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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

      NUMBER 22.       SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 1840.      VOLUME I.

[Illustration: THE CHURCH AND ROUND TOWER OF DONAGHMORE, COUNTY OF
MEATH.]

English and other visitors to our metropolis who dare the perils of the
deep, and various other perils now equally imaginary, to see something
of our Emerald Isle, are generally directed as a matter of course to our
far-famed county of Wicklow as the only picturesque lion within a few
hours’ journey; and certainly in this romantic region they will find
much to gratify the taste, and which will remain indelibly fixed on the
memory. But, delightful as such excursion undoubtedly is, it will only
convey to a stranger’s mind a partial and imperfect impression of Irish
scenery; and he will be apt to conclude that however rich we may be in
the possession of lakes and mountains--the grand but solitary domains
of nature--we are wholly wanting in scenery of a different class, that
of the richly wooded pastoral valley, blooming with artificial as well
as natural beauty, the anciently chosen abodes of luxury and rank, and,
as such, rich in memorials of the past, with their attendant historical
associations. Scenery such as this, the proud Briton will most probably
think the exclusive boast of his own favoured isle. He will not imagine
that it is also to be found in equal perfection in Ireland, and even
within a short distance of the metropolis. It is not in the Guide or
Tour Book, and is but little known even to the well informed of the
citizens of Dublin themselves, more of whom have seen and enjoyed the
scenery of the Thames than that of the Boyne, which is within four hours’
journey. Yet the scenery of the Boyne, following its course upwards
from Drogheda to Navan, a distance of eleven miles, and the scenery of
the Blackwater, a river tributary to the Boyne, ascending from Navan to
Kells, a distance of eight miles more, is, in its way, of a character as
beautiful and luxuriant as could be found anywhere, or even be imagined.
Scenery of this class of equal richness may be often found in England;
but we do not know of any river’s course of the same length in which
natural beauty so happily combines with the artificial, or in which
so many interesting memorials of past ages could be found. Scattered
in rich profusion along the banks of this beautiful river we find the
noblest monuments of the various races of men who have held sway in
Ireland: the great earthen fortresses, stone circles and dome-roofed
sepulchres of the Tuatha de Dananns and the Fir-Bolgs--the raths of
the Milesians--the churches and round towers of the earliest Christian
times--the proud castles of the Anglo-Norman chiefs and their equally
imposing architectural structures dedicated to the services of religion.
In the variety, if not the number of such monuments here found, the
Boyne is without a rival in any Irish river, nor do we think it could be
paralleled by any river in the empire; and we might truly add, that it is
on its luxuriant banks, amid so many instructive memorials of past ages,
that the history of our country, as traced in its monuments would be best
studied.

It is from amongst these interesting remains that we have selected the
subject of our prefixed illustration--the Church and Round Tower of
Donaghmore, situated a little more than a mile from Navan, on the road to
Slane.

This religious establishment, which was anciently called _Dumnach-mor
muighe Echnach_, owes its origin to St Patrick, as will appear from
the following passage translated from the life of the Irish apostle,
attributed to St Evin:--

“While the man of God was baptising the people called Luaiguii, at a
place where the church of Domnach-mor in the plain of Echnach stands
at this day, he called to him his disciple Cassanus, and committed to
him the care of the church recently erected there, preadmonishing him,
and with prophetic mouth predicting that he might expect that to be the
place of his resurrection; and that the church committed to his care
would always remain diminutive in size and structure, but great and
celebrated in honour and veneration. The event has proved this prophecy
to be a true one, for St Cassanus’s relics are there to be seen in the
highest veneration among the people, remarkable for great miracles, so
that scarcely any of the visitors go away without recovering health, or
receiving other gifts of grace sought for.”--Tr. Th. p. 130.

But though the existing ruins of the Church of Donaghmore sufficiently
indicate it to have been a structure “diminutive in size,” its
architectural features clearly prove that it is not the original church
of St Patrick’s erection, but a re-edification of the thirteenth
century, in the usual style of the parish churches erected by the
Anglo-Norman settlers within the Pale. Neither can the Round Tower,
though unquestionably a structure of much higher antiquity than the
present church, be referred to the time of the Irish apostle, or perhaps
to an earlier age than the ninth or tenth century. At all events, its
erection cannot be ascribed to an earlier date than that of the Tower of
the Church of Kells--a religious establishment founded by St Columbkille
in the sixth century--as these towers so perfectly agree in architectural
style and masonwork, that they appear to have been constructed by the
same architects or builders.

This very beautiful tower is built entirely of limestone undressed,
except around the doorway and other apertures, and is of admirable
masonry. It has two projecting ledges or steps at its base, and six rests
for stories, with intermediate projecting stones or brackets in its
interior. These stories are each, as usual, lighted by a single aperture,
with the exception of the upper one, which has two openings, one facing
the east, and the other the west; and the apertures present all the
architectural varieties of form observable in our most ancient churches.
The circumference of this tower, near its base, is 66 feet 6 inches, and
its height, to the slant of the roof, which is wanting, is about 100
feet. The wall is 3 feet 9 inches in thickness, and the doorway is 12
feet from the ground. This doorway--which is of very beautiful execution,
and, as usual, faces the west end of the church--is 5 feet 2 inches in
height, and has inclined sides, and a semicircularly arched top. It is 2
feet 3 inches wide at bottom, and 2 feet beneath the spring of the arch
at top. Over the door there is a figure of the Saviour sculptured in
relief, partly on the keystone and partly on the stone over it; and on
each side of the architrave there is a human head also in relief, as on
the doorway of the church of Kells.

Some antiquaries, in their zeal to support the theory of the Pagan origin
and the antiquity of the Round Towers, have asserted that this doorway is
not the original one, but an “after work.” But there is not the slightest
ground for such a supposition, and this sculpture, as a profoundly
skilled architectural antiquary, the late Sir Richard Colt Hoare, well
observed, furnishes “a decided proof that these buildings were not (as
some writers have conjectured) built by the Pagans.”

A similar argument against the application of the Round Towers to the
purposes of a belfry, has been grounded on the circumstance of the
western front of the church having three apertures for bells above its
gable. But it should not be forgotten that this structure has no claim to
an earlier date than the thirteenth century, when a variety of bells,
and a different mode of hanging them, were brought into use by the
Anglo-Norman settlers.

The Church of Donaghmore has been confounded by Archdall and subsequent
writers with the ancient church of Domnach-Tortain, also founded by St
Patrick, but which was situated near Ardbraccan.

                                                                       P.




THE DRUNKARDS, A TOO TRUE STORY.


In one of those admirable tales which Mrs Hall is now publishing with
the praiseworthy object of the melioration of the Irish character, the
ordinary effects of a too faint resistance to the fascinations of strong
drink are faithfully detailed. The moral which our generous countrywoman
intended to convey is undoubtedly of universal application, but I am
afraid that the circumstances I am about to relate will convey no moral.
It is the simple and true record of an appalling calamity which befell
the subjects of my story, with all the melancholy unaccountableness and
fatality of lunacy. No one would warn his fellow-creatures against the
danger of madness--against any unforeseen dispensation of God’s wrath:
it is in this sense, then, that I am afraid I have no moral to convey in
narrating an event of which I was all but a spectator.

