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Phil Purcel, The Pig-Driver; The Geography Of An Irish Oath; The Lianhan Shee

by William Carleton · English · Gutenberg #16015 · 382,133 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Phil Purcel, The Pig-Driver; The Geography Of An Irish Oath; The Lianhan Shee

Author: William Carleton

Illustrator: M. L. Flanery


        
Release date: June 7, 2005 [eBook #16015]
                Most recently updated: March 7, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16015

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER; THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH; THE LIANHAN SHEE ***




TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY

BY WILLIAM CARLETON


PART IV.

[Illustration: Frontispiece]

[Illustration: Titlepage]



CONTENTS:

Phil Purcel, The Pig-Driver.

The Geography Of An Irish Oath.

The Lianhan Shee.



PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER.


Phil Purcel was a singular character, for he was never married; but
notwithstanding his singularity, no man ever possessed, for practical
purposes, a more plentiful stock of duplicity. All his acquaintances
knew that Phil was a knave of the first water, yet was he decidedly a
general favorite. Now as we hate mystery ourselves, we shall reveal the
secret of this remarkable popularity; though, after all, it can scarcely
be called so, for Phil was not the first cheat who has been popular
in his day. The cause of his success lay simply in this; that he never
laughed; and, none of our readers need be told, that the appearance of
a grave cheat in Ireland is an originality which almost runs up into
a miracle. This gravity induced every one to look upon him as a
phenomenon. The assumed simplicity of his manners was astonishing,
and the ignorance which he feigned, so apparently natural, that it was
scarcely possible for the most keen-sighted searcher into human motives
to detect him. The only way of understanding the man was to deal with
him: if, after that, you did not comprehend him thoroughly, the fault
was not Phil's, but your own. Although not mirthful himself, he was the
cause of mirth in others; for, without ever smiling at his own gains, he
contrived to make others laugh at their losses. His disposition, setting
aside laughter, was strictly anomalous. The most incompatible, the most
unamalgamatible, and the most uncomeatable qualities that ever refused
to unite in the same individual, had no scruple at all to unite in Phil.
But we hate metaphysics, which we leave to the mechanical philosophers,
and proceed to state that Phil was a miser, which is the best
explanation we can give of his gravity.

Ireland, owing to the march of intellect, and the superiority of modern
refinement, has been for some years past, and is at present, well
supplied with an abundant variety of professional men, every one of whom
will undertake, for proper considerations, to teach us Irish all manner
of useful accomplishments. The drawing-master talks of his profession;
the dancing-master of his profession; the fiddler, tooth-drawer, and
corn-cutter (who by the way, reaps a richer harvest than we do), since
the devil has tempted the schoolmaster to go abroad, are all practising
in his absence, as professional men.

Now-Phil must be included among this class of grandiloquent gentlemen,
for he entered life as a Professor of Pig-driving; and it is but justice
towards him to assert, that no corn-cutter of them all ever elevated his
profession so high as Phil did that in which he practised. In fact, he
raised it to the most exalted pitch of improvement of which it was then
susceptible; or to use the cant of the day, he soon arrived at “the head
of his profession.”

In Phil's time, however, pig-driving was not so general, nor had it
made such rapid advances as in modern times. It was, then, simply,
pig-driving, unaccompanied by the improvements of poverty, sickness, and
famine. Political economy had not then taught the people how to be poor
upon the most scientific principles; free trade had not shown the nation
the most approved plan of reducing itself to the lowest possible state
of distress; nor liberalism enabled the working classes to scoff at
religion, and wisely to stop at the very line that lies between outrage
and rebellion. Many errors and inconveniences, now happily exploded,
were then in existence. The people, it is true, were somewhat attached
to their landlords, but still they were burdened with the unnecessary
appendages of good coats and stout shoes; were tolerably industrious,
and had the mortification of being able to pay their rents, and feed
in comfort. They were not, as they are now, free from new coats and
old prejudices, nor improved by the intellectual march of politics and
poverty. When either a man or a nation starves, it is a luxury to starve
in an enlightened manner; and nothing is more consolatory to a person
acquainted with public rights and constitutional privileges, than to
understand those liberal principles upon which he fasts and goes naked.

From all we have said, the reader sees clearly that pig-driving did
not then proceed upon so extensive a scale as it does at present. The
people, in fact, killed many of them for their own use; and we know not
how it happened, but political ignorance and good bacon kept them in
more flesh and comfort than those theories which have since succeeded so
well in introducing the science of starvation as the basis of national
prosperity. Irishmen are frequently taxed with extravagance, in addition
to their other taxes; but we should be glad to know what people in
Europe reduce economy in the articles of food and clothing to such close
practice as they do.

Be this as it may, there was, in Ireland, an old breed of swine, which
is now nearly extinct, except in some remote parts of the country, where
they are still useful in the hunting season, particularly if dogs happen
to be scarce.* They were a tall, loose species, with legs of an unusual
length, with no flesh, short ears, as if they had been cropped for
sedition, and with long faces of a highly intellectual cast. They were
also of such activity that few greyhounds could clear a ditch or cross
a field with more agility or speed. Their backs formed a rainbow arch,
capable of being contracted or extended to an inconceivable degree; and
their usual rate of travelling in droves was at mail-coach speed, or
eight Irish miles an hour, preceded by an outrider to clear the way,
whilst their rear was brought up by another horseman, going at a
three-quarter gallop.

     * We assure John Bull, on the authority of Purcel
     himself, that this is a fact.

In the middle of summer, when all nature reposed under the united
influence of heat and dust, it was an interesting sight to witness a
drove of them sweeping past, like a whirlwind, in a cloud of their own
raising; their sharp and lengthy outlines dimly visible through the
shining haze, like a flock of antelopes crossing the deserts of the
East.

But alas! for those happy days! This breed is now a curiosity--few
specimens of it remaining except in the mountainous parts of the
country, whither these lovers of liberty, like the free natives of the
back settlements of America, have retired to avoid the encroachments of
civilization, and exhibit their Irish antipathy to the slavish comforts
of steamboat navigation, and the relaxing luxuries of English feeding.

Indeed, their patriotism, as evinced in an attachment to Ireland and
Irish habits, was scarcely more remarkable than their sagacity. There is
not an antiquary among the members of that learned and useful body, the
Irish Academy, who can boast such an intimate knowledge of the Irish
language in all its shades of meaning and idiomatic beauty, as did this
once flourishing class of animals. Nor were they confined to the Irish
tongue alone, many of them understood English too; and it was said
of those that belonged to a convent, the members of which, in their
intercourse with each other, spoke only in Latin, that they were
tolerable masters of that language, and refused to leave a potato field
or plot of cabbages, except when addressed in it. To the English tongue,
however, they had a deep-rooted antipathy; whether it proceeded from the
national feeling, or the fact of its not being sufficiently guttural,
I cannot say; but be this as it may, it must be admitted that they were
excellent Irish scholars, and paid a surprising degree of deference and
obedience to whatever was addressed to them in their own language. In
Munster, too, such of them as belonged to the hedge-schoolmasters were
good proficients in Latin; but it is on a critical knowledge of their
native tongue that I take my stand. On this point they were unrivalled
by the most learned pigs or antiquaries of their day; none of either
class possessing, at that period, such a knowledge of Irish manners, nor
so keen a sagacity in tracing out Irish roots.

