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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

        NUMBER 44.        SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1841.       VOLUME I.

[Illustration: ARDFINNAN CASTLE, COUNTY OF TIPPERARY.]

In some of the recent numbers of our Journal we presented our readers
with views of two or three of the many striking objects of picturesque
and historic interest for which, among our numerous beautiful rivers, the
gentle Suir is more than ordinarily remarkable; and we return again with
pleasure to its green pastoral banks, to notice another of its attractive
features--the magnificent ruin of Ardfinnan Castle. This is a scene that
must be familiar to many of our readers, for the traveller must have been
a dull and unobserving one, who, journeying between Cork and Dublin by
way of Cahir, has not had his attention roused by its romantic features,
and an impression of its grandeur and picturesqueness made upon his
memory, not easily to be effaced. Ardfinnan is indeed one of the very
finest scenes of its kind to be found in Ireland, and is almost equally
imposing from every point from which it can be viewed. The Castle crowns
the summit of a lofty and precipitous rock, below and around which the
Suir winds its way in graceful beauty, while its banks are connected by
a long and level bridge of fourteen arches, which tradition states is of
coeval erection with the fortress, and which, at all events, is of very
great antiquity. On every side the most magnificent outlines of mountain
scenery form the distant back-grounds; and every object which meets the
eye is in perfect harmony with the general character of the scene.

Ardfinnan is a village of considerable antiquity, and derives its present
name, which signifies Finnan’s Height or Hill, from St Finnan the leper,
a celebrated ecclesiastic who founded a church and monastery here in
the seventh century, previously to which the place had borne the name
of Druim-abhradb. Of this religious establishment there are however no
remains, as it was plundered and burnt by the English in 1179; and the
present castle was erected on its site in 1185, by Prince John, then Earl
of Morton, of whom it has been remarked that he achieved nothing during
his stay of eight months in Ireland, but the construction of this and two
other castles, namely, Lismore and Tiobrad Fachtna, now Tibraghny on the
Suir, which he erected with a view to the conquest of Munster. From these
castles he sent parties in various directions to plunder the country: but
being met by the Irish under the command of Donall O’Brien, Dermod Mac
Carthy, and Roderick O’Conor, they were defeated with great slaughter,
four knights having been killed at Ardfinnan; after which John was glad
to return to England.

Prince John, however, or those under whose advice he acted, showed a
considerable degree of judgment and military skill in the selection of
Ardfinnan as the site of a fortress, which commanded one of the chief
passes into South Munster; and the castle itself was of a princely
magnificence, and of such a degree of strength as must have rendered it
impregnable before the use of artillery. Its general form, as its ruins
still sufficiently show, was that of a parallelogram, strengthened by
square towers at the corners, and having a strong entrance gateway.
This gateway still remains, as well as the greater part of the walls;
but the edifices of the interior are in a state of great dilapidation,
and only part of the roof of one room remains. It is stated by the
editor of Lewis’s Topographical Dictionary, but on what authority we
know not, that this castle belonged to the Knights Templars, and that
on the suppression of that establishment it was granted to the Knights
of St John of Jerusalem, and subsequently to the Bishop of Waterford.
But be this as it may, it was preserved as a military fortress till
it was dismantled in 1649 by that great destroyer of Irish castles,
Oliver Cromwell, who, planting his cannon on the opposite hill near the
bridge, made a breach in the walls, which speedily induced the garrison
to surrender. The breach there is still shown, and according to an
old tourist the following story is told in connection with it:--“When
the place was besieged by Oliver, a butcher was within the walls, who
while the siege lasted could never be prevailed on to come out of the
room where he had placed himself; but when the breach was made, and the
soldiers began to storm, he took up a handspike, and defended the breach
almost alone for some time, and knocked down several soldiers that strove
to enter; but finding none to second him, he retired without the least
hurt. When the castle was surrendered, he was asked why he would not come
to the walls before the breach was made? He replied, ‘Damn them, I did
not mind what was doing on the outside, but I could not bear their coming
into the house,’ as he called it.”

Ardfinnan is a parish in the barony of Iffa and Offa west, county of
Tipperary, above four miles S. S. E. from Cahir, and contains about
nine hundred inhabitants. The village itself, which extends into the
adjoining parish of Ballybacon, contains above three hundred. It was once
a place of greater note, and appears to have had a corporation, as it is
on record, 4th of Edward II (1311), that a grant of “pontage for three
years” was made “to the Bailiffs and good men of Ardfynan” at the request
of the Bishop of Limerick.

                                                                       P.




PUSS IN BROGUES, A LEGEND.


It was about Christmas in the year 1831 that I received an invitation
to spend the holidays with a friend who resided in a valley embosomed
amongst the loftiest of those mountains which form the boundary between
the King’s and Queen’s counties. The name of my host was Garret Dalton;
he held a considerable tract of land at a low rent, and by hard
working and thrifty living contrived not only to support his family in
comparative comfort, but to “lay up a snug penny in the horn” for his
only daughter Nanny, who was at this time about fourteen years of age,
and, as her fond father often proudly boasted, “the patthern ov as purty
a colleen as you’d find from the seven churches of Clonmacnoise to the
hill ov Howth--wherever that was.”

Garret was generous and hospitable; his house “was known to all the
vagrant train,” and the way-worn pilgrim, the wandering minstrel, the
itinerant “boccough,” and the strolling vender of the news and gossip of
the day, were always secure of a welcome reception at his comfortable
fire-side.

Amongst the most constant of his guests was one Maurice O’Sullivan,
a native of the county of Cork. Maurice was a most venerable-looking
personage--tall, gaunt, athletic, and stone blind. He was about eighty
years of age; his white hair flowed on his shoulders, and he played
the Irish bagpipes delightfully. He was the lineal descendant of a
family still famous in the annals of the “green isle;” and although now
compelled to wander through his native land in the garb and character
of a blind piper, he had once seen better days, and was possessed
of education and intelligence far superior to most of his caste. He
was intimately acquainted with the sad history of his country, was
devotedly attached to the dogmas of the fairy creed, could recite
charms and interpret dreams, and was deeply conversant in all those
witch legends and traditions for which the Munster peasantry are so
peculiarly celebrated. Hence Maurice was always a special favourite with
my enthusiastic friend, who regularly entertained him at his own table,
and who, when they would have disposed of their plain but comfortable
and substantial meal, would treat his blind guest to repeated “rounds”
of good “half and half,” composed of water from the spring, and the
_potteen_ of the valley. It was night-fall when I arrived, and the happy
family, consisting of Garret and his wife, Nanny their eldest girl, and
her two little brothers, with Paddy Bawn the “sarvint boy,” and Ouny the
“girl,” including blind Maurice, were collected in a smiling group around
the immense turf fire. In that day teetotalism had made little progress
in Ireland; a huge copper kettle was therefore soon hissing on the fire;
a large grey-beard of mountain-dew stood on the huge oak-table; tumblers
and glasses glittered in their respective places: and, in a few minutes
we were all engaged in discussing the merits of a large jug of potteen
punch. All were happy; Garret talked, his wife smiled; told all the “new
news” of the Queen’s county; whilst the spaces were filled up by blind
Maurice, who played several of his most delightful national airs on his
antique-looking pipes, whilst invariably as he concluded each successive
lay, he would enrich the treat by some tradition connected with the piece
he had been playing, and which threw an indescribable charm not only
around the performance, but the performer.