It must have struck every observer of human character that there are two
classes of drunkards in this country. One class is composed of those
persons, who, at first being well enough disposed to be temperate in all
things, are insensibly led on by the charm of good fellowship to create
for themselves an artificial want, which in the end leaves them the
helpless victims of a miserable disease: they begin with a little--they
continue the draught under the self-deceiving sophism “it’s only a
drop”--they fall into excess--they lose all sense of decorum and proper
spirit--they become mean and unbashful in their craving after spirituous
liquor, which condition unfits them for an upright and honourable course
of thought and action in any of the details of daily existence--a mental
dissipation accompanies the bodily languor: while the hand trembles, the
brain wanders, and the last scene of the tragedy is delirium tremens.

But there is another class of drunkards--God forbid that I should
attribute any thing to the decrees of Providence inconsistent with
mercy and justice--but I am almost tempted to designate this class the
drunkards by _necessity_. However worldly condition, education, or other
causes, may modify the result in individual cases, it is not the less
certain that there are persons--very many of them--who appear to have
come into the world predisposed to an inordinate desire for intoxicating
liquors. These wretched people do not begin with thimblesful, and end
with gills--the stroke seizes them like a thief in the night--sometimes
in the prime of manhood--sometimes in the flush of youth--sometimes
(it is a fearful truth) in the thoughtlessness of boyhood. It is a
passion with them--a madness. You may know one of these unhappy beings,
especially if he be a very young man, by the sullen and dogged air with
which, early in the morning, he enters the public house, and sits down
in solitude and silence to his double-shotted measure of undiluted
whisky--whisky is the only drink for one of this calibre--alas! the worst
and fiercest stuff that can be made is the most acceptable to him--his
palate is too long palled to distinguish between tastes and flavours--it
is the _liquid fire_ he wants; you may know him at other times by the
pitiable imbecility which prompts him in his awful craving to reach his
tumbler to his lips with both his hands, till he finishes the draught
with all the apparent eagerness of intense thirst; you may know such a
one by his frightful sleeps, begun, continued, and closed in terrific
dreams! The wife and family of the progressive or occasional drunkard are
wretched enough as every body knows; but, oh! who can possibly estimate
the amount of misery which the wife and children of a madman like this
are destined to endure.

I have not overdrawn the picture in the abstract--take an individual
instance:--

In the spring of 18-- I was living, on a visit with a friend, in the
neighbourhood of a small country town in one of the most fertile and
prosperous districts of the island. The population was almost entirely
free from that abject and squalid poverty which is the lot of the
Irish peasantry beyond that of all other descriptions of civilized
people. I remarked particularly of this neighbourhood that it had a
larger proportion of respectable farmers and of that species of country
gentlemen called _squireens_, than any other part of the country I had
ever lived in. To this latter class belonged the heads of two branches
of the same family, both of whom resided in the immediate vicinity of my
friend’s house. Their names were Peter and James Kavanagh. Peter was by
many years the elder of the two; his family consisted of three grown-up
sons and one daughter. Peter had married in early life, and his wife died
in giving birth to a fifth child, which did not long survive its mother.
James had a large family of young children. Peter’s only daughter, Alice,
had been brought up in her uncle’s house in order that she might receive
the education and care which a girl of her tender age, without a mother,
might expect from the kindness of her nearest female relative.

The family of Peter Kavanagh, then, consisted of himself, his three sons,
and a single in-door servant as housekeeper, who was already an old woman
and of indolent habits. The household of a widower in the middle and
humbler ranks of life is rarely ordered with regularity and decorum, and
Peter’s was no exception to the general case. Every room had an aspect
of untidiness and discomfort. Seldom were the boards of the floors or
staircase washed or swept--seldom were the window panes cleansed, or the
hearth-flag whitened, or the tables rubbed, or the chairs dusted. Things
soiled were never cleaned--things broken were never mended--things lost
were never replaced. Each of the family felt in turn the inconvenience of
this state of things, but one threw the blame upon the other, and nothing
was done to remedy the evil. Every one thought it strange that such a
good practical farmer and shrewd man-of-the-world as Peter Kavanagh
should care so little about the comforts or conveniences of every-day
existence--but so it was.

Peter, however, had or thought he had one especial household virtue to
be proud of. Very early in life he had narrowly escaped disgrace and
ruin by severing himself from a parcel of dissipated associates, who had
led him step by step into all the labyrinths of premature debauchery. He
receded before it was quite too late, and the recollection of what he
suffered (for he _did_ suffer) was sufficient to make him resolve that
_his_ sons should never be tempted in a similar manner. The eldest of
these, Richard, was now one-and-twenty, the second, Matthew, nineteen,
and the youngest, Gerald, fifteen years of age, at the time I lived near
P----, and they had never yet partaken of any spirituous liquor at their
father’s table. That father, however, was by no means so abstemious as
he had compelled his boys to be. Every day since they had first learned
the taste of whisky toddy had they been tantalised with the sight of the
“materials” for their father’s favourite beverage. Peter Kavanagh was
indeed a temperate man, but he was not a generous man. He was not one of
those kind parents who cannot bear to gratify their appetite with any
delicacy, whether much or little, dear or cheap, while their children
are looking on with wistful eyes and watering mouths in vain expectancy.
He had his reward. One day the two eldest lads, Dick and Matt, were
carried home from a neighbouring fair, stupidly drunk. It was the first
time they had ever been so, and the quantity they had taken was perhaps
trifling; but the father was thenceforward more watchful than ever to
prevent them from repeating the excess. In his usual manner to his sons
Peter Kavanagh was not particularly harsh, but the least evasion of his
strict commands in respect of drink was sure to be visited with great
severity. How wretchedly inconsistent was this man’s practice! Other
misdemeanours of infinitely a greater degree of moral crime were winked
at, nay encouraged, by him. The young men were not naturally vicious; but
when they found that they could with impunity curse and swear in their
father’s hearing--when they found that even some of the graver offences
against society could be committed without their father’s reprehension,
was it any wonder that they should soon grow ripe in wickedness? Matt
and Dick, in their personal appearance, showed every token of the
accomplished village scamp--battered hats jauntily carried on one side
of the head--rusty shooting coats of bottle green, with an amazing
plurality of pockets--knee-breeches of once-white corduroy insufficiently
buttoned over coarse worsted stockings, and heavy brogues with nails like
the rivets of a steam-boiler. These were the hardiest betters of the
ball-alley, the keenest lads at the roulette-table--the deadest shots
at a mark over all the country side. Plenty of money had they, and who
dared to ask them how they came by it? Their father had lots of cash
lying by, and selfish as he was, and knowing as he was, many a heavy
handful of hard silver was he relieved of by his dutiful sons. Hence
the dashing “bit of blood” which carried Dick and Matt alternately over
the stubbles--hence the couple of spaniels and the leash of greyhounds,
which had the reputation of being the best noses or the fleetest feet
in the county--hence the double-barrelled “Rigby” belonging to Dick,
which was the admiration and envy of his acquaintances. As they grew
up, and cared less for the anger of their father, vicious habits became
more settled-looking and systematic with them. They drank to frightful
excess whenever they had the slightest opportunity. No one ever saw
them for twenty minutes at a time without having full proof that they
were slaves to as odious and disgusting a tyranny as ever the depraved
tastes of human creatures created for mankind--I mean, no one ever saw
them for so long a time without a tobacco pipe between their teeth, and
surrounded by every one of the usual nastinesses which accompany the
practice when carried to a hateful extent; and yet, even as they were,
the county could not boast of two manlier looking fellows than Richard
and Matt Kavanagh when dressed for Sunday mass, which they still attended
with a punctuality which would be more praiseworthy if it sprang from
anything but a motive of vanity and pride. Under different culture they
might have become excellent members of society. They had still some faint
pretensions to generosity and spirit, and many a pretty girl of the
neighbourhood would have trusted to her sole powers of persuasion for
their reclamation.

