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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

       NUMBER 32.      SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 1841.      VOLUME I.

[Illustration: HANDSOME KATE KAVANAGH.]

In that fertile district of the county Wexford, the barony of Forth,
distinguished for its comfortable cottages and general good husbandry,
lived Dennis Costigan, a rich farmer. His farm was large, well stocked,
and in high condition; his dwelling-house was furnished as a farmer’s
house should be, and it was as cleanly and neat as it was commodious.
His wife was tidy, notable, and good-tempered, and his three children
were such as would please a father--well-formed in person and virtuous
in mind. Then, should not our friend Dennis Costigan have been a happy
man? He would have been so _perhaps_--for there is ever to be a stumbling
block in our road to happiness--_but_ that the first object that glared
upon his eyes in each morning’s sun was the white low cottage of his next
neighbour Miles Kavanagh. Yet that cottage was not an ugly feature in the
landscape. It was small and low, but as white as the whitest lime could
make it; it was neatly thatched too, and its small casements were never
broken or patched. A few honeysuckles and roses crept up its walls, and
it was surrounded by a hedge of hazels and sallows, that lent it an air
of comfort and seclusion. Its owner, at least, thought it a pretty spot,
and that he was a happy man indeed to possess it and its two or three
adjoining acres; and as he trimmed his hedges, and looked pleasantly on
all around--the fruits of his industry and labour--he little thought that
any one could look upon _his_ cot and farm with other eyes than those of
admiration; and least of all that he, or aught of his, was the source
of care or annoyance to his wealthier neighbour. And why did wealthy
Dennis Costigan glance lowringly on this humble tenement? Was it that,
like his betters, he thought a poor man’s dwelling always an unsightly
object? and that, like many a grasping spirit, all land convenient to his
own was misappropriated if not in his possession? It was not so. Dennis
Costigan envied no man his possessions. He was a right specimen of a
farmer, independent, upright, honest, and industrious, contented with
what providence had given him, and willing to help a neighbour with purse
and hand if required. And if he _did_ grumble a little, and turn away his
eyes quickly as if in pain, from the cottage we have mentioned, many
another father with hopeful sons would do the same, for it contained a
gem that would grace the proudest castle in Ireland--beautiful, charming,
innocent Kate Kavanagh, but who had no fortune.

One fine morning in August, farmer Costigan sallied forth at the head
of a regiment of reapers armed for the destruction of a large field of
wheat, but scarcely had he got outside his yard when he missed two of his
most efficient men--his two sons.

“Where can those gorsoons ov mine be, boys?” inquired he of the reapers.
“In the arms ov _Murphy_, to be sure,” answered a little shrill-piped
fellow, the crack orator of the country, which, and the circumstance of
his name being alike, procured him the cognomen of “Counsellor Shiel.”
“In the arms ov Murphy, to be sure, afther thrippin’ it all night on the
light funtastic toe with that flower ov Forth an’ belle ov the barony,
Kate Kavanagh.”

“Arrah, can’t ye speak in plain English, man?” thundered the farmer with
kindling eyes--the name just mentioned always putting him in a passion.
“What the dickens does I know ov funtastic toes or heels?”

“Very little indeed, _litherally_,” quoth the counsellor, laughing, and
glancing sarcastically at the farmer’s large feet, cased in tremendous
brogues shod with hob-nails; “very little _litherally_, but you might
metaphorically, for all that. But you have no more poethry or bells
letthers in ye than a bag ov beans!”

“Nor you more common sense than a goose.”

“Stop!” cried the orator suddenly, in a tone of command enough to arrest
a retreating army, and motioning to the body of reapers. “Stop, one an’
all ov ye, an’ listen! It would be a sin to let this profane ignirince
continue longer.” Then addressing our barony Forth farmer with a
countenance in which pity and ineffable contempt were blended, “Is it in
the nointeenth centhery that you call me a goose, by way ov contimpt? Oh
ignorant of nathral histhry, jography, bells letthers, pelite litherature
altogether! For, know, onforthenate man, that it was the _cackle_ ov that
same illustrious baist, a goose, that saved what?--where do you think?”

“Yer mother’s hen-roost from the fox, is it?”

“No, haithen, but imparial Rome!!!”

The might, the majesty of the “counsellor’s” tones and gestures as he
uttered the words, struck amazement into the hearts of his hearers! They
had considered him a clever fellow, but by no means the great man he then
appeared! Enchanted with his eloquence, not a few of his auditors were
certain that if he were in Parliament, he would do more for Ireland than
Mr O’Connell and all his friends; while the remainder, as much delighted
with his energy, lamented that “the craithur wasn’t two fut higher, for
he had a great spirit intirely!”

The happy “counsellor” perceived the impression he had produced, and in
his altitude was proceeding to tell them when and how “imparial Rome” was
saved, when his attention was arrested by an approaching object, and with
an instantaneous change of attitude and tone he exclaimed,

    “‘But, soft! what light from yonder _meadow_ breaks?
    It is the aist, an’ Cath’rine is the sun!’”

as a tall and very handsome girl, with the finest eyes and brightest
smile imaginable, met them at the entrance of the wheat field.

“A blithe mornin’ to Misther Costigan,” said the maiden, “an’ the same to
all the raipers!”

“Oh! a good morra,” returned Mister Costigan very coldly and with looks
still colder, “an’ I wondher above all things what is it that takes Miss
Kavanagh out of her bed so early?”

“Just what ought to rouse many more ov us, Misther Costigan,” replied
Kate spiritedly--“to help a naibur, an’ I am come to offer ye all the
’sistance in my power to-day, aither as binder or raiper, whichever ye
may want worst.”

“I want neither,” returned the farmer gruffly, and turning on his heel;
“an’, besides, I could not possibly think of puttin’ sitch delicate white
hands to sitch coorse work!”

“The belle o’ the barony” coloured high at the affront couched in this
speech, and she hastily answered that “her hands, sitch as they war,
could earn her bread for her when she required it; an’ if _she_ didn’t
find them too tendher for work, Misther Costigan needn’t find fault with
them. But,” added she more kindly, “you have a rough manner but a kind
heart, Dennis Costigan, an’ I won’t mind what you say to me. Moreover,
I’ll stay with ye to-day, whether you be willin’ or not, aither as binder
or raiper.”

Dennis Costigan, “kind as his heart” was, would have given a sovereign
of “bright goold” that Kate Kavanagh and her bright eyes were a few miles
off at the moment; but as he saw that she carried all before her, he
thought it better not to give her any further offence, and accordingly,
but with a very bad grace, he accepted her services.

“Where be’s Jem and Ned Costigan this mornin’?” whispered Kate to the
counsellor, who was flourishing away gallantly at her side.

The man of eloquence flung himself into an attitude, laid his hand upon
his heart, and looked languishingly, as he “assured her that her charms
were railly too potently enfluential over the hearts ov her admirers,
as she not only deprived thim ov the needful refreshment of nathur,
oblivious slumber, but she also hendhered them from doin’ their daily
manual imploymints. For instance,” said he, “you see _Saul_, the orb ov
day, is high up in his meraydian hemisphare, an’ those inamoured swains
are still pressin’ their beds, or rather cooches, in the arms ov Murphy,
mainin’ sleep or Somnus----”

“An’ what have I to do with that?” said Kate, laughing heartily. “Do ye
think I gave thim a sleepy potion?”

