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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

            NUMBER 6.   SATURDAY, AUGUST 8, 1840.   VOLUME I.

[Illustration: THE RED MEN OF AMERICA.--FIRST ARTICLE.]

It is a melancholy truth that this most interesting portion of the human
race is rapidly disappearing from the surface of the earth. War, its
murderous effects centupled by the destructive weapons acquired from the
white man--disease in new and terrible forms, to the treatment of which
their simple skill, and materia medica, equally simple, are wholly
incompetent--famine, the consequence of their sadly changed habits, of the
intemperance and wastefulness, substituted by the insidious arts of the
trader for the moderation and foresight of their happier fathers--the
vices, in short, and the encroachments of civilization, all and each in
its turn are blotting out tribe after tribe from the records of humanity;
and the time is fast approaching when no Red man will remain, to guard or
to mourn over the tombs of his fathers.

The conviction of this truth is become so deeply felt, that more than one
effort has been made, and is making, to preserve some memento of this
ill-treated people. We are not so much raising our own feeble voice in the
service, as attempting a record of what others have done; but so much has
been effected, and so zealous have been the exertions made to rescue the
memory, at least, of these dying nations from oblivion, that the space we
have assigned to this notice will be taken up long before our materials
are exhausted. The accuracy of the facts and statements we shall lay
before our readers may in every case be relied on.

Among the most devoted and persevering explorers of the Red man’s
territory, is one from whose authority, and indeed from whose very lips,
in many instances, we derive a great portion of the circumstances we are
about to describe--we allude to the celebrated George Catlin, whose abode
of seven years among the least known of their tribes, and whose earnest
enthusiasm in the task of inquiry which formed the sole object of his
visit, together with his entire success in the pursuit, have constituted
him the very first authority of the day. We have, besides, consulted all
the writers on this now engrossing subject, but in most cases have
afterwards taken the highly competent opinion just quoted, as to the
accuracy of their descriptions--an opinion that has always been given with
evident care and consideration.

Mr Catlin has painted with his own hand, and from the life, no less than
three hundred and ten portraits of chiefs, warriors, and other
distinguished individuals of the various tribes (forty-eight in number)
among whom he sojourned, with two hundred landscapes and other paintings
descriptive of their country, their villages, religious ceremonies,
customs, sports, and whatever else was most characteristic of Indian life
in its primitive state; he has likewise collected numerous specimens of
dresses, some fringed and garnished with scalp-locks from their enemies’
heads; mantles and robes, on which are painted, in rude hieroglyphics, the
battles and other prominent events of their owners’ lives; head-dresses,
formed of the raven’s and war-eagle’s feathers, the effect of which is
strikingly warlike and imposing; spears, shields, war clubs, bows, musical
instruments, domestic utensils, belts, pouches, necklaces of bears’ claws,
mocassins, strings of wampum, tobacco sacks; all, in short, that could in
any way exemplify the habits and customs of the people whose memory he
desired to perpetuate, have been brought together, at great cost and some
hazard to life, by this indefatigable explorer--the whole forming a museum
of surpassing interest, and which is daily attracting the people of London
to the gallery wherein it is exhibited.

The most important of the North American tribes are the Camanchees,
inhabiting the western parts of Texas, and numbering from 25,000 to 30,000
expert horsemen and bold lancers, but excessively wild, and continually at
war; the Pawnee-Picts, neighbours to and in league with the Camanchees;
the Kiowas, also in alliance with the two warlike tribes above named, whom
they join alike in the battle or chase; the Sioux, numbering no less than
40,000, and inhabiting a vast tract on the upper waters of the Mississippi
and Missouri rivers. Next come the Pawnees, a tribe totally distinct both
in language and customs from the Pawnee-Picts, whose hunting-grounds are a
thousand miles distant from those of the Pawnees; this wild and very
warlike tribe shave the head with the exception of the scalp-lock (which
they would hold it cowardly and most unjust to their enemy to remove), as
do the Osages, the Konzas, &c. The Pawnees lost half their numbers by
small-pox in 1823, but are still very numerous; their seats are on the
river Platte, from the Missouri to the Rocky Mountains.

The Blackfeet, the Crows (their inveterate enemies), the Crees, the
Assinneboins, occupying the country from the mouth of the Yellow Stone
River to Lake Winnipeg, the Ojibbeways or Chippeways, holding the southern
shores of Lake Superior, the Lake of the Woods, and the Athabasca; the
Flatheads, on the head-waters of the Columbia; and the Cherokees, removed
from Georgia to the upper waters of the Arkansas, are also important
tribes; as are the Muskogee or Creek Indians, recently transplanted from
Georgia and Alabama to the Arkansas, seven hundred miles west of the
Mississippi.

The Seminolees are also in process of removal to the Arkansas, as are the
Enchees, once a powerful tribe, but now merging into the above, and with
them forming one people. Most of these tribes, as well as others that we
have not room even to specify, have been reduced, by the different
scourges before alluded to, in a manner frightful to contemplate. The
Delawares, for example, have lost 10,000 by small-pox alone; and from a
large and numerous tribe, now reckon 824 souls only! The Senecas, Oneidas
and Tuskaroras, once forming part of that great compact known as the “Six
Nations,” are now a mere name. The Kaskaskias, the Peorias, and the
Piankeshaws, have fallen victims to the practice of drinking spirits, and
to the diseases this fearful habit engenders, so that all are now reduced
to a few individuals. Some tribes are totally extinguished;--as, for
example the hospitable and friendly Mandans, of whom even the traders
themselves report that no one of them was ever known to destroy a white
man. These afford a melancholy instance of the rapidity with which the
extermination before alluded to is effected. In the year 1834, when Mr
Catlin visited these warlike and spirited, yet kindly dwellers of the
woods, their number was 2000; three years after, they were infected by the
traders with small-pox; and this, with certain suicides committed by
individuals who could not survive the loss of all they loved, destroyed
the whole tribe, some forty excepted, who were afterwards cut off by their
enemies of a neighbouring tribe, so that at this moment not a Mandan
exists over the whole wide continent, where, before the baleful appearance
of the white man, his free ancestors ranged so happily.