Gerald Kavanagh, the youth of fifteen, was a lad of different stamp. He
was open-featured and open-hearted both. _He_ was never seen with a pipe
in his mouth, or a tattered “racing calendar” sticking out of his pocket;
and while his brothers were out upon their sporting expeditions, or
amusing themselves in a less innocent way, it was poor Gerald’s pleasure
to scamper across the fields to his uncle James’s garden, and walk, or
talk, or read, or play with his pretty little sister Alley, or romp with
his pretty little cousins Bill and Bess, and Peter and Dick, after school
hours--the time _he_ knew he would find most company looking out for
him. Alley and he were as fond as they could be of each other, and not
the less so because they did not live entirely together. “Absence makes
the heart grow fonder,” is as true a line as ever was penned, whether we
apply it to the lover and his mistress, or the brother and his distant
sister. Many of us, with sighs and tears, can testify this. It was a
lovely sight to see that affectionate boy and his fond sister sauntering
along the borheens in the wild-strawberry season, with their arms around
each other’s necks in the intervals of their fruit-finding, until they
bade each other good-bye for another day, and returned, “with lingering
steps and slow,” to homes, alas, how different!

Such were these three youths when Peter Kavanagh, after a short illness,
died, and left his property, such as it was, to be equally divided
between his children.

I may venture to say that Richard and Matt were not sorry for their
father’s loss. On the night of the grand “wake” they collected all the
idle and profligate young men of their acquaintance together at the
house, and dreadful was the depth of drunkenness to which they sank, as
might be expected. Every more prudent person present saw how it was--saw
that the previous restraint was about to be amply atoned for, and many a
shake of the head was intended to be prophetic of coming calamity.

On that same night--early in the night too--little Alley perceived
that all was not right with her brother Gerald. She had seen Richard
plying him with liquor, which he at first refused, but afterwards
accepted--stealthily, however, and with an abashed and crimsoning face as
he met the first reproachful glance of Alice. Gradually the temptation
worked, and again and again the draught was repeated with less hesitation
at the request of his brothers, who seemed happy in the idea of making
their innocent companion as guilty as themselves. The devil surely has
those in his clutches who find comfort and consolation in the visible
abandonment of the fair and innocent to the miserable pleasures for
which _they_ have sold their own souls. At length she was frightened to
perceive that Gerald had grown hardy and boastful of his feat--he _had
asked_ for more whisky, and had been given it by Dick, who, half drunk
himself already, was determined to make Gerald drunk for once in his
life. The boy was now in the condition wished for by his brother; he had
slunk behind Matt’s chair; Alice could see his head hanging upon one
shoulder, while his eyes were closing in the stupor of intoxication--he
was about to fall to the ground. Quietly she stole to his side, and
leaning her head upon his shoulder she whispered,

“Gerald, darling, I didn’t think _you_ would drink so much--why did you
do it?”

“Don’t tell uncle James, Alley, if he hasn’t seen me this way, and I’ll
never drink so much again.”

“Hold up your head for another bucket, you dog,” said Matt, with sundry
drunken hiccupings, as he heard the boy speaking behind his chair, and
proffering at the same time a fresh bumper. “Come, Gerald, my boy, it
will do you no harm--sorrow’s dry, they say, and Lord knows but you’ve
blubbered enough all day for a little fellow.”

“Matt, dear Matt, don’t ask him,” said Alice.

Matt, however, was not to be thwarted: with a brutal cuff he struck his
little sister to the ground, and tried to force the liquor upon Gerald’s
acceptance. In the attempt the glass fell from his hand, and Alice rose
and drew her brother softly from the room.

The funeral took place, and there was another carouse more disgraceful
than the first, and another, and another, and another! until the week
was out. When Gerald’s uncle saw how completely besotted his nephews
had become, he took Gerald to live with him, but not until it had
become too painfully evident that the boy had acquired a liking for the
liquor which had turned his two brothers into human beasts. Poor little
Alice wept over the change. There was no more reading, or playing, or
wandering through the country together. He sat sulky and silent in the
house all day, more like a poor relation on charitable allowance than the
joint-heir of the largest farm in the parish. But this was to have an end!

A month had passed away since the death of Peter Kavanagh, and the
zeal of the eldest heirs had by this time drunk up his entire stock
of “mountain dew,” when in some out-of-the-way nook or other they
discovered five gallons of malt whisky, which perhaps had lain there
forgotten for twenty years. It was on a Saturday morning this was found,
and one of the Kavanaghs was heard to swear that he would never quit
it till the last drop was drained. It was to be the last bout before
they set off for Australia, whither they intended to emigrate that very
spring, having, with their uncle’s consent on behalf of the two younger
orphans, converted their land into money for the purpose. One or two
choice spirits had been invited to join them, but these begged to be
excused--even these were appalled at the dreadful excesses of their boon
companions. Towards evening Gerald had been missing from his uncle’s
house. James Kavanagh guessed how it was, and with little Alice in his
hand repaired to the brothers’ dwelling. The door was locked on the
inside, and on asking for Gerald he was told that he was all safe there,
with the saucy addition that “there wasn’t any admission for any d----
teetotaller.” Shocked and grieved, James Kavanagh went away with his
dejected niece.

The next day was Easter Sunday. The festival had occurred that year
unusually late in the spring, and there was already a foretaste of summer
in the air. A lovely noon it was when James Kavanagh, his wife, Alice,
and the children, walked out in Sunday trim to the parish chapel. The
sky was fretted with light silver clouds--the fields were already green
with the new growth of the grass--the hawthorn bushes were almost visibly
bursting their buds--the whin braes were in a blaze of golden beauty--the
birds, especially the red-breast, were chirping away with intense glee,
being, in the glorious language of the poet Shelley,

    “Many a voice of one delight!”