“Ah! my beautiful flower ov Forth!” sighed out the sentimental
counsellor, “any thing but a sleepy potion do you give yer lovers! if
’tis anything, sure I am ’tis a draught to banish sleep for ever! But
consarnin’ those vagrant truints ye spaik ov, I ondherstand that you
kep thim up beyant their ushial hours ov repose last night, admirin’
yer graceful movemints in yer _Turpfiscorian_ revels, mainin’ the dance
at Judy Colfer’s; an’ that man, their father, who is not to be moved
with ‘concord of sweet sounds,’ or any sounds at all but the chink ov
money, almost snapt my head off a while ago bekase I tould him so. Ah!
my Catherine dear, I fear you’ll incounther opposition in that quarther.
But ‘_nel desperantum_,’ say I, which mains in plain English, ‘never
dispair.’”

Catherine said nothing, but instantly began to sing, at the top of her
fine rich voice, a song the counsellor had composed in praise of her, and
shortly afterwards she had the pleasure to see the two sleepy truants
bounding across the yard towards the wheat-field, as if her well-known
notes had awaked them.

While this magical song was thrilling on all hearts, Kate Kavanagh,
the witching Kate! stood apart from the others, singing and laughing
alternately, her reaping-hook resting on one arm, and dressed in the
every-day fashion of the place--the striped linsey short petticoat, and
loose bedgown or wrapper, a dress that would make an ordinary woman
frightful, and straw hat, the leaf of which, turned up before and pinned
to the crown, displayed her sable locks and fair high forehead to
perfection. And many a side-glance the anxious father, Dennis Costigan,
cast at this arrangement of Kate’s headgear, as he broadly hinted that
“for sartin Miss Kavanagh’s complexion would be intirely spiled if she
showed it too much to the sun.”

“Tut!” was Kate’s good-humoured reply, “‘the life ov an ould hat is to
cock it,’ as we say in the counthry. The leaf ov it was flappin’ in
my eyes; the lads couldn’t see me, nor I them, so a pin settled the
bisness;” and nothing could become her fine Spanish face better, though
her toilet was made in perfect carelessness, for dashing Kate had other
charms to depend on besides beauty. Imprimus, she was the first dancer
in the country, outdoing her dancing-master himself at “jigs, reels,
thribbles, doubles, hornpipes, and _petticoatees_.” She was a _killing_
dancer in both senses of the word, for no boy or girl could keep it up
with the spirit of Kate Kavanagh, and she generally disabled six or
eight prime beaus at every “hop” she appeared at, which was nearly every
night. The worst of it was (as the sorely annoyed fathers and mothers
of the neighbourhood said), “though she fairly kilt all the boys that
danced with her, yet sorra one but herself would sarve them for a partner
after all!” Then she was, as Orator Shiel said, “Apollyo in petticoats
for singin’!” and songs of love, murder, hunting, war, and sea, would
charm with double effect, borne on the musical notes of Kate Kavanagh.
In short, she was “metal most,” but also too “attractive;” and loud
complaints and grievances at last came thundering on her devoted head.
“Boys growin’ lazy and crazy--work undone or done badly--time spent an’
mis-spent--messages forgotten and mistaken--girls neglected--matches
broken--eternal dancin’, fightin’, black eyes an’ bloody noses”--all, all
was laid in a bundle at the door of handsome, animated, dashing, yet very
innocent Kate Kavanagh.

“What will be done with her at all at all?” iterated the suffering
fathers and mothers all round the country. “What will we do with her at
all?”

“I’ll tell ye, naiburs,” responded one of the elders, as a body of them
returned from chapel on the Sunday after Mosey Fortune’s great “flare
up,” at which three topping bloods fought for the honour of first
figuring on the floor with the “belle o’ the barony.” “Let a respectable
dacent naibur, sitch as Dennis Costigan here for example, go to her
father as a friend to advise him to get his daughther married out ov
hand, for fear some harm will happen. An’, throth, harm _will_ happen;
for if she’s not the destruction ov herself, she will be the ruination
ov others. So, Misther Costigan, let you be the man to spake to Miles
Kavanagh.”

“Agreed,” said Dennis Costigan, who was one of the party, and also a
suffering father; and on the ensuing Thursday he intended to proceed on
the mission.

In the meantime, Kate Kavanagh, never dreaming of the grand hubbub
about her, assisted to cut down Mr Costigan’s wheat; and so full of
songs, jokes, and attractions was she, that it was observed, even by
the farmer himself, that the men, old and young, surpassed themselves
at reaping that day. Indeed, Kate set them an excellent pattern; for,
notwithstanding that her tongue moved in double-quick time, she took care
that her hands should be equally nimble; and at nightfall, thanks to Kate
and the influence of her black eyes, sharp and bright as her sickle, the
very large field of wheat was cut down, bound, and stooked to the owner’s
satisfaction. Yet, after all, the “flower of Forth” bloomed too near
Dennis, or rather his sons, to allow him to be perfectly content.

“How yer father squints at me!” observed Kate to James Costigan, her
ardent admirer, and to whom, by the way, she contrived to keep close
during the day. “He looks at me as if I was a crab apple, an’ he had just
taken a bite. Wouldn’t it be the best ov a good joke, now, if I’d make
him change his tune in spite ov himself?”

Jem looked at her very tenderly as he replied, “Ye do as you like with
_us_, Kate darlin’, but I doubt yer power over my father. He is flent to
purty girls, an’ above all to you.”

“We shall see,” said Kate; and that very evening, between coaxing and
pulling, she actually brought the portly farmer, albeit in no dancing
mood, to dance with her (when Peter Hamilton and his violin _happened_
in after supper), to the amazement and amusement of a kitchen full of
spectators, though, as honest Dennis confessed while wiping his broad
brows, “he didn’t take sitch a spree for ten years afore!” Handsome Kate
at the end of it looked knowingly at Jem Costigan, as much as to say,
“You see this, and you’ll see more.”

The next morning an express arrived to Dennis Costigan with the news
that his sister’s daughter, Miss Peggy Malone, was about to “change her
state,” and that her uncle’s company was required at the wedding.

“Och, murther!” cried the farmer when he had sufficiently expressed his
surprise at the news, “this ould brown coat ov mine will never do for a
weddin’!--turn it which way I will, it looks shabby enough--pieced at
the elbows an’ torn at the cuffs! So, Jem, asthore, take the black mare
an’ set off this minnit to Waxford, an’ buy me the makin’s ov a coat an’
waistcoat ov good green cloth; it always became my complexion. An’, Jem,
for yer head don’t make any mistake this time. Those three months past
you’re full ov mistakes, an’ nothin’ else.”

“Is it me makes mistakes!” quoth Jem indignantly; “that’s what I never
did yet, except wanst or twice, an’ I’ll not begin now.” And he mounted
the mare, and turned her head towards Wexford. But as he should pass
Miles Kavanagh’s cottage, “it would be only right an’ proper to ax if he
or Kate had any commands for town.” And--and--when he got to Wexford, he
quite forgot the colour his father had ordered, and, thinking of Kate
Kavanagh’s hair and eyes, he bought black.

Well, never was man in a greater fume than our friend Dennis Costigan
when he saw his son’s purchase. “Black! black!” he repeated again and
again, as he held up the cloth and indignantly scowled at it and its
purchaser, “black for a weddin’! Oh, ye born nathural! what on earth put
it into yer head to buy black for a weddin’? But I see the thruth in yer
eyes this minnit! Ye seen that--that--plague upon earth, Kate Kavanagh,
afore ye wint to Waxford, an’ she, as ushial, put every wise thought out
ov yer head. Black coat at a weddin’!--who ever seen the like afore?”

