"

"Paddy M'Mahon!" exclaimed Skinadre, the first speaker, a little thinfellow, with white hair and red ferret eyes; "why, who the divil everheard of a Methodist Praicher of the name of Paddy M'Mahon?"

"It's aisy known, " observed a fellow named, or rather nicknamed, JackSlanty, in consequence of a deformity in his leg, that gave him theappearance of leaning or slanting to the one side; "it's aisy known, Skinadre, that you're not long in this part of the country, or you'd notax who Paddy M'Mahon is. "

"Come, Slanty, never mind Paddy M'Mahon, " said another of them; "hereceived the gift of grace in the shape of a purty Methodist wife anda good fortune; ay, an' a sweet love-faist he had of it; he dropped thePadereens over Solomon's Bridge, and tuck to the evenin' meetins--that'senough for you to know; and now, Harte, about Maguire?"

"Why, " said Harte, "if I'm not allowed to edge in a word, I had betthercut. "

"A most solemn promise, you say?"

"A most solemn and solemnious promise, that was what I said; never againby night or day, wet or dry, high or low, in or out, up or down, hereor there, to--to--get himself snimicated wid any liquorary fluidwhatsomever, be the same more or less, good, bad, or indifferent, hot orcould, thick or thin, black or white--"

"Have done, Harte; quit your cursed sniftherin', an' spake like aChristian; do you think you can manage to circumsniffle him agin?"

"Ay, " said Harte, "or any man that ever trod on neat's leather--barrin'one. "

"And who is that one?"

"That one, sir--that one--do you ax me who that one is?"

"Have you no ears? To be sure I do. "

"Then, Skinadre, I'll tell you--I'll tell you, sarra, "--we ought to addhere, that Harte was a first-rate mimic, and was now doing a drunkenman, --"I'll tell you, sarra--that person was Nelson on the top of themonument in Sackville street--no--no--I'm wrong; I could make poor ouldHorace drunk any time, an' often did--an' many a turn-tumble he got offthe monument at night, and the divil's own throuble I had in gettin' himup on it before mornin', bekaise you all know he'd be cashiered, or, anyway, brought to coort martial for leavin' his po-po-post. "

"Well, if Nelson's not the man, who is?"

"_Drywig's_ his name, " replied Harte; "you all know one _Drywig_, don'tyou?"

"Quit your cursed stuff, Harte, " said a new speaker, named Garvey; "ifyou think you can dose him, say so, and if not, let us have no more talkabout it. "

"Faith, an' it'll be a nice card to play, " replied Harte, resuming hisnatural voice; "but at all events, if you will all drop into Garvey'slodgins and mine, to-morrow evenin', you may find him there; but don'tblame me if I fail. "

"No one's goin' to blame you, " said Slanty, "an' the devil's own pity itis that that blasted _Drywig_ of a brother of his keeps him in leadin'strings the way he does. "

"The way I'll do is this: I'll ask him up to look at the pattern of mynew waistcoat, an' wanst I get him in, all I have to do is to lay it onthick. "

"I doubt that, " said another, who had joined them; "when he came herefirst, and for a long time afther, soapin' him might do; but I tell youhis eye's open--it's no go--he's wide awake now. "

"Shut your orifice, " said Harte; "lave the thing to me; 'twas I did itbefore, although he doesn't think so, an' it's I that will do it again, although he doesn't think so. Haven't I been for the last mortal monthguardin' him aginst yez, you villains?"

"To-morrow evenin'?"

"Ay, to-morrow evenin'; an' if we don't give him a gauliogue that'llmake him dance the circumbendibus widout music--never believe that myname's any thing else than Tom Thin, that got thick upon spring wather. Hello! there's the bell, boys, so mind what I tould yez; we'll give hima farewell benefit, if it was only for the sake of poor _Drywig_. Ah, poor _Drywig!_ how will he live widout him? Ochone, ochone! ha, ha, ha!"

Without at all suspecting the trap that had been set for him, Artattended his business as usual, till towards evening, when Harte took anopportunity, when he got him for a few minutes by himself, of speakingto him apparently in a careless and indifferent way. 

"Art, that's a nate patthern in your waistcoat; but any how, I dunnahow it is that you contrive to have every thing about you dacenter an'jinteeler than another. " This, by the way, was true, both of him and hisbrother. 

"Tut, it's but middlin', " said Art; "it's now but a has-been:--when itwas at itself it wasn't so bad. "

"Begad, it was lovely wanst; now; how do you account, Art, for bein'supairior to us in all in--in every thing, I may say; ay, begad, inevery thing, and in all things, for that's a point every one allows. "

"Nonsense, Syl" (his name was Sylvester), "don't be comin' it soft overme; how am I betther than any other?"

"Why, you're betther made, in the first place, than e'er a man amongus; in the next place, you're a betther workman;"--both these weretrue--"an', in the third place, you're the best lookin' of the wholepack; an' now deny these if you can:--eh, ha, ha, ha--my lad, I haveyou!"

An involuntary smile might be observed on Art's face at the lastobservation, which also was true. 

"Syl, " he replied, "behave yourself; what are you at now? I know you. "

"Know me!" exclaimed Syl; "why what do you know of me? Nothing that'sbad I hope, any way. "

"None of your palaver, at all events, " replied Art; "have you got anytobaccy about you?"

"Sorra taste, " replied Harte, "nor had since mornin'. "

"Well, I have then, " said Art, pulling out a piece, and throwing it tohim with the air of a superior; "warm your gums wid that, for altho' Iseldom take a blast myself, I don't forget them that do. "

"Ah, begorra, " said Harte, in an undertone that was designed to beheard, "there's something in the ould blood still; thank you, Art, faixit's yourself that hasn't your heart in a trifle, nor ever had. I boughta waistcoat on Saturday last from Paddy M'Gartland, but I only tuck iton the condition of your likin' it. "

"Me! ha, ha, ha, well, sure enough, Syl, you're the quarest fellowalive; why, man, isn't it yourself you have to plaise, not me. "

"No matther for that, I'm not goin' to put my judgment in comparishmentwid yours, at any rate; an' Paddy M'Gartland himself said, 'Syl, my boy, you know what you're about; if this patthern plaises Art Maguire, it'llplaise anybody; see what it is, ' says he, 'to have the fine high ouldblood in one's veins. ' Begad he did; will you come up this evenin' aboutseven o'clock, now, like a good fellow, an' pass your opinion for me?Divil a dacent stitch I have, an' I want either it, or another, made upbefore the ball night. "*

 * Country dances, or balls, in which the young men pay from ten to fifteen pence for whiskey "to trate the ladies. " We hope they will be abolished. 

"Well, upon my soundhers, Syl, I did not think you were such a fool; ofcoorse I'll pass my opinion on it--about seven o'clock, you say. "

"About seven--thank you, Art; an' now listen;--sure the boys intind toplay off some prank upon you afore you lave us. "

"On me, " replied the other, reddening; "very well, Syl, let them doso; I can bear a joke, or give a blow, as well as another; so divil maycare, such as they give, such as they'll get--only this, let there beno attempt to make me drink whiskey, or else there may be harder hittin'than some o' them 'ud like, an' I think they ought to know that by thistime. "

"By jing, they surely ought; well, but can you spell mum?"

"M-u-m. "

"Ha, ha, ha, take care of yourself, an' don't forget seven. "

"Never fear. "

"Frank, " said Art, "I'm goin' up to Syl Harte's lodgin's to pass myopinion on the patthern of a waistcoat for him. "

"Very well, " said Frank, "of coorse. "

"I'll not stop long. "

"As long or short as you like, Art, my boy. "

"I hope, Frank, you don't imagine that there's any danger of drink?"

"Who, me--why should I, afther what passed? Didn't you give me yourword, and isn't your name Maguire? Not I. "

Art had seen, and approved of the pattern, and was chatting with Syl, when a knock came to the room door in which they sat; Syl rose, andopening the door, immediately closed it after him, and began in a lowvoice to remonstrate with some persons outside. At length Art could hearthe subject of debate pretty well--

"Sorra foot yez will put inside the room this evenin', above allevenin's in the year. "

"Why, sure we know he won't drink. I wish to goodness we knew he hadbeen here; we wouldn't ax him to drink, bekase we know he wouldn't. 

"No matther for that, sorrow foot yez'll put acrass the thrashel thisevenin'; now, I'll toll you what, Skinadre, I wouldn't this blessedminute, for all I've earned these six months, that ye came thisevenin';--I have my raisons for it; Art Maguire is a boy that we have noright to compare ourselves wid--you all know that. "

"We all know it, and there's nobody denyin' it; we haven't the blood inour veins that he has, an' blood will show itself anywhere. "

"Well then, boys, for his sake--an' I know you'd do any day for his sakewhat you wouldn't, nor what you oughtn't, for mine--for his sake, I say, go off wid yez, and bring your liquor somewhere else, or sure wait tillto-morrow evenin'. "

"Out of respect for Art Maguire we'll go; an' divil another boy in theprovince we'd pay that respect to; good-evenin', Syl!"

"Aisy, boys, " said Art, coming to the door, "don't let me frightenyou--come in--I'd be very sorry to be the means of spoilin' sport, although I can't drink myself; that wouldn't be generous--come in. "

"Augh, " said Skinadre, "by the livin' it's in him, an' I always knew itwas--the rale drop. "

"Boys, " said Harte, "go off wid yez out o' this, I say; divil a footyou'll come in. "

"Arra go to--Jimmaiky; who cares about you, Syl, when we have Art'sliberty? Sure we didn't know the thing ourselves half an hour ago. "

"Come, Syl, man alive, " said Art, "let the poor fellows enjoy theirliquor, an', as I can't join yez, I'll take my hat an' be off. "

"I knew it, an' bad luck to yez, how yez 'ud drive him away, " said Syl, quite angry. 

"Faix, if we disturb you, Art, we're off--that 'ud be too bad; yes, Syl, you were right, it was very thoughtless of us: Art, we ax your pardon, sorra one of us meant you any offence in life--come, boys. "

Art's generosity was thus fairly challenged, and he was not to beoutdone--

"Aisy, boys, " said he; "sit down; I'll not go, if that'll plaise yez;sure you'll neither eat me nor dhrink me. "

"Well, there's jist one word you said, Slanty, that makes me submit toit, " observed Harte, "an' that is, that it was accident your comin' atall;" he here looked significantly at Art, as if to remind him of theirprevious conversation on that day, and as he did it, his face graduallyassumed a complacent expression, as much as to say, it's now clear thatthis cannot be the trap they designed for you, otherwise it wouldn't beaccidental. Art understood him, and returned a look which satisfied theother that he did so. 

As they warmed in their liquor, or pretended to get warm, many slyattempts to entrap him were made, every one of which was openly andindignantly opposed by Harte, who would not suffer them to offer him adrop. 

It is not our intention to dwell upon these matters: at present it issufficient to say, that after a considerable part of the evening hadbeen spent, Harte rose up, and called upon them all to fill theirglasses--

"And, " he added, "as this is a toast that ought always to bring a fullglass to the mouth, and an empty one from it, I must take the liberty ofaxin Art himself to fill a bumper. "

The latter looked at him with a good deal of real surprise, as theothers did with that which was of a very different description. 

"Skinadre, " proceeded Harte, "will you hand over the cowld wather, fora bumper it must be, if it was vitriol. " He then filled Art's glass withwater, and proceeded--"Stand up, boys, and be proud, as you have aright to be; here's the health of Frank Maguire, and the ould blood ofIreland!--hip, hip, hurra!"

"Aisy, boys, " said Art, whose heart was fired by this unexpectedcompliment, paid to a brother whom he loved so well, and who, indeed, so well, deserved his love; "aisy, boys, " he proceeded, "hand me thewhiskey; if it was to be my last, I'll never drink my brother's healthin cowld wather. "

"Throth an' you will this time, " said Harte, "undher this roof spiritswon't crass; your lips, an' you know for why. "

"I know but one thing, " replied Art, "that as you said yourself, if itwas vitriol, I'd dhrink it for the best brother that ever lived; I onlypromised him that I wouldn't get dhrunk, an' sure, drinkin' a glass o'whiskey, or three either, wouldn't make me dhrunk--so hand it here. "

"Well, Art, " said Harte, "there's one man you can't blame for this, andthat is Syl Harte. "

"No, Syl, never--but now, boys, I am ready. "

"Frank Maguire's health! hip, hip, hurra!"

Thus was a fine, generous-minded, and affectionate young man--whopossessed all the candor and absence of suspicion which characterizetruth--tempted and triumphed over, partly through the very warmth ofhis own affections, by a set of low, cunning profligates, who felt onlyanxious to drag him down from the moral superiority which they felthe possessed. That he was vain, and fond of praise, they knew, and ourreaders may also perceive that it was that unfortunate vanity whichgave them the first advantage over him, by bringing him, through itsinfluence, among them. Late that night he was carried home on a door, ina state of unconscious intoxication. 

It is utterly beyond our power to describe the harrowing state ofhis sensations on awakening the next morning. Abasement, repentance, remorse, all combined as they were within him, fall far short of whathe felt; he was degraded in his own eyes, deprived of self-respect, andstripped of every claim to the confidence of his brother, as he wasto the well-known character for integrity which had been until theninseparable from the name. That, however, which pressed upon him withthe most intense bitterness was the appalling reflection that he couldno longer depend upon himself, nor put any trust in his own resolutions. Of what use was he in the world without a will of his own, and the powerof abiding by its decisions? None; yet what was to be done? He could notlive out of the world, and wherever he went, its temptations would besethim. Then there was his beloved Margaret Murray! was he to make her thewife of a common drunkard? or did she suspect, when she pledged herselfto him, that she was giving away her heart and affections to a poorunmanly sot, who had not sense or firmness to keep himself sober? Hefelt in a state between distraction and despair, and putting his handsover his face, he wept bitterly. To complete the picture, his veinsstill throbbed with the dry fever that follows intoxication, his stomachwas in a state of deadly sickness and loathing, and his head feltexactly as if it would burst or fly asunder. 

Alas! had his natural character been properly understood and judiciouslymanaged; had he been early taught to understand and to control hisown obvious errors; had the necessity of self-reliance, firmness, andindependence been taught him; had his principles not been enfeebledby the foolish praise of his family, nor his vanity inflated by theirsenseless appeals to it--it is possible, nay, almost certain, that hewould, even at this stage of his life, have been completely freefrom the failings which are beginning even now to undermine the wholestrength of his moral constitution. 

Frank's interview with him on this occasion was short but significant--

"Art, " said he, "you know I never was a man of many words; and I'mnot goin' to turn over a new lafe now. To scould you is not myintention--nor to listen to your promises. All I have to say is, thatyou have broken your word, and disgraced your name. As for me, I can putneither confidence nor trust in you any longer; neither will I. "

A single tear was visible on his cheek as he passed out of the room;and when he did, Art's violent sobs were quite audible. Indeed, if truthmust be told, Frank's distress was nearly equal to his brother's. What, however, was to be done? He was too ill to attend his business, a circumstance which only heightened his distress; for he knew thatdifficult as was the task of encountering his master, and those whowould only enjoy his remorse, still even that was less difficult tobe borne than the scourge of his own reflections. At length a thoughtoccurred, which appeared to give him some relief; that thought he feltwas all that now remained to him, for as it was clear that he could nolonger depend on himself, it was necessary that he should find somethingelse on which to depend. He accordingly sent an intimation to his masterthat he wished to have a few minutes' conversation with him, if he couldspare time; M'Carroll accordingly came, and found him in a state whichexcited the worthy man's compassion. 

"Well, Art, " said he, "what is it you wish to speak to me about? I hearyou were drunk last night. Now I thought you had more sense than to letthese fellows put you into such a pickle. I have a fine, well-conductedset of men in general; but there is among them a hardened, hackneyedcrew, who, because they are good workmen, don't care a curse abouteither you or me, or anybody else. They're always sure of employment, ifnot here, at least elsewhere, or, indeed, anywhere. "

"But it wasn't their fault, " replied Art, "it was altogether my own;they were opposed to my drinkin' at all, especially as they knew that Ipromised Frank never to get drunk agin. It was when Syl Harte proposedFrank's health, that I drank the whiskey in spite o' them. "

"Syl Harte, " said his master with a smile, "ay, I was thinkin' so; well, no matter, Art, have strength and resolution not to do the like again. "

"But that's the curse, sir, " replied the young man, "I have neither theone nor the other, and it's on that account I sent for you. "

"How is that, Art?"

"Why, " said the other, "I am goin' to bind myself--I am goin' to swearagainst it, and so to make short work of it, and for fraid any one mightprevent me"--he blessed himself, and proceeded--"I now, in the presenceof God, swear upon this blessed manwil (* Manual) that a drop ofspirituous drink, or liquor of any kind, won't cross my lips for thenext seven years, barrin' it may be necessary as medicine;" he thenkissed the book three times, blessed himself again, and sat downconsiderably relieved. 

"Now, " he added, "you may tell them what I've done; that's seven years'freedom, thank God; for I wouldn't be the slave of whiskey--the greatestof tyrants--for the wealth of Europe. "

"No, but the worst of it is, Art, " replied his m ister, who was anexceedingly shrewd man, "that whiskey makes a man his own tyrant andhis own slave, both at the same time, and that's more than the greatesttyrant that ever lived did yet. As for yourself, you're not fit to workany this day, so I think you ought to take a stretch across the country, and walk off the consequence of your debauch with these fellows lastnight. "

Art now felt confidence and relief; he had obtained the very precise aidof which he stood in need. The danger was now over, and a prop placedunder his own feeble resolution, on which he could depend with safety;here there could be no tampering with temptation; the matter was clear, explicit, and decisive: so far all was right, and, as we have said, hisconscience felt relieved of a weighty burden. 

His brother, on hearing it from his own lips, said little, yet thatlittle was not to discourage him; he rather approved than otherwise, butavoided expressing any very decided opinion on it, one way or the other. 

"It's a pity, " said he, "that want of common resolution should drivea man to take an oath; if you had tried your own strength, a littlefarther, Art, who knows but you might a' gained a victory without it, and that would be more creditable and manly than swearin'; still, thetemptation to drink is great to some people, and this prevents allpossibility of fallin' into it. "

Art, who, never having dealt in any thing disingenuous himself, was slowto credit duplicity in others, did not once suspect that the profligateshad played him off this trick, rather to annoy the brother than himself. It was, after all, nothing but the discreditable triumph of cunning anddebased minds, over the inexperience, or vanity, if you will, of one, who, whatever his foibles might be, would himself scorn to take anungenerous advantage of confidence reposed in him in consequence of hisgood opinion and friendly feeling. 

The period of their apprenticeship, however, elapsed, and the day atlength arrived for their departure from the Corner House. Their master, and, we may add, their friend, solicited them to stop with him still asjourneymen; but, as each had a different object in view, they declinedit. Art proposed to set up for himself, for it was indeed but naturalthat one whose affections had been now so long engaged, should wish, with as little delay as possible, to see himself possessed of a hometo which he might bring his betrothed wife. Frank had not trusted tochance, or relied merely upon vague projects, like his brother; for, some time previous to the close of his apprenticeship, he had beenquietly negotiating the formation of a partnership with a carpenter whowanted a steady man at the helm. The man had capital himself, andwas clever enough in his way, but then he was illiterate, and utterlywithout method in conducting his affairs; Frank was therefore theidentical description of person he stood in need of, and, as theintegrity of his family was well known--that integrity which theyfelt so anxious to preserve without speck--there was of course littleobstruction in the way of their coming to terms. 

On the morning of the day on which they left his establishment, M'Carroll came into the workshop while they were about bidding farewellto their companions, with whom they had lived--abating the three or fourpranks that were played off upon Art--on good and friendly terms, andseeing that they were about to take their departure, he addressed themas follows:--

"I need not say, " he proceeded, "that I regret you are leaving me; whichI do, for, without meaning any disrespect to those present, I am boundto acknowledge that two better workmen, or two honester young men, werenever in my employment. Art, indeed is unsurpassed, considering histime, and that he is only closing his apprenticeship: 'tis true, he hashad good opportunities--opportunities which, I am happy to say, he hasnever neglected. I am in the habit, as you both know, of addressinga few words of advice to my young men at the close of theirapprenticeships, and when they are entering upon the world as you arenow. I will therefore lay down a few simple rules for your guidance, and, perhaps, by following them, you will find yourselves neither theworse nor the poorer men. 

"Let the first principle then of your life, both as mechanics, and men, be truth--truth in all you think, in all you say, and in all you do; ifthis should fail to procure you the approbation of the world, it willnot fail to procure you your own, and, what is better, that of God. Letyour next principle be industry--honest, fair, legitimate industry, towhich you ought to annex punctuality--for industry withoutpunctuality is but half a virtue. Let your third great principle besobriety--strict and undeviating sobriety; a mechanic without sobriety, so far from being a benefit or an ornament to society, as he ought tobe, is a curse and a disgrace to it; within the limits of sobriety allthe rational enjoyments of life are comprised, and without them areto be found all those which desolate society with crime, indigence, sickness, and death. In maintaining sobriety in the world, andespecially among persons of your own class, you will certainly have muchto contend with; remember that firmness of character, when acting uponright feeling and good sense, will enable you to maintain and work outevery virtuous and laudable purpose which you propose to effect. Do not, therefore, suffer yourselves to be shamed from sobriety, or, indeed, from any other moral duty, by the force of ridicule; neither, on theother hand, must you be seduced into it by flattery, or the transientgratification of social enjoyment. I have, in fact, little further toadd; you are now about to become members of society, and to assumemore distinctly the duties which it imposes on you. Discharge them allfaithfully--do not break your words, but keep your promises, and respectyourselves, remember that self-respect is a very different thingfrom pride, or an empty overweening vanity--self-respect is, in fact, altogether incompatible with them, as they are with it; like oppositequalities, they cannot abide in the same individual. Let me impressit on you, that these are the principles by which you must honorablysucceed in life, if you do succeed; while by neglecting them, you mustassuredly fail. 'Tis true, knavery and dishonesty are often successful, but it is by the exercise of fraudulent practices, which I amcertain you will never think of carrying into the business of life--Iconsequently dismiss this point altogether, as unsuitable to eitherof you. I have only to add, now, that I hope most sincerely you willobserve the few simple truths I have laid down to you; and I trust, thatere many years pass, I may live to see you both respectable, useful, and independent members of society. Farewell, and may you be all we wishyou!"

Whether this little code of useful doctrine was equally observed byboth, will appear in the course of our narrative. 

About a month or so before the departure of Frank and Art from theCorner House, Jemmy Murray and another man were one day in the beginningof May strolling through one of his pasture-fields. His companion wasa thin, hard-visaged little fellow, with a triangular face, and drybristly hair, very much the color of, and nearly as prickly as, awithered furze bush; both, indeed, were congenial spirits, for it isonly necessary to say, that he of the furze bush was another of thosecharital and generous individuals whose great delight consisted, likehis friend Murray, in watching the seasons, and speculating upon thefailure of the crops. He had the reputation of being wealthy, andin fact was so; indeed, of the two, those who had reason to know, considered that he held the weightier purse; his name was CooneyFinigan, and the object of his visit to Murray--their conversation, however, will sufficiently develop that. Both, we should observe, appeared to be exceedingly blank and solemn; Cooney's hard face, as hecast his eye about him, would have made one imagine that he had justburied the last of his family, and Murray looked as if he had a sonabout to be hanged. The whole cause of this was simply that a finerseason, nor one giving ampler promise of abundance, had not come withinthe memory of man. 

"Ah!" said Murray, with a sigh, "look, Cooney, at the distressin' growthof grass that's there--a foot high if it's an inch! If God hasn't sedit, there will be the largest and heaviest crops that ever was seen inthe country; heigho!"

"Well, but one can't have good luck always, " replied Cooney; "only it'sthe wondherful forwardness of the whate that's distressin' me. "

"An' do you think that I'm sufferin' nothin' on that account?" askedhis companion; "only you haven't three big stacks of hay waitin' for afailure, as I have. "

"That's bekase I have no meadow on my farm, " replied Cooney; "otherwiseI would be in the hay trade as well as yourself. "

"Well, God help us, Cooney! every one has their misfortunes as well asyou and I; sure enough, it's a bitther business to see how every thing'sthrivin'--hay, oats, and whate! why they'll be for a song: may I neverget a bad shillin', but the poor 'ill be paid for takin' them! that'sthe bitther pass things will come to; maurone ok! but it's a blacklookout!"

"An' this rain, too, " said Cooney, "so soft, and even, and small, andwarm, that it's playin' the very devil. Nothin' could stand it. Why itud make a rotten twig grow if it was put into the ground. "

"Divil a one o' me would like to make the third, " said Murray, "for'fraid I might have the misfortune to succeed. Death alive! Only thinkof my four arks, of meal, an' my three stacks of hay, an' divil a pileto come out of them for another twelve months!"

"It's bad, too bad, I allow, " said the other; "still let us not despair, man alive; who knows but the saison may change for the worse yet. Whish!" he exclaimed, slapping the side of his thigh, "hould up yourhead, Jemmy, I have thought of it; I have thought of it. "

"You have thought of what, Cooney?"

"Why, death alive, man, sure there's plenty of time, God be praised forit, for the--murdher, why didn't we think of it before? ha, ha, ha!"

"For the what, man? don't keep us longin' for it. "

"Why for the pratie crops to fail still; sure it's only the beginningo' May now, and who knows but we might have the happiness to see a rightgood general failure of the praties still? Eh? ha, ha, ha!"

"Upon my sounds, Cooney, you have taken a good deal of weight off of me. Faith we have the lookout of a bad potato crop yet, sure enough. How isthe wind? Don't you think you feel a little dry bitin' in it, as if itcame from the aist?"