They continued to walk on, and now the bells of the neighbouring church
struck out their Easter jubilee with such exquisite sweetness as we might
fancy arrested the sceptical purpose of the despairing Faust in Goëthe’s
surpassing drama, when the heart-touched metaphysician exclaimed,

    “Oh, those deep sounds--those voices, rich and heavenly--
    Proud bells! and do your peals already ring
    To greet the joyous dawn of Easter morn?
    And ye, rejoicing choristers! already
    Flows forth your solemn song of consolation--
    That song, which once from angels’ lips resounding
    Around the midnight of the grave, was heard--
    The pledge and proof of a new covenant.”

Yes! indeed, those bells almost distinctly said to the heart as they
swung in the soft air of that delicious noon, “Christ our passover is
sacrificed for us; therefore let us keep the feast!” They passed the
church--groups of joyous children were playing in the graveyard--five or
six immense chestnuts towered, coeval and almost coequal with the ancient
steeple, and in these there was a rookery, now in full din--the voices of
the children and the cawing of the rooks, disturbed by the sudden peal
of the bells, mingled with the chime without discord to the ear. Alice’s
eyes glistened for a moment when she recognised her youthful playmates;
but she suddenly felt she could not laugh with them--her heart was heavy.
At length they stood before the door of the brothers’ house. No signs of
wakefulness had it yet exhibited.

“Let us go in, uncle, and tell them to get up,” said the little Alice.

“Let them sleep it out, the scoundrels!” was the indignant reply of James
Kavanagh.

They passed on to the place of worship.

In about an hour and a half from this time the same group were on their
way homewards, with hearts elevated by the imposing service which they
had just been witnessing. A gloom was, notwithstanding, perceptible
upon the face of James Kavanagh and of his little niece, as they walked
along in company with their happy and smiling neighbours. None of the
three sons of Peter Kavanagh had ever before been known to have absented
himself from Sunday mass, and their absence on that most holy day was of
course a subject of much wonder.

“I could not have thought it possible,” said James Kavanagh gravely,
“that they could become so wicked all at once--God forgive them! God help
them!”

“Oh, uncle!” cried Alice, as they came in view of the house of guilt once
more, “they are not up yet! See, the shutters are still closed!”

They were now in front of the house. “Dear uncle,” said Alice
entreatingly, “go into them--do, dear uncle, bring out poor Gerald to eat
his Easter dinner with us.”

A thought struck James--he knocked loudly at the door. There was no
answer. Another loud knock, and a long pause; and still no sound within
the house.

Alice’s little heart echoed the last unsuccessful knock--it almost said.
“Wake, Gerald, with the knocking.”

She could endure the suspense no longer, and, running to the gripe at the
road-side, she took up a heavy stone, with which she battered the panels
of the hall-door as long as her strength permitted her. When she was
obliged to desist, her screams might be heard afar off, and still there
was no sound in the house.

James Kavanagh had dispatched one of his little boys to a neighbouring
cottage for a crow-bar. The boy quickly returned with one, and James,
assisted by the crowd who gathered near, was not long in forcing the door.

“Good people,” said he to the anxious company outside, “don’t come in
till I tell you--there’s no use in further exposing the shame of my
brother’s house.”

He and Alice, with one or two particular friends, entered the hall with
faltering steps, and they closed the door behind them.

The first object which met their eyes was Peggy, the old housekeeper,
lying on the mat at the foot of the staircase, in a trance of
intoxication: she had evidently fallen down stairs in her attempt to
reach the door, and had been for hours perhaps insensible. Alice jumped
over her, and darted up stairs with the speed of lightning. James and
his companions, after a vain attempt at arousing the housekeeper, slowly
followed her.

They entered the room which fronted them on the landing. The thick stench
of tobacco-smoke, mingled with the fumes of ale and whisky, almost
overpowered them. The room would have been quite dark had it not been for
the flickering remnants of two candles, which still glared in the heated
sockets of a large old-fashioned branch candlestick. James went to the
window, opened the shutters, and let down the sash. The glorious sunshine
streamed into the reeking apartment, with the blessed air of the Sabbath.
How strange--how painful was the paling glimmer of those expiring candles
in that holy light! The three young men were lying on the floor at some
distance from each other, around the legs of a crazy table in the centre
of the room. On the table were huddled together the fragments of salt
herrings, the parings of cheese, broken glasses, half-emptied decanters,
and the other usual paraphernalia of a low debauch. The whole meaning of
the scene was taken in at a glance by James Kavanagh, as soon as he had
opened the window. He stooped over one of the prostrate forms--it was
that of Richard. He turned up the face--great God! it was the face of a
livid corpse! A smothered groan burst from James: he rushed towards the
next--Matt Kavanagh was dead also, quite dead and stiff! James and his
friends looked at each other solemnly, and without speaking a word. They
turned their glance simultaneously to the place where Gerald was lying.
They moved or rather tottered to the spot. There he lay, with Alice in a
swoon beside him, his eyes glazed, the skin of his face tightened over
his nose and cheek-bones, his lips covered with viscid froth, and his
beautiful brown hair tossed backwards from his damp forehead, glistening
in a streak of sunshine which came full upon it from the window. “He is
alive still!” they all three exclaimed: “he may yet be saved!”

One of them ran to the window and made a sign to the neighbours to come
in. The room was soon full of horrified spectators.

They parted Alice from her dying brother, and both were brought out into
the open air as quickly as possible.

Amidst the cries and lamentations of the bystanders Alice recovered. She
sat for a while on the grass, trying to recall her scattered senses. The
sight of Gerald lying near her, as the crowd opened to admit the air
to his face with a freer freshness, brought the whole terrible truth
to her mind. She rose with difficulty, but, gathering strength with
recollection, she succeeded in breaking from the woman who had her in
charge, and in a moment the head of Gerald was pillowed upon her bosom.

The soft cooling breeze had restored the unfortunate boy to a momentary
consciousness. He was barely able to turn his head towards Alice in
recognition of their presence. A faint pleasure was expressed in his
glassy eyes as he did so.

“Won’t you speak to me, Gerald? Won’t you speak to your own Alley?”

The boy shook with a convulsive shudder, but could not utter a syllable.

“Don’t die, dear Gerald; don’t leave poor Alley all alone in the world!
Och, och, och!” said the little girl in the very agony of childish
despair, “he’ll never be the same again--he’ll never speak to me again!”

The boy made an effort to bring Alice’s ear to his clammy lips; she
strove to hear the almost inarticulate whisper which hovered upon them.

“Is--uncle James--here?” gasped the dying lad; “tell
him--I--couldn’t--help it! Oh! Alley! oh!”

Gradually the groan, extorted by the last pang of dissolution, died away,
and with it the spirit of poor Gerald Kavanagh.

Alice perceived what had happened as soon as any of the bystanders, but
high and shrill _her_ scream mounted over the wailing which arose from
the others, ere she once more sank down in the swoon which the excess of
her anguish had so mercifully caused.