It was in vain that poor Jem explained that “the cloth was not all out
black, but what was called Oxfert-grey--a mighty ginteel colour, an’
sitch as was worn by all fathers ov families.”

“That’s as much as to say that it is worn by all ould min?” said the
father, nothing better pleased. “What a judge ye are! But as the cloth
is bought, I must keep it I suppose, an’ I’ll take it to the tailor’s
myself, for fear ye’d make some other confounded blundher. I wouldn’t
wondher if ye’d tell him to make it a spincer-jacket without skirts, ye
have sitch a janious for mistakes!” And putting the parcel of cloth under
his arm, he set out for Jemmy Nowlan’s domicile.

There he saw no one but the tailor’s old mother sitting very melancholy
over the fire.

“Can I see yer son Jemmy, widda Nowlan?” asked the farmer.

“Och, asthore machree, Misther Costigan,” said the widow, setting up a
keen, and rocking herself about, “ye may see him an’ welkim, but a quare
sight ye’ll see whin ye sees him; an’, linamachree! the worst ov it is,
he can’t see ye now.”

“Why, what’s the matther?” demanded Mr Costigan alarmed. “I hope he’s not
dead?”

“He’s not dead, but he’s kilt intirely,” sobbed the distressed parent,
“wid the lambastin’ he got ere-last night at the dance at Dinny Doran’s.”

“Well, an’ what takes _him_ to dances?” said the farmer in a heat. “Sure
the like shred ov him ought to stay at home an’ mind his bisness.”

“Pulliliew! is that the feelin’ ye has for yer fella-craithurs, Misther
Costigan. But indeed I often sed that same to him myself. ‘Stay at home,
honey,’ I says to him, ‘an’ don’t be losin’ yer sleep an’ flittherin’ yer
slippers at them dances.’ ‘Hould yer whisht, mother,’ he’ll say to me
thin (for he is a mighty obaydient child), ‘love sthrikes the little as
well as the big, an’ I wouldn’t have a sowl above buttons if I wouldn’t
take every opportunity ov meetin’ an’ coortin’ Kate Kavanagh.’ So ye see
the win’ sits in that quarther, Misther Costigan.”

Mr Costigan actually stamped on the floor with passion when he heard the
name of Kate Kavanagh; and as the tailor’s mother perceived unusual anger
in his countenance, she flattered herself that it was all sympathy for
her “darlint Jemmy,” and she hastened to give him the particulars “ov
the murdher” foul and unnatural. “So now, my darlint Misther Costigan,”
she concluded, “his poor eyes is black an’ blue, and closed up into the
bargain, an’ he couldn’t handle a needle if it was for Misther Grogan
Morgan himself--God bless him for the fine lan’lord that he is.”

If poor Mrs Nowlan knew but all, little sympathy had her wealthy visitor
for her battered son, when he understood the cause of his woes, and her
pathetic touches of tenderness went for nothing. Muttering something
about “hanging all fools and mothers of fools,” he took a gruff leave of
the widow, and returned home with his cloth. There was no other tailor
nearer than Wexford, and it was fated that he should wear his old brown
coat at the wedding. But that was not his only annoyance. The evening
before he set out on his journey, he found that the horse he intended
to ride wanted two shoes; and fearing to trust his sons (both of whom
were smitten with the “belle o’ the barony”) in their present plight,
he brought the animal to the forge himself. No smith was to be found.
“Arrah, where the d----l is he?” cried the farmer, quite exasperated, and
addressing a girl standing knitting at the door of a house near the forge.

“Sorra bit ov us knows, Misther Costigan,” replied the damsel; “but we’re
guessin’ that he is either at the public house, or at Miles Kavanagh’s,
hankerin’ afther his daughther, for betwixt the two places he spinds the
most ov his time.”

Dennis Costigan said nothing, but he raised up his hands and
eyes--eloquence more expressive than words. Kate Kavanagh again!

As he returned with his unshod horse, he pondered while jogging along.
“_What_ should be about that Kate Kavanagh above all girls to set a whole
parish astray?” And as he could find no solution of the enigma short of
sorcery, he set it down that she was “Ould Nick in petticoats!” “My two
hopeful sons is mad afther her.” said he, soliloquising; “the unfortunate
counsellor is fairly cracked about her; the smith is grown wild, an’ the
tailor knocked stupid; heaven only knows what way the carpinther an’
mason is, for she has all the thrades, I’m thinkin’; an’ now all I pray
is that she may charm some thrav’ling tinker, an’ that he may carry her
off body an’ bones for the pace ov the counthry!” Ah! little did honest
Dennis know who was to be the next victim of merciless Kate Kavanagh!

Well, next morning he set out for Bargie, after taking an affectionate
farewell of his good little wife, and after cautioning her repeatedly to
have a constant look-out after the “boys and Kate Kavanagh.” Fain would
he have persuaded his eldest son to accompany him to the wedding, but
Jem pathetically pleaded “pains in his bones an’ headache” (heartache he
should have said), and his father very unwillingly set off without him.

Our farmer had only ridden a few miles, when, coming to a village,
like a true son of the soil he should stop at the “public” to taste
the “mountain dew.” Early as it was in the morning, it appeared there
were others as interestingly engaged, and vociferating loudly on some
important topic. Whatever it might be, our friend Dennis thought it could
be no concern of his, and without making any inquiry he called for his
dandy of punch. Overhead the revellers kept up a most astounding debate;
presently were heard shouts, curses, hustling, and blows, and the next
instant half a dozen combatants came head foremost tumbling down the
steep and narrow stairs together!

“Fight it out fair, ye vilyens,” roared the hostess, as her face flamed
and her eye fired, “but fight it out ov _my_ house. Into the street with
every mother’s son ov ye, or know for what!” and seizing a pewter beer
quart, she leaped over the counter, and pummelled the backs and heads of
all within her reach, till she actually cleared them out of her house.

“What an uproar they make in a quiet place!” said she, as she returned to
Dennis Costigan, who was laughing heartily at the spree.

Now, there is something extraordinary in the blood of an Irishman. A
fight is his choicest amusement, and if he is not a principal actor in
one, he must be a spectator. Even our sober barony Forth farmer was
excited, and eagerly asked “what it was all about?”

“All about nonsinse,” replied Mrs Boniface, “all about nonsinse when it
is about a woman. All the uproar was about a naibur ov yours, Misther
Costigan, who has turned the heads ov some ov our lads here, an’ many
others besides--one Miss Kavanagh. Do you know her?”

“Know her!” exclaimed Dennis, and suddenly set down his glass on the
counter, just as he was about to put it to his lips.

“What’s the matther, Mr Costigan?” asked the landlady alarmed; “don’t you
like yer punch?”

“Oh, I likes it well,” returned Mr Costigan, in a sickly tone, “but
somehow there’s an all-overness over me that makes me very quare at
times, but it will wear off. Here’s to yer health, Mrs Roche!” and gulped
off the punch at a draught, as if he didn’t know well what he was about.
He then proceeded on his journey, inwardly determined not to stop again,
lest he might hear the dreaded name before he arrived at his sister’s,
and there he trusted he was free from the infliction. Nevertheless, the
name was mentioned at the wedding, and our farmer, under the influence
of good cheer and hilarity, laughed loud and long as his brain began to
whirl while thinking of the strange combination of circumstances that
brought Kate Kavanagh for ever before him.