“That’s a curious thing,” remarked Garret, as the piper concluded one
particular rant; “it’s a quare medley, sometimes gay and sometimes sad,
and sometimes like the snarlin’ of a growlin’ dog, and again exactly like
the mewing of a cat.”

The piper smiled. “And have you,” he asked, “never heard me play that
tune before?--and did I never tell you the strange story connected with
it?”

“Never,” was the reply.

“Well, that is strange enough; that tune is an old favourite in Munster,
and I thought the whole world had heard of it.”

“It never kem to Glen-Mac-Tir, any how,” replied the farmer, “or I’d
surely have heard of it. How d’ye call the name of it?”

“_Caith-na-brogueen_--that is in English, Puss in Brogues,” said the
piper.

“Well,” said Garret, “it’s often I heard of Puss in Boots, but I never
heard of Puss in Brogues afore.”

“Well, I’ll tell you and this good company all about it,” said Maurice,
laying down his pipes and wiping his forehead.

“Ay, but afore you begin,” said Garret, “take another dhrop to wet your
whistle, and you’ll get on the betther with your story.”

The piper seized the flowing tumbler again, and raising it to his lips,
gaily exclaimed, whilst his attenuated hand shook nervously beneath the
weight of the smoking goblet,

“_Sho-dhurtlh_, your healths, my friends, glory to our noble selves; and
if this be war, may we never have more peaceable times.”

“Amen,” was the fervent response of every one present.

“Now for the _Caith-na-brogueen_,” said Garret.

“Ay, and a wild and strange tale it is,” said Maurice. “However, it is a
popular tradition in South Munster, and often when a boy have I listened
to it, whilst my eyes, now dark for ever, would glisten with delight, and
I would even fear to breathe lest one syllable of the legend might escape
me.” Then emitting a deep-drawn sigh, and again wiping his polished brow,
he thus began.

‘At the foot of a hill in a lonely district of the county of Cork, about
a dozen miles from my native village, there lived in old times a poor
man named Larry Roche. He was, they say, descended from that family of
the Roches once so mighty in the south of Ireland, and some branches of
which still retain a considerable degree of their former consequence and
respectability. Poor Larry, however, although the blood of kings might
flow through his veins, was neither rich nor respectable; and his only
means of support was a patch of barren land, which he held from that
celebrated sportsman Squire B----, in consideration of his services
as care-keeper of a vast extent of bog and heath, the property of the
squire, and which extended far westward of poor Larry Roche’s cabin. Yet
Larry was not discontented with his situation. His father and grandfather
had lived and died in the same cabin; and although sometimes he might
feel disposed to envy the fine times which the sporting squire enjoyed,
yet on cool reflection he would console himself with the consideration
that “it was not every one that was born with a silver spoon in his
mouth,” and that even squire B---- himself, as grand as he was, was
on the “look down,” or he would not spend so much of his time wading
through fens and bogs at home, but like his ancestors be lavishing his
thousands amongst the _Sassenaghs_ at the other side of the lough, or
driving about on the continent. Thus rolled away poor Larry’s days in
poverty and contentment. In the shooting season his time was occupied
in following his master over heath and hillock with his game-bag on his
shoulder, and his “dhudeen” in his teeth, whilst the rest of the year
was spent in lounging about the ditches of the neighbourhood, chatting
with the crones of the vicinity about his family connexions, or the
fairies of Glendharig, or squabbling with his good woman and his young
ones: for Larry was married; and as his wife was exactly a counterpart of
himself, every hour of course gave fresh cause for that bickering and
disagreement so often the result of untimely and ill-assorted marriages.

The only domestic animal in or about Larry Roche’s cabin was a
ferocious-looking old black tom-cat, far bigger and stronger than any
cat ever seen in that part of the country. His fur was black, he had
strong whiskers, his nails were like a tiger’s, and at the end of his
tail was fixed a claw or “gaff” as sharp and hooked as a falcon’s beak;
his eyes also flashed by night with an appalling glare, and his cry was
a savage howl, baffling all description, and unlike any sound ever heard
from any other animal. He was as singular in his habits, too, as in his
appearance. He was never known to demand a morsel of food; and if offered
any, he would reject it with indignation. Every evening at twilight he
left the fire-side, and spent the night scouring over moor and heather,
and at daybreak would return from his foray, gaining access through
the low chimney of the cabin, and be found in the morning in his usual
position on the hob-stone. There he would sit from morning till night;
and when Larry and Betty and the “childre” were chatting in a group
around the fire, the cat would watch them intently, and if the nature
of their conversation was such as to excite laughter or merriment, he
would growl in a low tone, evidently dissatisfied; but if their dialogues
were held in a jarring, angry strain, as sometimes happened, he would
purr hoarsely and loudly, whilst the wagging of his tail testified the
pleasure he felt in their feuds and dissensions. The family had often
been advised to make away with him, but superstitious awe or family
prejudice prevented them; and although the whole neighbourhood averred
that “he was no right thing,” yet for the reasons I have stated his
owners never could be induced to make any attempt to banish or destroy
him.

One dreary evening in October, Larry returned from his day’s wandering
with the squire over the bleak bogs, and although it rained, and the
wind blew bitterly, he appeared in much better spirits than was usual
with him on similar occasions. His wife wondered, and made more than
usual preparations to please him. She trimmed the fire, and assisted him
in taking off his dripping clothes, and then commenced pouring out her
sympathy for his sufferings.

“Oh, never mind,” said Larry; “I have good news.”

“Arrah, sit down,” said Betty, “and tell us what it is.”

Larry sat down, and putting his hand in his pocket, pulled out a
glittering gold coin.

“Arrah, Larry, avourneen, what’s that?” asked the woman.

“Faith, it’s a rale yellow boy, a good goold guinea,” replied Larry. “The
squire gev it to me, and tould me to buy a pair of brogues with it, and
drink his health with the balance.”

“Och, musha! then, long life to him,” vociferated Betty; “and, Larry,
a-hagur, will you buy the brogues?”

“Faix and I will,” said Larry, “and another rattling pair for yourself,
a-chorra.”

“Ay, daddy, and another pair for me,” shouted young Larry.

“And another for me,” cried Thady.

“And another for me,” chuckled Charley.

“Ay, and two pair for me,” cried the black cat, speaking in a wild
unearthly tone from the hob-stone, and breaking forth into a horrible
laugh.

“Devil knock the day-lights out of yez all,” cried Larry, without seeming
to take any notice of the strange circumstance, though his heart died
within him with terror and surprise.