Their education, it is true, was not neglected, and their instructors
had the satisfaction of seeing that it was not lost. Nothing could
present a finer display of true friendship founded upon a sense of
equality, mutual interest, and good-will, than the Irishman and his pig.
The Arabian and his horse are proverbial; but had our English neighbors
known as much of Ireland as they did of Arabia, they would have found as
signal instances of attachment subsisting between the former as between
the latter; and, perhaps, when the superior comforts of an Arabian hut
are contrasted with the squalid poverty of an Irish cabin, they would
have perceived a heroism and a disinterestedness evinced by the Irish
parties, that would have struck them with greater admiration.

The pigs, however, of the present day are a fat, gross, and degenerate
breed; and more like well-fed aldermen, than Irish pigs of the old
school. They are, in fact, a proud, lazy, carnal race, entirely of the
earth, earthy. John Bull assures us it is one comfort, however, that
we do not eat, but ship them out of the country; yet, after all, with,
great respect to John, it is not surprising that we should repine a
little on thinking of the good old times of sixty years since, when
every Irishman could kill his own pig, and eat it when he pleased. We
question much whether any measure that might make the eating of meat
compulsory upon us, would experience from Irishmen a very decided
opposition. But it is very condescending in John to eat our beef and
mutton; and as he happens to want both, it is particularly disinterested
in him to encourage us in the practice of self-denial. It is possible,
however, that we may ultimately refuse to banquet by proxy on our own
provisions; and that John may not be much longer troubled to eat for us
in that capacity.

The education of an Irish pig, at the time of which we write, was an
important consideration to an Irishman. He, and his family, and his
pig, like the Arabian and his horse, all slept in the same bed; the
pig generally, for the sake of convenience, next the “stock” (* at the
outside). At meals the pig usually was stationed at the _serahag_, or
potato-basket; where the only instances of bad temper he ever displayed
broke out in petty and unbecoming squabbles with the younger branches
of the family. Indeed, if he ever descended from his high station as a
member of the domestic circle, it was upon these occasions, when, with
a want of dignity, accounted for only by the grovelling motive of
self-interest, he embroiled himself in a series of miserable feuds and
contentions about scraping the pot, or carrying off from the jealous
urchins about him more than came to his share. In these heart-burnings
about the good things of this world, he was treated with uncommon
forbearance: in his owner he always had a friend, from whom, when he
grunted out his appeal to him, he was certain of receiving redress:
“Barney, behave, avick: lay down the potstick, an' don't be batin' the
pig, the crathur.”

In fact, the pig was never mentioned but with this endearing epithet of
“crathur” annexed. “Barney, go an' call home the pig, the crathur, to
his dinner, before it gets cowld an him.” “Barney, go an' see if you can
see the pig, the crathur, his buckwhist will soon be ready.” “Barney,
run an' dhrive the pig, the crathur, out of Larry Neil's phatie-field:
an', Barney, whisper, a bouchal bawn, don't run _too_ hard, Barney, for
fraid you'd lose your breath. What if the crathur does get a taste o'
the new phaties--small blame to him for the same!”

In short, whatever might have been the habits of the family, such were
those of the pig. The latter was usually out early in the morning to
take exercise, and the unerring regularity with which he returned at
mealtime gave sufficient proof that procuring an appetite was a work of
supererogation on his part. If he came before the meal was prepared, his
station was at the door, which they usually shut to keep him out of
the way until it should be ready. In the meantime, so far as a forenoon
serenade and an indifferent voice could go, his powers of melody were
freely exercised on the outside. But he did not stop here: every stretch
of ingenuity was tried by which a possibility of gaining admittance
could be established. The hat and rags were repeatedly driven in from
the windows, which from practice and habit he was enabled to approach on
his hind legs; a cavity was also worn by the frequent grubbings of his
snout under the door, the lower part of which was broken away by the
sheer strength of his tusks, so that he was enabled, by thrusting
himself between the bottom of it and the ground, to make a most
unexpected appearance on the hearth, before his presence was at all
convenient or acceptable.

But, independently of these two modes of entrance, i. e., the door and
window, there was also a third, by which he sometimes scrupled not to
make a descent upon the family. This was by the chimney. There are
many of the Irish cabins built for economy's sake against slopes in the
ground, so that the labor of erecting either a gable or side-wall is
saved by the perpendicular bank that remains after the site of the house
is scooped away. Of the facilities presented by this peculiar structure,
the pig never failed to avail himself. He immediately mounted the roof
(through which, however, he sometimes took an unexpected flight),
and traversing it with caution, reached the chimney, into which he
deliberately backed himself, and with no small share of courage, went
down precisely as the northern bears are said to descend the trunks of
trees during the winter, but with far different motives.

In this manner he cautiously retrograded downwards with a hardihood,
which set furze bushes, brooms, tongs, and all other available weapons
of the cabin at defiance. We are bound, however, to declare, that this
mode of entrance, which was only resorted to when every other failed,
was usually received by the cottager and his family with a degree of
mirth and good-humor that were not lost upon the sagacity of the pig.
In order to save him from being scorched, which he deserved for his
temerity, they usually received him in a creel, often in a quilt, and
sometimes in the tattered blanket, or large pot, out of which he looked
with a humorous conception of his own enterprise, that was highly
diverting. We must admit, however, that he was sometimes received with
the comforts of a hot poker, which Paddy pleasantly called, “givin' him
a warm welcome.”

Another trait in the character of these animals, was the utter scorn
with which they treated all attempts to fatten them. In fact, the usual
consequences of good feeding were almost inverted in their case; and
although I might assert that they became leaner in proportion to what
they received, yet I must confine myself to truth, by stating
candidly that this was not the fact; that there was a certain state
of fleshlessness to which they arrived, but from which they neither
advanced nor receded by good feeding or bad. At this point, despite of
all human ingenuity, they remained stationary for life, received
the bounty afforded them with a greatness of appetite resembling
the fortitude of a brave man, which rises in energy according to the
magnitude of that which it has to encounter. The truth is, they were
scandalous hypocrites; for with the most prodigious capacity for food,
they were spare as philosophers, and fitted evidently more for the chase
than the sty; rather to run down a buck or a hare for the larder, than
to have a place in it themselves. If you starved them, they defied you
to diminish their flesh; and if you stuffed them like aldermen, they
took all they got, but disdained to carry a single ounce more than
if you gave them whey thickened with water. In short, they gloried in
maceration and liberty; were good Irish scholars, sometimes acquainted
with Latin; and their flesh, after the trouble of separating it from a
superfluity of tough skin, was excellent venison so far as it went.

Now Phil Purcel, whom we will introduce more intimately to the reader by
and by, was the son of a man who always kept a pig.