At this wedding was a certain buck of the name of Magrah. He was a rake
and a spendthrift, but, nevertheless, was artful and designing. He had
heard of the beauty of Kate Kavanagh, and knowing that Mr Costigan
was a neighbour of hers, he tormented him with questions about her,
particularly “if _she had a fortune_?”

For the first time in his life Dennis Costigan told an untruth with an
evil intention. He protested that Kate Kavanagh had a fortune, and a
good one too; he praised her person and industrious habits; and at last
became so zealous in his friendship to his absent neighbours as to give a
cordial invitation to Mr Magrah to his house, for the purpose of seeing
and being introduced to the “belle o’ the barony,” but never once asking
what sort of person this Magrah was, or what was his means of living.

Mr Pat Magrah very eagerly accepted the invitation, returned with Mr
Costigan, and was introduced to and charmed with handsome Kate Kavanagh,
and he found his quarters so good, and his time pass so agreeably, that
instead of a week he remained a month in the neighbourhood of the “flower
of Forth,” quite enamoured with her beauty and attractions.

Dennis Costigan was delighted. Like a true friend to one or all of the
parties, he encouraged the courtship by every means in his power--even
lending money to the suitor to enable him to cut a dash in the eyes of
Miles Kavanagh and his daughter.

At length the Bargie hero returned to his home for a short time,
protesting that “he was quite confused an’ ashamed ov inthrudin’ so long
on Misther Costigan’s hospitality, but that he would sartinly come again
to look afther his sweetheart, for none but he should thransplant the
‘flower ov Forth.’”

On the third evening after his departure, as part of the family of the
Costigans were seated round the fire, Ned, our friend Dennis’s younger
son, ran in all in a hurry, exclaiming, “News, friends, news! there’s
a runaway match on the road to-night, for Denny Doran met a couple on
horseback, sweepin’ like the win’ into Waxford, an’ he’ll take his oath
Pat Magrah was the man, let who will be the woman!”

“An’ Kate Kavanagh was sartinly the woman!” exclaimed Dennis Costigan, in
undisguised delight, while his son James turned as pale as death. But the
joy of the one and despair of the other was of short duration; for in the
next instant Kate Kavanagh herself rushed in breathless, and apparently
in much uneasiness. “Where’s Mary Costigan?” cried she anxiously, and
examining the group round the fire. All seemed surprised and alarmed at
her anxious appearance and inquiry, and Mrs Costigan repeatedly called
her daughter, but got no answer.

“Oh! ’tis too true!” said Kate; “an’, Misther Costigan, I’m sorry to have
to say it. The scapegrace you brought to this neighbourhood has carried
off your own daughter! My father met them on the road to Waxford, an’
knew them.”

It would be impossible to describe the confusion of the family at this
announcement. For a time all were stupified with astonishment. Then the
brothers, giving vent to their rage in curses, sprang to their feet, and
rushed out of the house; while the father, stung by many conflicting
feelings, hung his head and remained powerless.

“My child! my tendher dutiful child!” cried the distracted mother,
wringing her hands in an agony of weeping. “My child! my child!” “Whisht!
woman,” at last roared the farmer in a voice of thunder, unwilling to
let his supposed enemy have the satisfaction to see their distress and
confusion. “Whisht, I say! what has she done but got a good husband, what
they are all strivin’ for, young an’ ould? Whisht, I say! or if ye must
lament, lament that ye didn’t keep sitch notions out of her head till she
was sixteen, any how.”

“She was full seventeen, Dennis,” interposed the mother, in all her
grief, as a woman anxious to defend her sex. “Don’t say the craithur was
forward beyant her years, for she was full seventeen last October.”

Up started the farmer. “We’ll soon end that argamint,” said he, seizing a
candle, and striding furiously towards the parlour; “I have her age down
in black an white, in my pocket-book.”

They could hear him unlock his desk and searching amongst papers; then
followed impatient mutterings, and at length a loud groan as if body
and soul were parted. All now rushed to the parlour, where they found
poor Costigan the image of heart-broken despair. He stood with his eyes
fixed and his face as pale as marble: one hand grasped a pocket-book that
seemed torn and empty, while the other hung listless by his side.

“Marcy ov Heaven!” exclaimed the trembling wife, clinging to him for
support, “what new misforthin’ has befallen us now?”

The farmer groaned heavily ere he replied; and then it was in a broken,
sunken voice--“We’re ruined, Alley! an’ robbed, an’ I desarve it! The
vilyen has not only taken our child from us, but robbed us of one
hundhred pounds! See, here is the desk, bruck open, and the pocket-book
empty, an’ she did it at his instigation!”

This was blow on blow! Mrs Costigan was a weak and delicate woman. She
fell senseless to the ground, and was borne to her bed, from which she
never rose again.

And thus was Dennis Costigan’s treachery rewarded. He had brought a
wretch to his house for the purpose of introducing him as an admirer
to his honest neighbour’s daughter, without once inquiring into his
character or circumstances; and the young fellow had cleverly turned the
visit to account; for instead of portionless Kate Kavanagh, he carried
off young and pretty Mary Costigan, and her hundred pounds!

It is certain our barony Forth farmer felt this triple blow most
severely, and the more so from his consciousness that he deserved it,
and prepared the way for his misfortunes himself. But he was doomed to
feel his lapse from honour and fair dealing yet more acutely, when on the
day of his wife’s death he was accosted by his neighbour Miles Kavanagh,
as he was droopingly wandering about his fields, shunning the crowds
collected at the wake.

“Misther Costigan,” began Miles abruptly--for the Irish peasant feels
too warmly to take time to shape his gratulations or condolences with
the go-about refinements of delicacy--“I am sorry for yer thrubble this
day, an’ the more so bekase Mrs Costigan was ever the kind and friendly
naibur, that never changed from hot to could like others. [Dennis
winced.] I also heerd ov yer loss in other respects, but that loss will
be soon made up, plaise God. In the main time, Misther Costigan, ye might
want a thrifle of ready cash for the expinses ov the wake an’ berrin’;
an’ as I’ve scraped together a matther ov a few pounds for the rint, but
which is not called for yet, I’d be very glad to lind it to a friend, an’
may be you’d take it, an’ ye may pay me whin you plaise. Faix, sitch poor
men as me ought never to keep money long in the house for fear ov the
vilyens ov rogues.”

Dennis Costigan was unable to speak, and without accepting the money he
motioned his honest neighbour away, and turned off abruptly. But Miles
Kavanagh was not a man to be deterred from doing a kind action.

“Hut-tut! Mr Costigan,” he continued, “don’t turn away from an ould
naibur an’ friend. You think now that I bear a grudge to ye on account ov
that vilyen ye brought down to court my Kate. I know all, ye see; an’
if I do, I freely forgive ye. Fathers, an’ ’specially rich fathers sitch
as you, are a little partiklar, I suppose, about who their sons would
marry, an’ it’s all right. But Dennis Costigan ought to have known us
betther! He ought to have known that neither I nor my child would seek
to enther any man’s family against his will, for he never seen any mean
or disaivin’ ways in us. But all’s forgiven an’ forgotten now; so don’t
be the laist suspicious ov us, but take the money that I freely offer,
if you want it, an’ you’ll make a poor man an’ naibur happy. Turn about,
man, an’ let us live in paice an’ good will while we’re on the earth
together.”