“Lord have mercy on us!” faintly ejaculated Betty, signing her brow,
whilst all the children started up in terror, and ran behind their
parents in the chimney-corner.

All this time the cat remained silent on the hob; but his aspect, at all
times terrible, now seemed perfectly monstrous and hideous. For some time
a death-like silence was preserved, but at last Larry plucked up courage
to address the speaking animal.

“And, in the name of God,” he began, “what business have you with
brogues?”

“Ask me no questions,” replied the cat, “but get me the brogues as soon
as possible.”

“Oh, by all means,” replied Larry, quite gently, “you must have them; and
why did you not ask them long ago, and you should have got them?”

“My time was not come,” replied Puss, briefly.

“Well,” resumed Larry, “to-morrow is Sunday, and at daybreak I will
start off to my gossip Phadruig Donovan’s, in Mill-street, to engage the
brogues; he is the best brogue-maker in the county, and he is my first
gossip besides.”

“I know all that,” said the cat, as he leaped up the chimney, on his
departure to the scene of his midnight wanderings. “Good night, Larry,
and don’t forget your engagement;” and he disappeared through the
gathering gloom, to the great relief of poor Larry and his terrified
family.

That was a sad and uneasy night with poor Larry and his wife and
children. They did not go to bed at all, but sat trembling at the fire,
expecting every moment that the black imp would return with legions of
fiends to carry them away, body and bones, to the regions below. Numerous
were the plans proposed for getting rid of their old companion, but all
were rejected--some as inefficient, others as impracticable; and the
only point on which they could finally agree, was, that their days were
numbered, and that perhaps before morning their blood would be streaming
on the hearth-stone, and their souls wandering through mire and morass,
the prey of troops of fiends.

At last the morning dawned, and as Larry disconsolately enough was
preparing to set forward on his journey to Mill-street, the cat jumped
down the chimney, and took his usual place on the hob.

“Well, I am going now,” said Larry; “have you any directions to give
about the brogues?”

The cat did not reply, but uttered a hideous growl, which fell heavily on
the poor fellow’s heart; so kissing his wife and children, and commending
them to the protection of God, he set out on his sorrowful journey.

He had not gone far when he perceived through the dim grey of the
morning a human figure approaching; and on advancing a little nearer, he
found that it was a very old man, of extremely diminutive stature and
forbidding aspect. He wore an old grey coat and an equally old woollen
cap, and his thin white hair descended to his knees; he was barefoot, and
carried a walking-stick in his hand.

“Good morrow, and God save you, Larry Roche,” said the old man as he came
up.

“A bright morning to you,” answered Larry.

“How is every rope’s length of you, Larry, and how is the woman and the
childre at home?” demanded the stranger.

“Faix, purty well, considherin,” replied Larry. “But you have a great
advantage of me.”

“How’s that?” said the old man.

“Why, because you know me so well, while I have no more knowledge of you
than of the man in the moon.”

“Och, I’d know your skin in a tan-yard,” said the old chap, laughing.
“But is it possible you don’t know me?”

“Faix if God Almighty knows no more about you than I do, the devil will
have a prey of you one of those days,” replied Larry.

“Well, say no more about that,” said the old fellow, rather angrily. “But
where are you going this blessed Sunday morning, Larry?”

“To Mill-street,” said Larry.

“All the ways--musha! what’s taking you to Mill-street, Larry?”

“My feet and my business,” said Larry, something piqued at the old
fellow’s inquisitive importunity.

“You are very stiff this morning, Larry,” said the stranger with a grin.

“I am worse than that,” said the poor fellow; “the heart within me is
sick and sore.”

“And what troubles you now, Larry?”

Larry hereupon told the whole of his strange misfortunes to the stranger,
ending with a deep “ochone,” and wishing, if it was the will of God, that
“his four bones were stretched in the church-yard of Kilebawn.”

“You’ll be there time enough for your welcome, may be,” said the old
chap, “but that’s neither here nor there. What will you do with the black
cat?”

“Och, sweet bad luck to all the cats alive, both black and white,”
imprecated Larry.

“That cat’s a devil--a fiend,” said the stranger; “and more than that, he
intends to murder you and your family this very night.”

Larry groaned and crossed his forehead, whilst the stranger’s hideous
countenance was convulsed with half-suppressed laughter.

“Well, Larry,” said he again, “I am your friend, and I have power to save
you and yours, on one condition; and that is, that you will stop up the
window in the back wall of your cabin.”

“Faith and I’ll do that with a heart and a half,” said Larry. “But what
do you want that for?”

“I’ll tell you that another time,” said the little man.

“Go home now, and say you can’t proceed to Mill-street without taking the
wife and children with you, to leave the measure of their feet for the
brogues. Tell the cat also that he must come too, to have his fit taken;
then tie him up in a bag, and bring him with you; fasten this hair around
your neck,” added the old man, at the same time extracting a single white
hair from his head, “and all the imps of hell cannot hurt you. But mind
and don’t open your lips from the time you leave home till you come to
this spot; and when you arrive here with the cat, sit down and wait the
event.”

A thick fog now suddenly rose, and the old man was hidden from the sight
of Larry, who, greatly overjoyed, returned to his cabin to execute the
orders he had got, and was met by his wife, who was trembling for his
safe return, but did not expect him sooner than night.

“Musha! Larry agragal, you’re welcome,” she exclaimed; “and what in the
name of God turned you back?”

“I am coming for you and the gorsoons; you must all come to Mill-street
to have your measure taken for the brogues.”

“And must I go too?” asked the cat.

“Faix you must,” said Larry; “if natural Christians couldn’t be fitted
without bein’ on the spot, it’s hard to expect that you could.”

“And how am I to travel?” he asked.

“In a bag on my back,” replied Larry. “I’ll whip you through the country
like a dinner to a hog, and man or mortal shall never be the wiser, if
the brogue-maker keeps his tongue quiet.”

“I’ll go bail he will,” said Puss, “for I’ll kill him the very night the
brogues is brought home.”

“Lord have mercy on him!” ejaculated Larry, his heart sinking within him.

“Pray for yourself--may be you want mercy as well as him,” said the cat.

The preparations were soon completed, and the cat being put into the bag,
Larry tied the mouth of it firmly with a piece of cord, and then slung it
on his shoulder; and after acquainting his wife with his adventure with
the old man on “Moin-more,” he departed, whistling the air of “Thamama
Thulla.”

He soon gained the spot where he had parted with the old man, and looking
round and perceiving nobody, he sat down on the green fern, still holding
the bag which contained his terrible fellow-traveller.

“What stops you Larry?” asked the cat.

Larry, recollecting the old man’s injunction, spoke not, but continued
whistling.

“Does anything ail you, Larry?”

“Whoo, hoo, phoo, hoo--Thamemo Chodladh.”

“Is Betty and the childre to the fore?”

“Thamemo Chodladh.”

“Bad luck to you and your ‘Thamemo Chodladh,’” cried the cat.