"Why, then, in regard of the dead calm that's in it, I can't exactlysay--but, let me see--you're right, divil a doubt of it; faith it is, sure enough; bravo, Jemmy, who knows but all may go wrong wid the cropsyet. "

"At all events, let us have a glass on the head of it, and we'll drinkto the failure of the potato craps, and God prosper the aist wind, forit's the best for you an' me, Cooney, that's goin'. Come up to the houseabove, and we'll have a glass on the head of it. "

The fastidious reader may doubt whether any two men, no matter howgriping or rapacious, could prevail upon themselves to express to eachother sentiments so openly inimical to all human sympathy. In holdingthis dialogue, however, the men were only thinking aloud, and givingutterance to the wishes which every inhuman knave of their kind feels. In compliance, however, with the objections which maybe brought againstthe probability of the above dialogue, we will now give the one whichdid actually occur, and then appeal to our readers whether the first isnot much more in keeping with the character of the speakers--which oughtalways to be a writer's great object--than the second. Now, the readeralready knows that each of these men had three or four large arks ofmeal laid past until the arrival of a failure in the crops and a seasonof famine, and that Murray had three large stacks of hay in the hope ofa similar failure in the meadow crop. 

"Good-morrow, Jemmy. "

"Good-morrow kindly, Cooney; isn't this a fine saison, the Lord bepraised!"

"A glorious saison, blessed be His name! I don't think ever I remimber afiner promise of the craps. "

"Throth, nor I, the meadows is a miracle to look at. "

"Divil a thing else--but the white, an' oats, an' early potatoes, beatanything ever was seen. "

"Throth, the poor will have them for a song, Jemmy. "

"Ay, or for less, Cooney; they'll be paid for takin' them. "

"It's enough to raise one's heart, Jemmy, just to think of it. "

"Why then it is that, an', for the same raison, come up to the houseabove, and we'll have a sup on the head of it; sure, it's no harm todrink success to the craps, and may God prevent a failure, any how. "

"Divil a bit. "

Now, we simply ask the reader which dialogue is in the more appropriatekeeping with the characters of honest, candid Jemmy and Cooney?

"And now, " proceeded Cooney, "regard-in' this match between youryoungest daughter Margaret, and my son Toal. "

"Why, as for myself, " replied Murray, "sorra much of objection I haveaginst it, barrin' his figure; if he was about a foot and a halfhigher, and a little betther made--God pardon me, an' blessed be themaker--there would, at all events, be less difficulty in the business, especially with Peggy herself. "

"But couldn't you bring her about?"

"I did my endayvors, Cooney; you may take my word I did. "

"Well, an' is she not softenin' at all?"

"Upon my sounds, Cooney, I cannot say she is. If I could only get her tospake one sairious word on the subject, I might have some chance; but Icannot, Cooney; I think both you an' little Toal had betther give it up. I doubt there's no chance. "

"Faith an' the more will be her loss. I tell you, Jemmy, that he'd outdoeither you or me as a meal man. What more would you want?"

"He's cute enough, I know that. "

"I tell you you don't know the half of it. It's the man that can makethe money for her that you want. "

"But aginst that, you know, it's Peggy an' not me that's to marry him. Now, you know that women often--though not always, I grant--wish tohave something in the appearance of their husband that they needn't beashamed to look at. "

"That's the only objection that can bo brought against him. He's the boycan make the money; I'm a fool to him. I'll tell you what, Jemmy Murray, may I never go home, but he'd skin a flint. Did you hear anything? Now!"

Murray, who appeared to be getting somewhat tired of this topic, repliedrather hastily--

"Why, Cooney Finnigan, if he could skin the devil himself and ait himafterwards, she wouldn't have him. She has refused some of the bestlooking young men in the parish, widout either rhyme or raison, an' I'msure she's not goin' to take your leprechaun of a son, that you mightrun a five-gallon keg between his knees. Sure, bad luck to the thing hislegs resemble but a pair of raipin' hooks, wid their backs outwards. Letus pass this subject, and come in till we drink a glass together. "

"And so you call my son a leprechaun, and he has legs like raipin'hooks!"

"Ha, ha, ha! Come in, man alive; never mind little Toal. "

"Like raipin' hooks! I'll tell you what, Jemmy, I say now in sincerity, that there is every prospect of a plentiful sayson; and that there may, I pray God this day; meadows an' all--O above all, the meadows, for I'mnot in the hay business myself. "

"So, " said Murray, laughing, "you would cut off your nose to vex yourface. "

"I would any day, even if should suffer myself by it; and now good-bye, Jemmy Murray, to the dioual I pitch the whole thing! Rapin' hooks!"And as he spoke, off went the furious little extortioner, irretrievablyoffended. 

The subject of Margaret's marriage, however, was on that precise periodone on which her father and friends had felt and expressed much concern. Many proposals had been made for her hand during Art's apprenticeship;but each and all not only without success, but without either hope orencouragement. Her family were surprised and grieved at this, and themore so, because they could not divine the cause of it. Upon the subjectof her attachment to Maguire, she not only preserved an inviolablesilence herself, but exacted a solemn promise from her lover that heshould not disclose it to any human being. Her motive, she said, forkeeping their affection and engagement to each other secret, was toavoid being harassed at home by her friends and family, who, being onceaware of the relation in which she stood towards Art, would naturallygive her little peace. She knew very well that her relations would notconsent to such a union, and, in point of mere prudence and forethought, her conduct was right, for she certainly avoided much intemperateremonstrance, as afterwards proved to be the case when she mentioned it. Her father on this occasion having amused them at home by relating thetift which had taken place between Cooney Finnigan and himself, whichwas received with abundant mirth by them all, especially by Margaret, seriously introduced the subject of her marriage, and of a recentproposal which had been made to her. 

"You are the only unmarried girl we have left now, " he said, "and surelyyou ought neither to be too proud nor too saucy to refuse such a matchas Mark Hanratty--a young man in as thrivin' a business as there is inall Ballykeerin; hasn't he a good shop, good business, and a good backof friends in the country that will stand to him, an' only see how hehas thruv these last couple o' years. What's come over you at all? or doyou ever intend to marry? you have refused every one for so far widouteither rhyme or raison. Why, Peggy, what father's timper could standthis work?"

"Ha, ha, ha! like raipin' hooks, father--an' so the little red roguecouldn't bear that? well, at all events, the comparison's a goodone--sorra better; ha, ha, ha--reapin' hooks!"

"Is that the answer you have for me?"

"Answer!" said Margaret, feigning surprise, "what about?"

"About Mark Hanmity. "

"Well, but sure if he's fond of me, hell have no objection to wait. "

"Ay, but if he does wait, will you have him?"

"I didn't promise that, and, at any rate, I'd not like to be ashopkeeper's wife. "

"Why not?"

"Why, he'd be puttin' me behind the counter, and you know I'd be toohandsome for that; sure, there's Thogue Nugent that got the handsomewife from Dublin, and of a fair, or market-day, for one that goes in tobuy anything, there goes ten in to look at her. Throth, I think he oughtto put her in the windy at once, just to save trouble, and give thepeople room. "

"Ha, ha, ha! well, you're the dickens of a girl, sure enough; but come, avourneen, don't be makin' me laugh now, but tell me what answer I'm togive Mark. "

"Tell him to go to Dublin, like Thogue; he lives in the upper part ofthe town, and Thogue in the lower, and then there will be a beauty ineach end of it. "

"Suppose I take it into my head to lose my temper, Peggy, maybe I'd makeyou spake then?"

"Well, will you give me a peck o' mail for widow Dolan?"

"No, divil a dust. "

"Sure I'll pay you--ha, ha, ha!"

"Sure you'll pay me! mavrone, but it's often you've said that afore, and divil a cross o' Your coin ever we seen yet; faith, it's you that'sheavily in my debt, when I think of all ever you promised to pay me. "

"Very well, then; no meal, no answer. "

"And will you give me an answer if I give you the meal?"

"Honor bright, didn't I say it. "

"Go an' get it yourself then, an' see now, don't do as you always do, take double what you're allowed. "

Margiret, in direct violation of this paternal injunction, did mostunquestionably take near twice the stipulated quantity for the widow, and, in order that there might be no countermand on the part of herfather, as sometimes happened, she sent it off with one of the servantsby a back way, so that he had no opportunity of seeing how farher charity had carried her beyond the spirit and letter of herinstructions. 

"Well, " said he, when she returned, "now for the answer; and before yougive it, think of the comfort you'll have with him--how fine and nicelyfurnished his house is--he has carpets upon the rooms, ay, an' upon mysounds, on the very stairs itself! faix it's you that will be in state. Now, acushla, let us hear your answer. "

"It's very short, father; I won't have him. "

"Won't have him! and in the name of all that's unbiddable and undutiful, who will you have, if one may ax that, or do you intend, to have any oneat all, or not?"

"Let me see, " she said, putting the side of her forefinger to her lips, "what day is this? Thursday. Well, then, on this day month, father, I'lltell my mother who I'll have, or, at any rate, who I'd wish to have;but, in the mean time, nobody need ask me anything further about it tillthen, for I won't give any other information on the subject. "

The father looked very seriously into the fire for a considerable time, and was silent; he then drew his breath lengthily, tapped the table alittle with his fingers, and exclaimed--"A month! well, the time willpass, and, as we must wait, why we must, that's all. "

Matters lay in this state until the third day before the expirationof the appointed time, when Margaret, having received from Art secretintelligence of his return, hastened to a spot agreed upon between them, that they might consult each other upon what ought to be done undercircumstances so critical. 

After the usual preface to such tender discussions, Art listened witha good deal of anxiety, but without the slightest doubt of her firmnessand attachment, to an account of the promise she had given her father. 

"Well, but, Margaret darlin', " said he, "what will happen if theyrefuse?"

"Surely, you know it is too late for them to refuse now; arn't we asgood as married--didn't we pass the Hand Promise--isn't our trothplighted?"

"I know that, but suppose they should still refuse, then what's to bedone? what are you and I to do?"

"I must lave that to you, Art, " she replied archly. 

"And it couldn't be in better hands, Margaret; if they refuse theirconsent, there's nothing for it but a regular runaway, and that willsettle it. "

"You must think I'm very fond of you, " she added playfully, "and Isuppose you do, too. "

"Margaret, " said Art, and his face became instantly overshadowed withseriousness and care, "the day may come when I'll feel how necessary youwill be to guide and support me. "

She looked quickly into his eyes, and saw that his mind appeareddisturbed and gloomy. 

"My dear Art, " she asked, "what is the meaning of your words, and why isthere such sadness in your face?"

"There ought not to be sadness in it, " he said, "when I'm sure ofyou--you will be my guardian angel may be yet. "

"Art, have you any particular meanin' in what you say?"

"I'll tell you all, " said he, "when we are married. "

Margaret was generous-minded, and, as the reader may yet acknowledge, heroic; there was all the boldness and bravery of innocence about her, and she could scarcely help attributing Art's last words to some factconnected with his feelings, or, perhaps, to circumstances which hisgenerosity prevented him from disclosing. A thought struck her--

"Art, " said she, "the sooner this is settled the better; as it is, ifyou'll be guided by me, we won't let the sun set upon it; walk up withme to my father's house, come in, and in the name of God, we'll leavenothing unknown to him. He is a hard man, but he has a heart, and he isbetter a thousand times than he is reported. I know it. "

"Come, " said Art, "let us go; he may be richer, but there's the blood, and the honesty, and good name of the Maguires against his wealth--"

A gentle pressure on his arm, when he mentioned the word wealth, and hewas silent. 

"My darlin' Margaret, " said he, "oh how unworthy I am of you!"

"Now, " said she, "lave me to manage this business my own way. Your goodsense will tell you when to spake; but whatever my father says, tratehim with respect--lave the rest to me. "

On entering, they found Murray and his wife in the little parlor--theformer smoking his pipe, and the latter darning a pair of stockings. 

"Father, " said Margaret, "Art Maguire convoyed me home; but, indeed, Imust say, I was forced to ask him. "

"Art Maguire. Why, then, upon my sounds, Art, I'm glad to see you. An'how are you, man alive? an' how is Frank, eh? As grave as a jidge, ashe always was--ha, ha, ha! Take a chair, Art, and be sittin'. Peggy, gluntha me, remimber, you must have Art at your weddin'. It's now widinthree days of the time I'm to know who he is; and upon my sounds, I'mlike a hen on a hot griddle till I hear it. "

"You're not within three days, father. "

"But I say I am, accordin' to your own countin'. "

"You're not within three hours, father;"--her face 'glowed, and herwhole system became vivified with singular and startling energy as shespoke;--"no, you are not within three hours, father; not within threeminutes, my dear father; for there stands the man, " she said, pointingto Art. She gave three or four loud hysterical sobs, and then stoodcalm, looking not upon her father, but upon her lover; as much as tosay, Is this love, or is it not?

Her mother, who was a quiet, inoffensive creature, without any principleor opinion whatsoever at variance with those of her husband, rose uponhearing this announcement; but so ambiguous were her motions, thatwe question whether the most sagacious prophet of all antiquity couldanticipate from them the slightest possible clue to her opinion. Thehusband, in fact, had not yet spoken, and until he had, the poor womandid not know her own mind. Under any circumstances, it was difficultexactly to comprehend her meaning. In fact, she could not speak threewords of common English, having probably never made the experiment adozen times in her life. Murray was struck for some time mute. 

"And is this the young man, " said he, at length, "that has been themains of preventin' you from being so well married often and oftenbefore now?"

"No, indeed, father, " she replied, "he was not the occasion of that; butI was. I am betrothed to him, as he is to me, for five years. "

"And, " said her father, "my consent to that marriage you will neverhave; if you marry him, marry him, but you will marry him without myblessin'. "

"Jemmy Murray, " said Art, whose pride of family was fast rising, "who amI, and who are you?"

Margaret put her hand to his mouth, and said in a low voice--

"Art, if you love me, leave it to my management. "

"Ho, Jemmy, " said the mother, addressing her husband, "only putyour ears to this! _Ho, dher manim_, this is that skamin' piece of_feasthealagh_ (* nonesense) they call _grah_ (*love). Ho, by mysowl, it shows what moseys they is to think that--what's this you callit?--low-lov-loaf, or whatsomever the devil it is, has to do wid makin'a young couple man and wife. Didn't I hate the ground you stud on whenI was married upon you? but I had the _airighid_. Ho, faix, I had theshiners. "

"Divil a word o' lie in that, Madjey, asthore. You had the money, an'I got it, and wern't we as happy, or ten times happier, than if we hadmarried for love?"

"To be sartin we am; an' isn't we more unhappier now, nor if we had gotmarried for loaf, glory be to godness!"

"Father, " said Margaret, anxious to put an end to this ludicrous debate, "this is the only man I will ever marry. "

"And by Him that made me, " said her father, "you will never have myconsent to that marriage, nor my blessin'. "

"Art, " said she, "not one word. Here, in the presence of my father andmother, and in the presence of God himself, I say I will be your wife, and only yours. "

"And, " said her father, "see whether a blessin' will attend a marriagewhere a child goes against the will of her parents. "

"I'm of age now to think and act for myself, father; an' you know thisis the first thing I ever disobeyed you in, an' I hope it 'ill be thelast. Am I goin' to marry one that's discreditable to have connectedwith our family? So far from that, it is the credit that is comin' tous. Is a respectable young man, without spot or stain on his name, withthe good-will of all that know him, and a good trade--is such a person, father, so very high above us? Is one who has the blood of the greatFermanagh Maguires in his veins not good enough for your daughter, because you happen to have a few bits of metal that he has not? Father, you will give us your consent an' your blessin' too; but remember thatwhether you do, or whether you don't, I'll not break my vow; I'll marryhim. "

"Margaret, " said the father, in a calm, collected voice, "put bothconsent and blessin' out of the question; you will never have eitherfrom me. "

"Ho _dher a Ihora heena_, " exclaimed the mother, "I'm the boy for onethat will see the buckle crossed against them, or I'd die every daythis twelve months upon the top and tail o' Knockmany, through wind an'weather. You darlin' scoundrel, " she proceeded, addressing Art, in whatshe intended to be violent abuse--"God condemn your sowl to happiness, is I or am my husband to be whillebelewin' on your loaf? Eh, answer usthat, if you're not able, like a man, as you is?"

Margaret, whose humor and sense of the ludicrous were exceedinglystrong, having seldom heard her mother so excited before, gave one archlook at Art, who, on the contrary, felt perfectly confounded at thewoman's language, and in that look there was a kind of humorous entreatythat he would depart. She nodded towards the door, and Art, having shookhands with her, said--

"Good-by, Jemmy Murray, I hope you'll change your mind still; yourdaughter never could got any one that loves her as I do, or that couldtreat her with more tendherness and affection. "

"Be off, you darlin' vagabone, " said Mrs. Murray, "the heavens be yourbed, you villain, why don't you stay where you is, an' not be malivoginan undacent family this way. "

"Art Maguire, " replied Murray, "you heard my intention, and I'll neverchange it. " Art then withdrew. 

Our readers may now anticipate the consequences of the precedingconversation. Murray and his wife having persisted in their refusal tosanction Margaret's marriage with Maguire, every argument and influencehaving been resorted to in vain, Margaret and he made what is termeda runaway match of it, that is, a rustic elopement, in which the youngcouple go usually to the house of some friend, under the protectionof whose wife the female remains until her marriage, when the husbandbrings her home. 

And now they commence life. No sooner were they united, than Art, feeling what was due to her who had made such and so many sacrifices forhim, put his shoulder to the wheel with energy and vigor. Such aid ashis father could give him, he did give; that which stood him most instead, however, was the high character and unsullied reputation of hisown family. Margaret's conduct, which was looked upon as a proof ofgreat spirit and independence, rendered her, if possible, still betterloved by the people than before. But, as we said, there was everyconfidence placed in Art, and the strongest hopes of his future successand prosperity in life expressed by all who knew him; and this wasreasonable. Here was a young man of excellent conduct, a first-rateworkman, steady, industrious, quiet, and, above all things, sober; forthe three or four infractions of sobriety that took place during hisapprenticeship, had they even been generally known, would have beenreputed as nothing; the truth is, that both he and Margaret commencedlife, if not with a heavy purse, at least with each a light heart. Heimmediately took a house in Ballykeerin, and, as it happened that aman of his own trade, named Davis, died about the same time of lockjaw, occasioned by a chisel wound in the ball of the thumb, as a naturalconsequence, Art came in for a considerable portion of his business;so true is it, that one man's misfortune is another man's making. Hisfather did all he could for him, and Margaret's sisters also gave themsome assistance, so that, ere the expiration of a year, they foundthemselves better off than they had reason to expect, and, what crownedtheir happiness--for they were happy--was the appearance of a lovelyboy, whom, after his father, they called. Arthur. Their hearts had notmuch now to crave after--happiness was theirs, and health; and, to makethe picture still more complete, prosperity, as the legitimate rewardof Art's industry and close attention to business, was beginning to dawnupon them. 

One morning, a few months after this time, as she sat with their lovelybabe in her arms, the little rogue playing with the tangles of her ravenhair, Art addressed her in the fulness of as affectionate a heart asever beat in a human bosom:--

"Well, Mag, " said he, "are you sorry for not marryin' Mark Hanratty?"

She looked at him, and then at their beautiful babe, which was hisimage, and her lip quivered for a moment; she then smiled, and kissingthe infant, left a tear upon its face. 

He started, "My God, Margaret, " said he, "what is this?"

"If that happy tear, " she replied, "is a proof of it, I am. "

Art stooped, and kissing her tenderly, said--"May God make me, and keepme worthy of you, my darling wife!"

"Still, Art, " she continued, "there is one slight drawback upon myhappiness, and that is, when it comes into my mind that in marryin' you, I didn't get a parent's blessin'; it sometimes makes my mind sad, and Ican't help feelin' so. "

"I could wish you had got it myself, " replied her husband, "but you knowit can't be remedied now. "

"At all events, " she said, "let us live so as that we may desarve it; itwas my first and last offence towards my father and mother. "

"And it's very few could say as much, Mag, dear; but don't think of it, sure, may be, he may come about yet. "

"I can hardly hope that, " she replied, "after the priest failin'. "

"Well, but, " replied her husband, taking up the child in his arms, "whoknows what this little man may do for us--who knows, some day, but we'llsend a little messenger to his grandfather for a blessin' for his mammythat he won't have the heart to refuse. "

This opened a gleam of satisfaction in her mind. She and her husbandhaving once more kissed the little fellow, exchanged glances ofaffection, and he withdrew to his workshop. 

Every week and month henceforth added to their comfort. Art advanced inlife, in respectability, and independence; he was, indeed, a patternto all tradesmen who wish to maintain in the world such a characteras enforces esteem and praise; his industry was incessant, he was everengaged in something calculated to advance himself; up early anddown late was his constant practice--no man could exceed, him inpunctuality--his word was sacred--whatever he said was done; and sogeneral were his habits of industry, integrity, and extreme good conductappreciated, that he was mentioned as a fresh instance of the highcharacter sustained by all who had the old blood of the FermanaghMaguires in their veins. In this way he proceeded, happy in theaffections of his admirable wife--happy in two lovely children--happy inhis circumstances--in short, every way happy, when, to still add to thathappiness, on the night of the very day that closed the term of his oathagainst liquor--that closed the seventh year--his wife presented himwith their third child, and second daughter. 

In Ireland there is generally a very festive spirit prevalent duringchristenings, weddings, or other social meetings of a similar nature;and so strongly is this spirit felt, that it is--or was, I should rathersay--not at all an unusual thing for a man, when taking an oathagainst liquor, to except christenings or weddings, and very frequentlyfunerals, as well as Christmas and Easter. Every one acquainted withthe country knows this, and no one need be surprised at the delight withwhich Art Maguire hailed this agreeable coincidence. Art, we have saidbefore, was naturally social, and, although he did most religiouslyobserve his oath, yet, since the truth must be told, we are boundto admit that, on many and many an occasion, he did also mostunquestionably regret the restraint that he had placed upon himself withregard to liquor. Whenever his friends were met together, whether atfair, or market, wedding, christening, or during the usual festivals, itis certain that a glass of punch or whiskey never crossed his nosethat he did not feel a secret hankering after it, and would often havesnuffed in the odor, or licked his lips at it, were it not that hewould have considered the act as a kind of misprision of perjury. Now, however, that he was free, and about to have a christening in his house, it was at least only reasonable that he should indulge in a glass, if only for the sake of drinking the health of "the young lady. " Hisbrother Frank happened to be in town that evening, and Art prevailed onhim to stop for the night. 

"You must stand for the young colleen, Frank, " said he, "and who do youthink is to join you?"

"Why, how could I guess?" replied Frank. 

"The sorra other but little Toal Finnigan, that thought to take Margaretfrom me, you renumber. "

"I remimber he wanted to marry her, and I know that he's the mostrevengeful and ill-minded little scoundrel on the face of the earth; ifever there was a devil in a human bein', there's one in that misshapenbut sugary little vagabone. His father was bad enough when he wasalive, and worse than he ought to be, may God forgive him now, but thisspiteful skinflint, that's a curse to the poor of the country, as he istheir hatred, what could tempt you to ax him to stand for any child ofyours?"

"He may be what he likes, Frank, but all I can say is, that I foundhim civil and obligin', an' you know the devil's not so black as he'spainted. "

"I know no such thing, Art, " replied the other; "for that matter, he maybe a great deal blacker; but still I'd advise you to have nothing to sayto Toal--he's a bad graft, egg and bird; but what civility did he evershow you?"

"Why, he--he's a devilish pleasant little fellow, any way, so he is;throth it's he that spakes well of you, at any rate; if he was tentimes worse than he is, he has a tongue in his head that will gain himfriends. "

"I see, Art, " said Frank, laughing, "he has been layin' it thick an'sweet on you. My hand to you, there's not so sweet-tongued a knave inthe province; but mind, I put you on your guard--he's never pure honeyall out, unless where there's bitther hatred and revenge at the bottomof it--that's well known, so be advised and keep him at a distance; havenothin' to do or to say to him, and, as to havin' him for a godfather, why I hardly think the child could thrive that he'd stand for. "

"It's too late for that now, ", replied Art, "for I axed him betther thanthree weeks agone. "

"An' did he consint?"

"He did, to be sure. "

"Well, then, keep your word to him, of coorse; but, as soon as thechristenings over, drop him like a hot potato. "

"Why, thin, that's hard enough, Frank, so long as I find the crathurcivil. "

"Ay, but, Art, don't I tell you that it's his civility you should beafeard of; throth, the same civility ought to get him kicked a dozentimes a day. "

"Faix and, " said Art, "kicked or not, here he comes; whisht! don't beoncivil to the little bachelor at any rate. "

"Oncivil, why should I? the little extortionin' vagabone never injuredor fleeced me; but, before he puts his nose into the house, let metell you wanst more, Art, that he never gets sweet upon any one that hehasn't in hatred for them at the bottom; that's his carracther. "

"I know it is, " said Art, "but, until I find it to be true, I'll takethe ginerous side, an' I won't believe it; he's a screw, I know, an' askinflint, an'--whisht! here he is. "

"Toal Finnigan, how are you?" said Art; "I was goin' to say how is everytether length of you, only that I think it would be impossible to get atether short enough to measure you. "

"Ha, ha, ha, that's right good--divil a man livin' makes me laugh somuch as--why then, Frank Maguire too!--throth, Frank, I'm proud to seeyou well--an' how are you, man? and--well, in throth I am happy to seeyou lookin' so well, and in good health; an' whisper, Frank, it's yourown fau't that I'm not inquirin' for the wife and childre. "

"An' I can return the compliment, Toal; it's a shame for both of us tobe bachelors at this time o' day. "

"Ah, " said the little fellow, "I wasn't Frank Maguire, one of the bestlookin' boys in the barony, an' the most respected, an' why not? Well, divil a thing afther all like the ould blood, an' if I wanted a puredhrop of that same, maybe I don't know where to go to look for it--maybeI don't, I say!"