His father's house had a small loft, to which the ascent was by a
step-ladder through a door in the inside gable. The first good thing
ever Phil was noticed for he said upon the following occasion. His
father happened to be called upon, one morning before breakfast, by his
landlord, who it seems occasionally visited his tenantry to encourage,
direct, stimulate, or reprove them, as the case might require. Phil was
a boy then, and sat on the hob in the corner, eyeing the landlord and
his father during their conversation. In the mean time the pig came in,
and deliberately began to ascend the ladder with an air of authority
that marked him as one in the exercise of an established right. The
landlord was astonished at seeing the animal enter the best room in the
house and could not help expressing his surprise to old Purcel:

“Why, Purcel, is your pig in the habit of treating himself to the
comforts of your best room?”

“The pig is it, the crathur? Why, your haner,” said Purcel, after a
little hesitation, “it sometimes goes up of a mornin' to waken the
childhre, particularly when the buckwhist happens to be late. It doesn't
like to be waitin'; and sure none of us likes to be kept from the male's
mate, your haner, when we want it, no more than it, the crathur!”

“But I wonder your wife permits so filthy an animal to have access to
her rooms in this manner.”

“Filthy!” replied Mrs. Purcel, who felt herself called upon to defend
the character of the pig, as well as her own, “why, one would think,
sir, that any crathur that's among Christyen childhre, like one o'
themselves, couldn't be filthy. I could take it to my dyin' day, that
there's not a claner or dacenter pig in the kingdom, than the same pig.
It never misbehaves, the crathur, but goes out, as wise an' riglar, jist
by a look, an' that's enough for it, any day--a single look, your haner,
the poor crathur!”

“I think,” observed Phil, from the hob, “that nobody has a betther right
to the run of the house, whedher up stairs or down stairs, _than him
that pays the rint_.”

“Well said, my lad!” observed the landlord, laughing at the quaint
ingenuity of Phil's defence. “His payment of the rent is the best
defence possible, and no doubt should cover a multitude of his errors.”

“A multitude of his shins, you mane, sir,” said Phil, “for thruth he's
all shin.”

In fact, Phil from his infancy had an uncommon attachment to these
animals, and by a mind naturally shrewd and observing, made himself
as intimately acquainted with their habits and instincts, and the best
modes of managing them, as ever the celebrated _Cahir na Cappul_* did
with those of the horse. Before he was fifteen, he could drive the most
vicious and obstinate pig as quietly before him as a lamb; yet no one
knew how, nor by what means he had gained the secret that enabled him to
do it. Whenever he attended a fair, his time was principally spent among
the pigs, where he stood handling, and examining, and pretending to buy
them, although he seldom had half-a-crown in his pocket. At length, by
hoarding up such small sums as he could possibly lay his hand on, he got
together the price of a “slip,” which he bought, reared, and educated in
a manner that did his ingenuity great credit. When this was brought
to its _ne plus ultra_ of fatness, he sold it, and purchased two more,
which he fed in the same way. On disposing of these, he made a fresh
purchase, and thus proceeded, until, in the course of a few years, he
was a well-known pig-jobber.

     * I subjoin from Townsend's Survey of the county of
     Cork a short but authentic account of this most
     extraordinary character:--“James Sullivan was a native
     of the county of Cork, and an awkward ignorant rustic
     of the lowest class, generally known by the appellation
     of the _Whisperer_, and his profession was horse-
     breaking. The credulity of the vulgar bestowed that
     epithet upon him, from an opinion that he communicated
     his wishes to the animal by means of a whisper; and the
     singularity of his method gave some color to the
     superstitious belief. As far as the sphere of his
     control extended, the boast of _Veni, Vidi, Vici_, was
     more justly claimed by James Sullivan, than by Caesar,
     or even Bonaparte himself. How his art was acquired, or
     in what it consisted, is likely to remain for ever
     unknown, as he has lately left the world without
     divulging it. His son, who follows the same occupation,
     possesses but a small portion of the art, having either
     never learned its true secret, or being incapable of
     putting it in practice. The wonder of his skill
     consisted in the short time requisite to accomplish his
     design, which was performed in private, and without any
     apparent means of coercion. Every description of horse,
     or even mule, whether previously broke, or unhandled,
     whatever their peculiar vices or ill habits might have
     been, submitted, without show of resistance, to the
     magical influence of his art, and, in the short space
     of half an hour, became gentle and tractable. The
     effect, though instantaneously produced, was generally
     durable. Though more submissive to him than to others,
     yet they seemed to have acquired a docility, unknown
     before. When sent for to tame a vicious horse, he
     directed the stable in which he and the object of his
     experiment were placed, to be shut, with orders not to
     open the door until a signal given. After a _tete-a-
     tete_ between him and the horse for about half an hour,
     during which little or no bustle was heard, the signal
     was made; and upon opening the door, the horse was
     seen, lying down, and the man by his side, playing
     familiarly with him, like a child with a puppy dog.
     From that time he was found perfectly willing to submit
     to discipline, however repugnant to his nature before.
     Some saw his skill tried on a horse, which could never
     be brought to stand for a smith to shoe him. The day
     after Sullivan's half hour lecture, I went, not without
     some incredulity, to the smith's shop, with many other
     curious spectators, where we were eye-witnesses of the
     complete success of his art. This, too, had been a
     troop-horse; and it was supposed, not without reason,
     that after regimental discipline had failed, no other
     would be found availing. I observed that the animal
     seemed afraid, whenever Sullivan either spoke or looked
     at him. How that extraordinary ascendancy could have
     been obtained, it is difficult to conjecture, in common
     eases, this mysterious preparation was unnecessary. He
     seemed to possess an instinctive power of inspiring
     awe, the result, perhaps, of natural intrepidity, in
     which, I believe, a great part of his art consisted;
     though the circumstance of his tete-a-tete shows, that,
     upon particular occasions, something more must have
     been added to it. A faculty like this would, in other
     hands, have made a fortune, and great offers have been
     made to him for the exercise of his art abroad; but
     hunting, and attachment to his native soil, were his
     ruling passions. He lived at home, in the style most
     agreeable to his disposition, and nothing could induce
     him to quit Dunhalow and the fox-hounds.”

Phil's journeys as a pig-driver to the leading seaport towns nearest
him, were always particularly profitable. In Ireland, swine are not kept
in sties, as they are among English feeders, but permitted, to go at
liberty through pasture fields, commons, and along roadsides, where they
make up as well as they can for the scanty pittance allowed them at home
during meal-times. We do not, however, impeach Phil's honesty; but simply
content ourselves with saying, that when his journey was accomplished,
he mostly found the original number with which he had set out increased
by three or four, and sometimes by half a dozen. Pigs in general
resemble each other, and it surely was not Phil's fault if a stray one,
feeding on the roadside or common, thought proper to join his drove and
see the world. Phil's object, we presume, was only to take care that his
original number was not diminished, its increase being a matter in which
he felt little concern. He now determined to take a professional trip
to England, and that this might be the more productive, he resolved to
purchase a lot of the animals we have been describing. No time was lost
in this speculation. The pigs were bought up as cheaply as possible, and
Phil sat out, for the first time in his life, to try with what success
he could measure his skill against that of a Yorkshireman. On this
occasion, he brought with him a pet, which he had with considerable
pains trained up for purposes hereafter to be explained.