“That the prayers may fall on the preacher,” said Larry to himself.

The cat now began to make desperate efforts to escape from the bag,
whilst Larry redoubled his exertions to detain him. His attention,
however, was soon arrested by the cry of hounds, and on looking westward,
he perceived, rapidly approaching over the morass, a big black man
mounted on a black horse, and accompanied by a numerous pack of black
dogs.

“Ochone,” thought Larry, “now I am coached of all ever happened me. Here
is the chap’s black friends coming to rescue him, and they won’t leave a
toothful a-piece in my carcass.”

“Let me go, Larry,” said the cat, “let me go, and I’ll show you where
there’s a cart-load of gold buried in the ground.” But Larry remained
silent, and meantime the horseman and hounds came up.

“Good morrow and good luck, Larry Roche,” said the black equestrian, with
a grim smile.

“Good morrow, kindly, your worship,” said Larry.

“Is that a fox you have in the bag, Larry?”

“No, in troth,” said Larry, “though I believe he is not much honester
than a fox.”

“I must see what it is, any how,” said the sable horseman, with a
gesticulation which convinced Larry at once that he was the fellow whom
he had seen before.

So Larry opened the bag, and out jumped Puss, and away with him over the
bog like a flash of lightning. The wild huntsman hallooed his dogs, and
the pursuit commenced, but the cat was soon surrounded and torn to pieces.

“Now,” said the horseman, “I must bid you farewell;” and off he went;
and then Larry returned home with the happy tidings, and the squire’s
guinea was spent in the purchase of sundry bottles of “Tom Corcoran’s”
best potteen; but we must do Larry the justice to say that his agreement
with the old man was punctually performed, and the back window stopped as
effectually as mud and stones could do it.

A few nights after, Larry was aroused from his sleep by the merry tones
of bagpipes at his fire-side, and getting up, he perceived the kitchen
illuminated with a bright, reddish glare, whilst on the hob-stone he
saw, snugly seated, the ever remembered little old man playing a set of
bagpipes, to the delightful tones of which hundreds of little fellows
with red caps and red small-clothes were capering about the floor.

“God bless the man and the work,” said Larry, “and warm work yez have ov
it this hour ov the night.”

The little fellow hereupon set up a shout, and rushing to the door, flew
through it, one of them striking poor Larry a box on the right eye, which
blinded it.

“Goodnight, Misthur Larry,” said the piper; “and how is your four bones?
and how is the good woman that owns you?”

“Och, no fear at all ov the woman,” replied Larry; “and as for my bones,
they are well enough; but, faith, my right eye, I believe, is in whey in
my head.”

“Well, it will teach you how to speak to your betters in future,” said
the little piper; “never mintion the holy name again, when talking to the
‘good people.’

“But, Larry, listen: I’ll now tell you why I wanted you to stop up your
back window.

“You must know that this cabin of yours stands on the middle of a fairy
pass. We often come this way in our wanderings through the air in cold
nights, and often we wished to warm ourselves at your fire-side; but as
there was a window in the back of your cabin, we had not power to stop,
but were compelled to pursue our journey. Now that the window is stopped,
we can come in and remain as long as we wish, and resume our journey
through the door by which we enter. We pass this way almost every night,
and you need never feel in the least apprehensive of injury so long as
you let us pursue our pastimes undisturbed.”

“I’ll be bound me or mine shall never annoy one of yez,” said Larry.

“That’s a good fellow, Larry,” said the little chap; “and now take those
pipes and play us a tune.”

“Och, the devil a chanter I ever fingered,” said Larry, “since I was
christened.”

“No matter,” said the little fellow; “I’ll go bail you’ll play out of the
soot.”

Larry “yoked” on the pipes, and lilted up in darling style a merry tune,
whilst the old chap was ready to split with laughing.

“What’s the name of that tchune?” said Larry.

“_Caith-na-brogueen_,” replied the fairy piper; “a tune I composed in
memory of your escape from the cat; a tune that will soon become a
favourite all over Munster.”

Larry handed back the pipes; the little man placed them in a red bag,
and, bidding his host “good night,” dashed up the chimney.

The next night, and almost every following night, the din of fairy
revels might be heard at Larry Roche’s fire-side, and Larry himself was
their constant companion in their midnight frolics. He soon became the
best performer on the bagpipes in the south of Ireland, and after some
time surrendered his cabin to the sole occupation of the “good people,”
and wandered with his family through all the Munster counties, and was
welcome and kindly treated wherever he came. After some time, the cabin
from neglect fell, and offered no further impediment to the fairy host in
their midnight wanderings, whilst Larry followed a life of pleasure and
peace, far from the scene of his former perils and privations.

The cat, of course, was never seen after; but the peasantry of the
neighbourhood say that the screams of the infernal fiend, mingled with
the deep howlings of hell-hounds and the savage yellings of the sable
hunter, may be distinctly heard in horrid chorus amongst the fens and
morasses of the broad Moin-more.’

Thus ended the strange tale of Maurice O’Sullivan, who in addition to
the unanimous applause of the company present, was treated to another
flowing tumbler of the barley bree, which he tossed off to the health of
those who, to use his own words, were “good people” in earnest--not fays
or fairies, however, but the hospitable folks of Glen-Mac-Tir; adding at
the same time that he was resolved to gratify the lovers of legendary
lore with another of his wild Munster tales on the following night.

                                                                    J. K.




ITINERANT GOLDSMITHS OF INDIA AND SUMATRA.


In the production of beautiful specimens of mechanical art, much more
depends upon the natural taste and ingenuity of the workman than upon
the completeness and perfection of his tools. To those who are not much
acquainted with the mechanical arts, this may sound somewhat like a
self-evident proposition; yet it is far, very far indeed, from being
considered such by European mechanics in general, and by our own in
particular. So commonly is the blame of clumsy workmanship laid upon
the badness or the want of tools, that an anecdote is related of a man,
who, upon being spoken to by a friend for having committed numerous
grammatical errors in a letter which he had just written, cursed his
pen, and asked his friend how he could be so excessively unreasonable
as to expect him or any man to write good English with such a wretched
implement!

To such a degree of excellence has the manufacture of mechanical tools
and instruments arrived in these countries, that a British mechanic would
be utterly astonished could he but behold the process of manufacturing
various articles in the East; such for example as the shawls of Persia
and Cashmere, the carvings in wood and ivory of China, the extraction
of metal from the ore in the same country, by which malleable iron
is produced fit for immediate use, and of the finest quality, by a
single process; and, not to tire by enumeration, the productions of the
itinerant goldsmiths of India and the island of Sumatra. These last excel
in filagree work, for which they are celebrated, far exceeding even the
Chinese in its extraordinary delicacy; yet their tools are ruder than
those of the Indian goldsmith of the continent.