This is bad, but a still more melancholy element of decay is the habit of
drinking spirituous liquors, which is daily gaining ground among these
hapless Americans; this produces an amount of crime and suffering that,
even in our own country, could find no parallel; not only is the excitable
nature of the Red man stirred to actual madness by these atrocious
poisons; but because, unlike his brother of civilized countries, he
depends on his own unassisted physical powers for the most immediate and
pressing wants of life--no grazier or butcher, no miller or baker, has
_he_ to provide for a time against improvidence on his part; from no
accommodating “shop” can _his_ wife gain credit for the moment--his family
starves at once if his own resources are destroyed; and an eloquent writer
of the day has well remarked, that “it is dreadful to reflect on the
situation of a poor Indian hunter, when he finds, he knows not why, that
his limbs are daily failing him in the chase, that his arrow ceases to go
straight to the mark, and that his nerves tremble before the wild animals
it was but lately his pride to encounter.” We have been furnished by
intelligent eye-witnesses with fearful instances of wrong and outrage
committed by the unhappy Indians on each other while under the influence
of the poison which we Christians--ah, woe for the profanation!--have
bestowed on our Red brothers; but our limits do not permit their
insertion.

We call the native American, “Indian,” in compliance with established
custom; but there is no propriety in the term as applied to these people,
who call themselves “Red men,” and nothing else. They are for the most
part of robust make and of fair average size, except the Esquimaux
inhabitants of the extreme north, who are dwarfish, and the Abipones,
natives of the southern extremity of this vast continent, who are of great
height; they have prominent features, high cheek-bones, and small deeply
set black eyes; their complexion is a cinnamon colour, varying in its
shades, and esteemed handsome among themselves in proportion as it is
dark, but with a clear, warm, coppery hue, which last they esteem an
evidence of the divine favour, for they believe that the Great Spirit
loved his Red children better than their white brethren, and so breathed a
more vivid life into their veins; a distinction of which the visible sign
is the glowing complexion we have alluded to.

The meaner vices are held in especial contempt among the yet
uncontaminated Indians: slanderers, cowards, liars, _misers_, and
_debtors_ who refuse to pay when the means are in their power, are shunned
as persons in whose society no respectable man should be seen. On the
subject of debt, in particular, Indian notions differ widely from ours.
Should his debtor be unable to meet his engagements in consequence of
illness or want of success in the chase, he scrupulously conceals the
inconvenience this may occasion, and is careful never to name debt in the
defaulter’s presence.

But, on the other hand, should the inability of the debtor proceed from
indolence or intemperance, or should he be indisposed to pay when his
means permit, he is then characterised as a “bad man”--his friends
gradually abandon him, he becomes an object of public contempt, and
nothing could after this induce his creditor to accept from him even his
just demand. He is no longer _permitted_ to pay; he has forfeited the
privilege of the upright man, and must remain in the contempt into which
he has sunk; but such instances, it will be readily supposed, are
extremely rare.

Cowardice is not punished by loss of reputation alone in some tribes; as,
among the Kansas, if the coward be found incorrigible, he is destroyed.
Te-pa-gee was a young warrior of this tribe, who had been more than once
charged with this fatal defect. He returned on a certain occasion with his
brethren from an expedition that had been eminently successful, but in
which he had himself behaved disgracefully. The whole tribe, except those
who had lost relations, were engaged the next day in the usual rejoicings;
but Te-pa-gee, conscious that cold looks were upon him, had withdrawn from
the public ceremonials, and seated himself sullenly on the trunk of a tree
by the river side. Shortly after, the dances of the squaws and children
having led them into his neighbourhood, the great mass of the tribe were
again around him, when E-gron-ga-see, one of their wisest men and bravest
warriors, came forth from the festive group, and the sports being
suspended, he declared to the offender, in a voice audible to all, that
his cowardice had forfeited his life. Te-pa-gee instantly bared his
breast, and the avenger, drawing his knife from beneath his robe, plunged
it deep into the culprit’s bosom. Another warrior of equal authority then
addressed the people, expatiating on the necessity of punishing such
crimes as that committed by Te-pa-gee, who had meanwhile died before them
almost without a groan. This fact is related by an eye-witness, who does
not, however, tell us whether the unhappy man’s constancy in death did not
go far to convince his judges that his fault was rather a defect of nerve
than the absence of power to endure.

It is the custom of Indians at war with each other to imitate the cries of
various animals of the chase, for the purpose of luring unwary hunters
into an ambush. Three young warriors of the Ottawas being thus decoyed
into a wood, two of them were shot and scalped; the third ran for his
life, without discharging his piece, setting up the yell of defeat as he
ran. The men of his tribe were alarmed, and went instantly in pursuit of
the enemy, whom they could not overtake; but on their return, they fell in
with a hunting party of the same tribe, whom they fell upon by surprise
and scalped. The usual rejoicings of the women and children took place on
their return; they were seated under the shade of broad trees to smoke
with the old men, and Shembagah, the one who had escaped by running, went
towards them with looks congratulating their success; but no one deigned
him a look, or a word of notice, and he had scarcely got among them before
all rose and left, the place. This punishment was too great for him to
bear; he left his people without saying a word or taking leave of any one,
and was never more heard of, while the relater of this anecdote remained
with the tribe.

A girl of the Ottawas being taken prisoner by a party of the Kansas, was
adopted into the family of a Kansas chief, and soon afterwards betrothed
to his son, a youth named Moi-bee-she-ga, or the Sharp Knife. A few days
before the espousals were to be solemnised, it happened that a party of
the Mahaws came and fell upon the horses of the Kansas, which were grazing
in a neighbouring prairie, and which they succeeded in carrying off; they
were detected in the act by some Kansas women who were gathering wood, and
the warriors being apprised, set off in pursuit. The old chief, now laden
with many snows, was unable to accompany his warriors, whom Moi-bee-she-ga
ought to have headed, but this last chose to remain with his bride. This
so enraged his father, that he seized the arms which the recreant son
shrank from using, and destroyed them before his face, declaring that
Moi-bee-she-ga had become a squaw, and needed no arms. The Ottawa girl,
equally shocked by the dereliction of her lover, to whom she had been
warmly attached, refused to fulfil her engagement of marriage; and the
delinquent, abandoned on all hands, was driven in disgrace from his
people, and joined a party of the wandering Pawnees.

The Indian is scrupulously exact in the performance of his engagements,
and this the traders know so well, that they feel no apprehension, when,
having delivered their goods to their Indian customer, they see him plunge
into his trackless wilderness with his purchase, and disappear amid wilds
into which no civilized foot could follow him. They know that his first
care will be to secure the game whose skin is to assist in the redemption
of his promise; and at the stipulated moment he is again seen to emerge
from the forest, unconscious even that what we should call an unusual
degree of confidence has been reposed in him, and guided only by his own
pure and simple conviction, that a promise once given is a sacred thing,
and to be redeemed at whatever cost.

Lying and treachery are held in profound abhorrence; we could relate very
many facts in support of this assertion, but will confine ourselves to the
two following ones only:--A distinguished warrior of the Assinneboins
accompanied Major Sanford to Washington in 1832, and being there, became
acquainted with the more obvious details of every-day life among the
civilized; these he described to his people on his return, and was
listened to for some time with respectful attention; but at length the
wonders he related surpassing their powers of belief, they decided that he
had been taught by the white men to lie, and that in a manner so shameless
as to make him a dangerous example to his younger hearers; they then,
after much solemn deliberation, concluded that he was unworthy to live,
and the unhappy man was put to death accordingly; his protestations of
innocence being regarded but as a deeper plunging into crime.