There was nothing remarkable in the passage, unless that every creature
on board was sea-sick, except the pigs; even to them, however, the
change was a disagreeable one; for to be pent up in the hold of a ship
was a deprivation of liberty, which, fresh as they were from their
native hills, they could not relish. They felt, therefore, as patriots,
a loss of freedom, but not a whit of appetite; for, in truth, of the
latter no possible vicissitude short of death could deprive them.

Phil, however, with an assumed air of simplicity absolutely stupid,
disposed of them to a Yorkshire dealer at about twice the value they
would have brought in Ireland, though as pigs went in England it was low
enough. He declared that they had been fed on tip-top feeding: which was
literally true, as he afterwards admitted that the tops of nettles and
potato stalks constituted the only nourishment they had got for three
weeks before.

The Yorkshireman looked with great contempt upon what he considered a
miserable essay to take him in.

“What a fule this Hirishmun mun bea;” said he, “to think to teake me
in! Had he said that them there Hirish swoine were badly feade, I'd
ha' thought it fairish enough on un; but to seay that they was oll weal
feade on tip-top feeadin'! Nea, nea! I knaws weal enough that they
was noat feade on nothin' at oll, which meakes them loak so poorish!
Howsomever, I shall fatten them. I'se warrant--I'se warrant I shall!”

When driven home to sties somewhat more comfortable than the cabins of
unfortunate Irishmen, they were well supplied with food which would have
been very often considered a luxury by poor Paddy himself, much less by
his pigs.

“Measter,” said the man who had seen them fed, “them there Hirish pigs
ha' not feasted nout for a moonth yet: they feade like nout I seed o' my
laife!!”

“Ay! ay!” replied the master, “I'se warrant they'll soon fatten--I'se
warrant they shall, Hodge--they be praime feeders--I'se warrant they
shall; and then, Hodge, we've bit the soft Hirishmun.”

Hodge gave a knowing look at his master, and grinned at this
observation.

The next morning Hodge repaired to the sties to see how they were
thriving; when, to his great consternation, he found the feeding-troughs
clean as if they had been washed, and, not a single Irish pig to be seen
or heard about the premises; but to what retreat the animals could
have betaken themselves, was completely beyond his comprehension. He
scratched his head, and looked about him in much perplexity.

“Dang un!” he exclaimed, “I never seed nout like this.”

He would have proceeded in a strain of cogitation equally enlightened,
had not a noise of shouting, alarm, and confusion in the neighborhood,
excited his attention. He looked about him, and to his utter
astonishment saw that some extraordinary commotion prevailed, that the
country was up, and the hills alive with people, who ran, and shouted,
and wheeled at full flight in all possible directions. His first object
was to join the crowd, which he did as soon as possible, and found that
the pigs he had shut up the preceding night in sties whose enclosures
were at least four feet high, had cleared them like so many chamois, and
were now closely pursued by the neighbors, who rose _en masse_ to hunt
down and secure such dreadful depredators.

The waste and mischief they had committed in one night were absolutely
astonishing. Bean and turnip fields, and vegetable enclosures of all
descriptions, kitchen-gardens, corn-fields, and even flower-gardens,
were rooted up and destroyed with an appearance of system which would
have done credit to Terry Alt himself.

Their speed was the theme of every tongue. Hedges were taken in their
flight, and cleared in a style that occasioned the country people to
turn up their eyes, and scratch their heads in wonder. Dogs of all
degrees bit the dust, and were caught up dead in stupid amazement by
their owners, who began to doubt whether or not these extraordinary
animals were swine at all. The depredators in the meantime had adopted
the Horatian style of battle. Whenever there was an ungenerous advantage
taken in the pursuit, by slipping dogs across or before their path,
they shot off, at a tangent through the next crowd; many of whom they
prostrated in their flight; by this means they escaped the dogs until
the latter were somewhat exhausted, when, on finding one in advance of
the rest, they turned, and, with standing bristles and burning tusks,
fatally checked their pursuer in his full career. To wheel and fly until
another got in advance, was then the plan of fight; but, in fact the
conflict was conducted on the part of the Irish pigs with a fertility of
expediency that did credit to their country, and established for those
who displayed it, the possession of intellect far superior to that of
their opponents. The pigs now began to direct their course towards the
sties in which they had been so well fed the night before. This being
their last flight they radiated towards one common centre, with a
fierceness and celerity that occasioned the woman and children to take
shelter within doors. On arriving at the sties, the ease with which they
shot themselves over the four-feet walls was incredible. The farmer had
caught the alarm, and just came out in time to witness their return; he
stood with his hands driven down into the pockets of his red, capacious
waistcoat, and uttered not a word. When the last of them came bounding
into the sty, Hodge approached, quite breathless and exhausted:

“Oh, measter,” he exclaimed, “these be not Hirish pigs at oll, they be
Hirish devils; and yau mun ha' bought 'em fra a cunning mon!”

[Illustration: PAGE 911-- These be not Hirish pigs at oll]

“Hodge,” replied his master, “I'se be bit--I'se heard feather talk about
un. That breed's true Hirish: but I'se try and sell 'em to Squoire Jolly
to hunt wi' as beagles, for he wants a pack. They do say all the swoine
that the deevils were put into ha' been drawn; but for my peart, I'se
sure that some on un must ha' escaped to Hireland.”

Phil during the commotion excited by his knavery in Yorkshire, was
traversing the country, in order to dispose of his remaining pig; and
the manner in which he effected his first sale of it was as follows:

A gentleman was one evening standing with some laborers by the wayside
when a tattered Irishman, equipped in a pair of white dusty brogues,
stockings without feet, old patched breeches, a bag slung across his
shoulder, his coarse shirt lying open about a neck tanned by the sun
into a reddish yellow, a hat nearly the color of the shoes, and a hay
rope tied for comfort about his waist; in one hand he also held a straw
rope, that depended from the hind leg of a pig which he drove before
him; in the other was a cudgel, by the assistance of which he contrived
to limp on after it, his two shoulder-blades rising and falling
alternately with a shrugging motion that indicated great fatigue.

When he came opposite where the gentleman stood he checked the pig,
which instinctively commenced feeding upon the grass by the edge of the
road.

“Och,” said he, wiping his brow with the cuff of his coat, “_mavrone
orth a muck_,* but I'm kilt wit you. Musha, Gad bless yer haner, an'
maybe ye'd buy a slip of a pig fwhrom me, that has my heart bruck, so
she has, if ever any body's heart was bruck wit the likes of her; an'
sure so there was, no doubt, or I wouldn't be as I am wid her. I'll give
her a dead bargain, sir; for it's only to get her aff av my hands I'm
wanting plase yer haner--_husth amuck--husth, a veehone!_** Be asy, an'
me in conwersation wid his haner here!”