"It's Toal's fault that he wasn't married many a year ago, " said Art;"he refused more wives, Frank, than e'er a boy of his years from this toJinglety cooeh--divil a lie in it; sure he'll tell you himself. "

Now, as Toal is to appear occasionally, and to be alluded to from timeto time in this narrative, we shall give the reader a short sketch oroutline of his physical appearance and moral character. In three words, then, he had all his father's vices multiplied tenfold, and not one ofhis good qualities, such as they were; his hair was of that nondescriptcolor which partakes at once of the red, the fair, and the auburn; itwas a bad dirty dun, but harmonized with his complexion to a miracle. That complexion, indeed, was no common one; as we said, it was oneof those which, no matter how frequently it might have been scrubbed, always presented the undeniable evidences of dirt so thorougly ingrainedinto the pores of the skin, that no process could remove it, shortof flaying him alive. His vile, dingy dun bristles stood out in alldirections from his head, which was so shaped as to defy admeasurement;the little rascal's body was equally ill-made, and as for his limbs, we have already described them, as reaping-hooks of flesh and blood, terminated by a pair of lark-heeled feet, as flat as smoothing-irons. Now, be it known, that notwithstanding these disadvantages, little Toallooked upon himself as an Adonis upon a small scale, and did certainlybelieve that scarcely any female on whom he threw his fascinating eyecould resist being enamored of him. This, of course, having becomegenerally known, was taken advantage of, and many a merry country girlamused both herself and others at his expenses while he imagined her tobe perfectly serious. 

"Then how did you escape at all, " said Frank--"you that the girls are sofond of?"

"You may well ax, " said Toal; "but at any rate, it's the divil entirelyto have them too fond of you. There's raison in every thing, but wansta woman takes a strong fancy to the cut of your face, you're done for, until you get rid of her. Throth I suffered as much persecution that wayas would make a good batch o' marthyrs. However, what can one do?"

"It's a hard case, Toal, " said Art; "an' I b'lieve you're as badly off, if not worse, now than ever. "

"In that respect, " replied Toal, "I'm ladin' the life of a murdherer. Ican't set my face out but there's a pursuit after me--chased an' huntedlike a bag fox; devil a lie I'm tellin' you. "

"But do you intend to marry still, Toal?" asked Frank; "bekaise if youdon't, it would be only raisonable for you to make it generally knownthat your mind's made up to die a bachelor. "

"I wouldn't bring the penalty an' expenses of a wife an' family on me, for the handsomest woman livin', " said Toal. "Oh no; the Lord in mercyforbid that! Amin, I pray. "

"But, " said Art, "is it fair play to the girls not to let that begenerally known, Toal?"

"Hut, " replied the other, "let them pick it out of their larnin', thethieves. Sure they parsecuted me to sich a degree, that they desarve nomercy at my hands. So, Art, " he proceeded, "you've got another mouth tofeed! Oh, the Lord pity you! If you go on this way, what 'ill become ofyou at last?"

"Don't you know, " replied Art, "that God always fits the back to theburden, and that he never sends a mouth but he sends something to fillit. "

The little extortioner shrugged his shoulders, and raising his eyebrows, turned up his eyes--as much as to say, What a pretty notion of life youhave with such opinions as these!

"Upon my word, Toal, " said Art, "the young lady we've got home to us isa beauty; at all events, her godfathers need not be ashamed of her. "

"If she's like her own father or mother, " replied Toal, once moreresuming the sugar-candy style, "she can't be anything else than abeauty, It's well known that sich a couple never stood undher the roofof Aughindrummon Chapel, nor walked the street of Ballykeerin. "

Frank winked at Art, who, instead of returning the wink, as he oughtto have done, shut both his eyes, and then looked at Toal with anexpression of great compassion--as if he wished to say, Poor fellow, Idon't think he can be so bad-hearted as the world gives him credit for. 

"Come, Toal, " he replied, laughing, "none of your bother now. Ay wasthere, many a finer couple under the same roof, and on the same street;so no palaver, my man; But are you prepared to stand for the girsha? Youknow it's nearly a month since I axed you?"

"To be sure I am; but who's the midwife?"

"Ould Kate Sharpe; as lucky a woman as ever came about one's house. "

"Throth, then, I'm sorry for that, " said Toal, "for she's a woman Idon't like; an' I now say beforehand, that devil a traneen she'll be thebetther of me, Art. "

"Settle that, " replied Art, "between you; at all events, be ready onSunday next--the christenin's fixed for it. "

After some farther chat, Toal, who, we should have informed our readers, had removed from his father's old residence into Ballykeerin, took hisdeparture, quite proud at the notion of being a godfather at all; for intruth it was the first occasion on which he ever had an opportunity ofarriving at that honor. 

Art was a strictly conscientious man; so much so, indeed, that he neverdefrauded a human being to the value of a farthing; and as for truth, it was the standard principle of his whole life. Honesty, truth, andsobriety are, indeed, the three great virtues upon which all thatis honorable, prosperous, and happy is founded. Art's conscientiousscruples were so strong, that although in point of fact the term of hisoath had expired at twelve o'clock in the forenoon, he would not permithimself to taste a drop of spirits until after twelve at night. 

"It's best, " said he to his brother, "to be on the safe side at allevents: a few hours is neither one way nor the other. We haven't nowmore than a quarther to go, and then for a tight drop to wet my whistle, an' dhrink the little girshas health an' her mother's. Throth I've putin a good apprenticehip to sobriety, anyhow. Come, Madjey, " he added, addressing the servant-maid, "put down the kettle till we have a littlejorum of our own; Frank here and myself; and all of yez. "

"Very little jorum will go far wid me, you know, Art, " replied hisbrother; "an' if you take my advice, you'll not go beyond boundsyourself either. "

"Throth, Frank, an' I'll not take either yours nor any other body's, until little Kate's christened. I think that afther a fast of sevenyears I'm entitled to a stretch. "

"Well, well, " said his brother; "I see you're on for it; but as you saidyourself a while ago, it's best to be on the safe side, you know. "

"Why, dang it, Frank, sure you don't imagine I'm goin' to drink the towndhry; there's raison in everything. "

At length the kettle was boiled, and the punch made; Art took histumbler in hand, and rose up; he looked at it, then glanced at hisbrother, who observed that he got pale and agitated. 

"What ails you?" said he; "is there any thing wrong wid you?"

"I'm thinkin', " replied Art, "of what I suffered wanst by it; an'besides, it's so long since I tasted it, that somehow I jist feel forall the world as if the oath was scarcely off of me yet, or as if I wasdoin' what's not right. "

"That's mere weakness, " said Frank; "but still, if you have any scruple, don't drink it; I bekaise the truth is, Art, you couldn't have a scruplethat will do you more good than one against liquor. "

"Well, I'll only take this tumbler an' another to-night; and then we'llgo to bed, plase goodness. "

His agitation then passed away, and he drank a portion of the liquor. 

"I'm thinkin', Art, " said Frank, "that it wouldn't be aisy to find twomen that has a betther right to be thankful to God for the good fortunewe've both had, than yourself and me. The Lord has been good, to me, forI'm thrivin' to my heart's content, and savin' money every day. "

"And glory be to his holy name, " said Art, looking with a strong senseof religious feeling upward, "so am I; and if we both hould to this, we'll die rich, plaise goodness. I have saved up very well, too; andhere I sit this night as happy a man as is in Europe. The world'sflowin' on me, an' I want for nothin'; I have good health, a clearconscience, and everything that a man in my condition of life can standin need of, or wish for; glory be to God for it all!"

"Amen, " said Frank; "glory be to his name for it!"

"But, Frank, " said Art, "there's one thing that I often wonder at, an'indeed so does every one a'most. "

"What is that, Art?"

"Why, that you don't think o' marryin'. Sure you have good means tokeep a wife, and rear a family now; an' of coorse we all wonder that youdon't. "

"Indeed, to tell you the truth, Art, I don't know myself what's theraison of it--the only wife I think of is my business; but any way, ifyou was to see the patthern of married life there is undher the roofwid me, you'd not be much in consate wid marriage yourself, if you war abachelor. "

"Why, " inquired the other, "don't they agree?"

"Ay do they, so well that they get sometimes into very close an' lovin'grips togather; if ever there was a scald alive she's one o' them, an'him that was wanst so careless and aisey-tempered, she has now made himas bad as herself--has trained him regularly until he has a tongue thatwould face a ridgment. Tut, sure divil a week that they don't flake oneanother, an' half my time's, taken up reddin' them. "

"Did you ever happen to get the reddin' blow? eh? ha, ha, ha!"

"No, not yet; but the truth is, Art, that an ill-tongued wife has drivenmany a husband to ruin, an' only that I'm there to pay attention to thebusiness, he'd be a poor drunken beggarman long ago, an' all owin' toher vile temper. "

"Does she dhrink?"

"No, sorra drop--this wickedness all comes natural to her; she wouldn'tbe aisy out of hot wather, and poor Jack's parboiled in it every day inthe year. "

"Well, it's I that have got the treasure, Frank; from the day that Ifirst saw her face till the minute we're spakin' in, I never knew hertemper to turn--always the same sweet word, the same flow of spirits, and the same light laugh; her love an' affection for me an' the childherthere couldn't be language found for. Come, throth we'll drink herhealth in another tumbler, and a speedy uprise to her, asthore machreethat she is, an' when I think of how she set every one of her people atdefiance, and took her lot wid myself so nobly, my heart burns wid lovefor her, ay, I feel my very heart burnin' widin me. "

Two tumblers were again mixed, and Margaret's health was drunk. 

"Here's her health, " said Art, "may God grant her long life andhappiness!"

"Amen!" responded Frank, "an' may He grant that she'll never know asorrowful heart!"

Art laid down his tumbler, and covered his eyes with his hands for aminute or two. 

"I'm not ashamed, Frank, " said he, "I'm not a bit ashamed of thesetears--she desarves them--where is her aiquil? oh, where is heraiquil? It's she herself that has the tear for the distresses of herfellow-creatures, an' the ready hand to relieve them; may the Almightyshower down his blessins on her!"

"Them tears do you credit, " replied Frank, "and although I alwaysthought well of you, Art, and liked you betther than any other in thefamily, although I didn't say much about it, still, I tell you, I thinkbetther of you this minute than I ever did in my life. "

"There's only one thing in the wide world that's throublin' her, "said Art, "an' that is, that she hadn't her parents' blessin' when shemarried me, nor since--for ould Murray's as stiff-necked as a mule, an'the more he's driven to do a thing the less he'll do it. "

"In that case, " observed Frank, "the best plan is to let him alone;maybe when it's not axed for he'll give it. "

"I wish he would, " said Art, "for Margaret's sake; it would take away agood deal of uneasiness from her mind. "

The conversation afterwards took several turns, and embraced a varietyof topics, till the second tumbler was finished. 

"Now, " said Art, "as there's but the two of us, and in regard of theoccasion that's in it, throth we'll jist take one more a piece. "

"No, " replied Frank, "I never go beyant two, and you said you wouldn't. "

"Hut, man, divil a matther for that; sure there's only ourselves two, as I said, an' Where's the harm? Throth, it's a long time since I feltmyself so comfortable, an' besides, it's not every night we have you widus. Come, Frank, one more in honor of the occasion. "

"Another drop won't cross my lips this night, " returned his brother, firmly, "so you needn't be mixin' it. "

"Sorra foot you'll go to bed to-night till you take another; there, nowit's mixed, so you know you must take it now. "

"Not a drop. "

"Well, for the sake of poor little Kate, that you're to stand for; come, Frank, death alive, man!"

"Would my drinkin' it do Kate any good?"

"Hut, man alive, sure if one was to lay down the law that way upon everything, they might as well be out of the world at wanst; come, Frank. "'

"No, Art, I said I wouldn't, and I won't break my word. "

"But, sure, that's only a trifle; take the liquor; the sorra betthertumbler of punch ever was made: it's Barney Scaddhan's whiskey. "*

 * Scaddhan, a herring, a humorous nickname bestowed upon him, because he made the foundation of his fortune by selling herrings. 

"An' if Barney Scaddhan keeps good whiskey, is that any rason whyI should break my word, or would you have me get dhrunk because hisliquor's betther than another man's?"

"Well, for the sake of poor Margaret, then, an' she so fond o' you;sure many a time she tould me that sorra brother-in-law ever she had shelikes so well, an' I know it's truth; that I may never handle a planebut it is; dang it, Frank, don't be so stiff. "

"I never was stiff, Art, but I always was, and always will be, firm, when I know I'm in the right; as I said about the child, what good wouldmy drinkin' that tumbler of punch do Margaret? None in life; it woulddo her no good, and it would do myself harm. Sure, we did drink herhealth. "

"An' is that your respect for her?" said Art, in a huff, "if that's it, why--"

"There's not a man livin' respects her more highly, or knows her worthbetther than I do, " replied Frank, interrupting him, "but I simply axyou, Art, what mark of true respect would the fact of my drinkin' thattumbler of punch be to her? The world's full of these foolish errors, and bad ould customs, and the sooner they're laid aside, an' proper onesput in their place, the betther. "

"Oh, very well, Frank, the sorra one o' me will ask you to take it agin;I only say, that if I was in your house, as you are in mine, I wouldn'tbreak squares about a beggarly tumbler of punch. "

"So much the worse, Art, I would rather you would; there, now, youhave taken your third tumbler, yet you said when we sat down that you'dconfine yourself to two; is that keepin' your word? I know you may callbreakin' it now a trifle, but I tell you, that when a man begins tobreak his word in trifles, he'll soon go on to greater things, and maybeend without much regardin' it in any thing. "

"You don't mane to say, Frank, or to hint, that ever I'd come to sich astate as that I wouldn't regard my word. "

"I do not; but even if I did, by followin' up this coorse you'd putyourself in the right way of comin' to it. "

"Throth, I'll not let this other one be lost either, " he added, drawingover to him the tumbler which he had filled for his brother; "I've anaddition to my family--the child an' mother doin' bravely, an' didn'ttaste a dhrop these seven long years; here's your health, at all events, Frank, an' may the Lord put it into your heart to marry a wife, an' beas happy as I am. Here, Madgey, come here, I say; take that whiskey an'sugar, an' mix yourselves a jorum; it's far in the night, but no mattherfor that--an' see, before you mix it, go an' bring my own darlin' Art, till he dhrinks his mother's health. "

"Why now, Art, " began his brother, "is it possible that you can have theconscience to taich the poor boy sich a cursed habit so soon? Whatare you about this minute but trainin' him up to what may be his owndestruction yet?"

"Come now, Frank, none of your moralizin', " the truth is, that the punchwas beginning rapidly to affect his head; "none of your moralizin', throth it's a preacher you ought to be, or a lawyer, to lay down thelaw. Here, Madgey, bring him to me; that's my son, that there isn't thelike of in Ballykeerin, any way. Eh, Frank, it's ashamed of him I oughtto be, isn't it? Kiss me, Art, and then kiss your uncle Frank, the bestuncle that ever broke the world's bread is the same Frank--that's a goodboy, Art; come now, drink your darlin' mother's health in this glass ofbrave punch; my mother's health, say, long life an' happiness to her!that's a man, toss it off at wanst, bravo; arra, Frank, didn't he dothat manly? the Lord love him, where 'ud you get sich a fine swaddy ashe is of his age? Oh, Frank, what 'ud become of me if anything happenedthat boy? it's a mad-house would hould me soon. May the Lord in heavensave and guard him from all evil and clanger!"

Frank saw that it was useless to remonstrate with him at such amoment, for the truth is, intoxication was setting in fast, and all hisinfluence over him was gone. 

"Here, Atty, before you go to bed agin, jist a weeshy sup more to drinkyour little sisther's health; sure Kate Sharpe brought you home a littlesisther, Atty. "

"The boy's head will not be able to stand so much, " said Frank; "youwill make him tipsy. "

"Divil a tipsy; sure it's only a mere draineen. "

He then made the little fellow drink the baby's health, after which hewas despatched to bed. 

"Throth, it's in for a penny in for a pound wid myself. I know, Frank, that--that there's something or other wrong wid my head, or at any ratewid my eyes; for everything, somehow, is movin'. Is everything movin', Frank?"

"You think so, " said Frank, "because you're fast getting tipsy--if youarn't tipsy all out. "

"Well, then, if I'm tip--tipsy, divil a bit the worse I can be byanother tumbler. Come, Frank, here's the ould blood of Ireland--theMaguires of Fermanagh! And now, Frank, I tell you, it would more becomeyou to drink that toast, than to be sittin' there like an oracle, as youare; for upon my sowl, you're nearly as bad. But, Frank. "

"Well, Art. "

"Isn't little Toal Finnigan a civil little fellow--that is--is--ifhe was well made. 'There never stood, ' says he, 'sich a couple in thechapel of--of Aughindrumon, nor there never walked sich a couple up ordown the street of Ballykeerin--that's the chat, ' says he: an' whisper, Frank, ne--neither did there. Whe--where is Margaret's aiquil, I'd--I'dlike to know? an' as for me, I'll measure myself across the shouldhersaginst e'er a--a man, woman, or child in--in the parish. Co--come here, now, Frank, till I me--measure the small o' my leg ag--aginst yours;or if--if that makes you afeard, I'll measure the--the ball of my legaginst the ball of yours. There's a wrist, Frank; look at that? jistlook at it. "

"I see it; it is a powerful wrist. "

"But feel it. "

"Tut, Art, sure I see it. "

"D--n it, man, jist feel it--feel the breadth of--of that bone. Augh--that's the--the wrist; so anyhow, here's little Toal Finnigan'shealth, an' I don't care what they say, I like little Toal, an' I willlike little Toal; bekaise--aise if--if he was the divil, as--as they sayhe is, in disguise--ha, ha, ha! he has a civil tongue in his head. "

He then commenced and launched out into the most extravagant praises ofhimself, his wife, his children; and from these he passed to the ouldblood of Ireland, and the Fermanagh Maguires. 

"Where, " he said, "whe--where is there in the country, or anywhere else, a family that has sich blood as ours in their veins? Very well; an'aren't we proud of it, as we have a right to be? Where's the Maguirethat would do a mane or shabby act? tha--that's what I'd like to know. Isn't the word of a Maguire looked upon as aiquil to--to an--anotherman's oath; an' where's the man of them that was--as ever known to breakit? Eh Frank? No; stead--ed--steady's the word wid the Maguires, andhonor bright. "

Frank was about to remind him that he had in his own person given aproof that night that a Maguire could break his word, and commita disreputable action besides; but as he saw it was useless, hejudiciously declined then making any observation whatsoever upon it. 

After a good deal of entreaty, Frank succeeded in prevailing on him togo to bed; in which, however, he failed, until Art had inflicted onhim three woful songs, each immensely long, and sung in that peculiarlyfascinating drawl, which is always produced by intoxication. At length, and when the night was more than half spent, he assisted him to bed--atask of very considerable difficulty, were it not that it was relievedby his receiving from the tipsy man several admirable precepts, and anabundance of excellent advice, touching his conduct in the world; notforgetting religion, on which he dwelt with a maudlin solemnity ofmanner, that was, or would have been to strangers, extremely ludicrous. Frank, however, could not look upon it with levity. He understoodhis brother's character and foibles too well, and feared thatnotwithstanding his many admirable qualities, his vanity and want offirmness, or, in other words, of self-dependence, might overbalance themall. 

The next morning his brother Frank was obliged to leave betimes, andconsequently had no opportunity of advising or remonstrating with him. On rising, he felt sick and feverish, and incapable of going into hisworkshop. The accession made to his family being known, several of hisneighbors came in to inquire after the health of his wife and infant;and as Art, when left to his own guidance, had never been remarkablefor keeping a secret, he made no scruple of telling them that he hadgot drunk the night before, and was, of course, quite out of order thatmorning. Among the rest, the first to come in was little Toal Finnigan, who, in addition to his other virtues, possessed a hardness of head--bywhich we mean a capacity for bearing drink--that no liquor, or noquantity of liquor, could overcome. 

"Well, " said Toal, "sure it's very reasonable that you should be out ofordher; after bein' seven years from it, it doesn't come so natural toyou as it would do. Howandiver, you know that there's but the one curefor it--a hair of the same dog that bit you; and if you're afeared totake the same hair by yourself, why I'll take a tuft of it wid you, an' we'll dhrink the wife's health--my ould sweetheart--and the littlesthranger's. "

"Throth I believe you're right, " said Art, "in regard to the cure; soin the name of goodness we'll have a gauliogue to begin the day wid, an'set the hair straight on us. "

During that day, Art was neither drunk nor sober, but halfway betweenthe two states. He went to his workshop about two o'clock; but hisjourneymen and apprentices could smell the strong whiskey off him, andperceive an occasional thickness of pronunciation in his speech, whicha good deal surprised them. When evening came, however, his neighbors, whom he had asked in, did not neglect to attend; the bottle was againproduced, and poor Art, the principle of restraint having now beenremoved, re-enacted much the same scene as on the preceding night, withthis exception only, that he was now encouraged instead of being checkedor reproved. 

There were now only three days to elapse until the following Sabbath, on which day the child was to be baptized; one of them, that is, the onefollowing his first intoxication with Frank, was lost to him, for, aswe have said, though not precisely drunk, he was not in a condition towork, nor properly to give directions. The next he felt himself in muchthe same state, but with still less of regret. 

"The truth is, " said he, "I won't be rightly able to do any thing tillafther this christenin', so that I may set down the remaindher o' theweek as lost; well, sure that won't break me at any rate. It's longsince I lost a week before, and we must only make up for it; afther thechristenin' I'll work double tides. "

This was all very plausible reasoning, but very fallaciousnotwithstanding; indeed, it is this description of logic which concealsthe full extent of a man's errors from, himself, and which has sentthousands forward on their career to ruin. Had Art, for instance, beenguided by his steady and excellent brother, or, what would have beenbetter still, by his own good sense and firmness, he would have got upthe next morning in health, with an easy mind, and a clear conscience, and been able to resume his work as usual. Instead of that, thenight's debauch produced its natural consequences, feverishness andindisposition, which, by the aid of a bad proverb, and worse company, were removed by the very cause which produced them. The second night'sdebauch lost the following day, and then, forsooth, the week was nearlygone, and it wasn't worth while to change the system, as if it was evertoo soon to mend, or as if even a single day's work were not a matter ofimportance to a mechanic. Let any man who feels himself reasoning as ArtMaguire did, rest assured that there is an evil principle within him, which, unless he strangle it by prompt firmness, and a strong convictionof moral duty, will ultimately be his destruction. 

There was once a lake, surrounded by very beautiful scenery, to whichits waters gave a fine and picturesque effect. This lake was situated onan elevated part of the country, and a little below it, facing thewest, was a precipice, which terminated a lovely valley, that graduallyexpanded until it was lost in the rich campaign country below. From thislake there was no outlet of water whatsoever, but its shores at the sametime were rich and green, having been all along devoted to pasture. Now, it so happened that a boy, whose daily occupation was to tend hismaster's sheep, went one day when the winds were strong, to the edge ofthe lake, on the side to which they blew, and began to amuse himself bymaking a small channel in the soft earth with his naked foot. This smallidentation was gradually made larger and larger by the waters--wheneverthe wind blew strongly in that direction--until, in the course of time, it changed into a deep chasm, which wore away the earth that intervenedbetween the lake and the precipice. The result may be easily guessed. When the last portion of the earth gave way, the waters of the lakeprecipitated themselves upon the beautiful and peaceful glen, carryingdeath and destruction in their course, and leaving nothing but a darkunsightly morass behind them. So is it with the mind of man. Whenhe gives the first slight assent to a wrong tendency, or a viciousresolution, he resembles the shepherd's boy, who, unconscious of theconsequences that followed, made the first small channel in the earthwith his naked foot. The vice or the passion will enlarge itself bydegrees until all power of resistance is removed; and the heart becomesa victim to the impetuosity of an evil principle to which no assent ofthe will ever should have been given. 

Art, as we have said, lost the week, and then came Sunday for thechristening. On that day, of course, an extra cup was but natural, especially as it would put an end to his indulgence on the one hand, andhis idleness on the other. Monday morning would enable him to open a newleaf, and as it was the last day--that is, Sunday was--why, dang it, he would take a good honest jorum. Frank, who had a greater regard forArt's character than it appeared Art himself had, Spoke to him privatelyon the morning of the christening, as to the necessity and decencyof keeping himself sober on that day; but, alas! during this friendlyadmonition he could perceive, that early as it was, his brother wasnot exactly in a state of perfect sobriety. His remonstrances were veryunpalatable to Art, and as a consciousness of his conduct, added to thenervousness produced by drink, had both combined to produce irritabilityof temper, he addressed himself more harshly to his brother than he hadever done in his life before. Frank, for the sake of peace, gave up thetask, although he saw clearly enough that the christening was likely toterminate, at least so far as Art was concerned, in nothing less thana drunken debauch. This, indeed, was true. Little Toal, who drank moreliquor than any two among them, and Frank himself, were the only soberpersons present, all the rest having successfully imitated the exampleset them by Art, who was carried to bed at an early hour in the evening. This was but an indifferent preparation for his resolution to commencework on Monday morning, as the event proved. When the morning came, he was incapable of work; a racking pain in the head, and sickness ofstomach, were the comfortable assurances of his inability. Here wasanother day lost; but finding that it also was irretrievably gone, hethought it would be no great harm to try the old cure--a hair of thedog--as before, and it did not take much force of reasoning to persuadehimself to that course. In this manner he went on, losing day after day, until another week was lost. At length he found himself in his workshop, considerably wrecked and debilitated, striving with tremulous andunsteady hands to compensate for his lost time; it was now, however, too late--the evil habit had been contracted--the citadel had beentaken--the waters had been poisoned at their source--the small trackwith the naked foot had been made. From this time forward he did littlebut make resolutions to-day, which he broke tomorrow; in the course ofsome time he began to drink with his own workmen, and even admitted hisapprentices to their potations. Toal Finnigan, and about six or eightdissolute and drunken fellows, inhabitants of Ballykeerin, were hisconstant companions, and never had they a drinking bout that he wasnot sent for: sometimes they would meet in his own workshop, which wasturned into a tap-room, and there drink the better part of the day. Ofcourse the workmen could not be forgotten in their potations, and, as anatural consequence, all work was suspended, business at a stand, timelost, and morals corrupted. 