Every thing connected with the dead is held sacred, but the mode of burial
differs widely in different tribes. Some place the body dressed and armed
with bow, quiver, tomahawk, &c., on the ground between flat stones set
edge upwards, and cover it, first with similar stones, and afterwards with
earth; others bury at about two feet below the earth. Among the Mandans it
was customary (alas for the necessity of that “was”) to lay their dead,
well wrapped in skins, on high scaffolds, as practised by the Parsees of
Asia. After a sufficient lapse of time, the bones were gathered, and
buried with solemn ceremonies, the skulls excepted, which were ranged in a
circle within a larger one formed of buffalo skulls, and thither the women
belonging to the family of the deceased repair to soothe the departed with
songs, to inform him how those he left behind are faring, and to feed him
with their choicest dainties, dishes of which they leave behind at their
departure.

Mourning for the dead is expressed by certain modes of paint, and among
some tribes by cutting off locks of the hair. The sketch that accompanies
this paper represents two warriors, and a woman of the Sacs and Foxes,
mourning over the tomb of Black Hawk, the celebrated leader of the war
known as the Black Hawk War.

A party of Ottawas and the Kansas having been at war, had met “to bury the
tomahawk under the roots of the tree of friendship, and sit under its
shadow to smoke the pipe of peace, and to _hear the birds sing_.” Some
traders passed through their hunting-grounds, from whom they purchased
whisky, and, heated by this, an Ottawa quarrelled with a Kansa; but being
reminded by their friends of the lately promised peace, they desisted from
all hostility, and both, with the whole party, soon after fell asleep. The
Ottawa, awaking first, stabbed his sleeping adversary to the heart, and
fled into the forest. When the whole party aroused themselves, they
perceived by the arms of the murdered man that he had been taken at
advantage, and the brother of the offender, abhorrent of treachery, so
foreign to Indian habits, at once declared his intention of pursuing the
culprit. Nothing doubting his integrity, the aggrieved Kansas sat silently
awaiting his return, which took place two hours after; he had secured and
now delivered up the murderer, who was immediately put to death.




DANCING.--Dancing is an amusement which has been discouraged in our
country by many of the best people, and not without reason. Dancing is
associated in their minds with balls; and this is one of the worst forms
of social pleasure. The time consumed in preparation for a ball, the waste
of thought upon it, the extravagance of dress, the late hours, the
exhaustion of strength, the exposure of health, and the languor of the
succeeding day--these, and other evils connected with this amusement, are
strong reasons for banishing it from the community. But dancing ought not
therefore to be proscribed. On the contrary, balls should be discouraged
for this, among other reasons, that dancing, instead of being a rare
pleasure, requiring elaborate preparation, may become an every-day
amusement, and may mix with our common intercourse. This exercise is among
the most healthful. The body, as well as the mind, feels its gladdening
influence. No amusement seems more to have a foundation in our nature. The
animation of youth naturally overflows in harmonious movements. The true
idea of dancing entitles it to favour. Its end is to realise perfect grace
in motion; and who does not know that a sense of the graceful is one of
the higher faculties of our nature? It is to be desired that dancing
should become too common among us to be made the object of special
preparation, as in the ball; that members of the same family, when
confined by unfavourable weather, should recur to it for exercise and
exhilaration; that branches of the same family should enliven in this way
their occasional meetings; that it should fill up an hour in all the
assemblages for relaxation, in which the young form a part. It is to be
desired that this accomplishment should be extended to the labouring
classes of society, not only as an innocent pleasure, but as a means of
improving the manners. Why shall not gracefulness be spread through the
whole community? From the French nation we learn that a degree of grace
and refinement of manners may pervade all classes. The philanthropist and
Christian must desire to break down the partition walls between human
beings in different conditions: and one means of doing this is to remove
the conscious awkwardness which confinement to laborious occupations is
apt to induce. An accomplishment, giving free and graceful movement,
though a far weaker bond than intellectual or moral culture, still does
something to bring those who partake it near each other.--_Dr Channing’s
Address on Temperance._




SEAL OF WILLIAM, BISHOP OF KILDARE.


[Illustration]

The prefixed woodcut represents an impression from the seal of one of the
bishops of Kildare anterior to the Reformation, the matrix of which is in
the possession of a gentleman in Dublin.

The device exhibits three statues standing in canopied niches, of the
florid Gothic or pointed style of architecture of the fifteenth century.
The centre figure represents the Virgin and child, and the figures on each
side appear intended to represent the patron saints of Ireland. Patrick
and Brigid. Below the centre figure there is a smaller niche, containing a
figure of another ecclesiastic, with his hands raised, in the attitude of
prayer, and his arm supporting the pastoral staff. This figure, it is
probable, is intended to represent St Conlæth, the first bishop of
Kildare, who was cotemporary with St Brigid, and said to have been the
joint founder of that see. On each side of this figure is a shield, one of
which bears the arms of France and England quarterly; the other, two keys
in saltire, in chief a royal crown; a device which, it is worthy of
remark, constitutes the arms anciently and still borne by the archbishops
of York, and the appearance of which in this seal may therefore not be
easy to account for. The inscription reads as follows:--

    “_Sigillum Willim dei gracia Kyldarens epi_,”

or, _Sigillum Willelmi dei gratia Kyldarensis Episcopus_ (the seal of
William, by the grace of God, Bishop of Kildare).

As among the bishops of Kildare two of the name of William occur in the
fifteenth century, it may not be easy to determine with certainty to which
of them this seal should be assigned; but there appears the greatest
reason to ascribe it to the first, who, according to Ware, having been
previously archdeacon of Kildare, was appointed to this see by the
provision of Pope Eugene IV, in 1432, and, having governed this see
fourteen years, died in April 1446.

                                                                       P.




THE DESOLATION OF SCIO.

(1822.)


    A deep, a broken note of woe
    Rose from the Archipelago.
    The seaman, passing Scio by,
    Stood out from shore: the wailful cry
    That reached him on the waters blue
    Was more than man could listen to;
    And when no more the death-cry came,
    The rising smoke, the sun-dimmed flame,
    The flashings of the scymitar,
    Told Scio’s slaughter from afar!

    What demon governed your debates,
    Ye mighty Christian potentates,
    That Greece, the land of light and song,
    Should feel the Paynim scourge so long?
    That Greece, for all the lore she gave,
    Should cry in vain, “Save, Europe, save!”