On the following day a coroner’s inquest was held upon the bodies of the
three sons of Peter Kavanagh, in a public-house not far distant from the
scene of this fatal debauch. A surmise had been afloat that poison had
somehow or other been the cause of their death, and an examination of one
of the bodies was considered needful. I will not shock my readers with a
description of the fearful chamber where this most loathsome operation
was performed. The result was a verdict to the effect that the three
Kavanaghs had died “from the excessive use of ardent spirits.”

I commenced by saying I feared that this narrative might fail in pointing
a moral. It has a moral--a moral to selfish and ill-judging parents,
and equally ill-judging societies, who lay the flattering unction to
their souls that _coercion_ will have a better effect than a fair and
_consistent example_. Verily, the Spartan nobles, who exhibited the
drunken slave before their children, and then placed the wine-cup within
their reach, had a better knowledge of human nature than the Irish father
who would exorcise the demon of alcohol out of his children by pledges of
abstinence, or threats of punishment, while, in the security of his own
experience, he feels _he_ can temperately enjoy the luxury of spirituous
drink.[1]

                                                                    R. M.

[1] From the Londonderry Standard.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fine connexions are apt to plunge you into a sea of extravagance, and
then not to throw you a rope to save you from drowning.




SAP IN VEGETABLES.

SECOND AND CONCLUDING ARTICLE.


We endeavoured in our last article to describe the principal
circumstances of interest with respect to the ascending or unelaborated
sap. We have found that it is derived from the aliment which consists
of water and carbonic acid; that it is composed of a solution of sugar
and gum in water; that it ascends in the ordinary trees of this country
through the wood, which is situated between the bark and pith; that
the causes which elevate it are partly a vital attraction or suction
exercised by the buds, and partly an endosmose, by which, in consequence
of its superior density, it draws in its aliment through the spongy
extremities of the roots; that its use is not only to furnish materials
for the descending or elaborated sap, but by developing the fleshy part
of plants to cause the growth of stems in length and roots in thickness.
We shall now proceed to show the origin, the course, the composition, and
the uses of the descending or elaborated sap.

The elaborated sap is formed out of the ascending sap. The place where
this change takes place is in the leaves and green parts of vegetables;
it is generally in the spring season that the ascending sap pushes
out the buds into branches, and developes the little scales which
had surrounded these organs into leaves; but when these leaves are
formed, the sap continues to ascend into them, and there undergoes
those alterations from whence the elaborated sap results. Now, these
alterations consist in the getting rid of all superfluous water and
carbonic acid, which, originally absorbed as aliment, had not undergone
the conversion into gum and sugar during the ascent of the sap; secondly,
in the acquisition of additional nutriment from the atmosphere; and,
thirdly, in the conversion of these substances into a variety of new
compounds.

Let us examine each of those changes to which the ascending sap is
subjected, in succession; and, first, with respect to the disengagement
of superfluous water and carbonic acid, every one must have observed
drops of water collected on the leaves of cabbages and other vegetables,
when examined early in the morning. These are commonly supposed to
be dew-drops, but are truly in great part the result of a kind of
perspiration which is always taking place from the surface of plants.
That this is the case, can be proved by covering a cabbage-plant with a
bell-glass, and placing it in a room sufficiently heated to prevent the
deposition of dew, when drops of water will be found equally to collect
upon its leaves. These drops are not observed during the day, because the
temperature is then commonly so high as to evaporate them as fast as they
are transuded; but the fact is, that plants actually give off much more
water during the day than night. The escape of carbonic acid is not so
easily detected as that of water; it can, however, be proved, through the
resources of chemistry. Unlike water, which is liberated both night and
day, and indeed in greatest quantity during the latter period of time,
carbonic acid is found to be disengaged during the night only. As long as
plants are exposed to the light of the sun, their green parts liberate
none of this gas.

We have mentioned that when the ascending sap arrives into the leaves,
it not only throws off superfluous water and carbonic acid, but likewise
derives an additional quantity of nutriment from the atmosphere. The
presence of light is necessary for this latter circumstance to take
place. The nutriment which, under the influence of sunlight, it acquires
from this source, is a substance named “carbon;” this substance is a
constituent of carbonic acid, which is indeed composed of carbon and
oxygen; carbonic acid is contained in the atmosphere in the proportion of
one part in a thousand; the green parts of plants absorb it, and under
the influence of light decompose it; the carbon is retained, but the
oxygen is again liberated. We now may perceive the reason of the fact
mentioned in the preceding paragraph: plants give out no carbonic acid
during the day, because the superfluous carbonic acid of the ascending
sap becomes decomposed under the influence of light, in the same way as
that which has been absorbed from the atmosphere.

A great many compound products are obtained from the vegetable kingdom.
We need merely recall to the reader’s recollection starch, resin,
camphor, bland and aromatic oils, bitter principles, colouring matters,
the acids of the grape, the lemon, and the apple, &c. to assure him of
this truth. All these different substances form themselves out of the
sugar and gum of the ascending sap, together with the carbon absorbed
under the influence of light.

When the ascending sap has parted with its superfluous water and carbonic
acid, when under the influence of light it has absorbed carbon from the
atmosphere, and when its constituents arrange themselves anew, so as to
produce some or all of the substances above enumerated, its name as well
as its functions cease: it has now become the descending or elaborated
sap.

Let us now inquire the course which the descending sap pursues. We have
stated in our last article, that if a ligature be twisted tightly round
a branch of one of our common trees, the portion immediately above the
ligature will become swollen, while that beneath it will retain its
former thickness. If instead of a ligature we remove a circular ring of
bark, the same phenomenon will take place: the part above this annular
incision will swell out on every side. From this experiment we derive
several important inductions. We learn from hence that this kind of sap
descends, and moreover that the channel which conveys it is the _bark_.

Having ascertained the course which the elaborated sap pursues, let
us now turn our attention to its _composition_. This is found to vary
in different plants: thus in some, bitter principles are the chief
constituents; in others, aromatic substances; in others it is principally
resinous; but whatever may be the principal components, they may always
be divided into two groups--namely, those which are subservient to the
growth of the vegetable, and those which, becoming deposited in the
different organs, confer on them those properties which entitle them to
be employed as articles of medicine or aliment for animals, and by means
of which different plants are in this respect distinguished from each
other. The portion of the descending sap which serves for the growth of
the vegetable, exudes in ordinary trees between the bark and the wood,
forming a glutinous layer which separates these organs, and is the cause
of the facility with which in autumn the bark can be detached from the
stem: this portion is called cambium. In palms, and other trees of warm
climates, there is no bark, and in such vegetables the nutritive part of
the descending sap passes down through the centre of the stem.

The portion of elaborated sap which becomes deposited in the organs,
and which varies more or less in every plant, is called the proper
juice: proper vessels is the name given to the reservoirs which contain
the proper juices; and according to the nature of their contents, the
proper vessels are called milk-vessels, turpentine-vessels, vesicles of
essential oil, &c.