When a Sumatran goldsmith is engaged to manufacture some piece of gold
or silver work, he first asks for any little piece of thin iron--a
bit of an iron hoop will answer his purpose--and with this he makes an
instrument for drawing his wire. The head of an old hammer stuck in a
block of wood serves for an anvil; and for a pair of compasses he is
contented with two old nails tied together at the heads. If he has a
crucible, good; if not, a piece of a broken rice-pot or a china tea-cup
answers his purpose. His furnace is an old broken _quallee_ or iron
pot, and his bellows a joint of bamboo, through which he blows with his
mouth. If the work be heavy, and the quantity of metal to be melted
considerable, three or four sit round the furnace, each with his bamboo,
and blow together. It is only at Padang, where the manufacture is carried
on extensively, that the Chinese bellows has been introduced. The art of
wire-drawing not having been considerably improved upon since the time of
Tubalcain, the Sumatran method differs little from the European.

When drawn sufficiently fine, the wire is flattened by beating it upon
the anvil, and when flattened, it is twisted by rubbing it upon a block
of wood with a flat stick. Having twisted it, the goldsmith again
flattens it upon the anvil, and it is then a flat wire with serrated or
indented edges, suitable for forming leaves or portions of flowers; these
he makes by turning down the end of the wire with a rude pincers, and
then cutting it off; this process is repeated until he has a sufficient
number prepared for his work. The pattern he has drawn on a piece of
paper or card, to the size and shape of which the intended piece of
workmanship must correspond. If the work is to be formed upon a plate
of gold, he cuts the plate to the shape of his pattern, and proceeds
to dispose the various bits of foliage, assorted according to size,
and adjusts wire of various thickness for the stems, tendrils, &c.,
fastening them temporarily together, and upon the plate, with the sago
berry, called _boca sago_, which they reduce to a pulp by grinding upon
a rough stone; and a young cocoa nut, about the size of a walnut, forms
the ointment-box for this gelatinous preparation. When the work has been
all placed in order, the operator prepares his solder, which consists of
gold filings and borax mingled with water; this he strews upon the plate
and applies to the several points of contact of the finer portions of
his work; and then, exposing the whole to the action of the fire, in a
few moments the soldering is completed. But if it is open work, he lays
out the foliage and other parts upon a card or thin bit of soft wood, and
attaches them together, as before described, with the pulp of the sago
berry, applies the solder to the points of junction, and puts his work
into the fire as before; the card or wood burns away, the solder unites
the parts, and the work is completed; but if the piece be very large, the
soldering is done at several times. When the work is finished as to the
manufacturing part, it is cleansed and brightened by boiling it in water
with common salt and alum, or lime juice; and when the goldsmith wishes
to give it a fine purple colour, he boils it in water with sulphur. The
beautiful little balls with which the Sumatran filagree work is sometimes
ornamented, are very simply made. The maker merely drills a small hole
in a piece of charcoal, into which he puts some grains of gold dust, and
upon exposing it to the fire, it runs into a perfect ball.

At finishing plain work, however, it must be confessed that the Sumatran
and Indian goldsmiths fall short of the European; but if the latter excel
in this, which may be considered the lowest department of the art, they
are, despite their improvements and the superiority of their instruments,
vastly inferior in the elegance and delicacy of the finer parts.

The Sonah Wallah (which signifies in Hindoostanee “the gold fellow”),
or itinerant goldsmith of India, is far better supplied with tools and
implements of his trade than the Sumatran; and being thus a step higher
in the grade of civilisation, he exhibits evidences of his advance in
refinement by being such a confounded rogue, that it is almost impossible
for _even his European employer_ to detect him, or prevent him from
pilfering some portion of the metal consigned to his ingenuity. The Sonah
Wallah may be hired for half a rupee (a little over a shilling) a-day,
and, like the tinkers in these countries, he brings his implements with
him. These consist of a small forge, to the edge of which are attached
several iron rings, which may be turned up over the charcoal to receive
his crucibles; a tin tube to blow through, a pair of slight iron tongs, a
pair of small pliers, a hammer, a couple of earthen saucers, and a rude
anvil consisting of a piece of flint secured in a rough iron frame. The
gold usually presented to him for working is the gold mohur, a coin worth
about 32s. sterling; this coin he places in a crucible with a little
borax, to make it fuse the more readily; and having fixed the crucible
in one of the rings, and lighted the charcoal under and around it, he
blows with his tin tube until the metal is melted, when he practises a
trick of his trade by throwing in a small quantity of nitro-muriatic
acid, which causes a sudden expansion or slight explosion, by which a
portion of the metal is thrown out of the crucible into the fire, from
the extinguished embers of which the rogue separates it at a convenient
opportunity; and lest his employer should try to detect him by weighing
the material both before and after working, he uses a copper rod for
stirring the contents of the crucible, a portion of which rod melts and
mingles with the gold, and so compensates for the deficiency in weight,
or at least so nearly as invariably to escape detection, although it is
more than probable that an instance seldom or never occurs in which they
do not defraud their employers of a portion of the gold put into their
hands. The fact is, that their admirable skill so completely compensates
for their knavery, that few would think of questioning too closely, for,
rude and simple as are their tools, they far exceed European workmen in
the production of delicate and intricately formed trinkets; their small,
taper, and flexible fingers more than supplying the place of the numerous
varieties of implements which the mechanic of Birmingham or Sheffield
finds indispensably necessary. Indian chains of gold and silver have been
ever celebrated for the beauty and complication of their structure; and
although the Sonah Wallah may be considered to excel particularly in this
branch of his art, yet he still must be admitted to surpass, or at least
equal, the European even in the manufacture of finger rings, bracelets,
and armlets.

Much of the superior ingenuity of the Indian goldsmith may be
attributable to the division of the people into castes or sections, by
which fundamental law the same profession is carried on by the same
people or family through countless generations; the Shastra, or code of
Hindoo laws, forbidding the mixture of the castes, or interference with
any business or profession not carried on by their progenitors.

There are four integral divisions of the people. The first caste, the
Brahmins, are said by the Hindoo scriptures to have issued, at the
creation, from Brahma’s mouth; and being thus the most excellent and
dignified, are set apart for the priesthood and legislative departments
of the state. The second, the Cshatryas, are said to have issued from
Brahma’s arms, and to them is committed the executive--these consequently
form the armies. The third caste, the Vaisyas, are said to have proceeded
from Brahma’s thighs; they are the merchants, and consequently amongst
them are to be found some of the wealthiest men of Hindostan. The fourth
caste, called Soodras, being said to have issued from the feet of Brahma,
are considered the most ignoble and degraded, and to them are left all
mechanical arts and servile employments, as being beneath the dignity
of the superior castes. Amongst the Soodras, consequently, are the
goldsmiths; and as the different professions form a sort of minor castes
amongst the greater ones, the same business is transferred from father to
son; and all the powers of the mind being directed undistractedly to the
single object, pre-eminence in that line is naturally to be expected.

                                                                       N.




BARNY O’GRADY.