    How could you let the gasping child
    Besmear with gore the mother wild?
    How could ye let that wild one be
    The sport of wanton cruelty?
    Or Beauty, from Dishonour’s bed,
    Swell reeking piles of kindred dead,
    Where mingled, in the corse-fed fires,
    The cindered bones of sons and sires!

    But all is o’er--the storm hath passed,
    Nor oak, nor osier ’scaped the blast,
    Nor flow’ret of the loveliest dye--
    All, all in one black ruin lie!
    In one short day a People fall--
    Their mansions make their funeral pall--
    Their winding-sheets are sheets of flame--
    Their epitaphs, “Shame, Europe, shame!”

    Inhuman deed! Oh, murdered race!
    To Turk, to Holy League disgrace!
    Blush, Christian princes!--heartless men
    Who rule the councils, ne’er again
    Look on the Cross!--you have its ban--
    You crowned it with the Alcoran!

                                           T.




PATRIOTISM.--Patriotism, or love of country, is a sentiment which pervades
almost every human breast, and induces each individual to prefer the land
of his birth, not because it is better than another country, but merely
because it is his country. This sentiment may be illustrated by a variety
of anecdotes. Many of the Swiss, on account of the poverty of their
country, are induced to seek military service in foreign lands. Yet, in
their voluntary exile, so strong is their affection for their native
hills, that whole regiments have been said to be on the point of
desertion, in consequence of the vivid recollections excited by one of
their national songs. A French writer informs us that a native of one of
the Asiatic isles, amid the splendours of Paris, beholding a banana-tree
in the Garden of Plants, bathed it with tears, and seemed for a moment to
be transported to his own land. The Ethiopian imagines that God made his
sands and deserts, while angels only were employed in forming the rest of
the world. The Maltese, insulated on a rock, distinguished their island by
the appellation of “The Flower of the World.” The Javanese have such an
affection for the place of their nativity, that no advantages can induce
them, particularly the agricultural tribes, to quit the tombs of their
fathers. The Norwegians, proud of their barren summits, inscribe upon
their rix-dollars, “Spirit, loyalty, valour, and whatever is honourable,
let the world learn among the rocks of Norway.” The Esquimaux are no less
attached to their frigid zone, esteeming the luxuries of blubber-oil for
food, and an ice cabin for a habitation, above all the refinements of
other countries.--_Fireside Education, by S. G. Goodrich._

       *       *       *       *       *

If a man be gracious and civil to a stranger, it shows he is a citizen of
the world, and that his heart is no island cut off from other lands, but a
continent that joins them.




THE SOD PARTY.


PART II.

In those days the favourite resort for parties of pleasure was the rocky
shore of Howth, facing Killiney, and our party had selected a spot which
was well known to two or three of them. It was a little hollow in the
rocks, where the mould had collected, and was covered with a smooth close
sod. Its form resembled a horse shoe, the open being to the sea; and the
rock descended at that side perpendicularly six or seven feet to the
water. There was just room enough for the party to seat themselves
comfortably, so that every one could enjoy the seaward view. It was a
considerable distance from the place where the vehicles should stop;
indeed, the hill intervened and should be crossed, so that it was no
trifling matter to carry a large basket or hamper to it.

O’Gorman resolved not to encumber himself with any thing that might divide
his attention with his charming partner; and, accordingly, when they had
pulled up, calling to the driver of the jarvey, “Here, Murphy,” said he,
“you’ll take charge of the basket that’s slung under the gig, and follow
the rest when they’re ready.”

“Oh, to be sure, sir, sartinly,” was the reply, and away went Bob to show
the scenery to Miss Kate, from various points quite unknown to her before,
leaving the remainder of the party to settle matters as they pleased.

Murphy’s assistance was required by the servants who were unlading the
carriages first; and each gentleman, taking a basket or bundle, and even
the ladies charging themselves with some light articles, they set forward,
leaving two or three heavy hampers to the servants’ charge.

All having at length departed, except Mr O’Donnell’s servant, who had been
left in charge of the vehicles, and Murphy, who was to take the gig
basket, the latter proceeded to unstrap it. As he shook it in opening the
buckles, some broken glass fell upon the road.

“Oh! miallia murther! what’s this? My sowl to glory, if half the bottom
isn’t out ov the bashket. Och hone, oh! Masther Bob, bud you are the raal
clip. By gannies, he’s dhruv till he’s dhruv the knives and forks clane
through; the dickens a one there’s left; an’ as for the glasses, be my
sowl he’d be a handy fellow that ud put one together. Oh! marcy sa’ me!
here’s a purty mess. Musha! what’s best to be done, at all at all?”

“Take it to them any how,” answered his companion, “and show it to them.”

“Arrah, what’s the use of hawkin’ it over the mountain? Can’t I jist go
an’ tell what’s happened?”

“Take care you wouldn’t have to come back for it,” said the other, “an’
have two journies instead of one. Maybe they wouldn’t b’lieve you,
thinkin’ it was only a thrick that that limb o’ th’ ould boy put you up
to.”

The prospect of a second journey, on such a hot day, not being
particularly agreeable, Murphy took up the shattered basket and proceeded.

Having yet two hours to spare, the party resolved to consume them by
sauntering about until the hour appointed for dinner, which being come,
and all having assembled at one point, near the Bailey, they proceeded
together to the chosen spot, where they found Murphy awaiting them with a
most rueful countenance. He had been vainly trying to invent some
plausible excuse for his patron, as he dreaded that all the blame would be
thrown upon Bob’s hard driving at setting out.

“The bottom’s fell out o’ the blaggard rotten ould bashket, ma’am, an’ the
knives an’ forks has fell an the road.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr Sharpe (who did not seem to be either so astonished or
angry as one might have expected), “give them a rub in a napkin; a little
dust won’t do them any harm.”

“Why, thin, the sorra a one o’ them there is to rub,” said Murphy,
“barrin’ this one crukked ould fork.”

Despite his loss, Mr Sharpe could not refrain from laughing when Murphy
held up an article, which had certainly been packed for a joke, it was so
distorted, one prong being tolerably straight, but the other sticking out
as if it was going to march. However, collecting himself, he asked
sternly, “Do you mean to tell me that all the knives and forks were lost
upon the road?” “Jist so, sir,” was the reply.

“The glass; is it safe?”

“Bruck, sir--all in smithereens; sorra as much ov id together as ud show
what the patthern was.”

“And the spoons,” roared Mr Sharpe, as if the thought had only just struck
him.

“Spoons! sir. Oh, be my sowl you’d betther look for thim yourself; here’s
the bashket.”

“This is a costly party to me,” said Mr Sharpe, “but it can’t be helped
now; so don’t let my loss cause any diminution of your pleasure or
enjoyment.”