In the foregoing paragraphs we have somewhat anticipated the uses of
the descending sap: we have found that one portion of it is destined
for the nutrition of the vegetable. Now, the same means which revealed
to us the uses of the ascending sap, will also tell us how far the
elaborated sap is concerned in vegetable nutrition. In the dark no sap
is elaborated, and no vegetable fibre is developed. Are we not therefore
justified in supposing that vegetable fibre is formed out of this
elaborated sap? Again, let our readers call to their remembrance the
experiment of tying a ligature around a branch: in that experiment not
only does a considerable swelling take place above the ligature, but
from this swollen portion cereal roots frequently protrude. These facts
afford us a clue to the uses of the descending sap, for by developing
vegetable fibre, it increases the thickness of the stem and the length
of the roots, just as the ascending sap, by developing vegetable flesh,
lengthens the stem, and enlarges the root in diameter.

                                                                    T. A.




SONNET ABOUT A NOSE.


    ’Tis very odd that poets should suppose
    There is no poetry about a nose,
    When plain as is the nose upon your face,
    A noseless face would lack poetic grace.
    Noses have sympathy; a lover knows
    Noses are always “_touched_,” when lips are kissing;
    And who would care to kiss, where nose was missing?
    Why, what would be the fragrance of a rose,
    And where would be our mortal means of telling
    Whether a vile or wholesome odour flows
    Around us, if we owned no sense of smelling?
    I know a nose, a nose no other knows,
    ’Neath starry eyes, o’er ruby lips it grows;
    Beauty is in its form, and music in its blows!




A CHAPTER ON MEN, BY A CUR.


    TO THE EDITOR OF THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

    SIR--In the 12th number of your Journal you have given
    insertion to a paper tending to involve our ancient and
    honourable race in considerable disrepute--I allude to an
    article entitled “A Chapter on Curs, by a Man.” Every story
    will on investigation be found to have two sides: you have
    given publication to the one, and surely you will not, in
    justice, refuse to give your readers an opportunity of judging
    of the other.

               I remain, Sir, your faithful servant,

                                                       AN AGED CUR.

By what means I have acquired the facility of expressing my thoughts upon
paper, it is not my intention to divulge. It is true that I have made
an important discovery--that I have gained possession of a secret which
mankind would give worlds to possess; but I owe too little gratitude
to any member of the human race to be induced to part with it. I am
old: nearly fifteen winters have passed over my head since I first drew
breath, and in the course of nature death cannot be far distant. My
discovery shall shortly perish with me; and the same ditch or dunghill
shall witness the dissolution of both.

Of my parentage I can record but little, as I remember nothing whatever
of my father, and my unfortunate mother was hanged shortly after having
given me birth. Alas! my recollections of her are tinged with any but
pleasurable emotions, for to her I owe much of the misery with which my
career has been chequered. Had she conducted herself with prudence, and
been satisfied to have selected a mate from amongst the many dogs of her
own degree who solicited her paw, my existence might have been passed in
happy, because unnoticed obscurity. But no: stern destiny decreed that
it should be otherwise, and had marked me for misfortune ere even I was
born. Let not the reader start to hear me mention _destiny_: if he object
to my opinions on this subject, he has a wide field open to him for reply
in the pages of the daily press, which, CUR though I be, I am, by virtue
of the discovery already alluded to, in the habit of reading; and he
may rely upon it I am prepared to defend every position I advance. Why
should I not mention destiny? I am a rigid fatalist, and well for me that
I am. What else would enable me to bear up against the scoff and scorn
of man? What else would steel my feelings against the blows of stones,
thrown by the hands of such cowardly insensible men as he who published
the philippic against our race, which has called forth this reply? What
else would console me, when the staff of the churlish boor comes across
my back, or when the urchin-rout attach the terrible _kettle_ to my
trembling tail? What supports me under such heart-rending circumstances,
save the feeling that all is fixed--that such is my sad _destiny_,
against which my barking or my struggling would avail me nought? But I
digress--it is facts and not feelings that it is my province to record.

My ambitious parent, infatuated with the admiration and assiduity of
her numerous suitors, despised them all, and falling a victim to her
vanity, suffered herself to be seduced from the paths of propriety by
a designing young pointer, who threw himself in her way, and employed
every artifice, until at length he induced her to elope with him from her
master’s comfortable farm-yard. For a while the guilty pair contrived to
escape detection. My unhappy mother took up her abode under a hay-stack
in the neighbourhood, and for a week or two was well and kindly treated
by her gay and youthful lover, who regularly saved a portion of his
daily meals for her use. After a little, however, meeting with a new
and more beautiful object on whom to bestow his worthless affections,
he abandoned my mother to her own resources, and from that period she
saw him no more. Dreading to return to the home she had left, and being
pressed with hunger, she was compelled to steal for her subsistence, and
the poultry in the neighbouring homesteads visibly diminished in number;
while, to crown all, my parent was brought to the straw, and became the
mother of five little ones, including myself. The additional drag which
the suckling of so large a family produced, increased my progenitor’s
rapacity four-fold, and the indulgence of it caused her destruction.
One day as she lay beside us, half famished, and ready almost to devour
her own offspring, a little pig chanced to pass by. My mother belonged
to a fierce breed, that called the bull-terrier, and, accordingly,
stimulated by the gnawings of hunger, she sprang upon the little pig,
and had well nigh silenced it for ever, when its loud squeals brought
one of the farm-servants to the spot. We were discovered, the unlucky
pig rescued, my mother hanged to a post in the barn, and we--thrown into
the horsepond. My brothers and sisters all perished; but I, who was
rather stronger than the rest, contrived to struggle to the bank, and was
found there some short time afterwards by a young man belonging to the
establishment, who carried me home with the intention of rearing me.

Oh, how grateful I felt to that young man, and how I blessed him for his
kindness! But, alas! I knew little of the cruel race whose servants we
are, or I should have preferred being left to die on the brink of the
old pond. As soon as he got me home to his father’s, the lad put me into
a bag, and having bound me securely with many cords, took a large pair
of blunt and rusty scissors, and proceeded to deprive me of my ears.
Why should I weary your patience with a description of the excruciating
torments I suffered! Indeed, no description could convey an adequate idea
of one-tenth part of the pain I endured while my ears, and then nearly
the whole of my tail, were slowly and mercilessly hacked away. As to the
manner in which my tail was removed, it betrayed sufficient of the savage
and bloodthirsty disposition of man, to give me a foretaste of what I
might expect at his hands--my tail was actually _gnawed_ asunder by his
_teeth_!