His companions now availed themselves of his foibles, winch they drewout into more distinct relief. Joined to an overweening desire tohear himself praised, was another weakness, which proved to be verybeneficial to his companions; this was a swaggering and consequentialdetermination, when tipsy, to pay the whole reckoning, and to treatevery one he knew. 

He was a Maguire--he was a gentleman--had the old blood in his veins, and that he might never handle a plane, if any man present should pay ashilling, so long as he was to the fore. This was an argument in whichhe always had the best of it; his companions taking care, even if hehappened to forget it, that some chance word or hint should bring it tohis memory. 

"Here, Barney Scaddhan--Barney, I say, what's the reckonin', you sinner?Now, Art Maguire, divil a penny of this you'll pay for--you're tooginerous, an' have the heart of a prince. "

"And kind family for him to have the heart of a prince, sure we all knowwhat the Fermanagh Maguires wor; of coorse we won't let him pay. "

"Toal Finnigan, do you want me to rise my hand to you? I tell you thata single man here won't pay a penny o' reckonin', while I'm to the good;and, to make short work of it, by the contints o' the book, I'll strikethe first of ye that'll attempt it. Now!"

"Faix, an' I for one, " said Toal, "won't come undher your fist; it'slittle whiskey ever I'd drink if I did. "

"Well, well, " the others would exclaim, "that ends it; howendiver, nevermind, Art, I'll engage we'll have our revenge on you for that--the nextmeetin' you won't carry it all your own way; we'll be as stiff as you'llbe stout, my boy, although you beat us out of it now. "

"Augh, " another would say, in a whisper especially designed for him, "bythe livin' farmer there never was one, even of the Maguires, like him, an' that's no lie. "

Art would then pay the reckoning with the air of a nobleman, or, if hehappened to be without money, he would order it to be scored to him, foras yet his credit was good. 

It is wonderful to reflect how vanity blinds common sense, and turnsall the power of reason and judgment to nothing. Art was so thoroughlyinfatuated by his own vanity, that he was utterly incapable of seeingthrough the gross and selfish flattery with which they plied him. Nay, when praising him, or when sticking him in for drink, as it is termed, they have often laughed in his very face, so conscious were they that itcould be done with impunity. 

This course of life could not fail to produce suitable consequences tohis health, his reputation, and his business. His customers began tofind now that the man whose word had never been doubted, and whosepunctuality was proverbial, became so careless and negligent inattending to his orders, that it was quite useless to rely upon hispromises, and, as a very natural consequence, they began to drop offone after another, until he found to his cost that a great number of hisbest and most respectable supporters ceased to employ him. 

When his workmen, too, saw that he had got into tippling and irregularhabits, and that his eye was not, as in the days of his industry, over them, they naturally became careless and negligent, as did theapprentices also. Nor was this all; the very individuals who had beenformerly remarkable for steadiness, industry, and sobriety--for Artwould then keep no other--were now, many of them, corrupted by his ownexample, and addicted to idleness and drink. This placed him in a verydifficult position; for how, we ask, could he remonstrate with them solong as he himself transgressed more flagrantly than they did? For thisreason he was often forced to connive at outbreaks of drunkenness andgross cases of neglect, which no sober man would suffer in those whom heemployed. 

"Take care of your business, and your business will take care of you, "is a good and a wholesome proverb, that cannot bo too strongly impressedon the minds of the working classes. Art began to feel surprised thathis business was declining, but as yet his good sense was strong enoughto point out to him the cause of it. His mind now became disturbed, forwhile he felt conscious that his own neglect and habits of dissipationoccasioned it, he also felt that he was but a child in the strong graspof his own propensities. This was anything but a consoling reflection, and so long as it lasted he was gloomy, morbid, and peevish; hisexcellent wife was the first to remark this, and, indeed, was the firstthat had occasion to remark it, for even in this stage of his life, theman who had never spoken to her, or turned his eye upon her, but withtenderness and affection, now began, especially when influenced bydrink, to give manifestations of temper that grieved her to the heart. Abroad, however, he was the same good-humored fellow as ever, with a fewrare exceptions--when he got quarrelsome and fought with his companions. His workmen all were perfectly aware of his accessibility to flattery, and some of them were not slow to avail themselves of it: these werethe idle and unscrupulous, who, as they resembled himself, left nothingunsaid or undone to maintain his good opinion, and they succeeded. Hisbusiness now declined so much, that he was obliged to dismiss some ofthem, and, as if he had been fated to ruin, the honest and independent, who scorned to flatter his weaknesses, were the very persons put outof his employment, because their conduct was a silent censure upon hishabits, and the men he retained were those whom he himself had madedrunken and profligate by his example; so true is it that a drunkard ishis own enemy in a thousand ways. 

Here, then, is our old friend Art falling fast away from the proverbialintegrity of his family--his circumstances are rapidly declining--hisbusiness running to a point--his reputation sullied, and histemper becoming sharp and vehement; these are strong indications ofmismanagement, neglect, and folly, or, in one word, of a propensity todrink. 

About a year and a half has now elapsed, and Art, in spite of severalmost determined resolutions to reform, is getting still worse in everyrespect. It is not to be supposed, however, that during this period hehas not had visitations of strong feeling--of repentance--remorse--orthat love of drink had so easy a victory over him as one would imagine. No such thing. These internal struggles sometimes affected him even untoagony, and he has frequently wept bitter tears on finding himself thevictim of this terrible habit. He had not, however, the courage tolook into his own condition with a firm eye, or to examine the state ofeither his heart or his circumstances with the resolution of a man whoknows that he must suffer pain by the inspection. Art could not bear thepain of such an examination, and, in order to avoid feeling it, he hadrecourse to the oblivion of drink; not reflecting that the adoption ofevery such remedy for care resembles the wisdom of the man, who, whenraging under the tortures of thirst, attempted to allay them by drinkingsea-water. Drink relieved him for a moment, but he soon found that inhis case the remedy was only another name for the disease. 

It is not necessary to assure our readers that during Art's unhappyprogress hitherto, his admirable brother Frank felt wrung to the heartby his conduct. All that good advice, urged with good feeling and goodsense, could do, was tried on him, but to no purpose; he ultimately losthis temper on being reasoned with, and flew into a passion with Frank, whom he abused for interfering, as he called it, in business which didnot belong to him. Notwithstanding this bluster, however, there was noman whom he feared so much; in fact, he dreaded his very appearance, andwould go any distance out of his way rather than come in contact withhim. He felt Frank's moral ascendency too keenly, and was too bitterlysensible of the neglect with which he had treated his affectionate andfriendly admonitions, to meet him with composure. Indeed, we must say, that, independently of his brother Frank, he was not left to his ownimpulses, without many a friendly and sincere advice. The man had beenso highly respected--his name was so stainless--his conduct so good, so blameless; he stood forth such an admirable pattern of industry, punctuality, and sobriety, that his departure from all these virtuesoccasioned general regret and sorrow. Every friend hoped that hewould pay attention to his advice, and every friend tried it, but, unfortunately, every friend failed. Art, now beyond the reach ofreproof, acted as every man like him acts; he avoided those who, becausethey felt an interest in his welfare, took the friendly liberty ofattempting to rescue him, and consequently associated only with thosewho drank with him, flattered him, skulked upon him, and laughed at him. 

One friend, however, he had, who, above all others, first in place andin importance, we cannot overlook--that friend was his admirable andaffectionate wife. Oh, in what language can we adequately describeher natural and simple eloquence, her sweetness of disposition, hertenderness, her delicacy of reproof, and her earnest struggles to winback her husband from the habits which were destroying him! And inthe beginning she was often successful for a time, and many a tear oftransient repentance has she occasioned him to shed, when she succeededin touching his heart, and stirring his affection for her and for theirchildren. 

In circumstances similar to Art's, however, we first feel our ownerrors, we then feel grateful to those who have the honesty to reproveus for them: by and by, on finding that we are advancing on the wrongpath, we begin to disrelish the advice, as being only an unnecessaryinfliction of pain; having got so far as to disrelish the advice, we soon begin to disrelish the adviser; and ultimately, we become sothoroughly wedded to our own selfish vices, as to hate every one whowould take us out of their trammels. 

When Art found that the world, as he said, was going against him, instead of rallying, as he might, and ought to have done, he beganto abuse the world, and attribute to it all the misfortunes which hehimself, and not the world, had occasioned him. The world, in fact, is nothing to any man but the reflex of himself; if you treat yourselfwell, and put yourself out of the power of the world, the world willtreat you well, and respect you; but if you neglect yourself, do not atall be surprised that the world and your friends will neglect you also. So far the world acts with great justice and propriety, and takesits cue from your own conduct; you cannot, therefore, blame the worldwithout first blaming yourself. 

Two years had now elapsed, and Art's business was nearly gone; he hadbeen obliged to discharge the drunken fellows we spoke of, but not untilthey had assisted in a great measure to complete his ruin. Two years ofdissipation, neglect of business, and drunkenness, were quite sufficientto make Art feel that it is a much easier thing to fall into poverty andcontempt, than to work a poor man's way, from early struggle and the tugof life, to ease and independence. 

His establishment was now all but closed; the two apprentices hadscarcely anything to do, and, indeed, generally amused themselves inthe workshop by playing Spoil Five--a fact which was discovered by Arthimself, who came on them unexpectedly one day when tipsy; but, as hehappened to be in an extremely good humor, he sat down and took a handalong with them. This was a new element of enjoyment to him, and insteadof reproving them for their dishonest conduct, he suffered himself tobe drawn into the habit of gambling, and so strongly did this grow uponhim, that from henceforth he refused to participate in any drinkingbout unless the parties were to play for the liquor. For this he had nowneither temper nor coolness; while drinking upon the ordinary planwith his companions, he almost uniformly paid the reckoning from sheervanity; or, in other words, because they managed him; but now that itdepended upon what he considered to be skill, nothing ever put himso completely out of temper as to be put in for it. This low gamblingbecame a passion with him; but it was a passion that proved to be thefruitful cause of fights and quarrels without end. Being seldom eithercool or sober, he was a mere dupe in the hands of his companions; butwhether by fair play or foul, the moment he perceived that the game hadgone against him, that moment he generally charged his opponents withdishonesty and fraud, and then commenced a fight. Many a time hashe gone home, beaten and bruised, and black, and cut, and every waydisfigured in these vile and blackguard contests; but so inveteratelyhad this passion for card-playing--that is, gambling for liquor--workeditself upon him, that he could not suffer a single day to pass withoutindulging in it. Defeat of any kind was a thing he could never think of;but for a Maguire--one of the great Fermanagh Maguires--to be beatenat a rascally game of Spoil Five, was not to be endured; the matter wasimpossible, unless by foul play, and as there was only one method oftreating those who could stoop to the practice of foul play, why heseldom lost any time in adopting it. This was to apply the fist, and ashe had generally three or four against him, and as, in most instances, he was in a state of intoxication, it usually happened that he receivedmost punishment. 

Up to this moment we have not presented Art to our readers in any otherlight than that of an ordinary drunkard, seen tipsy and staggering inthe streets, or singing as he frequently was, or fighting, or playingcards in the public-houses. Heretofore he was not before the world, andin everybody's eye; but he had now become so common a sight in the townof Ballykeerin, that his drunkenness was no longer a matter of surpriseto its inhabitants. At the present stage of his life he could not bearto see his brother Frank; and his own Margaret, although unchanged and. Loving as ever, was no longer to him the Margaret that she had been. He felt how much he had despised her advice, neglected her comfort, andforgotten the duties which both God and nature had imposed upon him, with respect to her and their children. These feelings coming upon himduring short intervals of reflection, almost drove him mad, and hehas often come home to her and them in a frightful and terribleconsciousness that he had committed some great crime, and that she andtheir children were involved in its consequences. 

"Margaret, " he would say, "Margaret, what is it I've done aginst you andthe childre? I have done some great crime aginst you all, for surely ifI didn't, you wouldn't look as you do--Margaret, asthore, where is thecolor that was in your cheeks? and my own Art here--that always pacifiesme when nobody else can--even Art doesn't look what he used to be. "

"Well, sure he will, Art, dear, " she would reply; "now will you let mehelp you to bed? it's late; it's near three o'clock; Oh Art, dear, ifyou were----"

"I won't go to bed--I'll stop here where I am, wid my head on the table, till mornin'. Now do you know--come here, Margaret--let me hear you--doyou know, and are you sensible of the man you're married to?"

"To be sure I am. "

"No, I tell you; I say you are not. There is but one person in the housethat knows that. "

"You're right, Art darlin'--you're right. Come here, Atty; go to yourfather; you know what to say, avick. "

"Well, Art, " he would continue, "do you know who your father is?"

"Ay do I; he's one of the great Fermanagh Maguires--the greatest familyin the kingdom. Isn't that it?"

"That's it, Atty darlin'--come an' kiss me for that; yes, I'm one of thegreat Fermanagh Maguires. Isn't that a glorious thin', Atty?"

"Now, Art, darlin', will you let me help you to bed--think of the hourit is. "

"I won't go, I tell you. I'll sit here wid my head on the table allnight. Come here, Atty. Atty, it's wondherful how I love you--above allcreatures livin' do I love you. Sure I never refuse to do any thing foryou, Atty; do I now?"

"Well, then, will you come to bed for me?"

"To be sure I will, at wanst;" and the unhappy man instantly rose andstaggered into his bedroom, aided and supported by his wife and child;for the latter lent whatever little assistance he could give to hisdrunken father, whom he tenderly loved. 

His shop, however, is now closed, the apprentices are gone, and the lastmiserable source of their support no longer exists. Poverty now setsin, and want and destitution. He parts with his tools; but not for thepurpose of meeting the demands of his wife and children at home; no;but for drink--drink--drink--drink. He is now in such a state that hecannot, dares not, reflect, and consequently, drink is more necessaryto him than ever. His mind, however, is likely soon to be free fromthe pain of thinking; for it is becoming gradually debauched andbrutified--is sinking, in fact, to the lowest and most pitiable state ofdegradation. It was then, indeed, that he felt how the world deals witha man who leaves himself depending on it. 

[Illustration: PAGE AM1018-- They immediately expelled him]

His friends had now all abandoned him; decent people avoided him--hehad fallen long ago below pity, and was now an object of contempt. His family at home were destitute; every day brought hunger--positive, absolute want of food wherewith to support nature. His clothes werereduced to tatters; so were those of his wife and children. His frame, once so strong and athletic, was now wasted away to half its wontedsize; his hands were thin, tremulous, and flesh-less; his face pale andemaciated; and his eye dead and stupid. He was now nearly alone in theworld. Low and profligate as were his drunken companions, yet even theyshunned him; and so contemptuously did they treat him, now that he wasno longer able to pay his way, or enable the scoundrels to swill at hisexpense, that whenever he happened to enter Barney Scaddhan's tap, whilethey were in it, they immediately expelled him without ceremony, orBarney did it for them. He now hated home; there was nothing there forhim, but cold, naked, shivering destitution. The furniture had gone bydegrees for liquor; tables, chairs, kitchen utensils, bed and bedding, with the exception of a miserable blanket for Margaret and the child, had all been disposed of for about one-tenth part of their value. Alas, what a change is this from comfort, industry, independence, andrespectability, to famine, wretchedness, and the utmost degradation!Even Margaret, whose noble heart beat so often in sympathy with thedistresses of the poor, has scarcely any one now who will feel sympathywith her own. Not that she was utterly abandoned by all. Many a timehave the neighbors, in a stealthy way, brought a little relief in theshape of food, to her and her children. Sorry are we to say, however, that there were in the town of Ballykeerin, persons whom she had herselfformerly relieved, and with whom the world went well since, who nowshut their eyes against her misery, and refused to assist her. Her lot, indeed, was now a bitter one, and required all her patience, all herfortitude to enable her to bear up under it. Her husband was sunkdown to a pitiable pitch, his mind consisting, as it were, only of twoelements, stupidity and ill-temper. Up until the disposal of all thefurniture, he had never raised his hand to her, or gone beyond verbalabuse; now, however, his temper became violent and brutal. All senseof shame--every pretext for decency--all notions of self-respect, weregone, and nothing was left to sustain or check him. He could not look inupon himself and find one spark of decent pride, or a single principleleft that contained the germ of his redemption. He now gave himself overas utterly lost, and consequently felt no scruple to stoop to anyact, no matter how mean or contemptible. In the midst of all thisdegradation, however, there was one recollection which he never gave up;but alas, to what different and shameless purposes did he now prostituteit! That which had been in his better days a principle of just pride, aspur to industry, an impulse to honor, and a safeguard to integrity, hadnow become the catchword of a mendicant--the cant or slang, as itwere, of an impostor. He was not ashamed to beg in its name--to askfor whiskey in its name--and to sink, in its name, to the most sordidsupplications. 

"Will you stand the price of a glass? I'm Art Maguire; one of the greatMaguires of Fermanagh! Think of the blood of the Maguires, and standa glass. Barney Scaddhan won't trust me now; although many a pound andpenny of good money I left him. "

"Ay, " the person accosted would reply, "an' so sign's on you; you wouldbe a different man to-day, had you visited Barney Scaddhan's seldomer, or kept out of it altogether. "

"It's not a sarmon I want; will you stand the price of a glass?"

"Not a drop. "

"Go to blazes, then, if you won't. I'm a betther man than ever youwor, an' have betther blood in my veins. The great Fermanagh Maguiresforever!"

But, hold--we must do the unfortunate man justice. Amidst all thisdegradation, and crime, and wretchedness, there yet shone undimmed onesolitary virtue. This was an abstract but powerful affection for hischildren, especially for his eldest son; now a fine boy about eight ornine. In his worst and most outrageous moods--when all other influencefailed--when the voice of his own Margaret, whom he once loved--oh howwell! fell heedless upon his ears--when neither Frank, nor friend, norneighbor could manage nor soothe him--let but the finger of his boytouch him, or a tone of his voice fall upon his ear, and he placedhimself in his hands, and did whatever the child wished him. 

One evening about this time, Margaret was sitting upon a small hassockof straw, that had been made for little Art, when he began to walk. It was winter, and there was no fire; a neighbor, however, had out ofcharity lent her a few dipped rushes, that they might not be in utterdarkness. One of these was stuck against the wall, for they had nocandlestick; and oh, what a pitiable and melancholy spectacle didits dim and feeble light present! There she sat, the young, virtuous, charitable, and lovely Margaret of the early portion of our narrative, surrounded by her almost naked children--herself with such thin andscanty covering as would wring any heart but to know it. Where now washer beauty? Where her mirth, cheerfulness, and all her lightness ofheart? Where? Let her ask that husband who once loved her so well, butwho loved his own vile excesses and headlong propensities better. There, however, she sat, with a tattered cap on, through the rents of which herraven hair, once so beautiful and glossy, came out in matted elf-locks, and hung down about her thin and wasted neck. Her face was pale andghastly as death; her eyes were without fire--full of languor--fullof sorrow; and alas, beneath one of them, was too visible, by itsdiscoloration, the foul mark of her husband's brutality. To this hadtheir love, their tenderness, their affection come; and by what? Alas!by the curse of liquor--the demon of drunkenness--and want of manlyresolution. She sat, as we have said, upon the little hassock, whileshivering on her bosom was a sickly-looking child, about a year old, towhom she was vainly endeavoring to communicate some of her own naturalwarmth. The others, three in number, were grouped together for thesame reason; for poor little Atty--who, though so very young, was hismother's only support, and hope, and consolation--sat with an arm abouteach, in order, as well as he could, to keep off the cold--the nightbeing stormy and bitter. Margaret sat rocking herself to and fro, asthose do who indulge in sorrow, and crooning for her infant the sweetold air of "_Tha ma cullha's na dhuska me_, " or "I am asleep and don'twaken me!"--a tender but melancholy air, which had something peculiarlytouching in it on the occasion in question. 

"Ah, " she said, "I am asleep and don't waken me; if it wasn't for yoursakes, darlins, it's I that long to be in that sleep that we willnever waken from; but sure, lost in misery as we are, what could yez dowithout me still?"

"What do you mane, mammy?" said Atty; "sure doesn't everybody that goesto sleep waken out of it?"

[Illustration: PAGE AM1019-- There's a sleep that nobody wakens from]

"No, darlin'; there's a sleep that nobody wakens from. "

"Dat quare sleep, mammy, " said a little one. "Oh, but me's could, mammy;will we eva have blankets?"

The question, though simple, opened up the cheerless, the terriblefuture to her view. She closed her eyes, put her hands on them, as ifshe strove to shut it out, and shivered as much at the apprehension ofwhat was before her, as with the chilly blasts that swept through thewindowless house. 

"I hope so, dear, " she replied; "for God is good. "

"And will he get us blankets, mammy?". 

"Yes, darlin', I hope so. "

"Me id rady he'd get us sometin' to ait fust, mammy; I'm starvin' widhungry;" and the poor child began to cry for food. 

The disconsolate mother was now assailed by the clamorous outcries ofnature's first want, that of food. She surveyed her beloved little broodin the feeble light, and saw in all its horror the fearful impress offamine stamped upon their emaciated features, and strangely lighting uptheir little heavy eyes. She wrung her hands, and looking up silently toheaven, wept aloud for some minutes. 

"Childre, " she said at length, "have patience, poor things, an' you'llsoon get something to eat. I sent over Nanny Hart to my sisther's, an'when she comes back yell get something;--so have patience, darlins, tillthen. "

"But, mother, " continued little Atty, who could not understand herallusion to the sleep from which there is no awakening; "what kind ofsleep is it that people never waken from?"

"The sleep that's in the grave, Atty, dear; death is the sleep I mean. "

"An' would you wish to die, mother?"

"Only for your sake, Atty, and for the sake of the other darlins, ifit was the will of God, I would; and, " she added, with a feeling ofindescribable anguish, "what have I now to live for but to see you allabout me in misery and sorrow!"

The tears as she spoke ran silently, but bitterly, down her cheeks. 

"When I think of what your poor lost father was, " she added, "when wewor happy, and when he was good, and when I think of what he is now--oh, my God, my God, " she sobbed' out, "my manly young husband, what cursehas come over you that has brought you down to this! Curse! oh, fareergair, it's a curse that's too well known in the country--it's the cursethat laves many an industrious man's house as ours is this bitthernight--it's the curse that takes away good name and comfort, and honesty(that's the only thing it has left us)--that takes away the strength ofboth body and mind--that banishes dacency and shame--that laves many awidow and orphan to the marcy of an unfeelin' world--that fills thejail and the madhouse--that brings many a man an' woman to a disgracefuldeath--an' that tempts us to the commission of every evil;--that curse, darlins, is whiskey--drinkin' whiskey--an' it is drinkin' whiskey thathas left us as we are, and that has ruined your father, and destroyedhim forever. "

"Well, but there's no other curse over us, mother?"

The mother paused a moment--

"No, darlin', " she replied; "not a curse--but my father and mother bothdied, and did not give me their blessin'; but now, Atty, don't ask meanything more about that, bekase I can't tell you. " This she added froma feeling of delicacy to her unhappy husband, whom, through all hisfaults and vices, she constantly held up to her children as an object ofrespect, affection, and obedience. 

Again the little ones were getting importunate for food, and their crieswere enough to touch any heart, much less that of a tender and lovingmother. Margaret herself felt that some unusual delay must haveoccurred, or the messenger she sent to her sister must have long sincereturned; just then a foot was heard outside the door, and there was animpatient cessation of the cries, in the hope that it was the returnof Nanny Hart--the door opened, and Toal Finnigan entered this wretchedabode of sorrow and destitution. 

There was something peculiarly hateful about this man, but in the eyesof Margaret there was something intensely so. She knew right well thathe had been the worst and most demoralizing companion her husband everassociated with, and she had, besides, every reason to believe that, were it not for his evil influence over the vain and wretched man, hemight have overcome his fatal propensity to tipple. She had often toldArt this; but little Toal's tongue was too sweet, when aided by hisdupe's vanity. Many a time had she observed a devilish leer of satanictriumph in the misshapen little scoundrel's eye, when bringing homeher husband in a state of beastly intoxication, and for this reason, independently of her knowledge of his vile and heartless disposition, and infamous character, she detested him. After entering, he lookedabout him, and even with the taint light of the rush she could mark thathis unnatural and revolting features were lit up with a hellish triumph. 

"Well, Margaret Murray, " said he, "I believe you are now nearly as badlyoff as you can be; your husband's past hope, and you are as low as ahuman bein' ever was. I'm now satisfied; you refused to marry me--youmade a May-game of me--a laughin' stock of me, and your father tould myfather that I had legs like reapin' hooks! Now, from the day you refusedto marry me, I swore I'd never die till I'd have my revinge, and I haveit; who has the laugh now, Margaret Murray?"

"You say, " she replied calmly, "that I am as low as a human bein' canbe, but that's false, Toal Finnigan, for I thank God I have committed nocrime, and my name is pure and good, which is more than any one can sayfor you; begone from my place. "

"I will, " he replied, "but before I go jist let me tell you, that I havethe satisfaction to know that, if I'm not much mistaken, it was I thatwas the principal means of leavin' you as you are, and your respectablehusband as he is; so my blessin' be wid you, an that's more than yourfather left you. Raipin' hooks, indeed!"

The little vile Brownie then disappeared. 