Every one looked with perfect admiration at Mr Sharpe, surprised at his
magnanimity, and Mrs Harvey thought that she must have altogether mistaken
his character hitherto; but she would not have thought so, had she known
that he had purposely procured a rotten basket, with the bottom partially
broken, in which he had packed a quantity of broken glass, and in which he
(of course) had _not_ packed either spoons, knives, or forks, except the
very one which Murphy had held up; and it was to prevent examination or
inquiry that he had been so voluble upon his arrival in the morning. But
had his loss been, as the company supposed, real instead of fictitious, he
must have been gratified, nay delighted, at the dismay which gradually
spread itself over almost every countenance, at the prospect of having to
eat a dinner without knives, forks, or spoons, and to drink without
glasses, or even cups.

“Gentlemen,” said Mr Harvey, “have you got penknives with you? I have
forgotten mine.”

So had every one else except Mr Sharpe. He would willingly have kept it
secret, but he knew that if he should attempt to use it himself, it would
be seen; so he made a virtue of necessity, and lent it to Mr Harvey for
the purpose of carving the roast beef!

The dinner was now nearly arranged, and the last basket, in which
Mulholland had packed the roast beef, was opened. The remnant of an old
college gown was first dragged forth, and Mr O’Brien’s servant, to whom
the task was assigned, looked in, tittered, looked again, and then drew
forth two long large ribs, with a piece of meat about the size of a
cricket ball attached to the ends of them. Having laid them on the dish,
he dipped again, and produced, with another titter, a shapeless lump of
meat without any bone--(he would be a clever anatomist that could tell
what part of the beast it had been). Another dip, and with a roar of
laughter he raised and deposited on the dish four ribs, from which nearly
every morsel of meat had been cut.

“What is the meaning of this, Mr O’Gorman?” said Mrs Harvey, who was quite
disconcerted at the turn things had taken, and was now seriously disposed
to be angry.

“My dear madam,” said he, “it may look a little unsightly, but it is all
prime meat, depend upon it. It was dressed yesterday for the College
dining-hall.”

“You don’t mean, surely, to call bare bones _meat_, sir?”

“My dear madam,” said Bob, “you will find that there is as much meat
without bone as will compensate. Mulholland is a very honest fellow in
that respect.”

Some laughed, some were annoyed, some were disgusted; but by degrees
hunger asserted its rights, and reconciled them a little, especially when
O’Gorman pointed out how much easier it would be to carve the small pieces
with a _penknife_, than if they had but one large one.

“Well,” said Mrs Harvey, “I have long indulged the hope of having a
_pic-nic_ party so perfectly arranged that nothing should go astray; and
so far have I been from succeeding, that I really do think there never was
a more unfortunate, irregular affair. I really do not know what to say,
and I feel quite incompetent to preside. Mr O’Gorman, as you have the
happy knack of making the best of every thing, I believe you are the
person best qualified in this company to make the most of the matter, and
we must rely on your ingenuity.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That is as much as to say, ‘Bob, as you have treated us
to broken meat, and lost the knives and forks, you will please to carve!’
Well, nabocklish, this isn’t a round table, like Prince Arthur’s, for it’s
little more than half round, and we have old Howth at the head, and old
Neptune at the foot of it; but, for the rest, we don’t stand upon
precedence, and therefore I need not change my place, to preside. Mr
Harvey, I’ll trouble you for the penknife--I beg pardon--the carver--hem!
and that specimen of antediluvian cutlery, the ‘_crukked ould fork_.’
Thank you--shove over the beef now. Ods marrow-bones and cleavers! what a
heap! Gentlemen, you had better turn up your cuffs as a needful
preliminary; and, perchance, an ablution may also be necessary--you can
get down to the water here, at this side.”

As soon as the party had re-assembled, after having washed their hands, he
again addressed them.

“Mr Sharpe, and Mr Harvey, will you please to drag that, turkey asunder?
Mr O’Brien, will you tear a wing off that fowl for Miss O’Donnell? Fitz,
gnaw the cord off one of those ale bottles; draw the cork with your teeth,
and send the bottle round. The corkscrew was with the knives.”

“Draw my teeth with the cork, you mean; I had rather knock off the neck,
thank you,” said Fitz, about to suit the action to the word.

“No, no,” cried Bob, “do you forget that we must drink out of the bottles?
Do you want the ladies to cut their pretty lips with the broken glass, you
Mohawk! Though, faith,” said he, in an under-tone, to his fair companion,
“I could almost wish such an accident to happen to some one that I know,
that I might have an opportunity of exhibiting my courageous devotion, by
sucking the wound.”

“A prize! a prize!” cried he, jumping up and running a little distance. He
returned with five or six large Malahide oyster shells, that had been
bleaching on the cliff, where they had been thrown by some former party.
Two of them were top shells. “Here,” said he, throwing one to Sweeny, “is
a carver for that ham; make haste and put an edge on it, on the rock.
Ladies, here are primitive drinking goblets for you. Miss O’Brien, the
pleasure of a _shell_ of wine with you.”

“I have put a very good edge on the shell,” said Sweeny, “but I can’t cut
the ham with it, it slides about so.”

“Psha! take a grip of it by the shank, can’t you? What are you afraid of,
you omedhaun? Hold it fast, and don’t let it slide. Costello, break up
that loaf and send it round. Mr O’Donnell, will you have the goodness to
hold one of these ribs for me. Oh, faith, finger and thumb work won’t do;
you must take it in your fist, and hold it tight; now pull--bravo! Beau
Brummell would be just in his element here. Be my sowl, as Paddy Murphy
says, I think if he saw us, he’d jump into that element there to get
away.”

Mr Sharpe was now in his glory; he had, with Mr Harvey’s assistance, torn
up the turkey; and seeing that Bob had decidedly the worst job at the
table, he asked him for beef. Mr Harvey joined in the joke, and put in
also; but their man was too able for them.

“As you are in partnership in the turkey business, in which you have been
so successful,” said he, “you had better continue so, in the general
provision line,” handing them a piece sufficient to satisfy two, and
prevent them from calling again.

“Bill” (to one of the college men), “here’s a shell for you to cut the
crust of that pie, and help it. Jem” (to another), “Miss Kate O’Brien
wishes for some of that chicken that you are trying to dislocate, as
gently as if you were afraid of hurting it, or greasing your fingers.”
“What part?” said Jem.

“A little of the soul, if you please,” said Kate, with a maliciously
demure face.

“Here it is for you. Miss Kate, soul and body;” and he handed it to her.

    “The mirth and fun (now) grew fast and furious.”