When about nine months old, my master came home one day in a great hurry,
and summoning me to attend him, left the house as abruptly as he had
entered it. He bent his steps to a neighbour’s, where we found a crowd of
men and dogs assembled, apparently intent upon some exhilarating sport,
for on their countenances much glee was depicted. In a corner of the room
a long narrow box was placed, with a sliding door at one end. Wondering
what it could contain, I stepped up to a young bull-dog, with whom I was
acquainted, and inquired of him. “Lord! how green!” exclaimed he; “why,
a _badger_ to be sure; and you’ll see the fun we’ll have drawing him,
presently;” and my friend Boxer licked his lips with the anticipation
of a fight. I had not long to wait, when Boxer was called by his owner,
who held him opposite to the box by the neck, while another person
raised the sliding door. Boxer was then let loose; when, darting with
excessive speed into the interior, a growling and struggling was heard,
and in about a minute my friend reappeared, dragging forth to view a
wild beast called a badger--an animal that I until now had conceived to
be a very gentle, harmless creature; for I at once recognised in this
badger one which I had frequently met in a neighbouring hedgerow when
out by myself, and with which I had begun to form a slight acquaintance.
What was the cause of this creature and Boxer being thus induced to
tear each other, I could not divine. But guess my consternation, when,
Boxer having been separated from his antagonist, and the latter restored
to his cage, I was dragged forward, and held in front of it, while my
master patted and encouraged me, saying, “Hiss, hurroo!--good dog, shake
him!--hurroo!” The door was raised, and I was thrown forward towards
it. As, however, I had no cause of quarrel with its friendly inmate,
I did not, as my acquaintance Boxer had done, rush into the box; but,
determining to investigate the cause of the recent conflict, I entered
it slowly, whimpering as I put in my head, to let my acquaintance of
the hedgerow know that I came as a friend. He had, however, been so
enraged by the previous encounter, that he would not listen to my
remonstrances, but growled forth, “Get out, you cur!” “Don’t be in a
passion,” whimpered I; “I come as a friend.” “That’s a lie,” replied he;
“you can’t be the friend of that tyrant and be mine. You are but seeking
to put me off my guard;” and with this snarling answer he flew at me
and seized me by the nose. This was treatment too gross to be endured,
so I accordingly returned the compliment; and conceiving that I should
have more room to fight on the outside, I exerted all my strength, and
dragged the irascible inhabitant of the box forth to light. To my utter
astonishment, however, no sooner had I reappeared, pulling old _Grey_
along with me, than I was seized, and my throat compressed so rudely as
to give me considerable pain, and indeed almost to strangle me. For this
inconvenience, however, I was amply repaid by the caresses of my master,
and the plaudits of the company, both men and dogs. Among others, Boxer
walked up to me, and growled in his usual cynical tone. “You may come
to some good yet, if you’ll only be quicker at your work.” I did not at
this time understand the human language, and I accordingly detail my
impressions as they struck me then, not as they appear to me now. After
two or three more dogs had had a pull at the badger, many others refusing
to face him, or running away when they felt his sharp teeth, on which
occasions they were well kicked by their owners, I observed an unusual
bustle, and was amazed at hearing my name and Boxer’s uttered in a very
loud tone. The latter at the same time approached me and said, “Tell you
what, young ’un, they’re talking of a fight ’twixt you and me; and if so
be they’re in earnest, take care of yourself--that’s all.” “But, dear
Boxer,” inquired I, wagging my tail in a conciliatory manner, “why should
we fight?--surely we have no cause of quarrel?” “No business of mine,”
answered he; “pleases my master; likes to see us bite and tear each
other; great fun to him; must please him; gr-r-r.” So indeed it was, and
I, though scarcely more than a puppy, was pitted against the redoubted
Boxer. I was very unwilling to fight; for, besides that I had no quarrel
with him, I did not think I was his match, and was sure of being beaten.
When he seized me, however, my spirit stirred within me, and I put forth
all my strength and determination. For nearly an hour we contested. Boxer
at first got the better of me, and threw me down; but after a little I
discovered that his tender point was his legs: so at them I directed my
attack, and, getting hold of one of them, obtained an advantage which I
retained to the last; when, neither being likely to prove victorious, and
neither disposed to give up, we were separated. I was dreadfully cut, and
my wounds smarted me amazingly; but how terrible was my torture when my
master, taking me by the neck, proceeded to wash them with a liquid of a
fiery burning nature, since known to me as spirit of turpentine. This was
I believe designed to stop the bleeding! Such was my initiation into what
men call sport. I now found that I must live without a friend, for every
strange dog my master compelled me to attack. My course was marked out.
My rage was to be directed against every other animal, dog, cat, rat,
badger, cow, pig, &c. except such as were the property of my owner. My
occupation was henceforth to be slaughter and bloodshed, and my existence
was hereafter to be devoted exclusively to violence.

In scenes such as I have described passed the first three or four years
of my life. My wounds were ever open, ever painful; for no sooner had
one set of cuts closed, than I was forced into a new conflict, in which
they were re-opened, and I received others into the bargain. At length
premature old age, the result of the hardships I had endured, came upon
me, and I was no longer deemed serviceable for fighting. I now suffered
less from wounds and cruelties; but being regarded as a useless member
of the household, I was treated with unfeeling neglect, and receiving
hardly any food at the hands of my master, was driven to seek a scanty
subsistence among the bones cast out upon the dunghill; and these, with
an occasional crust thrown me by a good-natured stranger, were my sole
support.

My master had an aged father, who lived in the house with him, and whom
the neighbours conceived to have laid by a considerable sum of money.
I usually slept across the hearth in the kitchen, and was one night
awakened by a cry for help in the half-choking, gurgling accents of a man
under the effects of strangulation. The sounds proceeded from the old
man’s room. The door was open, and I darted in. The old farmer was lying
half naked upon the floor: in his hand was clutched a bag, and numbers
of those round yellow pieces of metal so much coveted by the human race,
and called guineas, were scattered near him. A man was leaning over
him, his knee upon his breast, one hand upon his throat, and the other
endeavouring to drag from him the precious bag. I saw not the face of
the spoiler, but perceiving only the danger of my master’s old father,
whom, harsh as he too had been to me, I instinctively loved, and felt it
my duty to defend, I sprang upon the robber, for such I judged him, and
pulled him to the ground. The old man fainted away. A gleam of moonlight
at this crisis entered the casement, and disclosed to my horrified gaze,
in the countenance of the robber whom I was throttling, the features of
MY MASTER! In the suddenness of my surprise and consternation I relaxed
my gripe; and the villain who had striven to rob his father, and had
raised his hand against the person of his aged parent, sprang to his
feet and fled. I had by this time learned to understand a little of the
human language; and as the ruffian darted through the door, the word
“_damnation!_” struck upon my ear.

The old man, as I have stated, had fainted. Happy for him that he had not
recognised his assailant before my interference, for further opportunity
of recognition he had none. From that fit of insensibility he awoke in
another and I hope a better world.

I was now an outcast--a wanderer over the face of the earth. I went
forth, wretched and desponding, moralising upon the dreadful lengths to
which their love of gold will lead our masters, mankind. “Oh!” thought I,
“if we but take a bone from a larder-shelf to satisfy our hunger, how we
are abused, sworn at, and flogged! Yet the same man who will punish us
for a trifling theft, will not hesitate to wrong or murder his neighbour
for a few worthless, perishable pieces of yellow metal. Oh, destiny, how
I thank thee, despite my sufferings, that I was not born a man! What
sordid, selfish wretches these men are! Their thoughts from morning
until night are occupied with speculations intended to promote their
own comfort, their own aggrandizement. The dog alone loves his master
better than himself, and will lay down his life in his defence. Man is
a base, selfish wretch. The dog alone honours and practises generosity
uninfluenced by hope of recompense.”