Margaret, the moment he was gone, immediately turned round, and going toher knees, leaned, with her half-cold infant still in her arms, againsta creaking chair, and prayed with as much earnestness as a distractedheart permitted her. The little ones, at her desire, also knelt, and ina few minutes afterwards, when her drunken husband came home, he foundhis miserable family, grouped as they were in their misery, worshippingGod in their own simple and touching manner. His entrance disturbedthem, for Margaret knew she must go through the usual ordeal to whichhis nightly return was certain to expose her. 

"I want something to ait, " said he. 

"Art, dear, " she replied--and this was the worst word she ever utteredagainst him--"Art, dear, I have nothing for you till by an' by; but Iwill then. "

"Have you any money?"

"Money, Art! oh, where would I get it? If I had money I wouldn't bewithout something' for you to eat, or the childre here that tastednothin' since airly this mornin'. "

"Ah, you're a cursed useless wife, " he replied, "you brought nothin' butbad luck to me an' them; but how could you bring anything else, when youdidn't get your father's blessin'. "

"But, Art, don't you remember, " she said meekly in reply, "you surelycan't forget for whose sake I lost it. "

"Well, he's fizzin' now, the hard-hearted ould scoundrel, for keepin'it from you; he forgot who you wor married to, the extortin' ouldvagabone--to one of the great Fermanagh Maguires, an' he' not fit towipe their shoes. The curse o' heaven upon you an' him, wherever he is!It was an unlucky day to me I ever seen the face of one of you--here, Atty, I've some money; some strange fellow at the inn below stood to mefor the price of a naggin, an' that blasted Barney Scaddhan wouldn't letme in, bekase, he said, I was a disgrace to his house, the scoundrel. "

"The same house was a black sight to you, Art. "

"Here, Atty, go off and, get me a naggin. "

"Wouldn't it be better for you to get something to eat, than to drinkit, Art. "

"None of your prate, I say, go off an' bring me a naggin o' whiskey, an'don't let the grass grow under your feet. "

The children, whenever he came home, were awed into silence, butalthough they durst not speak, there was an impatient voracity visiblein their poor features, and now wolfish little eyes, that was a terriblething to witness. Art took the money, and went away to bring his fatherthe whiskey. 

"What's the reason, " said he, kindling into sudden fury, "that youdidn't provide something for me to eat? Eh? What's the reason?" andhe approached her in a menacing attitude. "You're a lazy, worthlessvagabone. Why didn't you get me something to ait, I say? I can't standthis--I'm famished. "

"I sent to my sister's, " she replied, laying-down the child; for shefeared that if he struck her and knocked her down, with the child inher arms, it might be injured, probably killed, by the fall; "when themessenger comes back from my sister's----"

"D--n yourself and your sister, " he replied, striking her a blow atthe same time upon the temple. She fell, and in an instant her face wasdeluged with blood. 

"Ay, lie there, " he continued, "the loss of the blood will cool you. Hould your tongues, you devils, or I'll throw yez out of the house, " heexclaimed to the children, who burst into an uproar of grief on seeingtheir "mammy, " as they called her, lying bleeding and insensible. "That's to taich her not to have something for me to ait. Ay, " heproceeded, with a hideous laugh--"ha, ha, ha! I'm a fine fellow--amn'tI? There she lies now, and yet she was wanst Margaret Murray!--my ownMargaret--that left them all for myself; but sure if she did, wasn't Ione of the great Maguires of Fermanagh?--Get up, Margaret; here, I'llhelp you up, if the divil was in you!"

He raised her as he spoke, and perceived that consciousness wasreturning. The first thing she did was to put up her hand to her temple, where she felt the warm blood. She gave him one look of profound sorrow. 

"Oh, Art dear, " she exclaimed, "Art dear--" her voice failed her, but thetears flowed in torrents down her cheeks. 

"Margaret, " said he, "you needn't spake to me that way. You know any howI'm damned--damned--lol de rol lol--tol de rol lol! ha, ha, ha! I haveno hope either here or hereafther--divil a morsel of hope. Isn't thatcomfortable? eh?--ha, ha, ha"--another hideous laugh. "Well, no matter;we'll dhrink it out, at all events. Where's Atty, wid the whiskey? Oh, here he is! That's a good boy, Atty. "

"Oh, mammy darlin', " exclaimed the child, on seeing the blood streamingfrom her temple--"mammy darlin', what happened you?"

"I fell, Atty dear, " she replied, "and was cut. "

"That's a lie, Atty; it was I, your fine chip of a father, that struckher. Here's her health, at all events! I'll make one dhrink of it; hoch!they may talk as they like, but I'll stick to Captain Whiskey. "

"Father, " said the child, "will you come over and lie down upon thestraw, for your own me, for your own Atty; and then you'll fall into asound sleep?"

"I will, Atty, for you--for you--I will, Atty; but mind, I wouldn't doit for e'er another livin'. "

One day wid Captain Whiskey I wrastled a fall, But, t'aix, I was nomatch for the Captain at all, Though the landlady's measures they wordamnably small--But I'll thry him to morrow when I'm sober. 

"Come, " said the child, "lie down here on the straw; my poor mammy sayswe'll get clane straw to-morrow; and we'll be grand then. "

His father, who was now getting nearly helpless, went over and threwhimself upon some straw--thin and scanty and cold it was--or rather, in stooping to throw himself on it he fell with what they call in thecountry a soss; that is, he fell down in a state of utter helplessness;his joints feeble and weak, and all his strength utterly prostrated. Margaret, who in the meantime was striving to stop the effusion of bloodfrom her temple, by the application of cobwebs, of which there was noscarcity in the house, now went over, and loosening his cravat, she gottogether some old rags, of which she formed, as well as she could, apillow to support his head, in order to avoid the danger of his beingsuffocated. 

"Poor Art, " she exclaimed, "if you knew what you did, you would cut thathand off you sooner than raise it to your own Margaret, as you used tocall me. It is pity that I feel for you, Art dear, but no anger; an'God, who sees my heart, knows that. "

Now that he was settled, and her own temple bound up, the children oncemore commenced their cry of famine; for nothing can suspend the sterncravings of hunger, especially when fanged by the bitter consciousnessthat there is no food to be had. Just then, however, the girl returnedfrom her sister's, loaded with oatmeal--a circumstance which changed thecry of famine into one of joy. 

But now, what was to be done for fire, there was none in the house. 

"Here is half-a-crown, " said the girl, "that she sent you; but she puther hands acrass, and swore by the five crasses, that unless you leftArt at wanst, they'd never give you a rap farden's worth of assistanceagin, if you and they wor to die in the streets. "

"Leave him!" said Margaret; "oh never! When I took him, I took him forbetther an' for worse, and I'm not goin' to neglect my duty to him now, because he's down. All the world has desarted him, but I'll never desarthim. Whatever may happen, Art dear--poor, lost Art--whatever may happen, I'll live with you, beg with you, die with you; anything but desartyou. "

She then, after wiping the tears which accompanied her words, sent outthe girl, who bought some turf and milk, in order to provide a meal ofwholesome food for the craving children. 

"Now, " said she to the girl, "what is to be done? for if poor Artsees this meal in the morning, he will sell the best part of it to getwhiskey; for I need scarcely tell you, " she added, striving to palliatehis conduct, "that he cannot do without it, however he might contrive todo without his breakfast. " But, indeed, this was true. So thoroughly washe steeped in drunkenness--in the low, frequent, and insatiable appetitefor whiskey--that, like tobacco or snuff, it became an essential portionof his life--a necessary-evil, without which he could scarcely exist. Atall events, the poor children had one comfortable meal, which made themhappy; the little stock that remained was stowed away in some nook orother, where Art was not likely to find it; the girl went home, and wewere about to say that the rest of this miserable family went to bed;but, alas! they had no bed to go to, with the exception of a littlestraw, and a thin single blanket to cover them. 

If Margaret's conduct during these severe and terrible trials was notnoble and heroic, we know not what could be called so. The affectionwhich she exhibited towards her husband overcame everything. When Arthad got about half way in his mad and profligate career, her friendsoffered to support her, if she would take refuge with them and abandonhim; but the admirable woman received the proposal as an insult; and thereply she gave is much the same as the reader has heard from her lips, with reference to the girl's message from her sister. 

Subsequently, they offered to take her and the children; but this alsoshe indignantly rejected. She could not leave him, she said, at the verytime when it was so necessary that her hands should be about him. Whatmight be the fate of such a man if he had none to take care of him?No, this almost unexampled woman, rather than desert him in suchcircumstances, voluntarily partook in all the wretchedness, destitution, and incredible misery which his conduct inflicted on her, and did sopatiently, and without a murmur. 

In a few days after the night we have described, a man covered withrags, without shoe, or stocking, or shirt, having on an old hat, throughthe broken crown of which his hair, wefted with bits of straw, stoodout, his face shrunk and pale, his beard long and filthy, and his eyesrayless and stupid--a man of this description, we say, with one child inhis arms, and two more accompanying him, might be seen beggingthrough the streets of Ballykeerin; yes, and often in such a state ofdrunkenness as made it frightful to witness his staggering gait, lest hemight tumble over upon the infant, or let it fair out of his arms. Thisman was Art Maguire; to such a destiny had he come, or rather had hebrought himself at last; Art Maguire--one of the great Maguires ofFermanagh!

But where is she--the attached, the indomitable in love--the patient, the much enduring, the uncomplaining? Alas! she is at length separatedfrom him and them; her throbbing veins are hot and rife with fever--heraching head is filled with images of despair and horror--she is callingfor her husband--her young and manly husband--and says she will not beparted from him--she is also calling for her children, and demands tohave them. The love of the mother and of the wife is now furious; but, thank God, the fury that stimulates it is that of disease, and not ofinsanity. The trials and privations which could not overcome her nobleheart, overcame her physical frame, and on the day succeeding that wofulnight she was seized with a heavy fever, and through the interferenceof some respectable inhabitants of the town, was conveyed to the feverhospital, where she now lies in a state of delirium. 

And Frank Maguire--the firm, the industrious, and independent--where ishe? Unable to bear the shame of his brother's degradation, he gave uphis partnership, and went to America, where he now is; but not withouthaving left in the hands of a friend something for his unfortunatebrother to remember him by; and it was this timely aid which for thelast three quarters of a year has been the sole means of keeping life inhis brother's family. 

Thus have we followed Art Maguire from his youth up to the present stageof his life, attempting, as well as we could, to lay open to our readershis good principles and his bad, together with the errors and ignorancesof those who had the first formation of his character--we mean hisparents and family. We have endeavored to trace, with as strict anadherence to truth and nature as possible, the first struggles of aheart naturally generous and good, with the evil habit which beset him, as well as with the weaknesses by which that habit was set to work uponhis temperament. Whether we have done this so clearly and naturallyas to bring home conviction of its truth to such of our readers as mayresemble him in the materials which formed his moral constitution, andconsequently, to hold him up as an example to be avoided, it is not forourselves to say. If our readers think so, or rather feel so, then weshall rest satisfied of having performed our task as we ought. 

Our task, however, is not accomplished. It is true, we have accompaniedhim with pain and pity to penury, rags, and beggary--unreformed, unrepenting, hardened, shameless, desperate. Do our readers now supposethat there is anything in the man, or any principle external to him, capable of regenerating and elevating a heart so utterly lost as his?

But hush! what is this? How dark the moral clouds that have been hangingover the country for a period far beyond the memory of man! how blackthat dismal canopy which is only lit by fires that carry and shed aroundthem disease, famine, crime, madness, bloodshed, and death. How hot, sultry, and enervating to the whole constitution of man, physically andmentally, is the atmosphere we have been breathing so long! The miasmaof the swamp, the simoom of the desert, the merciless sirocco, are healthful when compared to such an atmosphere. And, hark! whatformidable being is that who, with black expanded wings, flies aboutfrom place to place, and from person to person, with a cup of fire inhis hands, which he applies to their eager lips? And what spell orcharm lies in that burning cup, which, no sooner do they taste than theyshout, clap their hands with exultation, and cry out, "We are happy! weare happy!" Hark; he proclaims himself, and shouteth still louder thanthey do; but they stop their ears, and will not listen; they shut theireyes and will not see. What sayeth he? "I am the Angel of Intemperance, Discord, and Destruction, who oppose myself to God and all his laws--toman, and all that has been made for his good; my delight is in miseryand unhappiness, in crime, desolation, ruin, murder, and death in athousand shapes of vice and destitution. Such I am, such I shall be, forbehold, my dominion shall last forever!"

But hush again! Look towards the south! What faint but beautiful lightis it, which, fairer than that of the morning, gradually breaketh uponthat dark sky? See how gently, but how steadily, its lustre enlargesand expands! It is not the light of the sun, nor of the moon, nor of thestars, neither is it the morning twilight, which heralds the approach ofday; no, but it is the serene effulgence which precedes and accompaniesa messenger from God, who is sent to bear a new principle of happinessto man! This principle is itself an angelic spirit, and lo! how the skybrightens, and the darkness flees away like a guilty thing before it!Behold it on the verge of the horizon, which is now glowing with therosy hues of heaven--it advances, it proclaims its mission:--hark!

"I am the Angel of Temperance, of Industry, of Peace! who oppose myselfto the Spirit of Evil and all his laws--I am the friend of man, andconduct him to the true enjoyment of all that has been made for hisgood. My mission is to banish misery, unhappiness, and crime, to savemankind from desolation, ruin, murder, and death, in a thousand shapesof vice and destitution. "

And now see how he advances in beauty and power, attended by knowledge, health, and truth, while the harmonies of domestic life, of civilconcord, and social duty, accompany him, and make music in his path. Butwhere is the angel of intemperance, discord, and destruction? Hideousmonster, behold him! No longer great nor terrible, he flies, or rathertotters, from before his serene opponent--he shudders--he stutters andhiccups in his howlings--his limbs are tremulous--his hands shake asif with palsy--his eye is lustreless and bloodshot, and his ghastlycountenance the exponent of death. He flies, but not unaccompanied;along with him are crime, poverty, hunger, idleness, his music the groanof the murderer, the clanking of the madman's chain, filled up by thereport of the suicide's pistol, and the horrible yell of despair! Andnow he and his evil spirits are gone, the moral atmosphere is bright andunclouded, and the Angel of Temperance, Industry, and Peace goes abroadthroughout the land, fulfilling his beneficent mission, and diffusinghis own virtues into the hearts of a regenerated people!

Leaving allegory, however, to the poets, it is impossible that, treatingof the subject which we have selected, we could, without seeming toundervalue it, neglect to say a few words upon the most extraordinarymoral phenomenon, which, apart from the miraculous, the world ever saw;we allude to the wonderful Temperance Movement, as it is called, which, under the guiding hand of the Almighty, owes its visible power andprogress to the zeal and incredible exertions of one pious and humbleman--the Very Rev. Theobald Matthew, of Cork. When we consider thegeneral, the proverbial character, which our countrymen have, duringcenturies, borne for love of drink, and their undeniable habits ofintemperance, we cannot but feel that the change which has taken placeis, indeed, surprising, to say the least of it. But, in addition tothis, when we also consider the natural temperament of the Irishman--hissocial disposition--his wit, his humor, and his affection--all of whichare lit up by liquor--when we just reflect upon the exhilaration ofspirits produced by it--when we think upon the poverty, the distress, and the misery which too generally constitute his wretched lot, andwhich it will enable him, for a moment, to forget--and when we rememberthat all his bargains were made over it--that he courted his sweetheartover it--got married over it--wept for his dead over it--and generallyfought his enemy of another faction, or the Orangeman of another creed, when under its influence:--when we pause over all these considerations, we can see how many temptations our countrymen had to overcome inrenouncing it as they did; and we cannot help looking at it as a moralmiracle, utterly without parallel in the history of man. 

Now we are willing to give all possible credit, and praise, and honor toFather Matthew; but we do not hesitate to say, that even he would havefailed in being, as he is, the great visible exponent of this admirableprinciple, unless there had been other kindred principles in theIrishman's heart, which recognized and clung to it. In other words it isunquestionable, that had the religious and moral feelings of the Irishpeople been neglected, the principle of temperance would never havetaken such deep root in the heart of the nation as it has done. Nay, itcould not; for does not every man of common sense know, that good moralprinciples seldom grow in a bad moral soil, until it is cultivated fortheir reception. It is, therefore, certainly a proof that the RomanCatholic priesthood of Ireland had not neglected the religiousprinciples of the people. It may, I know, and it has been called asuperstitious contagion; but however that may be, so long as we havesuch contagions among us, we will readily pardon the superstition. Letsuperstition always assume a shape of such beneficence and virtue toman, and we shall not quarrel with her for retaining the name. Such acontagion could never be found among any people in whom there did notexist predisposing qualities, ready to embrace and nurture the goodwhich came with it. 

Our argument, we know, may be met by saying that its chief influence wasexerted on those whose habits of dissipation, immorality, and irreligionkept, them aloof from the religious instruction of the priest. But tothose who know the Irish heart, it is not necessary to say that manya man addicted to drink is far from being free from the impressions ofreligion, or uninfluenced by many a generous and noble virtue. Neitherdoes it follow that every such man has been neglected by his priest, orleft unadmonished of the consequences which attended his evil habit. But how did it happen, according to that argument, that it was thisvery class of persons--the habitual, or the frequent, or the occasionaldrunkard--that first welcomed the spirit of temperance, and availedthemselves of its blessings? If there had not been the buried seeds ofneglected instruction lying in their hearts, it is very improbable thatthey would have welcomed and embraced the principle as they did. On theother hand, it is much more likely that they would have fled from, and avoided a spirit which deprived them of the gratification of theirruling and darling passion. Evil and good, we know, do not so readilyassociate. 

Be this, however, as it may, we have only to state, in continuationof our narrative, that at the period of Art Maguire's most lamentabledegradation, and while his admirable but unhappy wife was stretched uponthe burning bed of fever, the far low sounds of the Temperance Movementwere heard, and the pale but pure dawn of its distant light seenat Ballykeerin. That a singular and novel spirit accompanied it, iscertain; and that it went about touching and healing with all the powerof an angel, is a matter not of history, but of direct knowledge andimmediate recollection. Nothing, indeed, was ever witnessed in anycountry similar to it. Whereever it went, joy, acclamation, ecstasyaccompanied it; together with a sense of moral liberty, of perfectfreedom from the restraint, as it were, of some familiar devil, that hadkept its victims in its damnable bondage. Those who had sunk exhaustedbefore the terrible Molpch of Intemperance, and given themselves overfor lost, could now perceive that there was an ally at hand, that wasable to bring them succor, and drag them back from degradation anddespair, to peace and independence, from contempt and infamy, to respectand praise. Nor was this all. It was not merely into the heart of thesot and drunkard that it carried a refreshing consciousness of joy anddeliverance, but into all those hearts which his criminal indulgence hadfilled with heaviness and sorrow. It had, to be sure, its dark sideto some--ay, to thousands. Those who lived by the vices--the low indulgences and the ruinous excesses--of theirfellow-creatures--trembled and became aghast at its approach. The vulgarand dishonest publican, who sold a _bona fide_ poison under a falsename; the low tavern-keeper; the proprietor of the dram-shop; of thenight-house; and the shebeen--all were struck with terror and dismay. Their occupation was doomed to go. No more in the dishonest avarice ofgain where they to coax and jest with the foolish tradesman, until theyconfirmed him in the depraved habit, and led him on, at his own expense, and their profit, step by step, until the naked and shivering sot, nowutterly ruined, was kicked out, like Art Maguire, to make room for thosewho were to tread in his steps, and share his fate. 

No more was the purity and inexperience of youth to be corrupted by evilsociety, artfully introduced for the sordid purpose of making him spendhis money, at the expense of health, honesty, and good name. 

No more was the decent wife of the spendthrift tradesman, when forced bystern necessity, and the cries of her children, to seek her husband inthe public house, of a Saturday night, anxious as she was to secure whatwas left unspent of his week's wages, in order to procure to-morrow'sfood--no more was she to be wheedled into the bar, to get the landlord'sor the landlady's treat, in order that the outworks of temperance, andthe principles of industry, perhaps of virtue, might be gradually brokendown, for the selfish and diabolical purpose of enabling her drunkenhusband to spend a double share of his hardly-earned pittance. 

Nor more was the male servant, in whom every confidence was placed, tobe lured into these vile dens of infamy, that he might be fleeced or hismoney, tutored into debauchery or dishonesty, or thrown into the societyof thieves and robbers, that he might become an accomplice in theircrimes, and enable them to rob his employer with safety. No more was thefemale servant, on the other hand, to be made familiar with tippling, or corrupted by evil company, until she became a worthless and degradedcreature, driven out of society, without reputation or means ofsubsistence, and forced to sink to that last loathsome alternative ofprofligacy which sends her, after a short and wicked course, to thejeering experiments of the dissecting-room. 

Oh, no; those wretches who lived by depravity, debauchery, andcorruption, were alarmed almost into distraction by the approachof temperance, for they knew it would cut off the sources of theiriniquitous gains, and strip them of the vile means of propagatingdishonesty and vice, by which they lived. But even this wretched classwere not without instances of great disinterestedness and virtue;several of them closed their debasing establishments, forfeited theirill-gotten means of living, and trusting to honesty and legitimateindustry, voluntarily assumed the badge of temperance, and joined itspeaceful and triumphant standard!

Previous to this time, however, and, indeed, long before the joyfulsounds of its advancing motion were heard from afar, it is not to betaken for granted that the drunkards of the parish of Ballykeerin Avereleft to the headlong impulses of their own evil propensities. Before ArtMaguire had fallen from his integrity and good name, there had not beena more regular attendant at mass, or at his Easter and Christmasduties, in the whole parish; in this respect he was a pattern, as FatherCostelloe, the priest, often said, to all who were anxious to lead adecent and creditable life, forgetting their duty neither to God norman. A consciousness of his fall, however, made him ashamed in thebeginning to appear at mass, until he should decidedly reform, which heproposed and resolved to do, or thought he resolved, from week to week, and from day to day. How he wrought out these resolutions our readersknow too well; every day and every week only made him worse and worse, until by degrees all thought of God, or prayer, or priest, abandonedhim, and he was left to swelter in misery among the very dregs ofhis prevailing vice, hardened and obdurate. Many an admonition has hereceived from Father Costelloe, especially before he become hopeless, and many a time, when acknowledging his own inability to follow up hispurposes of amendment, has he been told by that good and Christian man, that he must have recourse to better and higher means of support, andremember that God will not withhold his grace from those who ask itsincerely and aright. Art, however, could not do so, for although he hadtransient awakenings of conscience, that were acute while they lasted, yet he could not look up to God with a thorough and heartfelt resolutionof permanent reformation. The love of liquor, and the disinclination togive it up, still lurked in his heart, and prevented him from settingabout his amendment in earnest. If they had not, he would have taken asecond oath, as his brother Frank often advised him to do, but withouteffect. He still hoped to be able to practise moderation, and drinkwithin bounds, and consequently persuaded himself that total abstinencewas not necessary in his case. At length Father Costelloe, like allthose who were deeply anxious for his reformation, was looked upon asan unwelcome adviser, whose Christian exhortations to a better course oflife were anything but agreeable, because he spoke truth; and so strongdid this feeling grow in him, that in his worst moments he would rathersink into the earth than meet him: nay, a glimpse of him at any distancewas sure to make the unfortunate man hide himself in some hole or corneruntil the other had passed, and all danger of coming under his reproofwas over. Art was still begging with his children, when, after a longand dangerous illness, it pleased God to restore his wife to him andthem. So much pity, and interest, and respect did she excite duringher convalescence--for it was impossible that her virtues, even in thelowest depths of her misery, could be altogether unknown--that the headsof the hospital humanely proposed to give her some kind of situation init, as soon as she should regain sufficient strength to undertake itsduties. The mother's love, however, still prompted her to rejoin herchildren, feeling as she did, and as she said, how doubly necessary nowher care and attention to them must be. She at length yielded to theirremonstrances, when they assured her that to return in her present weakcondition to her cold and desolate house, and the utter want of allcomfort which was to be found in it, might, and, in all probability, would, be fatal to her; and that by thus exposing herself too soon tothe consequences of cold and destitution, she might leave her childrenmotherless. This argument prevailed, but in the meantime she stipulatedthat her children and her husband, if the latter were in a state ofsufficient sobriety, should be permitted occasionally to see her, thatshe might inquire into their situation, and know how they lived. Thiswas acceded to, and, by the aid of care and nourishing food, she soonfound herself beginning to regain her strength. 

In the meantime the Temperance movement was rapidly and triumphantlyapproaching. In a town about fifteen miles distant there was a meetingadvertised to be held, at which the great apostle himself was toadminister the pledge; Father Costelloe announced it from the altar, andearnestly recommended his parishioners to attend, and enrol themselvesunder the blessed banner of Temperance, the sober man as well as thedrunkard. 

"It may be said, " he observed, "that sober men have no necessity fortaking the pledge; and if one were certain that every sober man wasto remain sober during his whole life, there would not, indeed, be anecessity for sober men to take it; but, alas! my friends, you know howsubject we are to those snares, and pitfalls, and temptations of lifeby which our paths are continually beset. Who can say to-day that hemay not transgress the bounds of temperance before this day week? Yourcondition in life is surrounded by inducements to drink. You scarcelybuy or sell a domestic animal in fair or market, that you are nottempted to drink; you cannot attend a neighbor's funeral that you arenot tempted to drink--'tis the same at the wedding and the christening, and in almost all the transactions of your lives. How then can youanswer for yourselves, especially when your spirits may happen to beelevated, and your hearts glad? Oh! it is then, my friends, that thetempter approaches you, and probably implants in your unguarded heartsthe germ of that accursed habit which has destroyed millions. How oftenhave you heard it said of many men, even within the range of your ownknowledge, 'Ah, he was an industrious, well-conducted, and respectableman--until he took to drink!' Does not the prevalence of such a vilehabit, and the fact that so many sober men fall away from that virtue, render the words that I have just uttered a melancholy proverb in thecountry? Ah, there he is--in rags and misery; yet he was an industrious, well-conducted, and respectable man once, that is--before he took todrink! Prevention, my dear friends, is always better than cure, and inbinding yourselves by this most salutary obligation, you know not howmuch calamity and suffering--how much general misery--how much disgraceand crime you may avoid. And, besides, are we not to look beyond thisworld? Is a crime which so greatly depraves the heart, and deadens itspower of receiving the wholesome impressions of religion and truth, notone which involves our future happiness or misery? Ah, my dear brethren, it is indeed a great and a cross popular error to say that sober menshould not take this pledge. I hope I have satisfied you that it is aduty they owe themselves to take it, so long as they feel that they arefrail creatures, and liable to sin and error; and not only themselves, but their children, their friends, and all who might be affected, eitherfor better or worse, by their example. 