Dennis Costigan stood, perpendicular as a poplar, with his back to
Miles Kavanagh while he was speaking, and the latter thought, from the
stiffness of the farmer’s air, that he had nerved himself up to break
sooner than bend, and that he was determined to retain his sturdy pride
to the last, and perhaps to cut with him altogether. To Miles’s surprise,
however, when he ceased speaking, portly Dennis wheeled right about,
still perpendicular, seized the hand of his honest friend, and, as if the
mere touch of a sympathising friend communicated a softness he was unused
to, he wept aloud! yes, wept! and they were the first bitter tears he had
ever shed.

“But for the sake of human nathur, which I am glad to see so good,” said
Dennis Costigan afterwards, “I’d most rather ye’d have abused me; I could
have borne it betther!”

Well, months passed over, and still the “belle o’ the barony” was making
sad havoc with the hearts of the beaus. She had already all the trades
enlisted under her banner, and it was a nice question whether she would
spare one bachelor in an entire parish, or not. Fathers and mothers still
complained, and the girls prayed that Kate Kavanagh were married, and out
of the way. Matters were daily growing worse and worse, “confusion worse
confounded,” in the country round.

As a last resource, Dennis Costigan was reminded of his promised mission
to Miles Kavanagh, to “coax him to settle his daughter out of hand,”
and for the repose of the neighbourhood he agreed to do so. He now felt
a warm friendship for both father and daughter, and it would make him
really happy if he could be the means of assisting pretty Kate to a
husband every way worthy of her. Still he had not brought himself to wish
_his_ son married to her, for he had taken it into his head that Jem was
entitled to a girl with a couple of hundreds at least, and since his late
loss he was more anxious on that score than ever.

At last, deeming himself bound in honour to delay no longer from
fulfilling his promise, Mr Costigan gravely proceeded to Miles Kavanagh’s
cottage. He found the “flower of Forth” busily engaged in her little
kitchen, scouring her deal tables and chairs, and singing merrily as she
scoured. The labour had thrown a lovely glow over her fine face, and her
smile was really bewitching as she welcomed Mr Costigan, and handed him a
chair.

“Is yer father within, Miss Kavanagh?” inquired Dennis, as kindly as the
recollection of his son’s untoward situation would permit.

“He is not, Mr Costigan,” Kate replied, “but I think he will be here
presently, so you have nothing for it but to sit with a wild girl like me
till he comes in.”

Down plumped Mr Costigan, and to look at him one would imagine he had
come a-suitoring himself, so awkward and confused did he seem while
obliged to continue alone with the beautiful “plague upon earth.” He
turned his head away from her, stuck an old pipe in his mouth for
employment’s sake, and preserved a dead silence for ten minutes. Kate,
perceiving his mood, troubled him with little chat. At length, tired
of waiting for the father, the missionary condescended to address the
daughter; and she, judging from the contortions of his phiz, thought the
effort cost him as much as a spasm of cholera morbus.

“Hem! haw! hum! I wondher very much that you don’t think ov changin’ yer
state, Miss Kavanagh. The marriage life is the happiest life ov all, as
I know (sighing deeply), an’ I would recommend ye to thry it:” and he
launched into a long harangue in praise of the honourable state, its
happiness, comfort, and safety, compared to a single life--so full of
peril to a female; to all of which our “belle o’ the barony” listened,
and assented as demurely as could be wished. After lauding the state,
and urging the necessity of it, he next proceeded to point out the
most eligible match in his opinion, recommending of all things “an
independent man, unburthened by fathers, mothers, sisters, or brothers;
a single man in every sense, with whom she could have everything her own
way, and no one to interfere;” and he named several whom he considered
would be unexceptionable, but to all of whom our Kate had a quick and
characteristic objection, as prompt and ready as if she had anticipated
the visit of the matrimonial delegate, and guessed his errand. This is a
specimen of the colloquy. After mentioning several others,

“Well, what do you think ov long Jem Whalen?”

“Why, that one pair of tongs in one house is enough.”

“Oh, that won’t do! What do ye think ov John Barry? he’s a snug, warm
fella.”

“Warm enough, for he’s the dickens for fightin’!”

“Well, Redmond Connors, the carpinther?”

“He’s a close shaver, but not to my taste.”

“Pullilliew! you’ll never be plaised. Have ye anything to say agin Burn,
the mason?”

“He’s too great a plastherer to be sincere.”

“An’ what chance has the smith?”

“He won’t forge _my_ fetthers, that’s all.”

“An’ the tailor?”

“Must stitch himself to another.”

Here the dialogue broke off abruptly, for neither the missionary nor the
maiden could longer refrain from laughing; the former, though a grave and
reverend signior at all times, was perfectly overcome by Kate’s naiveté
and archness; and though he was farther than ever from attaining his
object, he was in perfect good humour. Miles Kavanagh soon after entered
the cottage, and much was he surprised to find his daughter and Mr
Costigan tete-a-tete, and on such excellent terms. Nor was the surprise
lessened, when he saw the farmer sit it out for two hours longer, still
laughing and still joking, as if he and Kate had ever been the best of
friends and banterers. At length Mr Costigan heavily arose from his seat,
and declaring that he would come again on the same business (he forgot
however to speak to Miles Kavanagh about it), he took his leave.

And he did go again and again; and at the third visit Dennis Costigan
and Miles Kavanagh retired to an inner apartment. Kate neither knew nor
wished to know the subject of their confab; but she observed, that as the
farmer was retiring after the last visit, he and her father shook hands
as if clenching a bargain. “You’re mighty affectionate!” thought Kate; “I
wonder yez didn’t kiss!”

As well as I can remember, it was about a fortnight from the day of our
friend Dennis Costigan’s visit to Miles Kavanagh’s cottage, that Watty
Colfer (Watty always walks with his head down; mind, his face is an ell
longer than any other face, so grave and thoughtful is he!) had just got
inside father Tobin’s gate, and closed it after him, when he saw his
reverence himself thundering down the avenue on St Patrick, his nag.

“Yer sarvint, sur!” said Watty, very humbly, and hat in hand, and
propping himself against the shut gate, “could I make so bould as just to
spake one word to yer rivirince?”

“Not one word!” replied the priest hastily, “if you were the bishop! I am
in too great a hurry. Lave my way and open the gate.”

“Thin, God help me,” groaned Watty, but still keeping his position, “that
am neither priest nor bishop; I haven’t the head-piece for sitch great
min; an’ all clargy must have great heads to keep in the larnin’. Now, is
it a great weight intirely, sur?”

The priest laughed in spite of his hurry, but as he well knew the man
he had to deal with, he checked himself immediately, and assuming as
determined a look as possible under the circumstances, he “commanded the
slieveen to open the gate for him.”

Watty too knew his man. He knew every variation of the priest’s temper,
from its usual lake-like placidity, till it got up to boiling-water
heat. He thought it was beginning to “simmer” a little, but far away yet
from “bubbling and hissing;” and gratifying his own cool impudence, he
continued the process of “heating up.”

“Why, thin, indeed, what I have to say won’t keep ye long, sur.”

“Open the gate this instant!” thundered the priest.