Behold me safely landed at Philadelphia, with one hundred pounds in
my pocket--a small sum of money; but many, from yet more trifling
beginnings, have grown rich in America. Many passengers who came over in
the same ship with me had not half so much. Several of them were indeed
wretchedly poor. Among others there was an Irishman, who was known by
the name of Barny--a contraction, I believe, for Barnaby. As to his
surname, he could not undertake to spell it, but he assured me there was
no better. This man, with many of his relatives, had come to England,
according to their custom, during harvest time, to assist in reaping,
because they gain higher wages than in their own country. Barny had
heard that he should get still higher wages for labour in America, and
accordingly he and his two sons, lads of eighteen and twenty, took their
passage for Philadelphia. A merrier mortal I never saw. We used to hear
him upon deck, continually singing or whistling his Irish tunes; and
I should never have guessed that this man’s life had been a series of
hardships and misfortunes.

When we were leaving the ship, I saw him, to my great surprise, crying
bitterly; and upon inquiring what was the matter, he answered that it
was not for himself, but for his two sons, he was grieving; because
they were to be made _redemption men_; that is, they were to be bound
to work, during a certain time, for the captain, or for whomsoever he
pleased, till the money due for their passage should be paid. Although I
was somewhat surprised at any one’s thinking of coming on board a vessel
without having one farthing in his pocket, yet I could not forbear paying
the money for this poor fellow. He dropped down on the deck upon both
his knees, as suddenly as if he had been shot, and holding up his hands
to heaven, prayed, first in Irish, and then in English, with fervent
fluency, that “I and mine might never want; that I might live long to
reign over him; that success might attend my honour wherever I went; and
that I might enjoy for evermore all sorts of blessings and crowns of
glory.” As I had an English prejudice in favour of silent gratitude, I
was rather disgusted by all this eloquence; I turned away abruptly, and
got into the boat which waited to carry me to shore.

       *       *       *       *       *

I had now passed three years in Philadelphia, and was not a farthing
the richer, but, alas, a great deal poorer. My inveterate habit of
procrastination--of delaying every thing till TO-MORROW, always stood
betwixt me and prosperity. I at last resolved upon leaving the land of
the star-spangled banner; but when I came to reckon up my resources, I
found that I could not do so, unless I disposed of my watch and my wife’s
trinkets. I was not accustomed to such things, and I was ashamed to go
to the pawnbroker’s, lest I should be met and recognised by some of my
friends. I wrapped myself up in an old surtout, and slouched my hat over
my face. As I was crossing the quay, I met a party of gentlemen walking
arm in arm. I squeezed past them, but one stopped and looked after me;
and though I turned down another street to escape him, he dodged me
unperceived. Just as I came out of the pawnbroker’s shop, I saw him
posted opposite me; I brushed by; I could with pleasure have knocked him
down for his impertinence. By the time that I had reached the corner of
the street, I heard a child calling after me; I stopped, and a little
boy put into my hand my watch, saying, “Sir, the gentleman says you left
your watch and these thingumbobs by mistake.”

“What gentleman?”

“I don’t know, but he was one that said I looked like an honest chap,
and he’d trust me to run and give you the watch. He is dressed in a blue
coat, and went towards the quay. That’s all I know.”

On opening the paper of trinkets, I found a card with these
words:--“_Barny_--with kind thanks.”

“Barny! poor Barny! An Irishman whose passage I paid coming to America
three years ago. Is it possible?”

I ran after him the way which the child directed, and was so fortunate as
just to catch a glimpse of the skirt of his coat as he went into a neat,
good-looking house. I walked up and down for some time, expecting him
to come out again; for I could not suppose that it belonged to Barny. I
asked a grocer who was leaning over his hatch-door, if he knew who lived
in the next house?

“An Irish gentleman of the name of O’Grady.”

“And his Christian name?”

“Here it is in my books, sir--Barnaby O’Grady.”

I knocked at Mr O’Grady’s door, and made my way into the parlour, where I
found him, his two sons, and his wife, sitting very sociably at tea. He
and the two young men rose immediately, to set me a chair.

“You are welcome, kindly welcome, sir,” said he. “This is an honour I
never expected, any way. Be pleased to take the seat next the fire.
’Twould be hard indeed if you should not have the best seat’s that to
be had in this house, where we none of us ever should have sat, nor had
seats to sit upon, but for you.”

The sons pulled off my shabby greatcoat, and took away my hat, and
Mrs O’Grady made up the fire. There was something in their manner,
altogether, which touched me so much that it was with difficulty I could
keep myself from bursting into tears. They saw this, and Barny (for I
shall never call him any thing else), as he thought that I should like
better to hear of public affairs than to speak of my own, began to ask
his sons if they had seen the day’s paper, and what news there were.

As soon as I could command my voice, I congratulated this family upon the
happy situation in which I found them, and asked by what lucky accident
they had succeeded so well.

“The luckiest accident ever _happened me_ before or since I came to
America,” said Barny, “was being on board the same vessel with such a
man as you. If you had not given me the first lift, I had been down for
good and all, and trampled under foot, long and long ago. But after that
first lift, all was as easy as life. My two sons here were not taken
from me--God bless you; for I never can bless you enough for that. The
lads were left to work for me and with me; and we never parted, hand or
heart, but just kept working on together, and put all our earnings, as
fast as we got them, into the hands of that good woman, and lived hard
at first, as we were born and bred to do, thanks be to heaven! Then we
swore against all sorts of drink entirely. And as I had occasionally
served the masons when I lived a labouring man in the county of Dublin,
and knew something of that business, why, whatever I knew, I made the
most of, and a trowel felt noways strange to me, so I went to work, and
had higher wages at first than I deserved. The same with the two boys;
one was as much of a blacksmith as would shoe a horse, and the other a
bit of a carpenter; so the one got plenty of work in the forges, and the
other in the dockyards as a ship-carpenter. So, early and late, morning
and evening, we were all at the work, and just went this way struggling
on even for a twelvemonth, and found, with the high wages and constant
employ we had met, that we were getting greatly better in the world.
Besides, the wife was not idle. When a girl, she had seen baking, and
had always a good notion of it, and just tried her hand upon it now, and
found the loaves went down with the customers, who came faster and faster
for them; and this was a great help. Then I turned master mason, and had
my men under me, and took a house to build by the job, and that did; and
then on to another; and after building many for the neighbours, ’twas
fit and my turn, I thought, to build one for myself, which I did out of
theirs, without wronging them of a penny. In short,” continued Barny, “if
you were to question me how I have got on so well in the world, upon my
conscience I should answer, we never made Saint Monday, and never put off
till to-morrow what we could do to-day.”

I believe I sighed deeply at this observation of Barny’s notwithstanding
the comic phraseology in which it was expressed.

“And would it be too much liberty to ask you,” said Barny, “to drink a
cup of tea, and to taste a slice of my good woman’s bread and butter? And
happy the day we see you eating it, and only wish we could serve you in
any way whatsoever.”