"There is another argument, however, which I cannot overlook, whiledwelling upon this important subject. We know that the drunkard, if Godshould, through the instrumentality of this great and glorious movement, put the wish for amendment into his heart, still feels checked anddeterred by a sense of shame; because, the truth is, if none attendedthese meetings but such men, that very fact alone would prove a greatobstruction in the way of their reformation. Many, too many, aredrunkards; but every man is not an open drunkard, and hundreds, nay, thousands, would say, 'By attending these meetings of drunken men, Iacknowledge myself to be a drunkard also;' hence they will probablydecline going through shame, and consequently miss the opportunity ofretrieving themselves. Now, I say, my friends, it is the duty of sobermen to deprive them of this argument, and by an act, which, after all, involves nothing of self-denial, but still an act of great generosity, to enable them to enter into this wholesome obligation, without beingopenly exposed to the consequences of having acknowledged that they wereintemperate. "

He then announced the time and place of the meeting, which was in theneighboring town of Drumnabrogue, and concluded by again exhortingthem all, without distinction, to attend it and take the pledge. Hisexhortations were not without effect; many of his parishioners didattend, and among them some of Art's former dissolute companions. 

Art himself, when spoken to, and pressed to go, hiccuped and laughedat the notion of any such pledge reforming him; a strong proof thatall hope of recovering himself, or of regaining his freedom fromdrunkenness, had long ago deserted him. This, if anything further wasnecessary to do so, completed the scene of his moral prostration andinfamy. Margaret, who was still in the hospital, now sought to availherself of the opportunity which presented itself, by reasoning with, and urging him to go, but, like all others, her arguments were laughedat, and Art expressed contempt for her, Father Matthew, and all themeetings that had yet taken place. 

"Will takin' the pledge, " he asked her, "put a shirt to my back, a thingI almost forget the use of, or a good coat? Will it put a dacent houseover my head, a good bed under me, and a warm pair of blankets on us tokeep us from shiverin', an' coughin', an' barkin' the whole night longin the could?

"No, faith, I'll not give up the whiskey, for it has one comfort, itmakes me sleep in defiance o' wind and weather; it's the only friend Ihave left now--it's my shirt--its my coat--my shoes and stockin's--myhouse--my blankets--my coach--my carriage--it makes me a nobleman, alord; but, anyhow, sure I'm as good, ay, by the mortual, and better, for amn't I one of the great Maguires of Fermanagh! Whish, the ou--ouldblood forever, and to the divil wid their meetins!"

"Art, " said his wife, "I believe if you took the pledge that it wouldgive you all you say, and more; for it would bring you back the respectand good-will of the people, that you've long lost. "

"To the divil wid the people! I'll tell you what, if takin' the pledgereforms Mechil Gam, the crooked disciple that he is, or Tom Whiskey, mind--mind me--I say if it reforms them, or young Barney Scaddhan, thinyou may spake up for it, an' may be, I'll listen to you. "

At length the meeting took place, and the three men alluded to by Art, attended it as they said they would; each returned home with his pledge;they rose up the next morning, and on that night went to bed sober. This was repeated day after day, week after week, month after month, andstill nothing characterized them but sobriety, peace, and industry. 

Unfortunately, so far as Art Maguire was concerned, it was out of hispower, as it was out of that of hundreds, to derive any benefit fromthe example which some of his old hard-drinking associates had sounexpectedly set both him and them. No meeting had since occurred withinseventy or eighty miles of Ballykeerin, and yet the contagion of goodexample had spread through that and the adjoining parishes in a mannerthat was without precedent. In fact, the people murmured, becameimpatient, and, ere long, demanded from their respective pastorsthat another meeting should be held, to afford them an opportunity ofpublicly receiving the pledge; and for that purpose they besought theRev. Gentlemen to ask Father Matthew to visit Ballykeerin. This wishwas complied with, and Father Matthew consented, though at considerableinconvenience to himself, and appointed a day for the purpose specified. This was about three or four months after the meeting that was held inthe neighboring town already alluded to. 

For the last six weeks Margaret had been able to discharge the duties ofan humble situation in the hospital, on the condition that she shouldat least once a day see her children. Poor as was the situation inquestion, it enabled her to contribute much more to their comfort, thanshe could if she had resided with them, or, in other words, begged withthem; for to that, had she returned home, it must have come; and, as thewinter was excessively severe, this would have killed her, enfeebled asshe had been by a long and oppressive fever. Her own good sense taughther to see this, and the destitution of her children and husband--tofeel it. In this condition then were they--depending on the scanty aidwhich her poor exertions could afford them, eked out by the miserablepittance that he extorted as a beggar--when the intelligence arrivedthat the great Apostle of Temperance had appointed a day on which tohold a teetotal meeting in the town of Ballykeerin. 

It is utterly unaccountable how the approach of Father Matthew, and ofthese great meetings, stirred society into a state of such extraordinaryactivity, not only in behalf of temperance, but also of many othervirtues; so true is it, that when one healthy association is struck itawakens all those that are kindred to it into new life. In addition to alove of sobriety, the people felt their hearts touched, as it were, bya new spirit, into kindness and charity, and a disposition to dischargepromptly and with good-will all brotherly and neighborly offices. Harmony, therefore, civil, social, and domestic, accompanied thetemperance movement wherever it went, and accompanies it still whereverit goes; for, like every true blessing, it never comes alone, but bringsseveral others in its train. 

The morning in question, though cold, was dry and bright; a smallplatform had been raised at the edge of the market-house, which was openon one side, and on it Father Matthew was to stand. By this simple meanshe would be protected from rain, should any fall, and was sufficientlyaccessible to prevent any extraordinary crush among the postulants. But how will we attempt to describe the appearance which the town ofBallykeerin presented on the morning of this memorable and auspiciousday? And above all, in what terms shall we paint the surprise, thewonder, the astonishment with which they listened to the music of theteetotal band, which, as if by magic, had been formed in the town ofDrumnabogue, where, only a few months before, the meeting of which wehave spoken had been held. Indeed, among all the proofs of nationaladvantages which the temperance movement has brought out, we are not toforget those which it has bestowed on the country--by teaching us whata wonderful capacity for music, and what a remarkable degree ofintellectual power, the lower classes of our countrymen are endowedwith, and can manifest when moved by adequate principles. Early asdaybreak the roads leading to Ballykeerin presented a living stream ofpeople listening onwards towards the great rendezvous; but so muchdid they differ in their aspect from almost any other assemblage ofIrishmen, that, to a person ignorant of their purpose, it would bedifficult, if not impossible, to guess the cause, not that moved them insuch multitudes towards the same direction, but that marked them by suchpeculiar characteristics. We have seen Irishmen and Irishwomen going toa country race in the summer months, when labor there was none; wehave seen them going to meetings of festivity and amusement of alldescriptions;--to fairs, to weddings, to dances--but we must confess, that notwithstanding all our experience and intercourse with them, wenever witnessed anything at all resembling their manner and bearing onthis occasion. There was undoubtedly upon them, and among them, all thedelightful enjoyment of a festival spirit; they were easy, cheerful, agreeable, and social; but, in addition to this, there was clearlyvisible an expression of feeling that was new even to themselves, aswell as to the spectators. But how shall we characterize this feeling?It was certainly not at variance with the cheerfulness which they felt, but, at the same time, it shed over it a serene solemnity of mannerwhich communicated a moral grandeur to the whole proceeding that felllittle short of sublimity. This was a principle of simple virtue uponwhich all were equal; but it was more than that, it was at once amanifestation of humility, and an exertion of faith in the aid andsupport of the Almighty, by whose grace those earnest but humble peoplefelt and trusted that they would be supported. And who can say thattheir simplicity of heart--their unaffected humility, and their firmnessof faith have not been amply rewarded, and triumphantly confirmed by thesteadfastness with which they have been, with extremely few exceptions, faithful to their pledge. 

About nine o'clock the town of Ballykeerin was crowded with a multitudesuch as had never certainly met in it before. All, from the rusticmiddle classes down, were there. The crowd was, indeed, immense, yet, notwithstanding their numbers, one could easily mark the peculiar classfor whose sake principally the meeting had been called together. 

There was the red-faced farmer of substance, whose sunburnt cheeks, andred side-neck, were scorched into a color that disputed its healthy huewith the deeper purple tint of strong and abundant drink. 

"Such a man, " an acute observer would say, "eats well, and drinks well, but is very likely to pop off some day, without a minute's warning, orsaying good-by to his friends. "

Again, there was the pale and emaciated drunkard, whose feeble andtottering gait, and trembling hands, were sufficiently indicative of hisbroken-down constitution, and probably of his anxiety to be enabled tomake some compensation to the world, or some provision on the part ofhis own soul, to balance the consequences of an ill-spent life, duringwhich morals were laughed at, and health destroyed. 

There was also the healthy-looking drunkard of small means, who, had hebeen in circumstances to do so, would have gone to bed drunk every nightin the year. He is not able, from the narrowness of his circumstances, to drink himself into apoplexy on the one hand, or debility on theother; but he is able, notwithstanding, to drink the clothes off hisback, and the consequence is, that he stands before you as ragged, able-bodied, and thumping a specimen of ebriety as you could wish tosee during a week's journey. There were, in fact, the vestiges ofdrunkenness in all their repulsive features, and unhealthy variety. 

There stood the grog-drinker with his blotched face in full flower, hiseye glazed in his head, and his protuberant paunch projecting over hisshrunk and diminished limbs. 

The tippling tradesman too was there, pale and sickly-looking, his thinand over-worn garments evidently insufficient to keep out the chill ofmorning, and prevent him from shivering every now and then, as if hewere afflicted with the ague. 

In another direction might be seen the servant out of place, known bythe natty knot of his white cravat, as well as by the smartness withwhich he wears his dress, buttoned up as it is, and coaxed about himwith all the ingenuity which experience and necessity bring to the aidof vanity. His napeless hat is severely brushed in order to give thesubsoil an appearance of the nap which is gone, but it won't do; everyone sees that his intention is excellent, were it possible for addressand industry to work it out. This is not the case, however, and the hatis consequently a clear exponent of his principles and position, tasteand skill while he was sober--vain pride and trying poverty now in hisdrunkenness. 

The reckless-looking sailor was also there (but with a serious air now), who, having been discharged for drunkenness, and refused employmenteverywhere else, for the same reason, was obliged to return home, andremain a burden upon his friends. He, too, has caught this healthyepidemic, and the consequence is, that he will once more gainemployment, for the production of his medal will be accepted as awelcome proof of his reformation. 

And there was there, what was better still, the unfortunate female, thevictim of passion and profligacy, conscious of her past life, and almostashamed in the open day to look around her. Poor thing! how her heart, that was once innocent and pure, now trembles within a bosom wherethere is awakened many a painful recollection of early youth, and thehappiness of home, before that unfortunate night, when, thrown offher guard by accursed liquor, she ceased to rank among the pure andvirtuous. Yes, all these, and a much greater variety, were here actuatedby the noble resolution to abandon forever the evil courses, the vices, and the profligacy into which they were first driven by the effects ofdrink. 

The crowd was, indeed, immense, many having come a distance of twenty, thirty, some forty, and not a few fifty miles, in order to freethemselves, by this simple process, from the influence of thedestructive habit which either was leading, or had led them, to ruin. Of course it is not to be supposed that among such a vast multitudeof people there were not, as there always is, a great number of thosevagabond impostors who go about from place to place, for the purpose ofextorting charity from the simple and credulous, especially when underthe influence of liquor. All this class hated the temperance movement, because they knew right well that sobriety in the people was theregreatest enemy; the lame, the blind, the maimed, the deaf, and the dumb, were there in strong muster, and with their characteristic ingenuitydid everything in their power, under the pretence of zeal and religiousenthusiasm, to throw discredit upon the whole proceedings. It was thisvile crew, who, by having recourse to the aid of mock miracles, fanciedthey could turn the matter into derision and contempt, and who, byaffecting to be cured of their complaints, with a view of havingtheir own imposture, when detected, imputed to want of power in FatherMatthew;--it was this vile crew, we say, that first circulated thenotion that he could perform miracles. Unfortunately, many of theignorant among the people did in the beginning believe that he possessedthis power, until he himself, with his characteristic candor, disclaimedit. For a short time the idea of this slightly injured the cause, andafforded to its enemies some silly and senseless arguments, which, inlieu of better, they were glad to bring against it. 

At length Father Matthew, accompanied by several other clergymen andgentlemen, made his appearance on the platform; then was the rush, thestretching of necks, and the bitter crushing, accompanied by devicesand manoeuvres of all kinds, to catch a glimpse of him. The windows werecrowded by the more respectable classes, who were eager to witness theeffects of this great and sober enthusiasm among the lower classes. Theproceedings, however, were very simple. He first addressed them ina plain and appropriate discourse, admirably displaying the verydescription of eloquence which was best adapted to his auditory. Thisbeing concluded, he commenced distributing the medal, for which everyone who received it, gave a shilling, the latter at the same timerepeating the following words: "I promise, so long as I shall continuea member of the Teetotal Temperance Society, to abstain from allintoxicating liquors, unless recommended for medical purposes, and todiscourage by all means in my power the practice of intoxication inothers. " Father Matthew then said, "May God bless you, and enable you tokeep your promise!"

Such was the simple ceremony by which millions have been rescued fromthose terrible evils that have so long cursed and afflicted society inthis country. 

In this large concourse there stood one individual, who presented in hisperson such symptoms of a low, grovelling, and unremitting indulgence indrink, as were strikingly observable even amidst the mass of misery andwretchedness that was there congregated. It is rarely, even in a life, that an object in human shape, encompassed and pervaded by so many ofthe fearful results of habitual drunkenness, comes beneath observation. Sometimes we may see it in a great city, when we feel puzzled, by thealmost total absence of reason in the countenance, to know whether theutter indifference to nakedness and the elements, be the consequence ofdrunken destitution, or pure idiocy. To this questionable appearance hadthe individual we speak of come. The day was now nearly past, and thecrowd had considerably diminished, when this man, approaching FatherMatthew, knelt down, and clasping his skeleton hands, exclaimed--

"Father, I'm afeard I cannot trust myself. "

"Who can?" said Father Matthew; "it is not in yourself you are to placeconfidence, but in God, who will support you, and grant you strength, ifyou ask for it sincerely and humbly. "

These words, uttered in tones of true Christian charity, gave comfort tothe doubting heart of the miserable creature, who said--

"I would wish to take the pledge, if I had money; but I doubt it's toolate--too late for me! Oh, if I thought it wasn't!"

"It's never too late to repent, " replied the other, "or to return fromevil to good. If you feel your heart inclined to the right I course, donot let want of money prevent you from pledging yourself to sobriety andtemperance. "

"In God's name, then, I will take it, " he replied; and immediatelyrepeated the simple words which constitute the necessary form. 

"May God bless you, " said Father Matthew, placing his hand on his head, "and enable you to keep your promise!"

This man, our readers already guess, was Art Maguire. 

Having thus taken the medal, and pledged himself to sobriety, and atotal abstinence from all intoxicating liquors, his first feeling wasvery difficult to describe. Father Matthew's words, though few andbrief, had sunk deep into his heart, and penetrated his whole spirit. He had been for many a long day the jest and jibe of all who knew him;because they looked upon his recovery as a hopeless thing, and spoke tohim accordingly in a tone of contempt and scorn--a lesson to us that wenever should deal harshly with the miserable. Nor, however, he had beenaddressed in accents of kindness, and in a voice that proclaimed aninterest in his welfare. This, as we said, added to the impressivespirit that prevailed around, touched him, and he hurried home. 

On reaching his almost empty house, he found Margaret and the childrenthere before him; she having come to see how the poor things fared--butbeing quite ignorant of what had just taken place with regard to herhusband. 

"Art, " said she, with her usual affectionate manner; "you will wantsomething to eat; for if you're not hungry, your looks! belie you verymuch. I have brought something for you and these creatures. "

Art looked at her, then at their children, then at the utter desolationof the house, and spreading his two hands over his face, he wept aloud. This was repentance. Margaret in exceeding surprise, rose and approachedhim:--

"Art dear, " she said, "in the name of God, what's the matter?"

"Maybe my father's sick, mother, " said little Atty; "sure, father, ifyou are, I an' the rest will go out ourselves, an' you can stay at home;but we needn't go this day, for my mammy brought us as much as will putus over it. "

To neither the mother nor child did he make any reply; but wept on andsobbed as if his heart would break. 

"Oh my God, my God, " he exclaimed bitterly, "what have I brought you to, my darlin' wife and childre, that I loved a thousand times betther thanmy own heart? Oh, what have I brought you to?"

"Art, " said his wife, and her eye kindled, "in the name of the heavenlyGod, is this sorrow for the life you led?"

"Ah, Margaret darlin', " he said, still sobbing; "it's long since I oughtto a felt it; but how can I look back on that woful life? Oh my God, myGod! what have I done, an' what have I brought on you!"

"Art, " she said, "say to me that you're sorry for it; only let my earshear you saying the words. "

"Oh, Margaret dear, " he sobbed, "from my heart--from the core of myunhappy heart--I am sorry--sorry for it all. "

"Then there's hope, " she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and looking upto heaven, "there is hope--for him--for him--for us all! Oh my heart, "she exclaimed, quickly, "what is this?" and she scarcely uttered thewords, when she sank upon the ground insensible--sudden joy beingsometimes as dangerous as sudden grief. 

Art, who now forgot his own sorrow in apprehension for her, raised herup, assisted by little Atty, who, as did the rest of the children, criedbitterly, on seeing his mother's eyes shut, her arms hanging lifelesslyby her side, and herself without motion. Water, however, was broughtby Atty; her face sprinkled, and a little put to her lips, and withdifficulty down her throat. At length she gave a long deep-drawn sigh, and opening her eyes, she looked tenderly into her husband's face--

"Art dear, " she said, in a feeble voice, "did I hear it right? And yousaid you were sorry?"

"From my heart I am, Margaret dear, " he replied; "oh, if you knew what Ifeel this minute!"

She looked on him again, and her pale face was lit up with a smile ofalmost ineffable happiness. 

"Kiss me, " said she; "we are both young yet, Art dear, and we will gainour lost ground wanst more. "

While she spoke, the tears of delight fell in torrents down her cheeks. Art kissed her tenderly, and immediately pulling out the medal, showedit to her. 

She took the medal, and after looking at it, and reading theinscription--

"Well, Art, " she said, "you never broke your oath--that's one comfort. "

"No, " he replied; "nor I'll never break this; if I do, " he addedfervently, and impetuously, "may God mark me out for misery andmisfortune!"

"Whisht, dear, " she replied; "don't give way to these curses--they sarveno purpose, Art. But I'm so happy this day!"

"An' is my father never to be drunk any more, mammy?" asked the littleones, joyfully; "an he'll never be angry wid you, nor bate you anymore?"

"Whisht, darlins, " she exclaimed; "don't be spakin' about that; sureyour poor father never beat me, only when he didn't know what he wasdoin'. Never mention it again, one of you. "

"Ah, Margaret, " said Art, now thoroughly awakened, "what recompense canI ever make you, for the treatment I gave you? Oh, how can I think ofit, or look back upon it?"

His voice almost failed him, as he uttered the last words; but hisaffectionate wife stooped and kissing away the tears from his cheeks, said--

"Don't, Art dear; sure this now is not a time to cry;" and yet her owntears were flowing;--"isn't our own love come back to us? won't we nowhave peace? won't we get industrious, and be respected again?"

"Ah, Margaret darling, " he replied, "your love never left you; so don'tput yourself in; but as for me--oh, what have I done? and what have Ibrought you to?"

"Well, now, thanks be to the Almighty, all's right. Here's something foryou to ait; you must want it. "

"But, " he replied, "did these poor crathurs get anything? bekase if theydidn't, I'll taste nothin' till they do. "

"They did indeed, " said Margaret; and all the little ones came joyfullyabout him, to assure him that they had been fed, and were not hungry. 

The first feeling Art now experienced on going abroad was shame--adeep and overwhelming sense of shame; shame at the meanness of his pastconduct--shame at his miserable and unsightly appearance--shame at allhe had done, and at all he had left undone. What course now, however, was he to adopt? Being no longer stupified and besotted by liquor, intoa state partly apathetic, partly drunken, and wholly shameless, he couldnot bear the notion of resuming his habits of mendicancy. The decent butnot the empty and senseless, pride of his family was now reawakened inhim, and he felt, besides, that labor and occupation were absolutelynecessary to enable him to bear up against the incessant craving whichhe felt for the pernicious stimulant. So strongly did this beset him, that he suffered severely from frequent attacks of tremor and sensationsthat resembled fits of incipient distraction. Nothing, therefore, remained for him but close employment, that would keep both mind andbody engaged. 

When the fact of his having taken the pledge became generally known, it excited less astonishment than a person might imagine; in truth, theastonishment would have been greater, had he refused to take it at all, so predominant and full of enthusiasm was the spirit of temperance atthat period. One feeling, however, prevailed with respect to him, whichwas, that privation of his favorite stimulant would kill him--that hisphysical system, already so much exhausted and enfeebled, would, breakdown---and that poor Art would soon go the way of all drunkards. 

On the third evening after he had taken the pledge, he went down to theman who had succeeded himself in his trade, and who, by the way, hadbeen formerly one of his own journeymen, of the very men who, while hewas running his career of dissipation, refused to flatter his vanity, or make one in his excesses, and who was, moreover, one of the veryindividuals he had dismissed. To this man he went, and thus accostedhim--his name was Owen Gallagher. 

"Owen, " said he, "I trust in God that I have gained a great victory oflate. "

The man understood him perfectly well, and replied--

"I hope so, Art; I hear you have taken the pledge. "

"Belyin' on God's help, I have. "

"Well, " replied Owen, "you couldn't rely on betther help. "

"No, " said Art, "I know I could not; but, Owen, I ran a wild and aterrible race of it--I'm grieved an' shamed to think--even to think ofit. "

"An' that's a good sign, Art, there couldn't be betther; for unless aman's heart is sorry for his faults, and ashamed of them too, it's notlikely he'll give them over. "

"I can't bear to walk the streets, " continued Art, "nor to rise my head;but still something must be done for the poor wife and childre. "

"Ah, Art, " replied Owen, "that is the wife! The goold of Europe isn'tvalue for her; an' that's what every one knows. "

"But who knows it, an' feels it as I do?" said Art, "or who has theright either? howandiver, as I said, something must be done; Owen, willyou venture to give me employment? I know I'm in bad trim to come into adacent workshop, but you know necessity has no law;--it isn't my clo'esthat will work, but myself; an', indeed, if you do employ me, it's notmuch I'll be able to do this many a day; but the truth is, if I don'tget something to keep me busy, I doubt I won't be able to stand againstwhat I feel both in my mind and body. "

These words were uttered with such an air of deep sorrow and perfectsincerity as affected Gallagher very much. 

"Art, " said he, "there was no man so great a gainer by the unfortunatecoorse you tuck as I was, for you know I came into the best part of yourbusiness; God forbid then that I should refuse you work, especially asyou have turned over a new lafe;--or to lend you a helpin' hand either, now that I know it will do you and your family good, and won't go to thepublic-house. Come wid me. "

He took down his hat as he spoke, and brought Art up to one ofthose general shops that are to be found in every country town likeBallykeerin. 

"Mr. Trimble, " said he, "Art Maguire wants a plain substantial suit o'clothes, that will be chape an' wear well, an' I'll be accountable forthem; Art, sir, has taken the pledge, an' is goin' to turn over a newlafe, an' be as he wanst was, I hope. "

"And there is no man, " said the worthy shopkeeper, "in the town ofBallykeerin that felt more satisfaction than I did when I heard he hadtaken it. I know what he wants, and what you want for him, and he shallhave it both cheap and good. "

Such was the respect paid to those who nobly resolved to overcome theirbesetting sin of drink, and its consequent poverty or profligacy, that the knowledge alone that they had taken the pledge, gained themimmediate good-will, as it was entitled to do. This, to be sure, was inArt's favor; but there was about him, independently of this, a seriousspirit of awakened resolution and sincerity which carried immediateconviction along with it. 

"This little matter, " said the honest carpenter, with naturalconsideration for Art, "will, of coorse, rest between you an' me, Mr. Trimble. "

"I understand your feeling, Owen, " said he, "and I can't but admire it;it does honor to your heart. "

"Hut, " said Gallagher, "it's nothin'; sure it's jist what Art would dofor myself, if we wor to change places. "

Thus it is with the world, and ever will be so, till human naturechanges. Art had taken the first step towards his reformation, and Owenfelt that he was sincere; this step, therefore, even slight as it was, sufficed to satisfy his old friend that he would be safe in aiding him. Gallagher's generosity, however, did not stop here; the assistance whichhe gave Art, though a matter of secrecy between themselves, was soonvisible in Art's appearance, and that of his poor family. Good fortune, however, did not stop here; in about a week after this, when Art wasplainly but comfortably dressed, and working with Gallagher, feeble ashe was, upon journeyman's wages, there came a letter from his brotherFrank, enclosing ten pounds for the use of his wife and children. Itwas directed to a friend in Ballykeerin, who was instructed to apply itaccording to his own discretion, and the wants of his family, only byno means to permit a single shilling of it to reach his hands, unless onthe condition that he had altogether given up liquor. This seemed to Artlike a proof that God had rewarded him for the step he had taken; ina few weeks it was wonderful how much comfort he and his family hadcontrived to get about them. Margaret was a most admirable manager, and a great economist, and with her domestic knowledge and good sense, things went on beyond their hopes. 