     * My sorrow on you for a pig.

     ** Silence pig! Silence, you pig! Silence, you
     vagabond!

“You are an Irishman?” the gentleman inquired.

“I am, sir, from Connaught, yer haner, an' ill sell the crathur dag
cheap, all out. Asy, you thief!”

“I don't want the pig, my good fellow,” replied the Englishman,
without evincing curiosity enough to inquire how he came to have such a
commodity for sale.

“She'd be the darlint in no time wid you, sir; the run o' your kitchen
'ud make her up a beauty, your haner, along wit no trouble to the
sarvints about sweepin' it, or any thing. You'd only have to lay down
the potato-basket on the flure, or the misthress, Gad bless her, could
do it, an' not lave a crumblin' behind her, besides sleepin, your haner,
in the carner beyant, if she'd take the throuble.”

The sluggish phlegm of the Englisman was stirred up a little by the
twisted, and somewhat incomprehensible nature of these instructions.

“How far do you intend to proceed tonight, Paddy?” said he.

“The sarra one o' myself knows, plaze yer haner: sure we've an ould
sayin' of our own in Ireland beyant--that he's a wise man can I tell how
far he'll go, sir, till he comes to his journey's ind. I'll give this
crathur to you at more nor her value, yer haner.”

“More!--why the man knows not what he's saying,” observed the gentleman;
“less you mean, I suppose, Paddy?”

“More or less, sir: you'll get her a bargain; an' Gad bless you, sir!”

“But it is a commodity which I don't want at present. I am very well
stocked with pigs, as it is. Try elsewhere.”

“She'd flog the counthry side, sir; an' if the misthress herself, sir,
'ud shake the wishp o' sthraw fwor her in the kitchen, sir, near the
whoire. Yer haner could spake to her about it; an' in no time put a
knife into her whin you plazed. In regard o' the other thing, sir--she's
like a Christyeen, yer haner, an' no throuble, sir, if you'd be seein'
company or any thing.”

“It's an extraordinary pig, this, of yours.”

“It's no lie fwhor you, sir; she's as clane an' dacent a crathur, sir!
Och, if the same pig 'ud come into the care o' the misthress, Gad
bliss her! an' I'm sure if she has as much gudness in her face as the
hanerable _dinnha ousahl_ (* gentleman)--the handsome gintleman she's
married upon!--you'll have her thrivin' bravely, sir, shartly, plase
Gad, if you'll take courage. Will I dhrive her up the aveny fwor you,
sir? A good gintlewoman I'm sure, is the same misthriss! Will I dhrive
her up fwor you, sir? _Shadh amuck--shadh dherin!_“*

     *Behave yourself pig--behave, I say!

“No, no; I have no further time to lose; you may go forward.”

“Thank your haner; is it whorid toarst the house abow, sir? I wouldn't
be standin' up, sir, wit you about a thrifle; an you'll have her, sir,
fwhor any thing you plase beyant a pound, yer haner; an' 'tis throwin'
her away it is: but one can't be hard wit a rale gintleman any way.”

“You only annoy me, man; besides I don't want the pig; you lose time; I
don't want to buy it, I repeat to you.”

“Gad bliss you, sir--Gad bliss you. Maybe if I'd make up to the
mishthress, yer haner! Thrath she wouldn't turn the crathur from the
place, in regard that the tindherness ow the feelin' would come ower
her--the rale gintlewoman, any way! 'Tis dag chape you have her at what
I said, sir; an' Gad bliss you!”

“Do you want to compel me to purchase it whether I will or no?”

“Thrath, it's whor next to nothin' I'm giv-in' her to you, sir; but
sure you can make your own price at any thing beyant a pound. _Huerish
amuck--sladh anish!_--be asy, you crathur, sure you're gettin' into good
quarthers, any how--go into the hanerable English gintleman's kitchen,
an' God knows it's a pleasure to dale wit 'em. Och, the world's differ
there is betuxt them, an' our own dirty Irish buckeens, that 'ud shkin
a bad skilleen, an' pay their debts wit the remaindher. The gateman 'ud
let me in, yer haner, an' I'll meet you at the big house, abow.”

“Upon my honor this is a good jest,” said the gentleman, absolutely
teased into a compliance; “you are forcing me to buy that which I don't
want.”

“Sure you will, sir; you'll want more nor that yit, please Gad, if you
be spared. Come, amuck--come, you crathur; faix you're in luck so you
are--gettin' so good a place wit his haner, here, that you won't know
yourself shortly, plase God.”

He immediately commenced driving his pig towards the gentleman's
residence with such an air of utter simplicity, as would have imposed
upon any man not guided by direct inspiration. Whilst he approached the
house, its proprietor arrived there by another path a few minutes before
him, and, addressing his lady, said:

“My dear, will you come and look at a purchase which an Irishman has
absolutely compelled me to make? You had better come and see himself,
too, for he is the greatest simpleton of an Irishman I have ever met
with.”

The lady's curiosity was more easily excited than that of her husband.
She not only came out, but brought with her some ladies who had been on
a visit, in order to hear the Irishman's brogue, and to amuse themselves
at his expense. Of the pig, too, it appeared she was determined to know
something.

“George, my love, is the pig also from Ireland?”

“I don't know, my dear; but I should think so from its fleshless
appearance. I have never seen so spare an animal of that class in this
country.”

“Juliana,” said one of the ladies to her companion, “don't go too near
him. Gracious! look at the bludgeon, or beam, or something he carries
in his hand, to fight' and beat the people, I suppose: yet,” she added,
putting up her glass, “the man is actually not ill-looking; and, though
not so tall as the Irishman in Sheridan's Rivals, he is well made.”

“His eyes are good,” said her companion--“a bright gray, and keen; and
were it not that his nose is rather short and turned up, he would be
handsome.”

“George, my love,” exclaimed the lady of the mansion, “he is like most
Irishmen of his class that I have seen; indeed, scarcely so intelligent,
for he does appear quite a simpleton, except, perhaps, a lurking kind of
expression, which is a sign of their humor, I suppose. Don't you think
so, my love?”

“No, my dear; I think him a bad specimen of the Irishman. Whether it
is that he talks our language but imperfectly, or that he is a stupid
creature, I cannot say; but in selling the pig just now, he actually
told me that he would let me have it for more than it was worth.”

“Oh, that was so laughable! We will speak to him, though.”

The degree of estimation in which these civilized English held Phil was
so low, that this conversation took place within a few yards of him,
precisely as if he had been an animal of an inferior species, or one of
the aborigines of New Zealand.

“Pray what is your name?” inquired the matron.

“Phadhrumshagh Corfuffle, plase yer haner: my fadher carried the same
name upon him. We're av the Corfuflies av Leatherum Laghy, my lady; but
my grandmudher was a Dornyeen, an' my own mudher, plase yer haner, was
o' the Shudhurthagans o' Ballymadoghy, my ladyship, _Sladh anish, amuck
bradagh!_*--be asy, can't you, an' me in conwersation wit the beauty o'
the world that I'm spakin' to.”