“Sartinly, sur,” quoth Watty, turning quickly round and pretending to
be very busy with the gate; “see this boult now! Och! my curse upon the
whole corporation ov smiths, includin’ my own dacent uncle who made this
same gate, an’ so stiff an’ bad, that all I can do won’t shoot back the
boult! A clever workman is a fine thing! An’ so you won’t listen to what
I have to say, sur?”

“I can’t, I tell ye. I’m going in all haste to marry a couple.”

“Och! if I knew that, I’d be very sorry to detain your rivirince! What I
have to say may well keep for another opportunity. See this curst boult
now! Throth the skin is torn off my fingers strivin’ to pull it back, an’
yer rivirince in sitch a disperate hurry! But ye have the patience of Job
himself, beyant all doubt. God help the couple that’s expectin’ ye, sur!
And who are they, the craithurs?”

The impatient churchman looked at his watch and groaned: but as the
inexorable gate would not open to let him pass through, he gratified the
newsmonger with the information that “the couple he was about to marry
were Dennis Costigan and Catherine, Miles Kavanagh’s daughter.”

“Tunder an’ turf!” exclaimed Mr Colfer, opening his eyes as wide as he
could, and raising his hands to express the extremity of astonishment.
“Is it ould Dinnis Costigan, father to Jem, that’s goin’ to be married to
handsome Kate Kavanagh, the belle o’ the barony?--it’s quite onpossible!”

“It’s not impossible,” said the priest, angrily: “and I see nothing
extraordinary in her father preferring to give her to a sensible steady
old man, than to a wild young one. But don’t I see the gate open, and you
pretending it was bolted? Oh! ye double-dyed slieveen, quit my way this
moment, or by all that’s good I’ll let you feel the weight of this,” and
he raised his horsewhip.

“Och! wid all the pleasure in life!” quoth Watty, jumping quickly aside;
and the gate flew open as if by magic, through which Father Tobin dashed
at full speed.

Watty then, sound in wind and limb, shot off through the fields--a short
cut to a certain cross-road, about a mile from the priest’s house, and
less than a quarter from Miles Kavanagh’s cottage, by which his reverence
should pass. Puffing a little, he was just in time to gravely touch his
hat as the priest cantered by. Then raising his voice he shouted after
him, “Ride aisy, ride aisy, yer rivirince; take things aisy, can’t ye?
Young James Costigan an’ Kate Kavanagh ran off together this mornin’, an’
they’re now man an’ wife! Arrah, take things aisy, can’t ye?”

“Oh! ye limb of Satan!” ejaculated the disappointed clergyman, as he
pulled up to hear these tidings, “why didn’t you tell me this before, and
not send me off on a fool’s errand?”

“How could I, sur?” responded the slieveen, meekly, “when you war in
sitch a disperate hurry?--sure ye wouldn’t let me spake at all at all!”

His reverence returned to his home, muttering denunciations upon Watty’s
devoted head; and Watty went his way, laughing immoderately at the
success of his joke. He had given his spiritual director a ride of a
mile or so without his breakfast, which no clerical stomach, Catholic
or Protestant, could put up with, unless with a wedding breakfast in
prospective. And he told but the truth after all. Young Costigan and
handsome Kate had that morning given the knowing old ones the slip, and
got married in Wexford; and Dennis, our portly friend Dennis, since he
couldn’t have the “belle o’ the barony” for his bride, put a good face
on the matter, and received her as his daughter-in-law. Twelve rejected
suitors were at the “hauling home;” amongst them Counsellor Shiel of
course, who favoured the company with a song made for the occasion, the
concluding lines of which we give:

    “Now industrious agriculthure transplants the “Flower of Forth,”
    To a cosy situation all shelthered from the North!”

                                                                 M. G. R.




ON THE FOLLY OF SOWING BAD SEEDS BECAUSE THEY ARE CHEAP.

BY MARTIN DOYLE.


A few months ago I saw in the shop window of a petty seedsman near
Dublin, an advertisement announcing the sale of grass seeds at two
shillings and eightpence per barrel of four bushels. I had the curiosity
to examine those seeds, which, as may be supposed from their price,
were a compound of the germs of weeds, with a small proportion of grass
seeds intermixed. I have no doubt that some poor and uncalculating petty
farmers were silly enough to purchase this trash on the penny-wise and
pound-foolish principle, and I well know that there is no point on which
greater ignorance prevails than on that of a proper selection of grass
seeds, although they should be sown with an accurate regard to the
nature of the soil, the number of years during which the land is to be
left in meadow or in pasturage, each of which conditions also requires a
different description of seeds.

The successful establishment of grass seeds depends materially, besides
the clean and pulverised state of the land, on their adaptation to the
soil; and if that be in a state perfectly fit for their reception, a
much smaller quantity of seed will be sufficient than under the opposite
circumstances; and if the land be in a foul state previously to laying
it down, it is clear that the sowing of weed seeds, with a trifling and
uncertain admixture of true grass seeds, cannot render it cleaner.

In practical result, the farmer who leaves his field to the generosity of
nature is more judicious, because in our humid climate the soil possesses
a tendency to generate the indigenous grasses, of which some are really
good, and which, from their overpowering qualities, soon dispossess those
that may have been sown, and form a close and excellent turf. But to sow
_weeds_ is inexpressibly absurd, and this the man does who buys such a
compound as that to which I have referred, or who sows them because he
happens to have them by some means, and is unwilling to have them lost.
Perhaps they have been collected from his own little rick of hay, which
he knows to have been of the worst quality, or some stable boy has given
him, or stolen for him, the dirty and perhaps fermented sweepings of a
nasty hay loft, in which bad hay had been stored, and he is unwilling to
throw away what he has so unluckily obtained: his _parkeen_ soon bears
testimony to his imprudence: and he admits, though reluctantly, that
the grass seeds which he had sown were not of the best quality, though
they were procured from a _hay loft_, when he perceives that they have
only introduced an artificial increase of bad herbage, which his little
stock of animals would unanimously reject, if hunger did not forbid such
fastidiousness.

But the deluded purchaser very frequently forgets that though he has a
great _bulk_ for his money, he has a bad bargain; he does not consider
that the respectable seedsman, though he charges much more for his seeds,
gives a far better quality in general, and does not sell _dirt_ and
unprolific grass seeds in the compound which he supplies. Petty seedsmen,
no doubt, do so frequently; and how can it be otherwise, when their stock
is a motley contribution from farmers’ wives, hostlers, and labourers,
who collect every variety of good and bad seeds from every description
of meadow and soil? It is better to pay a great deal more for the best
seed, of which a far lesser proportion will suffice. I can conceive but
one case in which a rational farmer could deliberately use such defective
seed as that which I saw in the little huckster’s shop, namely, when he
is about to surrender his farm (being obligated to lay down his land
with grass), and has all that unamiable and inexcusable feeling which so
generally prompts men in such circumstances to act in defiance of their
great Christian principle of doing unto others as we would have them do
unto us.

In this case, a selfish ill-natured tenant wishes to annoy his landlord,
and his own innocent successor, to the utmost of his power; and,
therefore, while adhering to the letter of his agreement--to sow grass
seeds--he breaks it in the spirit, and very effectually, in fact, too, by
substituting weeds under the denomination of grasses.

A prudent man who is not a perfect judge himself of the matter, will
first consider the quality and nature of his land before he sows
grass seeds, and then consult Lawson’s Tables, which furnish precise
information on every particular as to the quality and quantity of seeds
for all soils, and whether for one, two, three years, or for permanent
pasture, and he will endeavour to obtain what he wants accordingly; not
that this is often an easy matter of accomplishment, for few seedsmen
have the varieties sufficiently distinct, although they are generally
polite enough to say that they have them so.