Art again was up early and down late--for his strength, by the aid ofwholesome and regular food, and an easy mind, was fast returning tohim--although we must add here, that he never regained the healthy andpowerful constitution which he had lost. His reputation, too, was fastreturning; many a friendly salutation he received from those, who, in his degradation, would pass him by with either ridicule or solemncontempt. 

Nothing in this world teaches a man such well-remembered lessons oflife as severe experience. Art, although far, very far removed from hisformer independence, yet, perhaps, might be said never to have enjoyedso much peace of mind, or so strong a sense of comfort, as he did now inhis humble place with his family. The contrast between his past misery, and the present limited independence which he enjoyed, if it couldbe called independence, filled his heart with a more vivid feeling ofthankfulness than he had ever known. He had now a bed to sleep on, with _bona fide_ blankets--he had a chair to sit on--a fire on hishearth--and food, though plain, to eat; so had his wife, so had hischildren; he had also very passable clothes to his back, that kept himwarm and comfortable, and prevented him from shivering like a reed inthe blast; so had his wife, and so had his children. But he had morethan this, for he had health, a good conscience, and a returningreputation. People now addressed him as an equal, as a man, as anindividual who constituted a portion of society; then, again, he lovedhis wife as before, and lived with her in a spirit of affection equal toany they had ever felt. Why, this was, to a man who suffered what he andhis family had suffered, perfect luxury. 

In truth, Art now wondered at the life he had led, --he could notunderstand it; why he should have suffered himself, for the sake ofa vile and questionable enjoyment--if enjoyment that could be called, which was no enjoyment--at least for the sake of a demoralizing anddegrading habit, to fall down under the feet as it were, under theevil tongues, and the sneers--of those who constituted his world--theinhabitants of Ballykeerin--was now, that he had got rid of thethraldom, perfectly a mystery to him. Be this as it may, since he hadregenerated his own character, the world was just as ready to take himup as it had been to lay him down. 

Nothing in life gives a man such an inclination for active industry asto find that he is prospering; he has then heart and spirits to work, and does work blithely and cheerfully; so was it with Art. He and hisemployer were admirably adapted for each other, both being extremelywell-tempered, honest, and first-rate workmen. About the expiration ofthe first twelve months, Art had begun to excite a good deal of interestin the town of Ballykeerin, an interest which was beginning to affectOwen Gallagher himself in a beneficial way. He was now pointed out tostrangers as the man, who, almost naked, used to stand drunk and beggingupon the bridge of Ballykeerin, surrounded by his starving and equallynaked children. In fact, he began to get a name, quite a reputation forthe triumph which he had achieved over drunkenness; and on this accountOwen Gallagher, when it was generally known in the country that Artworked with him, found his business so rapidly extending, that he wasobliged, from time to time, to increase the number of hands in hisestablishment. Art felt this, and being now aware that his position inlife was, in fact, more favorable for industrious exertion than ever, resolved to give up journey work, and once more, if only for thenovelty of the thing, to set up for himself. Owen Gallagher, on hearingthis from his own lips, said he could not, nor would not blame him, but, he added--

"I'll tell you what we can do, Art--come into partnership wid me, for Ithink as we're gettin' an so well together, it 'ud be a pity, almost asin, to part; join me, and I'll give you one-third of the business, "--bywhich he meant the profits of it. 

"Begad, " replied Art, laughing, "it's as much for the novelty of thething I'm doin' it as any thing else; I think it 'ud be like a dhrame tome, if I was to find myself and my family as we wor before. " And so theyparted. 

It is unnecessary here to repeat what we have already detailedconcerning the progress of his early prosperity; it is sufficient, wetrust, to tell our readers that he rose into rapid independence, andthat he owed all his success to the victory that he had obtained overhimself. His name was now far and near, and so popular had he become, that no teetotaller would employ any other carpenter. This, at length, began to make him proud, and to feel that his having given up drink, instead of being simply a duty to himself and his family, was altogetheran act of great voluntary virtue on his part. 

"Few men, " he said, "would do it, an' may be, afther all, if I hadn'tthe ould blood in my veins--if I wasn't one of the great FermanaghMaguires, I would never a' done it. "

He was now not only a vehement Teetotaller, but an unsparing enemy toall who drank even in moderation; so much so, indeed, that whenevera man came to get work done with him, the first question he asked himwas--"Are you a Teetotaller?" If the man answered "No, " his reply was, "Well, I'm sorry for that, bekase I couldn't wid a safe conscience doyour work; but you can go to Owen Gallagher, and he will do it for youas well as any man livin'. "

This, to be sure, was the abuse of the principle; but we all know thatthe best things may be abused. He was, in fact, outrageous in defence ofTeetotalism; attended all its meetings; subscribed for Band-money; andwas by far the most active member in the whole town of Ballykeerin. Itwas not simply that he forgot his former poverty; he forgot himself. At every procession he was to be seen, mounted on a spanking horse, ridiculously over-dressed--the man, we mean, not the horse--flauntingwith ribands, and quite puffed up at the position to which he had raisedhimself. 

This certainly was not the humble and thankful feeling with which heought to have borne his prosperity. The truth, however, was, that Art, in all this parade, was not in the beginning acting upon those broad, open principles of honesty, which, in the transactions of business, hadcharacterized his whole life. He was now influenced by his foibles--byhis vanity--and by his ridiculous love of praise. Nor, perhaps, wouldthese have been called into action, were it not through the interventionof his old friend and pot companion, Toal Finnigan. Toal, be it knownto the reader, the moment he heard that Art had become a Teetotaller, immediately became one himself, and by this means their intimacy wasonce more renewed; that is to say, they spoke in friendly terms wheneverthey met--but no entreaty or persuasion could ever induce Toal to enterArt's house; and the reader need not be told why. At all events, Toal, soon after he joined it, put himself forward in the Teetotal Movementwith such prominence, that Art, who did not wish to be outdone inanything, began to get jealous of him. Hence his ridiculous exhibitionsof himself in every manner that could attract notice, or throwlittle Toal into the shade; and hence also the still more senselessdetermination not to work for any but a Teetotaller; for in this, too, Toal had set him the example. Toal, the knave, on becoming aTeetotaller, immediately resolved to turn it to account; but Art, provided he could show off, and cut a conspicuous figure in aprocession, had no dishonest motive in what he did; and this wasthe difference between them. For instance, on going up the town ofBallykeerin, you might see over the door of a middle-sized house, "Teetotal Meal Shop. N. B. --None but Teetotallers need come here. "

Now every one knew Toal too well not to understand this; for the truthis, that maugre his sign, he never refused his meal or other goods toany one that had money to pay for them. 

One evening about this time, Art was seated in his own parlor--for henow had a parlor, and was in a state of prosperity far beyond anythinghe had ever experienced before--Margaret and the children were with him;and as he smoked his pipe, he could not help making an observation ortwo upon the wonderful change which so short a time had brought about. 

"Well, Margaret, " said he, "isn't this wondherful, dear? look at thecomfort we have now about us, and think of--; but troth I don't like tothink of it at all. "

"I never can, " she replied, "without a troubled and a sinkin' heart;but, Art, don't you remember when I wanst wished you to become aTeetotaller, the answer you made me?"

"May be I do; what was it?"

"Why, you axed me--and you were makin' game of it at the time--whetherTeetotallism would put a shirt or a coat to your back--a house over yourhead--give you a bed to lie on, or blankets to keep you and the childrefrom shiverin', an' coughin', an' barkin' in the could of the night?Don't you remember sayin' this?"

"I think I do; ay, I remember something about it now. Didn't I say thatwhiskey was my coach an' my carriage, an' that it made me a lord?"

"You did; well, now what do you say? Hasn't Teetotallism bate you inyour own argument? Hasn't it given you a shirt an' a coat to your back, a good bed to lie on, a house over your head? In short, now, Art, hasn'tit given you all you said, an' more than ever you expected? eh, now?"

"I give in, Margaret--you have me there; but, " he proceeded, "it's notevery man could pull himself up as I did; eh?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Art, don't begin to put any trust in your own merestrength, nor don't be boasting of what you did, the way you do; sure, we ought always to be very humble and thankful to God for what he hasdone for us; is there anything comes to us only through him?"

"I'm takin' no pride to myself, " said Art, "divil a taste; but this Iknow, talk as you will, there's always somethin' in the ould blood. "

"Now, Art, " she replied, smiling, "do you know I could answer you onthat subject if I liked?"

"You could, " said Art; "come, then, let us hear your answer--comenow--ha, ha, ha!"

She became grave, but complacent, as she spoke. "Well, then, Art, " saidshe, "where was the ould blood when you fell so low? If it was the ouldblood that riz you up, remember it was the ould blood that put you down. You drank more whiskey, " she added, "upon the head of the ould bloodof Ireland, and the great Fermanagh Maguires, than you did on all othersubjects put together. No, Art dear, let us not trust to ould blood oryoung blood, but let us trust to the grace o' God, an' ax it from ourhearts out. "

"Well, but arn't we in great comfort now?"

"We are, " she replied, "thank the Giver of all good for it; may Godcontinue it to us, and grant it to last!"

"Last! why wouldn't it last, woman alive? Well, begad, after all, 'tisnot every other man, any way--"

"Whisht, now, " said Margaret, interrupting him, "you're beginnin' topraise yourself. "

"Well, I won't then; I'm going down the town to have a glass or two o'cordial wid young Tom Whiskey, in Barney Scaddhan's. "

"Art, " she replied, somewhat solemnly, "the very name of Barney Scaddhansickens me. I know we ought to forgive every one, as we hope to beforgiven ourselves; but still, Art, if I was in your shoes, the sorrafoot ever I'd put inside his door. Think of the way he trated you; ah, Art acushla, where's the pride of the ould blood now?"

"Hut, woman, divil a one o' me ever could keep in bad feelin' to anyone. Troth, Barney of late's as civil a crature as there's alive; surewhat you spake of was all my own fault and not his; I'll be back in anhour or so. "

"Well, " said his wife, "there's one thing, Art, that every one knows. "

"What is that, Margaret?"

"Why, that a man's never safe in bad company. "

"But sure, what harm can they do me, when we drink nothing that caninjure us?"

"Well, then, " said she, "as that's the case, can't you as well stay withgood company as bad?"

"I'll not be away more than an hour. "

"Then, since you will go, Art, listen to me; you'll be apt to meet ToalFinnigan there; now, as you love me and your childre, an' as you wishto avoid evil and misfortune, don't do any one thing that he proposes toyou: I've often tould you that he's your bitterest enemy. "

"I know you did; but sure, wanst a woman takes a pick (pique) aginst aman she'll never forgive him. In about an hour mind. " He then went out. 

The fact is, that some few of those who began to feel irksome under theObligation--by which I mean the knaves and hypocrites, for it is notto be supposed that among such an incredible multitude as joined themovement there were none of this description--some few, I say, were inthe habit of resorting to Barney Scaddhan's for the social purpose oftaking a glass of the true Teetotal cordial together. This drinking ofcordial was most earnestly promoted by the class of low and dishonestpublicans whom we have already described, and no wonder that it was so;in the first place, it's sale is more profitable than that of whiskeyitself, and, in the second place, these fellows know by experience thatit is the worst enemy that teetolism has, very few having ever stronglyaddicted themselves to cordial, who do not ultimately break the pledge, and resume the use of intoxicating liquor. This fact was well known atthe time, for Father Costelloe, who did every thing that man could do toextend and confirm the principle of temperance, had put his parishionerson their guard against the use of this deleterious trash. Consequently, very few of the Ballykeerin men, either in town or parish, would tasteit; when they stood in need of anything to quench their thirst, ornourish them, they confined themselves to water, milk, or coffee. Scarcely any one, therefore, with the exception of the knaves andhypocrites, tampered with themselves by drinking it. 

The crew whom Art went to meet on the night in question consisted ofabout half a dozen, who, when they had been in the habit of drinkingwhiskey, were hardened and unprincipled men--profligates in everysense--fellows that, like Toal Finnigan, now adhered to teetotalism fromsordid motives only, or, in other words, because they thought theycould improve their business by it. It is true, they were suspectedand avoided by the honest teetotallers, who wondered very much that ArtMaguire, after the treatment he had formerly received at their hands, should be mean enough, they said, ever "to be hail fellow well met" withthem again. But Art, alas! in spite of all his dignity of old blood, andhis rodomontade about the Fermanagh Maguires, was utterly deficient inthat decent pride which makes a man respect himself, and prevents himfrom committing a mean action. 

For a considerable time before his arrival, there were assembled inBarney Scaddhan's tap, Tom Whiskey, Jerry Shannon, Jack Mooney, ToalFinnigan, and the decoy duck, young Barney Scaddhan himself, who merelybecame a teetotaller that he might be able to lure his brethren in tospend their money in drinking cordial. 

"I wondher Art's not here before now, " observed Tom Whiskey; "bloodalive, didn't he get on well afther joinin' the 'totallers?"

"Faix, it's a miracle, " replied Jerry Shannon, "there's not a more'spbnsible man in Ballykeerin, he has quite a Protestant look;--ha, ha, ha!"

"Divil a sich a pest ever this house had as the same Art when he was ablackguard, " said young Scaddhan; "there was no keepin' him out of it, but constantly spungin' upon the dacent people that wor dhrmkin' in it. "

"Many a good pound and penny he left you for all that, Barney, my lad, "said Mooney; "and purty tratement you gave him when his money was gone. "

"Ay, an' we'd give you the same, " returned Scaddhan, "if your's wasgone, too; ha, ha, ha! it's not moneyless vagabones we want here. "

"No, " said Shannon, "you first make them moneyless vagabones, an' thenyou kick them out o' doors, as you did him. "

"Exactly, " said the hardened miscreant, "that's the way we live; when weget the skin off the cat, then we throw out the carcass. "

"Why, dang it, man, " said Whiskey, "would you expect honest Barney here, or his still honester ould rip of a father, bad as they are, to give usdrink for nothing?"

"Now, " said Finnigan, who had not yet spoken, "yez are talkin' about ArtMaguire, and I'll tell yez what I could do; I could bend my finger thatway, an' make him folly me over the parish. "

"And how could you do that?" asked Whiskey. 

"By soodherin' him--by ticklin' his empty pride--by dwellin' on the ouldblood of Ireland, the great Fermanagh Maguires--or by tellin' him thathe's betther than any one else, and could do what nobody else could. "

"Could you make him drunk to-night?" asked Shannon. 

"Ay, " said Toal, "an' will, too, as ever you seen him in your lives; onlywhin I'm praisin' him do some of you oppose me, an' if I propose anything to be done, do you all either support me in it, or go aginst me, accordin' as you see he may take it. "

"Well, then, " said Mooney, "in ordher to put you in spirits, go off, Barney, an' slip a glass o' whiskey a piece into this cordial, jist totighten it a bit--ha, ha, ha!"

"Ay, " said Tom Whiskey, "till we dhrink success to teetotalism, ha, ha, ha!"

"Suppose you do him in the cordial, " said Shannon. 

"Never mind, " replied Toal; "I'll first soften him a little on thecordial, and then make him tip the punch openly and before faces, like aman. "

"Troth, it's a sin, " observed Moonoy, who began to disrelish theproject; "if it was only on account of his wife an' childre. "

Toal twisted his misshapen mouth into still greater deformity at thisobservation--

"Well, " said he, "no matter, it'll only be a good joke; Art is a dacentfellow, and afther this night we won't repate it. Maybe, " he continued"I may find it necessary to vex him, an' if I do, remember you won't lethim get at me, or my bread's baked. "

This they all promised, and the words were scarcely concluded, when Artentered and joined them. As a great portion of their conversation didnot bear upon the subject matter of this narrative, it is thereforeunnecessary to record it. After about two hours, during which Art hadunconsciously drunk at least three glasses of whiskey, disguised incordial, the topic artfully introduced by Toal was the TemperanceMovement. 

"As for my part, " said he, "I'm half ashamed that I ever joined it. As Iwas never drunk, where was the use of it? Besides, it's an unmanly thingfor any one to have it to say that he's not able to keep himself sober, barrin' he takes an oath, or the pledge. "

"And why did you take it then?" said Art. 

"Bekaise I was a fool, " replied Toal; "devil a thing else. "

"It's many a good man's case, " observed Art in reply, "to take an oathagainst liquor, or a pledge aither, an' no disparagement to any man thatdoes it. "

"He's a betther man that can keep himself sober widout it, " said Toaldryly. 

"What do you mane by a betther man?" asked Art, somewhat significantly;"let us hear that first, Toal. "

"Don't be talking' about betther men here, " said Jerry Shannon; "I tellyou, Toal, there's a man in this room, and when you get me a bettherman in the town of Ballykeerin, I'll take a glass of punch wid you, or apair o' them, in spite of all the pledges in Europe!"

"And who is that, Jerry, " said Toal. 

"There he sits, " replied Jerry, putting his extended palm upon Art'sshoulder and clapping it. 

"May the divil fly away wid you, " replied Toal; "did you think me amanus, that I'd go to put Art Maguire wid any man that I know? ArtMaguire indeed! Now, Jerry, my throoper, do you think I'm come to thistime o' day, not to know that there's no man in Ballykeerin, or theparish it stands in--an' that's a bigger word--that could be called abetther man that Art Maguire?"

"Come, boys, " said Art, "none of your nonsense. Sich as I am, be thesame good or bad, I'll stand the next trate, an' devilish fine strongcordial it is. "

"Why, then, I don't think myself it's so good, " replied young Scaddhan;"troth it's waiker than we usually have it; an' the taste somehow isn'texactly to my plaisin'. "

"Very well, " said Art; "if you have any that 'ill plaise yourselfbetther, get it; but in the mane time bring us a round o' this, an'we'll be satisfied. "

"Art Maguire, " Toal proceeded, "you were ever and always a man out o'the common coorse. "

"Now, Toal, you're beginnin', " said Art; "ha, ha, ha--well, any way, howis that!"

"Bekaise the divil a taste o' fear or terror ever was in yourconstitution. When Art, boys, was at school--sure he an' I worschoolfellows--if he tuck a thing into his head, no matter what, jistout of a whim, he'd do it, if the divil was at the back door, or thewhole world goin' to stop him. "

"Throth, Toal, I must say there's a great deal o' thruth in that. Divila one livin' knows me betther than Toal Finigan, sure enough, boys. "

"Arra, Art, do you remember the day you crossed the weir, below TomBooth's, " pursued Toal, "when the river was up, and the wather jistintherin' your mouth?"

"That was the day Peggy Booth fainted, when she thought I was gone;begad, an' I was near it. "

"The very day. "

"That may be all thrue enough, " observed Tom Whiskey; "still I thinkI know Art this many a year, and I can't say I ever seen any of thesegreat doing's. I jist seen him as aisy put from a thing, and as muchafeard of the tongues of the nabors, or of the world, as another. "

"He never cared a damn for either o' them, for all that, " returnedToal; "that is, mind, if he tuck a thing into his head; ay, an' I'll gofarther--divil a rap ever he cared for them, one way or other. No, theman has no fear of any kind in him. "

"Why, Toal, " said Mooney, "whether he cares for them or not, I think isaisily decided; and whether he's the great man you make him. Let us hearwhat he says himself upon it, and then we'll know. "

"Very well, then, " replied Toal; "what do you say yourself, Art? Am Iright, or am I wrong?"

"You're right, Toal, sure enough; if it went to that, I don't care acurse about the world, or all Ballykeerin along wid it. I've a goodbusiness, and can set the world at defiance. If the people didn't wantme, they wouldn't come to me. "

"Come, Toal, " said Jerry; "here--I'll hould you a pound note"--and liepulled out one as he spoke--"that I'll propose a thing he won't do. "

"Aha--thank you for nothing, my customer--I won't take that bait, "replied the other; "but listen--is it a thing that he can do?"

"It is, " replied Jerry; "and what's more, every man in the room can doit, as well as Art, if he wishes. "

"He can?"

"He can. "

"Here, " said Toal, clapping down his pound. "Jack Mooney, put these inyour pocket till this matther's decided. Now, Jerry, let us hear it. "

"I will;--he won't drink two tumblers of punch, runnin'; that is, oneafther the other. "

"No, " observed Art, "I will not; do you want me to break the pledge?"

"Sure, " said Jerry, "this is not breaking the pledge--it's only for awager. "

"No matther, " said Art; "it's a thing I won't do. "

"I'll tell you what, Jerry, " said Toal, "I'll hould you another poundnow, that I do a thing to-night that Art won't do; an' that, like yourown wager, every one in the room can do. "

"Done, " said the other, taking out the pound note, and placing it inMooney's hand--Toal following his example. 

"Scaddhan, " said Toal, "go an' bring me two tumblers of good strongpunch. I'm a Totaller as well as Art, boys. Be off, Scaddhan. "

"By Japers, " said Tom Whiskey, as if to himself--looking at the sametime as if he were perfectly amazed at the circumstance--"the littlefellow has more spunk than Maguire, ould blood an' all! Oh, holy Moses;afther that, what will the world come to!"

Art heard the soliloquy of Whiskey, and looked about him with an air ofpeculiar meaning. His pride--his shallow, weak, contemptible pride, wasup, while the honest pride that is never separated from firmness andintegrity, was cast aside and forgotten. Scaddhan came in, and placingthe two tumblers before Toal, that worthy immediately emptied first oneof them, and then the other. 

"The last two pounds are yours, " said Jerry; "Mooney, give them to him. "

Art, whose heart was still smarting under the artful soliloquy of TomWhiskey, now started to his feet, and exclaimed--

"No, Jerry, the money's not his yet. Barney, bring in two tumblers. Whatone may do another may do; and as Jerry says, why it's only for a wager. At any rate, for one o' my blood was never done out, and never will. "

"By Japers, " said Whiskey, "I knew he wouldn't let himself be bate. Iknew when it came to the push he wouldn't. "

"Well, Barney, " said Toal, "don't make them strong for him, for theymight get into his head; he hasn't a good head anyway--let them berather wake, Barney. "

"No, " said Art, "let them be as strong as his, and stronger, Barney; andlose no time about it. "

"I had better color them, " said Barney, "an' the people about the place'll think it's cordial still. "

"Color the devil, " replied Art; "put no colorin' on them. Do you thinkI'm afeard of any one, or any colors?"

"You afeard of any one, " exclaimed Tom Whiskey; "one o' the ouldMaguires afeard! ha, ha, ha!--that 'ud be good!"

Art, when the tumblers came in, drank off first one, which he had nosooner emptied, than he shivered into pieces against the grate; he thenemptied the other, which shared the same fate. 

"Now, " said he to Barney, "bring me a third one; I'll let yez see what aMaguire is. "

The third, on making its appearance, was immediately drained, andshivered like the others--for the consciousness of acting-wrong, inspite of his own resolution, almost drove him mad. Of what occurredsubsequently in the public house, it is not necessary to give anyaccount, especially as we must follow Art home--simply premising, beforewe do so, that the fact of "Art Maguire having broken the pledge, " hadbeen known that very night to almost all Ballykeerin--thanks to theindustry of Toal Finnigan, and his other friends. 

His unhappy wife, after their conversation that evening, experienced oneof those strange, unaccountable presentiments or impressions which everyone, more or less, has frequently felt. Until lately, he had not oftengone out at night, because it was not until lately that the clique beganto reassemble in Barney Scaddhan's. 'Tis true the feeling on her partwas involuntary, but on that very account it was the more distressing;her principal apprehension of danger to him was occasioned by hisintimacy with Toal Finnigan, who, in spite of all her warnings andadmonitions, contrived, by the sweetness of his tongue, to hold hisground with him, and maintain his good opinion. Indeed, any one whocould flatter, wheedle, and play upon his vanity successfully, wassure to do this; but nobody could do it with such adroitness as ToalFinnigan. 

It is wonderful how impressions are caught by the young from those whoare older and have more experience than themselves. Little Atty, who hadheard the conversation already detailed, begged his mammy not to sendhim to bed that night until his father would come home, especiallyas Mat Mulrennan, an in-door apprentice, who had been permitted thatevening to go to see his family, had not returned, and he wished, hesaid, to sit up and let him in. The mother was rather satisfied thanotherwise, that the boy should sit up with her, especially as all theother children and the servants had gone to bed. 

"Mammy, " said the boy, "isn't it a great comfort for us to be as we arenow, and to know that my father can never get drunk again?"

"It is indeed, Atty;" and yet she said so; with a doubting, if not anapprehensive heart. 

"He'll never beat you more, mammy, now?"

"No, darlin'; nor he never did, barrin' when he didn't know what he wasdoin'. "

"That is when he was drunk, mammy?"

"Yes, Atty dear. "

"Well, isn't it a great thing that he can never get drunk any more, mammy; and never beat you any more; and isn't it curious too, how henever bate me?"

"You, darlin'? oh, no, he would rather cut his arm off than rise it toyou, Atty dear; and it's well that you are so good a boy as you are--forI'm afeard, Atty, that even if you deserved to be corrected, he wouldn'tdo it. "

"But what 'ud we all do widout my father, mammy? If anything happened tohim I think I'd die. I'd like to die if he was to go. "

"Why, darlin'?"

"Bekase, you know, he'd go to heaven, and I'd like to be wid him; surehe'd miss me--his own Atty--wherever he'd be. "

"And so you'd lave me and your sisters, Atty, and go to heaven with yourfather!"