     * Be quiet now, you wicked pig.

“That's the Negus language,” observed,one of the young ladies, who
affected to be a wit and a blue-stocking; “it's Irish and English
mixed.”

“Thrath, an' but that the handsome young lady's so purty,” observed
Phil, “I'd be sayin' myself that that's a quare remark upon a poor
unlarned man; but, Gad bless her, she is so purty what can one say for
lookin' an her!”

“The poor man, Adelaide, speaks as well as he can,” replied the lady,
rather reprovingly: “he is by no means so wild as one would have
expected.”

“Candidly speaking, much _tamer_ than I expected,” rejoined the wit.
Indeed, I meant the poor Irishman no offence.”

“Where did you get the pig, friend? and how came you to have it for sale
so far from home?”

“Fwhy it isn't whor sale, my lady,” replied Phil, evading the former
question; “the masther here, Gad bless him an' spare him to you,
ma'am!--thrath, an' it's his four quarthers that knew how to pick out
a wife, any how, whor beauty an' all hanerable whormations o'
grandheur--so he did; an' well he desarves you, my lady: faix, it's a
fine houseful o' thim you'll have, plase Gad--an' fwhy not? whin it's
all in the coorse o' Providence, bein' both so handsome:--he gev me a
pound note whor her my ladyship, an' his own plisure aftherwards; an'
I'm now waitin' to be ped.”

“What kind of a country is Ireland, as I understand you are an
Irishman?”

“Thrath, my lady, it's like fwhat maybe you never seen--a fool's purse,
ten guineas goin' out whor one that goes in.”

“Upon my word that's wit,” observed the young blue-stocking.

“What's your opinion of Irishwomen?” the lady continued; “are they
handsomer than the English ladies, think you?”

“Murdher, my lady,” says Phil, raising his caubeen, and scratching his
head in pretended perplexity, with his linger and thumb, “fwhat am I to
say to that, ma'am, and all of yez to the fwhore? But the sarra one av
me will give it agin the darlin's beyant.”

“But which do you think the more handsome?”

“Thrath, I do, my lady; the Irish and English women would flog the
world, an' sure it would be a burnin' shame to go to sot them agin one
another fwhor beauty.”

“Whom do you mean by the 'darlin's beyant?'” inquired the blue-stocking,
attempting to pronounce the words.

“Faix, miss, who but the crathers ower the wather, that kills us
entirely, so they do.”

“I cannot comprehend him,” she added to the lady of the mansion.

“Arrah, maybe I'd make bould to take up the manners from you fwhor a
while, my lady, Plase yer haner?” said Phil, addressing the latter.

“I do not properly understand you,” she replied, “speak plainer.”

“Troth, that's fwhat they do, yer haner; they never go about the bush
wit yez--the gintlemen, ma'am, of our country, fwhin they do be coortin'
yez; an' I want to ax, ma'am, if you plase, fwhat you think of thim,
that is if ever any of them had the luck to come acrass you, my lady?”

“I have not been acquainted with many Irish gentlemen,” she replied,
“but I hear they are men of a remarkable character.”

“Faix, 'tis you may say that,” replied Phil; “sowl, my lady, 'tis well
for the masther here, plase yer haner, sir, that none o' them met
wit the misthress before you was both marrid, or, wit riverence be it
spoken, 'tis the sweet side o' the tongue they'd be layin' upon you,
ma'am, an' the rough side to the masther himself, along wit a few
scrapes of a pen on a slip o' paper, jist to appoint the time and place,
in regard of her ladyship's purty complexion--an' who can deny that,
any way? Faix, ma'am, they've a way wit them, my counthrymen, that the
ladies like well enough to thravel by. Asy, you deludher, an' me in
conwersaytion wit the quality.”

“I am quite anxious to know how you came by the pig, Paddy,” said the
wit.

“Arrah, miss, sure 'tisn't pigs you're thinkin' on, an' us discoorsin'
about the gintlemen from Ireland, that you're all so fond ow here; faix,
miss, they're the boys that fwoight for yees, an' 'ud rather be bringing
an Englishman to the sad fwhor your sakes, nor atin' bread an' butther.
Fwhy, now, miss, if you were beyant wit us, sarra ounce o' gunpqwdher
we'd have in no time, for love or money.”

“Upon my word I should like to see Ireland!” exclaimed the
blue-stocking; “but why would the gunpowder get scarce, pray?”

“Faix, fightin' about you, miss, an' all of yez, sure; for myself sees
no differ at all in your hanerable fwhormations of beauty and grandheur,
an' all high-flown admirations.”

“But tell us where you got the pig, Paddy?” persisted the wit, struck
naturally enough with the circumstance. “How do you come to have an
Irish pig so far from home?”

“Fwhy thin, miss, 'twas to a brother o' my own I was bringing it, that
was livin' down the counthry here, an' fwhin I came to fwhere he lived,
the sarra one o' me knew the place, in regard o' havin' forgotten the
name of it entirely, an' there was I wit the poor crathur an my hands,
till his haner here bought it from me--Gad bless you, sir!”

“As I live, there's a fine Irish blunder,” observed the wit; “I shall
put in my commonplace-book--it will be so genuine. I declare I'm quite
delighted!”

“Well, Paddy,” said the gentleman, “here's your money. There's a pound
for you, and that's much more than the miserable animal is worth.”

“Troth, sir, you have the crathur at what we call in Ireland a bargain.*
Maybe yer haner 'ud spit upon the money fwhor luck, sir. It's the way we
do, sir, beyant.”

     * Ironically--a take in.

“No, no, Paddy, take it as it is. Good heavens! what barbarous habits
these Irish have in all their modes of life, and how far they are
removed from anything like civilization!”

“Thank yer haner. Faix, sir, this'll come so handy for the landlord at
kome, in regard o' the rint for the bit o' phatie ground, so it will, if
I can get home agin widout brakin' it. Arrah, maybe yer haner 'ud give
me the price o' my bed, an' a bit to ate, sir, an' keep me from brakin'
in upon this, sir, Gad bless the money! I'm thinkin' o' the poor wife
an' childher, sir--strivin', so I am, to do fwhor the darlins.”

“Poor soul,” said the lady, “he is affectionate in the midst of his
wretchedness and ignorance.”

“Here--here,” replied the Englishman, anxious to get rid of him,
“there's a shilling, which I give because you appear to be attached to
your family.”

“Och, och, fwhat can I say, sir, only that long may you reign ower your
family, an' the hanerable ladies to the fwore, sir. Gad fwhorever bliss
you, sir, but you're the kind, noble gintleman, an' all belongin' to
you, sir!”

Having received the shilling, he was in the act of departing, when,
after turning it deliberately in his hand, shrugging his shoulders
two or three times, and scratching his head, with a vacant face he
approached the lady.