I verily believe the generous fellow forgot at this instant that he had
redeemed my watch and wife’s trinkets. He would not let me thank him as
much as I wished, but kept pressing upon me fresh offers of service. When
he found I was going to leave America, he asked what vessel we should go
in. I was really afraid to tell him, lest he should attempt to pay for my
passage. But for this he had, as I afterwards found, too much delicacy of
sentiment. He discovered, by questioning the captains, in what ship we
were to sail; and when we went on board, we found him and his sons there
to take leave of us, which they did in the most affectionate manner; and
after they were gone, we found in the state cabin, directed to me, every
thing that could be useful or agreeable to us, as sea stores for a long
voyage.--_Incident in a Tale entitled “To-morrow,” by Miss Edgeworth._

       *       *       *       *       *

DECISION OF CHARACTER: HOWARD THE PHILANTHROPIST.--In decision of
character no man ever exceeded, or ever will exceed, the late illustrious
Howard. The energy of his determination was so great, that if, instead
of being habitual, it had been shown only for a short time on particular
occasions, it would have appeared a vehement impetuosity; but by being
unintermitted it had an equability of manner which scarcely appeared to
exceed the tone of a calm constancy, it was so totally the reverse of any
thing like turbulence or agitation. It was the calmness of an intensity
kept uniform by the nature of the human mind forbidding it to be more,
and by the character of the individual forbidding it to be less. The
habitual passion of his mind was a measure of feeling almost equal to
the temporary extremes and paroxysms of common minds; as a great river,
in its customary state, is equal to a small or moderate one when swollen
to a torrent. The moment of finishing his plans in deliberation, and
commencing them in action, was the same. I wonder what must have been the
amount of that bribe in emolument or pleasure that would have detained
him a week inactive after their final adjustment. The law which carries
water down a declivity was not more unconquerable and invariable than the
determination of his feelings towards the main object. The importance of
this object held his faculties in a state of excitement which was too
rigid to be affected by lighter interests, and on which therefore the
beauties of nature and of art had no power. He had no leisure feeling
which he could spare to be diverted among the innumerable varieties of
the extensive scenes which he traversed: all his subordinate feelings
lost their separate existence and operation by falling into the grand
one. There have not been wanting trivial minds to mark this as a fault in
his character. But the mere men of taste ought to be silent respecting
such a man as Howard: he is above their sphere of judgment. The invisible
spirits who fulfil their commission of philanthropy among mortals do not
care about pictures, statues, and sumptuous buildings; and no more did
he, when the time in which he must have inspected and admired them would
have been taken from the work to which he had consecrated his life. His
labours implied an inconceivable severity of conviction that he had _one
thing to do_, and that he who would do some great thing in this short
life must apply himself to the work with such a concentration of his
forces as, to idle spectators who live only to amuse themselves, looks
like insanity. His attention was so strongly and tenaciously fixed on
his object, that even at the greatest distance, as the Egyptian pyramids
to travellers, it appeared to him with a luminous distinctness as if it
had been nigh, and beguiled the toilsome length of labour and enterprise
by which he was to reach it. It was so conspicuous before him that not
a step deviated from the direction, and every movement and every day
was an approximation. As his method referred every thing he did and
thought to the end, and as his exertions did not relax for a moment, he
made the trial, so seldom made, what the utmost effect is, which may be
granted to the last possible efforts of a human agent; and, therefore,
what he did not accomplish he might conclude to be placed beyond the
sphere of mortal activity, and calmly leave to the immediate disposal of
Omnipotence.--_Foster’s Essays._




KISSING OFF SAILORS.


An Irish Guineaman had been fallen in with by one of our cruisers, and
the commander of his majesty’s sloop the Hummingbird made a selection
of thirty or forty stout Hibernians to fill up his own complement, and
hand over the surplus to the admiral. Short-sighted mortals we all are,
and captains of men-of-war are not exempted from human imperfection.
How much also drops between the cup and the lip! There chanced to be on
board of the same trader two very pretty Irish girls, of the better sort
of bourgeoise, who were going to join their friends at Philadelphia. The
name of the one was Judy, and of the other Maria. No sooner were the poor
Irishmen informed of their change of destination, than they set up a
howl loud enough to make the scaly monsters of the deep seek their dark
caverns. They rent the hearts of the poor-hearted girls; and when the
thorough-bass of the males was joined by the sopranos and trebles of the
women and children, it would have made Orpheus himself turn round and
gaze.

“Oh, Miss Judy! oh, Miss Maria! would you be so cruel as to see us poor
crathurs dragged away to a man-of-war, and not for to go and spake a word
for us? A word to the captain from your own purty mouths, and no doubt he
would let us off.”

The young ladies, though doubting the powers of their own fascinations,
resolved to make the experiment. So, begging the lieutenant of the sloop
to give them a passage on board to speak with his captain, they added a
small matter of finery to their dress, and skipped into the boat like a
couple of mountain kids, caring neither for the exposure of ancles nor
the spray of the salt water, which, though it took the curls out of their
hair, added a bloom to their cheeks, which perhaps contributed in no
small degree to the success of their project. There is something in the
sight of a petticoat at sea that never fails to put a man into a good
humour, provided he be rightly constructed. When they got on board the
man-of-war, they were received by the captain.

“And pray, young ladies,” said he, “what may have procured me the honour
of this visit?”

“It was to beg a favour of your honour,” said Judy. “And his honour will
grant it too,” said Maria, “for I like the look of him.”

Flattered by this shot of Maria’s, the captain said that nothing ever
gave him more pleasure than to oblige the ladies; and if the favour they
intended to ask was not utterly incompatible with his duty, that he would
grant it.

“Well, then,” said Judy, “will your honour give me back Pat Flannagan,
that you have pressed just now?”

The captain shook his head.

“He’s no sailor, your honour, but a poor bog-trotter; and he will never
do you any good.”

The captain again shook his head. “Ask me anything else,” said he, “and I
will give it you.”

“Well, then,” said Maria, “give us Phelim O’Shaughnessy.”

The captain was equally inflexible.

“Come, come, your honour,” said Judy, “we must not stand upon trifles
now-a-days. I’ll give you a kiss if you give me back Pat Flannagan.”

“And I another,” said Maria, “for Phelim.”

The captain had one seated on each side of him; his head turned like a
dog-vane in a gale of wind. He did not know which to begin with; the
most ineffable good humour danced in his eyes; and the ladies saw at
once the day was their own. Such is the power of beauty, that this lord
of the ocean was fain to strike to it. Judy laid a kiss on his right
cheek; Maria matched it on his left; and the captain was the happiest of
mortals. “Well, then,” said he, “you have your wish; take your two men,
for I am in a hurry to make sail.”

“Is it sail ye are after makin’? and do ye mane to take all these poor
crathurs away wid you? No, faith; _another kiss and another man_.”

I am not going to relate how many kisses these lovely girls bestowed on
the envied captain. If such are captains’ perquisites, who would not be
a captain? Suffice it to say, they got the whole of their countrymen
released, and returned on board in triumph.