I soon afterwards met with another master. For a time he treated me well
enough, and but for an untoward accident I might still have remained in
his service. While sitting one day peaceably beholding the industry of
my new master, who was a turf cutter, I heard at a distance a prodigious
clamour as if of a number of dogs engaged in conflict. Being old and
peaceably inclined, it occurred to me that I could not do better than
hurry to the spot and exert myself to effect a reconciliation. Off
therefore I set as fast as my old legs would carry me. Before, however,
I arrived at the scene of riot, silence had ensued, and I was about to
return, when I perceived a stout-looking man engaged in pelting with
huge stones two or three wretched, half-starved looking little dogs,
that were endeavouring, howling with pain, to make their escape from his
cruel attack. I raised a loud barking, encouraging the dogs in our own
language to get out of his way, hoping also that the noise might frighten
their assailant, and induce him to desist from his barbarous amusement.
I thought that I had succeeded in my design, for the ruffian ran away
as fast as he could; but determined to give him a lesson, I resolved
to terrify him to the utmost, and so gave chase. Of the result of this
encounter I need not inform you, as you are already acquainted with it
from the account of the “Man” himself, as published in the 12th number
of your Journal. I have, however, in justice to my own character, to
state, that it was not cowardice which prevented my biting him, and which
induced me to put up with his ducking, &c., without resistance. It was
not cowardice--it was the singular resemblance which he bore to my wicked
master. That alone saved him from a hearty shaking. But he shall not long
escape. No; I am in the daily habit of walking up and down Sackville
Street, in hopes of meeting with him, when, old as I am, I shall manage
to make my teeth, or rather their stumps, acquainted with his calves.

I could not, on my return to the turf bog, find my master; and as I was
on the road to look for him, I met with an old beggarman, who coaxed me
over to him, regaled me with a crust, and in short exhibited so kindly a
disposition, that, not feeling myself bound to my late owner by similar
ties which had linked my destiny with that of him who had rescued me from
the horsepond, I resolved I would seek after him no further, but join
company with the good-hearted old beggarman--the same, doubtless, so
irreverently spoken of by the “Man” in his ill-natured paper--(oh! that
I had him by the leg this moment!) I did not, however, remain long with
him, for he was taken up by an overfed bloated-looking variety of his
species and lodged in prison, for no fault but that involuntary one of
being poor; and as I would not be permitted to share his confinement, I
wandered forth, and soon met with another master.

Thus going from one to another--now feasting, now enduring the most
agonizing hunger, now received with kindness, now with blows--passed away
the next five or six years of my superannuated being. I longed to know
what had become of my master, ruffian as he was, and my wanderings had
for their object the discovery of his abode. For several years I roamed
unsuccessfully: no traces of him could I perceive; his ancient haunts had
all been abandoned; his former companions unvisited. At length, coming
one morning into a country town, I observed an unusual bustle in the
streets; great multitudes of people hurrying along; and, what surprised
me most, all in one direction. Determined to see what this meant, I
followed the stream, and presently came to an open place, crowded with
people of all sorts and sizes. Making my way onward amongst their feet,
though not without many a bitter curse and hearty kick, I arrived at a
singular wooden erection, like a signpost, with a rope hanging from it,
and underneath a cart with three men in it. I uttered a yelp of joy,
for in one of the three I recognised my long-lost master! To join him
was of course my immediate impulse, and I accordingly sprang into the
cart, but was rudely hurled out of it by one of the other men; and ere I
could repeat my attempt, the vehicle moved away, the wheel passing over
my body, and breaking three of my ribs. I looked again. I saw a human
figure swinging in the wind--a single convulsive struggle of the legs,
and all was over. It was my master--he died the same death that had been
inflicted upon my mother. “Well,” thought I, “I shall never again express
my wonder that men should be so fond of hanging us, for I now perceive
that they likewise hang one another.” I was in too great pain from my
broken ribs to make my way to the body of my poor master; I strove to
crawl as near the post from which it was suspended as I could, and as I
lay there I heard an old man say, “Ah, I knew it would be thus: he began
with dog-fighting and badger-baiting--’twas but the first step to lead
him to the gallows!”

After a while the body of my master was taken down, but I was not
suffered to approach it. It was concealed from my sight in a long narrow
box, with a black cloth over it, somewhat similar to the one from which
in life he used to make me pull the badger. A hole was dug in the ground
beneath the post, the box thrown into it, and the earth being shovelled
in, falling heavily upon it, recalled me to a sense of my situation, and
I went forth once more, a houseless wanderer and an ill-starred cur.

                                                                 H. D. R.

       *       *       *       *       *

HORRORS OF THE SLAVE TRADE.--Commander Castle, R.N., while on service
with the preventive squadron in 1828, in command of H.M.S. Medina,
captured the Spanish brig El Juan, with 407 slaves on board. It appeared
that, owing to a press of sail during the chase, the El Juan had heeled
so much as to alarm the negroes, who made a rush to the grating. The crew
thought they were attempting to rise, and getting out their arms, they
fired upon the wretched slaves through the grating, till all was quiet
in the hold. When Captain Castle went on board, the negroes were brought
up, one living and one dead shackled together; it was an awful scene of
carnage and blood; one mass of human gore. Captain Castle said he never
saw anything so horrible in his life. In the year 1831, the Black Joke
and Fair Rosamond fell in with the Rapido and Regulo, two slave vessels,
off the Bonny river. On perceiving the cruisers they attempted to make
their escape up the river; but finding it impracticable, they ran into a
creek, and commenced pitching the negroes overboard. The Fair Rosamond
came up in time to save 212 slaves out of the Regulo, but before she
could secure the other, she had discharged her whole human cargo into
the sea. Captain Huntley, who was then in command of the Rosamond, in
a letter, remarks--“The scene occasioned by the horrid conduct of the
Rapido I am unable to describe; but the dreadful extent to which the
human mind is capable of falling was never shown in a more painfully
humiliating manner than on this occasion, when, for the mere chance
of averting condemnation of property amounting to perhaps 3000_l._,
not less than 250 human beings were hurled into eternity with utter
remorselessness.”

       *       *       *       *       *

HYPOCRISY.--Hypocrisy is, of all vices, the most hateful to man; because
it combines the malice of guilt with the meanness of deception. Of
all vices it is the most dangerous; because its whole machinery is
constructed on treachery, through the means of confidence, on compounding
virtue with vice, on making the noblest qualities of our nature minister
to the most profligate purposes of our ruin. It erects a false light
where it declares a beacon, and destroys by the very instrument blazoned
as a security.

Cant resembles a young wife married to an ancient husband: she weds
religion, looking forward to live by his death.

       *       *       *       *       *

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