“Musha, ma'am, an maybe ye'd have the tindherness in your heart, seein'
that the gudness is in yer hanerable face, any way, an' it would save
the skillyeen that the masther gev'd for payin' my passage, so it would,
jist to bid the steward, my ladyship, to ardher me a bit to ate in the
kitchen below. The hunger, ma'am, is hard upon me, my lady; an' fwhat
I'm doin', sure, is in regard o' the wife at home, an' the childher, the
crathurs, an' me far fwhrom them, in a sthrange country, Gad help me!”

“What a singular being, George! and how beautifully is the economy of
domestic affection exemplified, notwithstanding his half-savage
state, in the little plans he devises for the benefit of his wife and
children!” exclaimed the good lady, quite unconscious that Phil was
a bachelor. “Juliana, my love, desire Timmins to give him his dinner.
Follow this young lady, good man, and she will order you refreshment.”

“Gad's blessin' upon your beauty an' gudness, my lady; an' a man might
thravel far afore he'd meet the likes o' you for aither o' them. Is it
the other handsome young lady I'm to folly, ma'am?”

“Yes,” replied the young wit, with an arch smile; “come after me.”

“Thrath, miss, an' it's an asy task to do that, any way; wit a heart an'
a half I go, acushla; an' I seen the day, miss, that it's not much of
mate an' dhrink would thruble me, if I jist got lave to be lookin' at
you, wit nothing but yourself to think an. But the wife an' childher,
miss, makes great changes in us entirely.”

“Why you are quite gallant, Paddy.”

“Trath, I suppose I am now, miss; but you see, my honerable young lady,
that's our fwhailin' at home: the counthry's poor, an' we can't help it,
whedor or not. We're fwhorced to it, miss, whin we come ower here, by
you, an' the likes o' you, mavourneen!”

Phil then proceeded to the house, was sent to the kitchen by the young
lady, and furnished through the steward with an abundant supply of
cold meat, bread, and beer, of which he contrived to make a meal that
somewhat astonished the servants. Having satisfied his hunger, he
deliberately--but with the greatest simplicity of countenance--filled
the wallet which he carried slung across his back, with whatever he had
left, observing as he did it:--

“Fwhy, thin, 'tis sthrange it is, that the same custom is wit us in
Ireland beyant that is here: fwhor whinever a thraveller is axed in, he
always brings fwhat he doesn't ate along wit him. An sure enough it's
the same here amongst yez,” added he, packing up the bread and beef as
he spoke, “but Gad bliss the custom, any how, fwhor it's a good one!”

When he had secured the provender, and was ready to resume his journey,
he began to yawn, and to exhibit the most unequivocal symptoms of
fatigue.

“Arrah, sir,” said he to the steward, “you wouldn't have e'er an ould
barn that I'd throw myself in fwhor the night? The sarra leg I have to
put undher me, now that I've got stiff with the sittin' so lang; that,
an' a wishp o' sthraw, to sleep an, an' Gad bliss you!”

“Paddy, I cannot say,” replied the steward; “but I shall ask my master,
and if he orders it, you shall have the comfort of a hard floor and
clean straw, Paddy--that you shall.”

“Many thanks to you, sir: it's in your face, in thrath, the same gudness
an' ginerosity.”

The gentleman, on hearing Phil's request to be permitted a
sleeping-place in the barn, was rather surprised at his wretched notion
of comfort than at the request itself.

“Certainly, Timmins, let him sleep there,” he replied; “give him sacks
and straw enough. I dare say he will feel the privilege a luxury,
poor devil, after his fatigue. Give him his breakfast in the morning,
Timmins. Good heavens,” he added, “what a singular people! What an
amazing progress civilization must make before these Irish can be
brought at all near the commonest standard of humanity!”

At this moment Phil, who was determined to back the steward's request,
approached them.

“Paddy,” said the gentleman, anticipating him, “I have ordered you sacks
and straw in the barn, and your breakfast in the morning before you set
out.”

“Thrath,” said Phil, “if there's e'er a stray blissin' goin', depind an
it, sir, you'll get it fwhor your hanerable ginerosity to the sthranger.
But about the 'slip,' sir--if the misthress herself 'ud shake the whisp
o' sthraw fwhor her in the far carner o' the kitchen below, an' see her
gettin' her supper, the crathur, before she'd put her to bed, she'd be
thrivin' like a salmon, sir, in less than no time; and to ardher the
sarwints, sir, if you plase, not to be defraudin' the crathur of the big
phaties. Fwhor in regard it cannot spake fwhor itself, sir, it frets as
wise as a Christyeen, when it's not honestly thrated.”

“Never fear, Paddy; we shall take good care of it.”

“Thank you, sir, but I aften heered, sir, that you dunno how to feed
pigs in this counthry in ardher to mix the fwhat an' lane, lair (layer)
about.”

“And how do you manage that in Ireland, Paddy?”

“Fwhy, sir, I'll tell you how the misthress Gad bless her, will manage
it fwhor you. Take the crathur, sir, an' feed it to-morrow, till its as
full as a tick--that's for the fwhat, sir; thin let her give it nothin'
at all the next day, but keep it black fwhastin'--that's fwhor the lane
(leap). Let her stick to that, sir, keepin' it atin' one day an' fastin'
an-odher, for six months, thin put a knife in it, an' if you don't have
the fwhat an' lane, lair about, beautiful all out, fwhy nirer bl'eve
Phadrumshagh Corfuffle agin. Ay, indeed!”

The Englishman looked keenly at Phil, but could only read in his
countenance a thorough and implicit belief in his own recipe for mixing
the fat and lean. It is impossible to express his contempt for the sense
and intellect of Phil; nothing could surpass it but the contempt which
Phil entertained for him.

“Well,” said he to the servant, “I have often heard of the barbarous
habits of the Irish, but I must say that the incidents of this evening
have set my mind at rest upon the subject. Good heavens! when will ever
this besotted country rise in the scale of nations! Did ever a human
being hear of such a method of feeding swine! I should have thought it
incredible had I heard it from any but an Irishman!”

Phil then retired to the kitchen, where his assumed simplicity highly
amused the servants, who, after an hour or two's fun with “Paddy,”
 conducted him in a kind of contemptuous procession to the barn, where
they left him to his repose.

The next morning he failed to appear at the hour of breakfast, but his
non-appearance was attributed to his fatigue, in consequence of which he
was supposed to have overslept himself. On going, however, to call him
from the barn, they discovered that he had decamped; and on looking
after the “slip,” it was found that both had taken French leave of the
Englishman. Phil and the pig had actually travelled fifteen miles that
morning, before the hour on which he was missed--Phil going at a dog's
trot, and the pig following at such a respectful distance as might not
appear to identify them as fellow-travellers. In this manner Phil
sold the pig to upwards of two dozen intelligent English gentlemen and
farmers, and after winding up his bargains successfully, both arrived in
Liverpool, highly delighted by their commercial trip through England.