No water fit for drinking could be procured, and the consequence was, that
the ale, porter, and wine, were swallowed too abundantly by the gentlemen.
Songs were called for, and O’Gorman was in the midst of the “Groves of
Blarney,” when Costello shouted out, “A porpoise! a porpoise!”

Up jumped the whole party, and up also jumped the table-cloth, which Mr
O’Donnell and Mr Sharpe had fastened to their coats or waistcoats.

They sat directly facing the opening to the water, with Mrs Harvey between
them; so that when, by their sudden start up, they raised the cloth, it
formed an inclined plane, down which dishes, plates, bottles, pies, bread,
and meat, glided, not majestically, but too rapidly, into the sea. Then,
oh! what a clamour!

Above the jingling of broken bottles and plates, the crash of dishes, and
the exclamations of the gentlemen, arose the never-failing shriek of the
ladies. And then came a pause, whilst they silently watched the last dish
as it gracefully receded from their view.

“Oh! faith,” said Mrs Harvey (surprised by her emotion into using a gentle
oath), “I think it is time to go home _now_.”

“Faith,” said O’Gorman, “it is time to leave the dinner-table at all
events, since the things have been removed; but as to going home, we have
so little to carry, or look after, besides ourselves and--hic--the ladies,
that I think, with all respect to Mrs Harvey, we may--hic--take it easy. I
wish I could get a drink of water to cure this hic--hiccough; for I am
certain, Miss O’Brien, I need not assure you--indeed I can appeal to you
to bear witness--hic--that it was the _want_, not the quantity of liquid,
that has brought it on.”

The “want,” however, had made Bob’s eyes particularly and unusually
luminous; nor did Kate take his proposition “to launch all the hampers and
baskets, after their recent contents, into the sea,” to be any additional
proof of his self-possession; and when, with a caper and whoop, he sent
Mulholland’s basket to the fishes, her suspicions that he was slightly
elevated became considerably strengthened.

“Mrs Harvey,” said Mr Sharpe, “you think your party unfortunate. I have
been upon a great many parties of this kind, and I assure you I have seen
far more unpleasant affairs--(Gentlemen, here are a few bottles of wine
that have escaped the watery fate of their unhappy companions). Now, the
very last party that I was on last season, three or four of the gentlemen
quarrelled (pass the wine if you please), and one of them, in the
scrimmage, was knocked over the rocks into the sea.”

“Mercy on us, Mr Sharpe! was he drowned?”

“Why, no, but his collar-bone was broken, and his shoulder dislocated. But
a worse accident happened in coming home.”

“What was it?”

“Poor Singleton had come, with his wife and two nieces, in a job carriage;
the driver got drunk, and overturned the whole concern, just where the
road branches off down to the strand; they rolled over the cliff, and fell
about twenty feet; the horses were both killed, and the whole party
dreadfully injured, barely escaping with life. Then, the quarrel after
dinner (by which Jones got his collar-bone broken) led to a duel on the
following morning, in which one of the parties, Edwards, fell; and his
antagonist, young O’Neill, got a bullet in his knee, which has lamed and
disfigured him for life. Pass the wine, gentlemen.”

“No! no! no!” screamed Mrs Harvey, on whom the above delectable recital
had had the desired effect, and who was worked into a desperate state of
terror, “no more wine, gentlemen, if you please. Come, ladies, we must
return at once, before evening closes in.”

Each lady being perfectly satisfied that the gentleman who had fallen to
her lot would keep sober, whatever _others_ might do, demurred to the
early retreat; but Mrs Harvey was too much frightened at the prospect of
returning with gentlemen and drivers drunk, not to be determined; and,
accordingly, with much growling, and the most general dissatisfaction, the
party broke up.

“I am done with _pic-nics_--I’ll never have any thing to say to one
again,” said the disappointed directress. “There never was any affair more
perfectly arranged, never was so much care taken to have things regular. I
never proposed to myself such enjoyment as I expected this day.”

“My dear Mrs Harvey,” said O’Gorman, to whose countenance the last four or
five shells of wine had imparted an air of the most profound wisdom, “my
dear Mrs Harvey, ‘the whole art of happiness is _contentment_.’ This is
the great secret of enjoyment in this life--this is the talisman that
clothes poverty in imperial robes, and imparts to the hovel a grandeur
unknown to the halls of princes--this is the true philosopher’s stone, for
which alchymists so long have sought in vain, that converts all it touches
into gold--this is the cosmetic that beautifies the ill-favoured wife, and
the magic wand that bestows upon the frugal board the appearance of
surpassing plenty--this is the shield of adamantine proof, on which
disappointment vainly showers its keenest darts--this is the impregnable
fortress, ensconced in which, we may boldly bid defiance to the combined
forces of sublunary ills--and whether it be announced from the pulpit or
the cliff, by the dignified divine or the college scamp; be it soothingly
whispered in the ear of the deposed and exiled monarch, or tendered as
comfort to the discomfited authoress of a _pic-nic_, it still retains, in
undiminished force, its universality of application”----

Here Mr Sweeny facetiously gave him a slap on the crown of the hat, which
drove it down, and stuck it gracefully over his eye, thereby breaking the
thread of his discourse. He then addressed the fair Catherine; but all his
eloquence and profundity were unavailing to induce her to return with him
in the gig. She would listen to nothing but the carriage, and as room
could not be made for him inside, he mounted the box, leaving the gig to
any one that pleased to have it. Nor was it long untenanted. Frank
Costello and Bill Nowlan mounted together, and were found in it next
morning fast asleep, in the stable-lane behind Mr Sharpe’s house, the
horse having found his way home when left to his own guidance.

The remainder of the party arrived as safely, but somewhat more regularly,
in the evening of their eventful day, and all dissatisfied except Mr
O’Gorman, and

                                                                   NAISI.




STREET TACTICS.


You, most respectable reader, who owe no man any thing that you are not
able and willing to pay, may know nothing of the tactics alluded to in the
title of this paper. But there is, you may depend upon it, a pretty
numerous class of the community to whom these tactics are quite familiar,
and who practise them to a greater or lesser extent every day of their
lives.

Street tactics, let us define the term, is the art or science of avoiding
all persons on the streets, and all places in the streets--shops, for
instance--whom and which, for particular reasons of your own, you are
desirous of eschewing.

The art is thus one of deep concernment to the whole of that numerous and
respectable body known by the generic name of “gentlemen in difficulties.”
This term, however, is one of very extensive signification, and includes
various descriptions of gentlemen as well as difficulties; but on the
present occasion we mean to confine ourselves to one particular class--the
gentlemen whose difficulties arise from their having more creditors than
crowns--the gentlemen who have contrived to surround themselves with a
large constituency of the former, and who cannot by any means contrive to
get hold of an adequate supply of the latter--the gentlemen who are
sufficiently respectable to get into debt, but not sufficiently wealthy to
get out of it.