The boy seemed perplexed; he looked affectionately at his mother, andsaid--

"No, mammy, I wouldn't wish to lave you, for then you'd have no son atall; no, I wouldn't lave you--I don't know what I'd do--I'd like to staywid you, and I'd like to go wid him, I'd--"

"Well, darlin', you won't be put to that trial this many a long day, Ihope. "

Just then voices were heard at the door, which both recognized as thoseof Art and Mat Mulrennan the apprentice. 

"Now, darlin', " said the mother, who observed that the child was paleand drowsy-looking, "you may go to bed, I see you are sleepy, Atty, notbein' accustomed to sit up so late; kiss me, an' good-night. " He thenkissed her, and sought the room where he slept. 

Margaret, after the boy had gone, listened a moment, and became deadlypale, but she uttered no exclamation; on the contrary, she set herteeth, and compressed her lips closely together, put her hand on theupper part of her forehead, and rose to go to the door. She was not yetcertain, but a dreadful terror was over her--Could it be possible thathe was drunk?--she opened it, and the next moment her husband, in astate of wild intoxication, different from any in which she had everseen him, come in. He was furious, but his fury appeared to have beendirected against the apprentice, in consequence of having returned homeso late. 

On witnessing with her own eyes the condition in which he returned, allher presentiments flashed on her, and her heart sank down into a stateof instant hopelessness and misery. 

"Savior of the world!" she exclaimed, "I and my childre are lost; now, indeed, are we hopeless--oh, never till now, never till now!" She weptbitterly. 

"What are you cryin' for now?" said he; "what are you cryin' for, Isay?" he repeated, stamping his feet madly as he spoke; "stop at wanst, I'll have no cry--cryin' what--at--somever. "

She instantly dried her eyes. 

"Wha--what kep that blasted whelp, Mul--Mulrennan, out till now, I say?"

"I don't know indeed, Art. "

"You--you don't! you kno--know noth-in'; An' now I'll have a smash, bythe--the holy man, I'll--I'll smash every thing in--in the house. "

He then took up a chair, which, by one blow against the floor, hecrashed to pieces. 

"Now, " said he, "tha--that's number one; whe--where's that whelp, Mul--Mulrennan, till I pay--pay him for stayin' out so--so late. Sendhim here, send the ska-min' sco--scoundrel here, I bid you. ". Margaret, naturally dreading violence, went to get little Atty to pacify him, aswell as to intercede for the apprentice; she immediately returned, andtold him the latter was coming. Art, in the mean time, stood a littlebeyond the fireplace, with a small beach chair in his hand which he hadmade for Atty, when the boy was only a couple of years old, but whichhad been given to the other children in succession. He had been firstabout to break it also, but on looking at it, he paused and said--

"Not this--this is Atty's, and I won't break it. "

At that moment Mulrennan entered the room, with Atty behind him, buthe had scarcely done so, when Art with all his strength flung the hardbeach chair at his head; the lad, naturally anxious to avoid it, startedto one side out of its way, and Atty, while in the act of stretching outhis arms to run to his father, received the blow which had been designedfor the other. It struck him a little above the temple, and he fell, but was not cut. The mother, on witnessing the act, raised her arms andshrieked, but on hearing the heavy, but dull and terrible sound of theblow against the poor boy's head, the shriek was suspended when halfuttered, and she stood, her arms still stretched out, and bent a littleupwards, as if she would have supplicated heaven to avert it;--her mouthwas half open--her eyes apparently enlarged, and starting as if itwere out of their sockets; there she stood--for a short time so fullof horror as to be incapable properly of comprehending what had takenplace. At length this momentary paralysis of thought passed away, andwith all the tender terrors of affection awakened in her heart, sherushed to the insensible boy. Oh, heavy and miserable night! What pencan portray, what language describe, or what imagination conceive, theanguish, the agony of that loving mother, when, on raising her sweet, and beautiful, and most affectionate boy from the ground whereon he lay, that fair head, with its flaxen locks like silk, fell utterly helplessnow to this side, and now to that!

"Art Maguire, " she said, "fly, fly, "--and she gave him one look; but, great God! what an object presented itself to her at that moment. A manstood before her absolutely hideous with horror; his face but a minuteago so healthy and high-colored, now ghastly as that of a corpse, hishands held up and clenched, his eyes frightful, his lips drawn back, and his teeth locked with strong and convulsive agony. He uttered nota word, but stood with his wild and gleaming eyes riveted, as if by theforce of some awful spell, upon his insensible son, his only one, if hewas then even that. All at once he fell down without sense or motion, as if a bullet had gone through his heart or his brain, and there lay asinsensible as the boy he had loved so well. 

All this passed so rapidly that the apprentice, who seemed also to havebeen paralyzed, had not presence of mind to do any thing but look fromone person to another with terror and alarm. 

"Go, " said Margaret, at length, "wake up the girls, and then fly--oh, fly--for the doctor. "

The two servant maids, however, had heard enough in her own wild shriekto bring them to this woful scene. They entered as she spoke, and, aidedby the apprentice, succeeded with some difficulty in laying their masteron his bed, which was in a back room off the parlor. 

"In God's name, what is all this?" asked one of them, on looking at theinsensible bodies of the father and son. 

"Help me, " Margaret replied, not heeding the question, "help me to laythe treasure of my heart--my breakin' heart--upon his own little bedwithin, he will not long use it--tendherly, Peggy, oh, Peggy dear, tendherly to the broken flower--broken--broken--broken, never to risehis fair head again; oh, he is dead, " she said, in a calm low voice, "my heart tells me that he is dead--see how his limbs hang, how lifelessthey hang. My treasure--our treasure--our sweet, lovin', and only littleman--our only son sure--our only son is dead--and where, oh, where, isthe mother's pride out of him now--where is my pride out of him now?"

They laid him gently and tenderly--for even the servants loved him asif he had been a relation--upon the white counterpane of his own littlecrib, where he had slept many a sweet and innocent sleep, and playedmany a lightsome and innocent play with his little sisters. His motherfelt for his pulse, but she could feel no pulse, she kissed his passivelips, and then--oh, woful alternative of affliction!--she turned to hisequally insensible father. 

"Oh, ma'am, " said one of the girls, who had gone over to look at Art;"oh, for God's sake, ma'am, come here--here is blood comin' out of themasther's mouth. "

She was at the bedside in an instant, and there, to deepen hersufferings almost beyond the power of human fortitude, she saw the bloodoozing slowly out of his mouth. Both the servants were now weeping andsobbing as if their hearts would break. 

"Oh, mistress dear, " one of them exclaimed, seizing her affectionatelyby both hands, and looking almost distractedly into her face, "oh, mistress dear, what did you ever do to desarve this?"

"I don't know, Peggy, " she replied, "unless it was settin' my father'scommands, and my mother's at defiance; I disobeyed them both, and theydied without blessin' either me or mine. But oh, " she said, claspingher hands, "how can one poor wake woman's heart stand all this--a doubledeath--husband and son--son and husband--and I'm but one woman, onepoor, feeble, weak woman--but sure, " she added, dropping on her knees, "the Lord will support me. I am punished, and I hope forgiven, and hewill now support me. "

She then briefly, but distractedly, entreated the divine support, androse once more with a heart, the fibres of which were pulled asunder, asit were, between husband and son, each of whose lips she kissed, havingwiped the blood from those of her husband, with a singular blendingtogether of tenderness, distraction and despair. She went from the oneto the other, wringing her hands in dry agony, feeling for life intheir hearts and pulses, and kissing their lips with an expression ofhopelessness so pitiable and mournful, that the grief of the servantswas occasioned more by her sufferings than by the double catastrophethat had occurred. 

The doctor's house, as it happened, was not far from theirs, and in avery brief period he arrived. 

"Heavens! Mrs. Maguire, what has happened?" said he, looking on the twoapparently inanimate bodies with alarm. 

"His father, " she said, pointing to the boy, "being in a state of drink, threw a little beech chair at the apprentice here, he stepped aside, aswas natural, and the blow struck my treasure there, " she said, holdingher hand over the spot where he was struck, but not on it; "but, doctor, look at his father, the blood is trickling out of his mouth. "

The doctor, after examining into the state of both, told her not todespair--

"Your husband, " said he, "who is only in a fit, has broken ablood-vessel, I think some small blood-vessel is broken; but as for theboy, I can as yet pronounce no certain opinion upon him. It will be asatisfaction to you, however, to know that he is not dead, but only in aheavy stupor occasioned by the blow. "

It was now that her tears began to flow, and copiously and bitterly theydid flow; but as there was still hope, her grief, though bitter, was notthat of despair. Ere many minutes, the doctor's opinion respecting oneof them, at least, was verified. Art opened his eyes, looked wildlyabout him, and the doctor instantly signed to his wife to calm theviolence of her sorrow, and she was calm. 

"Margaret, " said he, "where's Atty? bring him to me--bring him to me!"

"Your son was hurt, " replied the doctor, "and has just gone to sleep. "

"He is dead, " said Art, "he is dead, he will never waken from thatsleep--and it was I that killed him!"

"Don't disturb yourself, " said the doctor, "as you value your own lifeand his; you yourself have broken a blood-vessel, and there is nothingfor you now but quiet and ease. "

"He is dead, " said his father, "he is dead, and it was I that killedhim; or, if he's not dead, I must hear it from his mother's lips. "

"Art, darlin', he is not dead, but he is very much hurted, " she replied;"Art, as you love him, and me, and us all, be guided by the doctor. "

"He is not dead, " said the doctor; "severely hurt he is, but not dead. Of that you may rest assured. "

So far as regarded Art, the doctor was right; he had broken only a smallblood vessel, and the moment the consequences of his fit had passed away, he was able to get up, and walk about with very little diminution of hisstrength. 

To prevent him from seeing his son, or to conceal the boy's state fromhim, was impossible. He no sooner rose than with trembling hands, afrightful terror of what was before him, he went to the little bed onwhich the being dearest to him on earth lay. He stood for a moment, and looked down upon the boy's beautiful, but motionless face; he firststooped, and putting his mouth to the child's ear said--

"Atty, Atty"--he then shook his head; "you see, " he added, addressingthose who stood about him, "that he doesn't hear me--no, he doesn't hearme--that ear was never deaf to me before, but it's deaf now;" he thenseized his hand, and raised it, but it was insensible to his touch, andwould have fallen on the bed had he let it go. "You see, " he proceeded, "that his hand doesn't know mine any longer! Oh, no, why should it? thisis the hand that laid our flower low, so why should he acknowledge it?yet surely he would forgive his father, if he knew it--oh, he wouldforgive that father, that ever and always loved him--loved him--lovedhim, oh, that's a wake word, a poor wake word. Well, " he went on, "Iwill kiss his lips, his blessed lips--oh, many an' many a kiss, many asweet and innocent kiss--did I get from them lips, Atty dear, with thoselittle arms, that are now so helpless, clasped about my neck. " He thenkissed him again and again, but the blessed child's lips did not returnthe embrace that had never been refused before. "Now, " said he, "you allsee that--you all see that he won't kiss me again, and that is bekaisehe can't do it; Atty, Atty, " he said, "won't you speak to me? it's I, Atty, sure it's I, Atty dear, your lovin' father, that's callin' you tospake to him. Atty dear, won't you spake to me--do you hear my voice, _asthore machree_--do you hear your father's voice, that's callin'on you to forgive him?" He paused for a short time, but the child layinsensible and still. 

At this moment there was no dry eye present; the very doctor wept. Margaret's grief was loud; she felt every source of love and tendernessfor their only boy opened in her unhappy and breaking heart, and wasinconsolable: but then compassion for her husband was strong asher grief. She ran to Art, she flung her arms about his neck, andexclaimed--

"Oh, Art dear, Art dear, be consoled: take consolation if you can, oryou will break my heart. Forgive you asthore! you, you that would shedyour blood for him! don't you know he would forgive you? Sure, I forgiveyou--his mother, his poor, distracted, heart-broken mother forgivesyou--in his name I forgive you. " She then threw herself beside the bodyof their child, and shouted out--"Atty, our blessed treasure, I haveforgiven your father for you--in your blessed name, and in the name ofthe merciful God that you are now with, I have forgiven your unhappyfind heart-broken father--as you would do, if you could, our losttreasure, as you would do. "

"Oh, " said his father vehemently distracted with his horribleaffliction; "if there was but any one fault of his that I could remimbernow, any one failin' that our treasure had--if I could think of a singlespot upon his little heart, it would relieve me; but, no, no, there'snothin' of that kind to renumber aginst him. Oh, if he wasn't what hewas--if he wasn't what he was--we might have some little consolation;but now we've none; we've none--none!"

As he spoke and wept, which he did with the bitterest anguish ofdespair, his grief assumed a character that was fearful from the inwardeffusion of blood, which caused him from time to time to throw it up inred mouthfuls, and when remonstrated with by the doctor upon the dangerof allowing himself to be overcome by such excitement--

"I don't care, " he shouted, "if it's my heart's blood, I would shed itat any time for him; I don't care about life now; what 'ud it be to mewithout my son? widout you, Atty dear, what is the world or allthat's in it to me now! An' when I think of who it was that cut youdown--cursed be the hand that gave you that unlucky blow, cursed mayit be--cursed be them that tempted me to drink--cursed may the drink bethat made me as I was, and cursed of God may I be that--"

"Art, Art, " exclaimed Margaret, "any thing but that, remember there's aGod above--don't blasphame;--we have enough to suffer widout havin' toanswer for that. "

He paused at her words, and as soon as the paroxysm was over, he sunkby fits into a gloomy silence, or walked from room to room, wringinghis hands and beating his head, in a state of furious distraction, verynearly bordering on insanity. 

The next morning, we need scarcely assure our readers, that, as thenewspapers have it, a great and painful sensation had been producedthrough the town of Bally-keerin by the circumstances which we haverelated:--

"Art Maguire had broken the pledge, gone home drunk, and killed his onlyson by the blow of an iron bar on the, head; the crowner had been sentfor, an' plaise God we'll have a full account of it all. "

In part of this, however, common fame, as she usually is, was mistaken;the boy was not killed, neither did he then die. On the third day, abouteight o'clock in the evening, he opened his eyes, and his mother, whowas scarcely ever a moment from his bedside, having observed the fact, approached him with hopes almost as deep as those of heaven itself inher heart, and in a voice soft and affectionate as ever melted into ahuman ear--

"Atty, treasure of my heart, how do you feel?"

The child made no reply, but as his eye had not met hers, and as she hadwhispered very low, it was likely, she thought, that he had not heardher. 

"I will bring his father, " said she, "for if he will know or spake toany one, he will, spake to him. "

She found Art walking about, as he had done almost ever since theunhappy accident, and running to him with a gush of joyful tears, shethrew her arms about his neck, and kissing him, said--

"Blessed be the Almighty, Art--" but she paused, "oh, great God, Art, what is this! merciful heaven, do I smell whiskey on you?"

"You do, " he replied, "it's in vain, I can't live--I'd die widout it;it's in vain, Margaret, to spake--if I don't get it to deaden my griefI'll die: but, what wor you goin' to tell me?" he added eagerly. 

She burst into tears. 

"Oh, Art, " said she, "how my heart has sunk in spite of the good news Ihave for you. "

"In God's name, " he asked, "what is it? is our darlin' betther?"

"He is, " she replied, "he has opened his eyes this minute, and I wantyou to spake to him. "

They both entered stealthily, and to their inexpressible delight heardthe child's voice; they paused, --breathlessly paused, --and heard himutter, in a low sweet voice, the following words--

"Daddy, won't you come to bed wid me, wid your own Atty?"

This he repeated twice or thrice before they approached him, but whenthey did, although his eye turned from one to another, it was vacant, and betrayed no signs whatsoever of recognition. 

Their hearts sank again, but the mother, whose hope was strong andactive as her affection, said--

"Blessed be the Almighty that he is able even to spake but he's not wellenough to know us yet. "

This was unhappily too true, for although they spoke to him, and placedthemselves before him by turns, yet it was all in vain; the child knewneither them nor any one else. Such, in fact, was now their calamity, as a few weeks proved. The father by that unhappy blow did not killhis body, but he killed his mind; he arose from his bed a mild, placid, harmless idiot, silent and inoffensive--the only words he was almostheard to utter, with rare exceptions, being those which had been in hismind when he was dealt the woful blow:--"Daddy, won't you come to bedwid me, wid your own Atty?" And these he pronounced as correctly asever, uttering them with the same emphasis of affection which had markedthem before his early reason had been so unhappily destroyed. Now, evenup to that period, and in spite of this great calamity, it was nottoo late for Art Maguire to retrieve himself, or still to maintain theposition which he had regained. The misfortune which befell hischild ought to have shocked him into an invincible detestation of allintoxicating liquors, as it would most men; instead of that, however, it drove him back to them. He had contracted a pernicious habit ofdiminishing the importance of first errors, because they appearedtrivial in themselves; he had never permitted himself to reason againsthis propensities, unless through the indulgent medium of his own vanity, or an overweening presumption in the confidence of his moral strength, contrary to the impressive experience of his real weakness. His virtueswere many, and his foibles few; yet few as they were, our readersperceive that, in consequence of his indulging them, they proved thebane of his life and happiness. They need not be surprised, then, tohear that from the want of any self-sustaining power in himself he fellinto the use of liquor again; he said he could not live without it, butthen he did not make the experiment; for he took every sophistry thatappeared to make in his favor for granted. He lived, if it could becalled life, for two years and a half after this melancholy accident, but without the spring or energy necessary to maintain his position, orconduct his business, which declined as rapidly as he did himself. Heand his family were once more reduced to absolute beggary, until in thecourse of events they found a poorhouse to receive them. Art was seldomwithout a reason to justify his conduct, and it mattered not how feeblethat reason might be, he always deemed it sufficiently strong to satisfyhimself. For instance, he had often told his wife that if Atty hadrecovered, sound in body and mind, he had determined never again totaste liquor; "but, " said he, "when I seen my darlin's mind gone, Icouldn't stand it widout the drop of drink to keep my heart an' spiritsup. " He died of consumption in the workhouse of Ballykeerin, and therecould not be a stronger proof of the fallacy with which he reasoned thanthe gratifying fact, that he had not been more than two months dead, when his son recovered his reason, to the inexpressible joy of hismother; so that had he followed up his own sense of what was right, hewould have lived to see his most sanguine wishes, with regard tohis son, accomplished, and perhaps have still been able to enjoy acomparatively long and happy life. 

On the morning of the day on which he died, although not suffering muchfrom pain, he seemed to feel an impression that his end was at hand. Itis due to him to say here, that he had for months before his death beendeeply and sincerely penitent, and that he was not only sensible of thevanity and errors which had occasioned his fall from integrity, and cuthim off in the prime of life, but also felt his heart sustained bythe divine consolations of religion. Father Costello was earnest andunremitting in his spiritual attentions to him, and certainly had thegratification of knowing that he felt death to be in his case not merelya release from all his cares and sorrows, but a passport into that lifewhere the weary are at rest. 

About twelve o'clock in the forenoon he asked to see his wife--his ownMargaret--and his children, but, above all, his blessed Atty--for suchwas the epithet he had ever annexed to his name since the night of themelancholy accident. In a few minutes the sorrowful group appeared, hismother leading the unconscious boy by the hand, for he knew not where hewas. Art lay, or rather reclined, on the bed, supported by two bolsters;his visage was pale, but the general expression of his face was calm, mild, and sorrowful; although his words were distinct, his voice waslow and feeble, and every now and then impeded by a short catch--for tocough he was literally unable. 

"Margaret, " said he, "come to me, come to me now, " and he feeblyreceived her hand in his; "I feel that afther all the warfare of thispoor life, afther all our love and our sorrow, I am goin' to part widyou and our childhre at last. "

"Oh, Art, darlin', I can think of nothing now, asthore, but our love, "she replied, bursting into a flood of tears, in which she was joined bythe children--Atty, the unconscious Atty, only excepted. 

"An' I can think of little else, " said he, "than our sorrows andsufferins, an' all the woful evil that I brought upon you and them. "

"Darlin', " she replied, "it's a consolation to yourself, as it is to us, that whatever your errors wor, you've repented for them; death is notfrightful to you, glory be to God!"

"No, " said he, looking upwards, and clasping his worn hands; "I amresigned to the will of my good and merciful God, for in him is my hopean' trust. Christ, by his precious blood, has taken away my sins, foryou know I have been a great sinner;" he then closed his eyes for a fewminutes, but his lips were moving as if in prayer. "Yes, Margaret, " heagain proceeded, "I am goin' to lave you all at last; I feel it--Ican't say that I'll love you no more, for I think that even in heavenI couldn't forget you; but I'll never more lave you a sore heart, asI often did--I'll never bring the bitther tear to your eye--the hueof care to your face, or the pang of grief an' misery to your heartagain--thank God I will not; all my follies, all my weaknesses, and allmy crimes--"

"Art, " said his wife, wringing her hands, and sobbing as if her heartwould break, "if you wish me to be firm, and to set our childre anexample of courage, now that it's so much wanted, oh, don't spake as youdo--my heart cannot stand it. "

"Well, no, " said he, "I won't; but when I think of what I might be thisday, and of what I am--when I think of what you and our childre mightbe--an' when I see what you are--and all through my means--when I thinkof this, Margaret dear, an' that I'm torn away from you and them in thevery prime of life--but, " he added, turning hastily from that view ofhis situation, "God is good an' merciful, an' that is my hope. "

"Let it be so, Art dear, " replied Margaret; "as for us, God will takecare of us, and in him we will put our trust, too; remimber that he isthe God and father of the widow an' the orphan. "

He here appeared to be getting very weak, but in a minute or two herallied a little, and said, while his eye, which was now becoming heavy, sought about until it became fixed upon his son--

"Margaret, bring him to me. "

She took the boy by the hand, and led him over to the bedside. 

"Put his hand in mine, " said he, "put his blessed hand in mine. "

She did so, and Art looked long and steadily upon the face of his child. 

"Margaret, " said he, "you know that durin' all my wild and sinfulcoorses, I always wore the lock of hair you gave me when we wor youngnext my heart--my poor weak heart. "

Margaret buried her face in her hands, and for some time could notreply. 

"I don't wish, darlin', " said he, "to cause you sorrow--you will havetoo much of that; but I ax it as a favor--the last from my lips--thatyou will now cut off a lock of his hair--his hair fair--an' put it alongwith your own upon my heart; it's all I'll have of you both in the gravewhere I'll sleep; and, Margaret, do it now--oh, do it soon. "

Margaret, who always carried scissors hanging by her pocket, took themout, and cutting a long abundant lock of the boy's hair, she tenderlyplaced it where he wished, in a little three-cornered bit of black silkthat was suspended from his neck, and lay upon his heart. 

"Is it done?" said he. 

"It is done, " she replied as well as she could!

"This, you know, is to lie on my heart, " said he, "when I'm in my grave;you won't forget that!"

"No--oh, no, no; but, merciful God, support me! for Art, my husband, mylife, I don't know how I'll part with you. "

"Well, may God bless you forever, my darlin' wife, and support you andmy orphans! Bring them here. "

They were then brought over, and in a very feeble voice he blessed themalso. 

"Now, forgive me all, " said he, "forgive ME ALL!"

But, indeed, we cannot paint the tenderness and indescribable afflictionof his wife and children while uttering their forgiveness of all hisoffences against them, as he himself termed it. In the meantime he kepthis son close by him, nor would he suffer him to go one moment from hisreach. 

"Atty, " said he, in a low voice, which was rapidly sinking;--"put hischeek over to mine"--he added to his wife, "then raise my right arm, an'put it about his neck;--Atty, " he proceeded, "won't you give me one lastword before I depart?"

His wife observed that as he spoke a large tear trickled down his cheek. Now, the boy was never in the habit of speaking when he was spoken to, or of speaking at all, with the exception of the words we have alreadygiven. On this occasion, however, whether the matter was a coincidenceor not, it is difficult to say, he said in a quiet, low voice, as ifimitating his father's--

"Daddy, won't you come to bed for me, for your own Atty?"

The reply was very low, but still quite audible--

"Yes, darlin', I--I will--I will for you, Atty. "

The child said no more, neither did his father, and when the sorrowingwife, struck by the stillness which for a minute or two succeeded thewords, went to remove the boy, she found that his father's spirit hadgone to that world where, we firmly trust, his errors, and follies, andsins have been forgiven. While taking the boy away, she looked uponher husband's face, and there still lay the large tear of love andrepentance--she stooped down--she kissed it--and it was no longer there. 

There is now little to be added, unless to inform those who may takean interest in the fate of his wife and children, that his son soonafterwards was perfectly restored to the use of his reason, and that inthe month of last September he was apprenticed in the city of Dublin toa respectable trade, where he is conducting himself with steadiness andpropriety; and we trust, that, should he ever read this truthful accountof his unhappy father, he will imitate his virtues, and learn toavoid the vanities and weaknesses by which he brought his family todestitution and misery, and himself to a premature grave. With respectto his brother Frank, whom his irreclaimable dissipation drove out ofthe country, we are able to gratify our readers by saying that he gothappily married in America, where he is now a wealthy man, in prosperousbusiness and very highly respected. 

Margaret, in consequence of her admirable character, was appointed tothe situation of head nurse in the Ballykeerin Hospital, and it will notsurprise our readers to hear that she gains and retains the respect andgood-will of all who know her, and that the emoluments of her situationare sufficient, through her prudence and economy, to keep her childrencomfortable and happy. 

Kind reader, is it necessary that we should recapitulate the moral weproposed to show' in this true but melancholy narrative? We trust not. If it be not sufficiently obvious, we can only say it was our earnestintention that it should be so. At all events, whether you bea Teetotaller, or a man carried away by the pernicious love ofintoxicating liquors, think upon the fate of Art Maguire, and do notimitate the errors of his life, as you find them laid before you in thissimple narrative of "The Broken Pledge. "