But how can they be always sure of this? We know the great difficulty,
even in botanical gardens, of keeping the kinds separate, and the
rapidity with which grass seeds become commingled. The only certain way
is to raise the desired seeds in detached portions of land, perfectly
clean, and carefully cleared of intruding plants. Can the seedsman, with
the most honourable intentions and greatest caution, be himself secure
from the effects of negligence or wilful imposition?

But to return to the case of the poor man who thinks he has a bargain
when he buys four bushels of bad grass seeds for half-a-crown. Though he
sees the bad effects in the inferiority of his herbage, and at first lays
the blame on the proper source, he actually persuades himself afterwards
(when _He_, who in his bounty doth “clothe the grass of the field”
throughout the whole earth, has covered the surface of his field with
natural herbage) that to the seeds which he had sown two or three years
previously, he is mainly to attribute what the prodigality of Nature, or,
more properly, the munificence of God, has supplied.

The man who sows bad or ill-suited grass seeds, merely because he has
obtained them, and is unwilling to _lose_ the acquisition, reminds me of
an old lady who was for many years of her life in the habit of giving
annually (in the spring of the year) to her grandchildren, a regular
course of sulphur and treacle mixed up together, whether the recipients
required it or not.

On one occasion, a new servant maid, unacquainted with this system,
was sent for the usual quantity of flour of sulphur, but by some
mismanagement she brought home a pound of flour of mustard. Her mistress
sent her back to the grocer from whom it had been bought, but from
previous jealousies or quarrels unnecessary to detail, he refused to take
it back again. The poor maid could not herself be expected to substitute
the required sulphur, and the old lady was determined that the mustard
should not be lost. She accordingly mixed it with the treacle instead of
the other substance, and actually ladled every particle of the compound
down the throats of her grandchildren and the servant maid, who consented
to take her share as a punishment for her inattention, until the whole
mixture was consumed. The old lady was less foolish than the farmer who
sows the seeds of weeds, because she had previously ascertained that the
flour of mustard was harmless; but the husbandman must know that those
seeds which are not genuine grass seeds are noxious to his land, by
rendering it foul, and it is therefore extravagance and not economy on
his part to use bad seeds, merely to save waste.

I am sorry to say that the same indifference prevails among the lower
classes of our farmers as to seed in general. On this subject I shall
again occupy a page of the Journal in an early number.

       *       *       *       *       *

A LAZY DOG.--Dr Arnaud d’Antilli, one day talking with the Duke de
Laincourt upon the new philosophy of M. Descartes, maintained that beasts
were mere machines; that they had no sort of reason to direct them; and
that when they cried or made a noise, it was only one of the wheels of
the clock or machine that made it. The Duke, who was of a different
opinion, replied, “I have now in my kitchen two turnspits which take
their turns regularly every other day to get into the wheel; one of
them not liking his employment, hid himself on the day he should have
wrought, so that his companion was forced to mount the wheel in his
stead; when released, by crying and wagging his tail, he made a sign for
those in attendance to follow him. He immediately conducted them to a
garret, where he dislodged the idle dog and bit him severely.”--_Dublin
University Magazine._




CURIOUS COINCIDENCES.


One of the most fruitful sources of superstition, and that which has
been most productive of what are styled “well-founded and authenticated
stories of supernatural occurrences,” is that Protean monster known
in all its forms by the general appellation of “Remarkable or Curious
Coincidences.”

The frequent occurrence of events precisely similar in their details,
though perfectly simple and ordinary individually, is apt to be
considered, first, as remarkable, and, if again repeated, wonderful.

In a recent number of the Penny Journal mention is made of the curious
coincidence of three men having been found drowned at various times in
the course of the same winter, in the same river, and the same place, or
nearly, each with _two shirts_ on, having given rise to the belief in
that parish that it was unlucky to wear two shirts.

But if persons should allow themselves to be guided in their actions by
such observances, their lives would become perfectly burthensome from the
constant state of watchfulness in which they would be obliged to live;
for instance, the following anecdote would show the absolute necessity
they would be under of ascertaining the names of their fellow-travellers,
lest any one rejoicing in the name of Hugh Williams should be amongst
them.

The more juvenile readers of the Penny Journal must be informed that
the portion of the sea which flows between the island of Anglesea and
the coast of Wales, called the Menai Straits, which is now spanned by
the celebrated Menai suspension bridge, was passable, previously to
the erection of the bridge, only by boats, a regular ferry-boat plying
constantly at the place called Bangor ferry. On the 6th day of December,
in the year 1664, the ferry-boat, having eighty-one passengers on board,
was upset whilst crossing the Strait, and only one man was saved, whose
name was Hugh Williams. On the 6th day of December 1782, the boat then
plying, containing about sixty persons, was upset, and all were lost
excepting one passenger, whose name proved to be Hugh Williams. On
the 5th of August 1820, a similar fate befell twenty-five unfortunate
persons, one only of whom escaped, whose name was Hugh Williams!

We should hope that none could now be found so weak, but certainly
there have been those who, having heard this story, would fear to trust
their precious lives in a ferry-boat with any one of the name of Hugh
Williams, but a little local knowledge would go far in removing such
an absurd apprehension, as indeed there are few of the most apparently
extraordinary events, the origin of which cannot be traced to simple
natural causes.

The name of Williams prevails in the neighbourhood of Bangor, and Hugh
is a favourite Christian name throughout all Wales. It is very probable
that persons of the name of Williams, very possibly even Hugh Williams,
were lost amongst the passengers on each of those occasions, but these
were overlooked, whilst the coincidence of the individual saved being
each time of the same name, was observed and recorded; the circumstance
being simply accounted for by the ordinary rules of calculating odds
or chances, for where the name of Hugh Williams prevailed, there was
certainly a greater chance of one of that name being saved than one of
any other, and, as we have before remarked, no account was made of how
many Hugh Williamses perished.

                                                                       N.