The reader can have no idea how difficult a matter it is for a gentleman
of this description to work his way through the streets, so as to avoid
all unpleasant encounters; how serious a matter it is for him to move from
one point of the city to another. To him the streets are, in fact, as
difficult and dangerous to traverse as if they were strewed with heated
plough-shares, or lined with concealed pitfalls. He cannot move a hundred
yards, unless he moves warily, without encountering somebody to whom he
owes something, or passing some shop where his name is not in the most
savoury odour.

It is, then, the manœuvring necessary to avoid those disagreeables that
constitutes street tactics, and confers on the gentleman who practises
them the character of what we would call a street tactician.

This person, as already hinted, when he moves at all, must move
cautiously, and must consider well, before he starts, which is his safest
course; which the course in which he is least likely to encounter an enemy
in the shape of a creditor, and which will subject him to running the
gauntlet of the fewest number of obnoxious shops. The amount of manœuvring
required to accomplish this is amazing, and the ingenuity exhibited in it
frequently very remarkable.

When on the move, the street tactician is obliged to be constantly on the
alert, to have all his eyes about him, lest an enemy should come upon him
unawares. This incessant vigilance keeps him always wide awake, always on
the look-out, and makes him as sharp as a needle. Even while speaking to
you, his keen and restless eye is roving up and down the street to see
that no danger is approaching.

Like the training of the Indian, this incessant vigilance improves his
physical faculties wonderfully, especially his vision, which it renders
singularly acute. He can detect a creditor at a distance at which the
nearest friend, the most intimate acquaintance of that person, could not
recognise him: he can see him approaching in a crowded street, where no
other eye but his own could possibly single him out.

Gifted with this remarkable power of vision, it is rare that the street
tactician is taken by surprise, as it affords him time to plan and effect
his escape, at both of which he is amazingly prompt and dexterous.

As the great object with the street tactician in moving from one point of
the city to another is not the shortest but the safest course, he is
necessarily subjected to a vast deal of traverse sailing, and thereby to
enormous increases of distance, being frequently obliged to make the
circuit of half the town to get at the next street. His way is thus most
particularly devious, and to one who should watch his motions without
knowing the principles on which he moves, would appear altogether
incomprehensible. Here he crosses a street with a sudden dart, there he
turns a corner with a slow and stealthy step; now he walks deliberately,
now as if it were for a wager. Again he walks slowly; then comes a sudden
brush: it is to clear some dangerous spot in which an enemy is lurking in
ambuscade--the shop door of a creditor. Now he _cuts_ down an alley; now
hesitates before he emerges at the opposite end; now darts out of it as if
he had been fired from it, like a shell from a mortar. And thus, and thus,
and thus he finally completes his circuitous and perilous journey. It is
fatiguing and laborious work, but it must be done if he would avoid being
worried to death.

Besides that ever watchfulness, that sleepless vigilance that
distinguishes the street tactician, there is about him a degree of
presence of mind not less worthy of special notice. It is by this ready
fortitude and coolness of temper that he is enabled, even when in what may
be called the immediate presence of an enemy, to devise and execute with
promptness and decision the most ingenious expedients for avoiding
personal contact--that enables him, when within twenty yards of the foe
(when so near that a less experienced hand, one of less steady nerve,
would inevitably fall into the clutches of his dun, and who would at once
be given up for lost by any on-looker) to effect a retreat, and thus avoid
the crave personal--in so cool and masterly a way, that the enemy himself
shall not know that he has been _shirked_, but shall be deceived into a
belief that he has not been seen, and that the pretext, or pretexts, under
cover of which the street tactician has evaded him, has or have been true
and natural. This is a difficult point to manage; but old hands ran do it
admirably, and, when well done, is a very beautiful manœuvre.

The skilful street tactician never exhibits any flurry or agitation,
however imminent his danger may be: it is only green-horns that do this.
Neither does he hurry or run away from an enemy when he sees him. This
would at once betray malice prepense, and excite the utmost wrath of the
latter, who, the moment he got home, would put his claim into the hands of
his lawyer; a proceeding which he must by no means be provoked into
adopting.

The skilful street tactician takes care of this, then, and studies to
effect his retreats in such a way as to excite no suspicion of design. He
does, indeed, take some very sudden and abrupt turns down streets and up
lanes when he sees an enemy approaching; but he does it with so
unconscious a look, and with such a _bona fide_ air, that neither you nor
his creditor would for a moment suspect any thing else than that he was
just going that way at any rate. This operation requires great command
both of muscle and manner, and can be successfully performed only by a
very superior practitioner.

To the street tactician, carts, carriages, and other large moving objects,
are exceedingly useful auxiliaries as covers from the enemy, and the
dexterity and tact with which he avails himself of their aid in effecting
a “go-by,” is amazing. By keeping the cart, carriage, or other body in a
direct line between him and the foe, he effects many wonderful, many
hair-breadth escapes. The chaise or cart is in this way, and for this
purpose, a very good thing, but the waggon of hay, slow in its motion, and
huge in its bulk, makes the best of all protecting covers.

With a waggon of hay moving along with him, and a very little manœuvring
on his own part, the expert tactician could traverse the whole city
without the risk of a single encounter. But his having such an
accompaniment for any length of time, is of course out of the question. He
must just be content to avail himself of it when chance throws it in his
way, and be thankful for its protection throughout the length of a street.

We have heard experienced street tacticians, men on whose skill and
judgment we would be disposed to place every reliance, say, that it is a
very absurd practice to run across a street to avoid a shop, and to pass
along on the opposite side. Such a proceeding, they say--and there is
reason and common sense, as well as scientific knowledge, in the
remark--only exposes you more to the enemy, by passing you through a
larger space of his field of vision--by giving him, in short, a longer, a
fuller, and a fairer view of you. Far better, they say, to walk close by
his window at a smart pace, when the chances are greatly in favour of your
passing unobserved.

This way of giving a shop the “go-by” requires, indeed, more courage, more
resolution than the other, being, certainly, rather a daring exploit; but
we are satisfied, that, like boldness of movement in the battle-field, it
is, after all, the least dangerous.

                                                                       C.




DEATH OF CATHAL, THE RED-HANDED O’CONOR.

(As recorded in the Annals of the Four Masters, translated by Mr
O’DONOVAN.)