Lord Brougham used to say that he always laughed at the settlement of
pin-money, as ladies were generally either kicked out of it, or kissed
out of it; but his lordship, in the whole course of his legal practice,
never saw a captain of a man-of-war kissed out of forty men by two pretty
Irish girls. After this, who would not shout “Erin go bragh!”




ANCIENT IRISH LITERATURE.

Number 5.


The specimen of our ancient Irish Literature which we now present to
our readers, is one of the most popular songs of the peasantry of the
counties of Mayo and Galway, and is evidently a composition of that most
unhappy period of Irish history, the seventeenth century. The original
Irish which is the composition of one Thomas Lavelle, has been published
without a translation, by Mr Hardiman, in his Irish Minstrelsy; but a
very able translation of it was published in a review of that work in
the University Magazine for June 1834. From that translation the version
which we now give has been but slightly altered so as to adapt it to the
original melody, which is of very great beauty and pathos, and one which
it is desirable to preserve with English words of appropriate simplicity
of character:--


THE COUNTY OF MAYO.

  I.

  On the deck of Patrick Lynch’s boat I sit in woful plight,
  Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night.
  Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go.
  By the blessed sun, ’tis royally I’d sing thy praise. Mayo!

  II.

  When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound.
  In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round--
  ’Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I’m forced to go,
  And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo!

  III.

  They are altered girls in Irrul now, ’tis proud they’re grown and high,
  With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by--
  But it’s little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so,
  That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo!

  IIII.

  ’Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl in Irrul still,
  And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill,
  And that Colonel Hugh Mac Grady should be lying dead and low,
  And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo!

For the satisfaction of our Gaelic readers, we annex the original Irish
words:


Condae Maiġeó.

  Is ar an loingseo Phaidi Loingsiġ do ġnimse an dubron
  Ag osnaḋ ann san oiḋche is ag siorġol san ló
  Muna mbeiḋ gur dallaḋ minntleacht is me a ḃḟad om ṁuinntir
  Dar a maireann! is maiṫ a chaoinfinnsi condae Mhaiġeo.

  An uair a ṁair mo chairde buḋ ḃreaġ mo chuid oir
  Dolainn lionn Spaineach i gcoṁluadar ban og
  Muna mbeidh síor ol na gcártai san dliġ bheit ro láidir
  Ni a Santícrús a dḟácfainn mo ċnaṁa fán bhḟod.

  Táid gadaiḋniġe na háite seo ag eirgeaḋ go ṁór
  Fa ċnotaḋa is fa hairbag gan traċt as bhúclaḋa brog
  Da mairḟeaḋ damsa an iar-uṁaill do ḋeanfuinn díobh cianach
  Muna mbeiḋ gur ṫagair dia ḋam bheiṫ a gciantaibh fa bhron.

  Dá mbeiḋ Padruig Lochlainn ma iarla air iar-uṁaill go foil
  Brian Dubh a chliaṁain na ṫighearna ar ḋuṁach-ṁoir
  Aoḋ dubh mac Griada ’na choirnel a gCliara
  Is ann niu bheiḋ mo ṫriallsa go condae Mhaigheo.

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CAMEO-CUTTING.--This art is of great antiquity, and is pursued with most
success in Rome, where there are several very eminent artists now living.
Cameos are of two descriptions, those cut in stone, or _pietra dura_,
and those cut in shell. Of the first, the value depends on the stone, as
well as in the excellence of the work. The stones most prized now are the
oriental onyx and the sardonyx, the former black and white in parallel
layers, the latter cornelian, brown and white; and when stones of four
or five layers of distinct shades or colours can be procured, the value
is proportionably raised, provided always that the layers be so thin as
to be manageable in cutting the cameo so as to make the various parts
harmonize. For example, in a head of Minerva, if well wrought out of a
stone of four shades, the ground should be dark grey, the face light, the
bust and helmet black, and the crest over the helmet brownish or grey.
Next to such varieties of shades and layers, those stones are valuable in
which two layers occur of black and white of regular breadth. Except on
such oriental stones no good artist will now bestow his time; but, till
the beginning of this century, less attention was bestowed on materials,
so that beautiful middle-age and modern cameos may be found on German
agates, whose colours are generally only two shades of grey, or a cream
and a milk-white, and these not unfrequently cloudy. The best artist in
Rome in _pietra dura_ is the Signor Girometti, who has executed eight
cameos of various sizes, from 1½ to 3½ inches in diameter, on picked
stones of several layers, the subjects being from the antique. These form
a set of specimens, for which he asks £3,000 sterling. A single cameo of
good brooch size, and of two colours, costs £22. Portraits in stone by
those excellent artists Diez and Saulini may be had for £10. These cameos
are all wrought by a lathe with pointed instruments of steel, and by
means of diamond dust.

Shell cameos are cut from large shells found on the African and Brazilian
coasts, and generally show only two layers, the ground being either a
pale coffee-colour or a deep reddish-orange; the latter is most prized.
The subject is cut with little steel chisels out of the white portion
of the shell. A fine shell is worth a guinea in Rome. Copies from the
antique, original designs, and portraits, are executed in the most
exquisite style of finish, and perfect in contour and taste, and it may
be said that the Roman artists have attained perfection in this beautiful
art. Good shell cameos may be had at from £1 to £5 for heads, £3 to £4
for the finest large brooches, a comb costs £10, and a complete set of
necklace, ear-rings, and brooch cost £21. A portrait can be executed for
£4 or £5, according to workmanship.

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VENETIAN PAVEMENTS.--A most beautiful art may be mentioned here in
connection with the last, I mean that of making what are termed Venetian
pavements which might advantageously be introduced into this country.
The floors of rooms are finished with this pavement, as it is somewhat
incongruously termed, and I shall briefly describe the mode of operation
in making these, but must first observe that they are usually formed
over vaults. In the first place, a foundation is laid of lime mixed with
_pozzolana_ and small pieces of broken stone; this is in fact a sort of
concrete, which must be well beaten and levelled. When this is perfectly
dry, a fine paste, as it is termed by the Italians, must be made of lime,
_pozzolana_, and sand; a yellow sand is used which tinges the mixture;
this is carefully spread to a depth of one or two inches, according to
circumstances. Over this is laid a layer of irregularly broken minute
pieces of marble of different colours, and if it is wished, these can be
arranged in patterns. After the paste is completely covered with pieces
of marble, men proceed to beat the floor with large and heavy tools made
for the purpose; when the whole has been beaten into a compact mass, the
paste appearing above the pieces of marble, it is left to harden. It is
then rubbed smooth with fine grained stones, and is finally brought to
a high polish with emery powder, marble-dust, and, lastly, boiled oil
rubbed on with flannel. This makes a durable and very beautiful floor,
which in this country would be well adapted for halls, conservatories,
and other buildings.--_The Civil Engineer and Architect’s Journal._

       *       *       *       *       *

How destitute of humanity is he, who can pass a coarse joke upon the
emblem of unfeigned sorrow.

       *       *       *       *       *

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