       *       *       *       *       *

INDUSTRY.--Let me say a word in behalf of this home-spun virtue. It may
seem superfluous, perhaps impertinent, to enforce industry upon the
hardest-working people in the world, as I conceive our good countrymen
to be; but I speak of it as a part of education--as a principle to be
inculcated upon childhood. Its proper limits I shall hereafter attempt
to define. In this country it is the duty of every individual to live
an active life. No one, even though he be rich, has a right to be idle
or useless. In the hive of bees there is a privileged class of drones;
but there the government is despotic, with a queen at its head. Ours
is a republican government, which admits of no drones, and tolerates
no aristocratic indolence. Nor is industry more a duty to society than
a source of individual happiness. There are no pleasures so sweet as
those earned by effort, no possessions so dear as those acquired by
toil. The truth is, that the main happiness of life consists in the
vigorous exercise of those faculties which God has given us. Thus it
usually happens that more enjoyment is found in the acquisition of
property than in its possession. How often does the rich man, surrounded
with every luxury, look back from the pinnacle which he has attained,
with fond regret, to those days of humble but happy toil when he was
struggling up the steep ascent of fortune! Make industry, then, a part of
fireside education. Teach it to your children as a point of duty; render
it familiar to them by practice. Personal exertion and ready activity
are natural to some children, and these hardly need any stimulus to the
performance of duties requiring bodily exertion. There are others who
have an indolence, a reluctance to move, either uniform or periodical,
in their very constitution. If neglected, these children will grow up in
the habit of omitting many duties, or of performing only those which are
agreeable. It is indispensable that such should be trained to patient
exertion, habituated to the performance of every duty in the right time
and the right way, even though it may require self-denial and onerous
toil. A person who cannot compel himself, from a mere sense of duty, to
overcome a slothful reluctance to do what is disagreeable, is but half
educated, and carries about him a weakness that is likely to prove fatal
to his success in life. Such a person may act vigorously by fits and
starts as he may be occasionally urged by impulse; but the good begun
will often remain unfinished, and, from subsequent negligence, will
result in final disaster. The only safe way is to found industry upon
principle, and establish it by habit. While, therefore, I would inculcate
industry, I would remark that it may be carried to excess. Every virtue
has its bordering vice. The extreme of courage touches upon the precincts
of rashness, and a step beyond the proper limit of industry brings you
into the dreary regions of avarice.--_Fireside Education, by S. G.
Goodrich, an American Author._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SABBATH.--Nature always seemed to me to “keep Sabbath” in the
wilderness. I used to fancy that the wild birds were more quiet on
that day, sitting on the branches with their heads under their wings,
smoothing their plumage, or looking quietly about them, and sometimes
venturing a faint warble, scarcely above a whisper. And I have seen a
large wolfish animal stand for hours upon a dry log, on the bank of the
river, contemplating the stream, or gazing into the air; once or twice,
perhaps, starting suddenly a few paces, but then halting as if he had
given up the idea; and his tail all the while hanging listlessly down,
as if indicating that no enterprise could be undertaken on that day.
Just like the merchant who may be seen in the city, on a bright Sunday
morning, in clean shirt collar, and with hands thrust into his pockets,
loitering slowly down the street, or standing in ruminating attitude
at the corner, pondering carefully every step of the morrow’s tangled
path, or perhaps calculating the amount of time lost in Sundays, by the
whole world, taken individually and collectively from Moses’s day to
the present time; but on the whole, enduring the Sabbath with Christian
resignation.

       *       *       *       *       *

CRITICS.--It is a little singular that the mass should attach much
importance to the small opinions of every-day critics. Because a man
happens to have the facilities of _publishing_ his views and opinions to
the world, though he be the veriest blockhead on earth, his verdict is
often of more than ordinary weight among men. Indeed, a Johnson could
not influence some men by his _verbal_ opinion, to the extent that an
ignoramus can influence them through “press and types.” The “dignity of
print” has a strange effect. Although it is but one man who speaks, and
he may have one hundred opponents who may argue successfully against
him, yet they will all fail with the public. But let either of them
_publish_ the same opinion, and the ore, which was rich and weighty,
becomes refined. Common critics, moreover, are always ready to find
imperfections, for thus will the public be made acquainted with their
_penetration_. In fact, many of them seem to think that to criticize _is_
to find fault; “else (they reason) where is the necessity of criticism?”
It is said that any fool can fire a house. So can any man criticize a
book; but very few can build the one or write the other. Many of the
vinegar-critics of the day who haunt the shores of literature, would
utterly fail in penning even the _preface_ to a respectable book. It
is a recorded and well-known fact that many of our standard works were
rejected for the want of a publisher, owing to the unfavourable opinion
of stolid rule-and-figure critics; but when they came before the people,
who, judging from the impulses of the heart, are never wrong, how soon
was their verdict reversed! The PEOPLE are the only true tribunal. They
separate, with the hand of a refiner, the dross from the gold. By them
genius is preserved, and pretension discarded.--_Knickerbocker._

       *       *       *       *       *

The boxes of the opera, splendid as they are, and splendid as the
appearance of those in them is, do not breathe a spirit of enjoyment.
They are rather like the sick wards of luxury and idleness, where people
of a certain class are condemned to perform the quarantine of fashion for
the evening.--_Hazlitt._

       *       *       *       *       *

DECEIVERS.--We are born to deceive or to be deceived. In one of these
classes we must be numbered; but our self-respect is dependent upon
our selection. The practice of deception generally secures its own
punishment; for callous indeed must be that mind which is insensible of
its ignominy! But he who has been duped is conscious, even in the very
moment that he detects the imposition, of his proud superiority to one
who can stoop to the adoption of so foul and sorry a course. The really
good and high-minded, therefore, are seldom provoked by the discovery
of deception; though the cunning and artful resent it, as a humiliating
triumph obtained over them in their own vocations.

       *       *       *       *       *

WIT.--Wit is the lightning of the mind, reason the sunshine, and
reflection the moonlight; for as the bright orb of night owes its lustre
to the sun, so does reflection owe its existence to reason.

       *       *       *       *       *

PREMATURE WISDOM.--The premature wisdom of youth resembles the forced
fruit of our hot-houses; it looks like the natural production, but has
not its flavour or raciness.

       *       *       *       *       *

POOR.--A term of reproach in England, and of pity in most other countries.

       *       *       *       *       *

POETS AND ASTRONOMERS.--Poets view nature as a book in which they read a
language unknown to common minds, as astronomers regard the heavens, and
therein discover objects that escape the vulgar ken.

       *       *       *       *       *

PEACE OF MIND.--Though peace of mind does not constitute happiness,
happiness cannot exist without it; our serenity being the result of
our own exertions, while our happiness is dependent on others: hence
the reason why it is so rare; for, on how few can we count? Our
wisdom, therefore, is best shown in cultivating all that leads to the
preservation of this negative blessing, which, while we possess it will
prevent us from ever becoming wholly wretched.




ANSWER TO THE ENIGMA IN No. 17.


    Mr Teague, the enigma you sent me, my honey,
    Must mean, I conjecture, a round bit o’ money;
    But what it can be, is a regular stopper,
    Unless it’s a coinage from some kind of copper;
    Though your Dean of St Patrick’s did not like the stuff,
    For this very fair reason--’twas not big enough.
    So here goes a guess--and, in truth, to be plain,
    It’s a good honest Penny your honour will mane.
    Ah, Geordy, full oft have they tried to disgrace,
    With buffets and blows, thy right royal old face;
    Let them hammer away till they’re all in a pet,
    For real solid worth thou’rt the best of the set.
    E’en O’Connell must own, though he don’t like the mint,
    That thou art the cream of his flourishing rint!
    As for gold, it flies off like the chaff or the stubble,
    Leaving little behind but vexation and trouble.
    And that mealy-fac’d silver, experience of old
    Says is only too apt to take wings after gold--
    In fact, I ne’er found, from the mohur to piastre,
    That one kind or other went slower or faster;
    Do just as you like, it seems a thing plann’d,
    That one of those vagrants shall ne’er be on hand.
    We well know what wonders a Penny can do,
    What instruction and comfort a mite will bestow.
    The stores of the world, its rust and its lumber,
    Come brighten’d and polish’d in each penny number.
    The well-spring of knowledge is open to all--
    The Penny has spread it through cottage and hall.
    So now, my friend Teague, let the great have the guinea.
    You and I’ll be contint if we’ve always a PINNY.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Printed and published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at
    the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane,
    College Green, Dublin.--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley,
    Paternoster Row, London; SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street,
    Manchester; C. DAVIES, North John Street, Liverpool; J. DRAKE,
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    George Street, Edinburgh; and DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate,
    Glasgow.