A.D. 1224.--In the spring of this year, a heavy and an awful shower of
strange rain fell on a part of Connaught, viz. Hy-Maine in Hy-Diarmada,
and other places, which produced virulent infections and diseases amongst
the cattle of these territories, as soon as they had eaten of the grass
upon which the shower had fallen. The milk of these cattle, also, when
partaken of by the inhabitants, caused various inward diseases among them.
It was but natural that these ominous signs should appear this year in
Connaught, for they were the foreboding heralds of a very great loss and
calamity, which fell this year upon the Connacians, namely, the death of
Cathal the Red-handed, son of Torlogh More O’Conor, and King of Connaught,
who had been the chief scourge of the traitors and enemies of Ireland; who
had contributed more than any other man to relieve the wants of the
clergy, the poor, and the indigent, and into whose heart God had infused
more goodness and greater virtues than adorned any other cotemporary Irish
prince; for, from the time of his wife’s death to the time of his own
death, he had led a chaste and virtuous life. It was in his time, also,
that tithes were first lawfully paid in Ireland. This honourable and
upright king, this discreet, pious, just-judging warrior, died on the
twenty-eighth day of summer, on Monday precisely, in the habit of a Grey
Friar, in the monastery of Knockmoy; which monastery, together with its
site and lands, he himself had previously granted to God and the monks;
and was interred in that monastery with honour and respect.




EELS.


Their snake-like aspect and other reptile attributes (observes Professor
Wilson, in a work recently published, entitled “The Rod and the Gun”), no
doubt tend to form and perpetuate the prejudice which many otherwise
humane-minded men cherish towards these insidious fishes. They move on
land with great facility, and with a motion resembling that of serpents.
They have even been seen to leave fresh-water lakes during the night in
considerable numbers, apparently for the purpose of preying on slugs and
snails among the dewy herbage. They abound in many continental rivers, and
are caught in immense numbers in those which empty themselves into the
Baltic, where they form a considerable article of trade. It is stated that
2000 have been caught at a sweep in Jutland, and 60,000 have been taken in
the Garonne by one net in a single day. The habits of these fishes in
relation to breeding, migration, &c., are still but obscurely known. “That
eels migrate towards brackish water,” observes Mr Jesse, in his Gleanings
in Natural History, “in order to deposit their ova, I have but little
doubt, for the following reasons: From the month of November until the end
of January, provided the frost is not very serious, eels migrate towards
the sea. The Thames fishermen are so aware of this fact, that they
invariably set their pots or baskets with their mouths up stream during
those months, while later in spring and summer they are set down stream.
The best time, however, for taking eels, is during their passage towards
the sea. The eel-traps, also, which are set in three different streams near
Hampton Court (the contents of which at different times I have had
opportunities of examining), have invariably been supplied with eels
sufficiently large to be breeders, during the months I have mentioned.
This migratory disposition is not shown by small eels; and it may
therefore be assumed that they remain nearly stationary till they are old
enough to have spawn. I have also ascertained that eels are taken in
greater or lesser numbers during the months of November or December, all
the way down the river to the brackish water. From thence the young eels
migrate, as soon as they are sufficiently large and strong to encounter
the several currents of the river, and make their way to the different
contributary streams. I have also been able to trace the procession of
young eels, or, as it is here called, the _eel-fair_, from the
neighbourhood of Blackfriars’ Bridge, as far up the river as Chertsey,
although they probably make their way as far, or farther than Oxford. So
strong, indeed, is their migratory disposition, that it is well known few
things will prevent their progress, as even at the locks at Teddington and
Hampton the young eels have been seen to ascend the large posts of the
flood-gates, in order to make their way, when the gates have been shut
longer than usual. Those which die stick to the posts; others, which get
a little higher, meet with the same fate, until at last a sufficient layer
of them is formed to enable the rest to overcome the difficulty of the
passage. A curious instance of the means which young eels will have
recourse to, in order to perform their migrations, is annually proved in
the neighbourhood of Bristol. Near that city there is a large pond,
immediately adjoining which is a stream; on the bank between these two
waters a large tree grows, the branches of which hang into the pond. By
means of these branches the young eels ascend into the tree, and from
thence let themselves drop into the stream below, thus migrating to far
distant waters, where they increase in size and become useful and
beneficial to man. A friend of mine, who was a casual witness of this
circumstance, informed me that the tree appeared to be quite alive with
these little animals. The rapid and unsteady motion of the boughs did not
appear to impede their progress.”




ANECDOTE OF SHERIDAN.


SHERIDAN and KELLY were one day in earnest conversation close to the gate
of the path which was then open to the public, leading across the
churchyard of St Paul’s, Covent Garden, from King street to Henrietta
street, when Mr Holloway, who was a creditor of Sheridan’s to a
considerable amount, came up to them on horseback, and accosted Sheridan
in a tone of something more like anger than sorrow, and complained that he
never could get admittance when he called, vowing vengeance against the
infernal Swiss, Monsieur François, if he did not let him in the next time
he went to Hertford street.

Holloway was really in a passion. Sheridan knew that he was vain of his
judgment in horse-flesh, and without taking any notice of the violence of
his manner, burst into an exclamation upon the beauty of the horse which
he rode--he struck the right chord.

“Why,” said Holloway, “I think I may say there never was a prettier
creature than this. You were speaking to me, when I last saw you, about a
horse for Mrs Sheridan; now, this would be a treasure for a lady.”

“Does he canter well?” said Sheridan.

“Beautifully,” replied Holloway.

“If that’s the case, Holloway,” said Sheridan, “I really should not mind
stretching a point for him. Will you have the kindness to let me see his
paces?”

“To be sure,” said the lawyer; and putting himself into a graceful
attitude, he threw his nag into a canter along the market.

The moment his back was turned, Sheridan wished Kelly good morning, and
went off through the churchyard, where no horse could follow, into Bedford
street, laughing immoderately, as indeed did several of the standers-by.
The only person not entertained by this practical joke was Mr
Holloway.--_Reminiscences of Michael Kelly._

       *       *       *       *       *

MAID-SERVANTS AND THEIR “FRIENDS.”--Every master and mistress in the
United Kingdom knows what a maid-servant’s friend is. Sometimes he is a
brother, sometimes a cousin (often a cousin), and sometimes a father, who
really wears well, and carries his age amazingly! He comes down the
area--in at the window--or through a door left ajar. Sometimes a
maid-servant, like a hare, “has many friends.” The master of the house,
after washing his hands in the back kitchen, feels behind the door for a
jack-towel, and lays hold of a “friend’s” _nose_. “Friends” are shy:
sometimes a footman breaks a friend’s shins while plunging into the
coal-cellar for a shovel of nubblys. We speak feelingly, our own abode
having been once turned into a friends’ meeting-house--a fact we became
aware of through a smoky chimney; but a chimney _will_ smoke when _there
is a journeyman baker_ up it.--_Kidd’s Journal._

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Wisdom cannot be obtained without industry and labour. Can we hope to find
gold upon the surface of the earth, when we dig almost to the centre of it
to find lead and tin, and the baser metals!

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