The passage from Liverpool to Dublin, in Phil's time, was far different
to that which steam and British enterprise have since made it. A vessel
was ready to sail for the latter place on the very day of Phil's arrival
in town; and, as he felt rather anxious to get out of England as soon
as he could, he came, after selling his pig in good earnest, to the
aforesaid vessel to ascertain if it were possible to get a deck passage.
The year had then advanced to the latter part of autumn; so that it
was the season when those inconceivable hordes of Irishmen who emigrate
periodically for the purpose of lightening John Bull's labor, were
in the act of returning to that country in which they find little to
welcome them--but domestic affection and misery.

When Phil arrived at the vessel, he found the captain in a state of
peculiar difficulty. About twelve or fourteen gentlemen of rank and
property, together with a score or upwards of highly respectable
persons, but of less consideration, were in equal embarrassment. The
fact was, that as no other vessel left Liverpool that day, about five
hundred Irishmen, mostly reapers and mowers, had crowded upon deck, each
determined to keep his place at all hazards. The captain, whose vessel
was small, and none of the stoutest, flatly refused to put to sea with
such a number. He told them it was madness to think of it; he could not
risk the lives of the other passengers, nor even their own, by sailing
with five hundred on the deck of so small a vessel. If the one-half of
them would withdraw peaceably, he would carry the other half, which was
as much as he could possibly accomplish. They were very willing to grant
that what he said was true; but in the meantime, not a man of them
would move, and to clear out such a number of fellows, who loved nothing
better than fighting, armed, too, with sickles and scythes, was a task
beyond either his ability or inclination to execute. He remonstrated
with them, entreated, raged, swore, and threatened; but all to no
purpose. His threats and entreaties were received with equal good-humor.
Gibes and jokes were broken on him without number, and as his passion
increased, so did their mirth, until nothing could be seen but the
captain in vehement gesticulation, the Irishmen huzzaing him so
vociferously, that his damns and curses, uttered against them, could not
reach even his own ears.

“Gentlemen,” said he to his cabin passengers, “for the love of Heaven,
tax your invention to discover some means whereby to get one-half of
these men out of the vessel, otherwise it will be impossible that we can
sail to-day. I have already proffered to take one-half of them by lot,
but they will not hear of it; and how to manage I am sure I don't know.”

The matter, however, was beyond their depth; the thing seemed utterly
impracticable, and the chances of their putting to sea were becoming
fainter and fainter.

“Bl--t their eyes!” he at length exclaimed, “the ragged, hungry devils!
If they heard me with decency I could bear their obstinacy bettor: but
no, they must turn me into ridicule, and break their jests, and turn
their cursed barbarous grins upon me in my own vessel. I say, boys,”
 he added, proceeding to address them once more--“I say, savages, I have
just three observations to make. The first is,”--

“Arrah, Captain, avourneen, hadn't you betther get upon a stool,” said
a voice, “an' put a text before it, thin divide it dacently into three
halves, an' make a sarmon of it.”

“Captain, you wor intended for the church,” added another. “You're the
moral (* model) of a Methodist preacher, if you wor dressed in black.”

“Let him alone,” said a third; “he'd be a jinteel man enough in a
wildherness, an' 'ud make an illigant dancin'-masther to the bears.”

“He's as graceful as a shaved pig on its hind legs, dancin' the
'Baltithrum Jig.'”

The captain's face was literally black with passion: he turned away with
a curse, which produced another huzza, and swore that he would rather
encounter the Bay of Biscay in a storm, than have anything to do with
such an unmanageable mob.

“Captain,” said a little, shrewd-looking Connaught man, “what 'ud you be
willin' to give anybody, ower an' abow his free passage, that 'ud tell
you how to get one half o' them out?”

“I'll give him a crown,” replied the captain, “together with grog and
rations to the eyes: I'll be hanged if I don't.”

“Then I'll do it fwhor you, sir, if you keep your word wit me.”

“Done!” said the captain; “it's a bargain, my good fellow, if you
accomplish it; and, what's more, I'll consider you a knowing one.”

“I'm a poor Cannaught man, your haner,” replied our friend Phil; “but
what's to prevent me thryin'? Tell thim,” he continued, “that you must
go; purtind to be for takin' thim all wit you, sir. Put Munster agin
Connaught, one-half on this side, an' the odher an that, to keep the
crathur of a ship steady, your haner; an' fwhin you have thim half
an' half, wit a little room betuxt thim, 'now,' says yer haner, 'boys,
you're divided into two halves; if one side kicks the other out o' the
ship, I'll bring the conquirors.'”

The captain said not a word in reply to Phil, but immediately ranged the
Munster and Connaught men on each side of the deck--a matter which he
found little difficulty in accomplishing, for each party, hoping that he
intended to take themselves, readily declared their province, and stood
together. When they were properly separated, there still remained about
forty or fifty persons belonging to neither province; but, at Phil's
suggestion, the captain paired them off to each division, man for man,
until they were drawn up into two bodies.

“Now” said he, “there you stand: let one-half of you drub the other out
of the vessel, and the conquerors shall get their passage.”

Instant was the struggle that ensued for the sake of securing a passage,
and from the anxiety to save a shilling, by getting out of Liverpool
on that day. The saving of the shilling is indeed a consideration with
Paddy which drives him to the various resources of begging, claiming
kindred with his resident countrymen in England, pretended illness,
coming to be passed from parish to parish, and all the turnings and
shiftings which his reluctance to part with money renders necessary.
Another night, therefore, and probably another day, in Liverpool, would
have been attended with expense. This argument prevailed with all: with
Munster as well as with Connaught, and they fought accordingly.

When the attack first commenced, each, party hoped to be able to expel
the other without blows. This plan was soon abandoned. In a few minutes
the sticks and fists were busy. Throttling, tugging, cuffing, and
knocking down--shouting, hallooing, huzzaing, and yelling, gave evident
proofs that the captain, in embracing Phil's proposal, had unwittingly
applied the match to a mine, whose explosion was likely to be attended
with disastrous consequences. As the fight became warm, and the struggle
more desperate, the hooks and scythes were resorted to; blood began to
flow, and men to fall, disabled and apparently dying. The immense crowd
which had now assembled to witness the fight among the Irishmen, could
not stand tamely by, and see so many lives likely to be lost, without
calling in the civil authorities. A number of constables in a few
minutes attended; but these worthy officers of the civil authorities
experienced very uncivil treatment from the fists, cudgels, and sickles
of both parties. In fact, they were obliged to get from among the
rioters with all possible celerity, and to suggest to the magistrates
the necessity of calling ir the military.

In the meantime the battle rose into a furious and bitter struggle for
victory. The deck of the vessel was actually slippery with blood, and
many were lying in an almost lifeless state. Several were pitched into
the hold, and had their legs and arms broken by the fall; some were
tossed over the sides of the vessel, and only saved from drowning by
the activity of the sailors; and not a few of those who had been knocked
down in the beginning of the fray were trampled into insensibility.

The Munster men at length gave way; and their opponents, following up
their advantage, succeeded in driving them to a man out of the vessel,
just as the military arrived. Fortunately their interference was
unnecessary. The ruffianly captain's object was accomplished; and as
no lives were lost, nor any injury more serious than broken bones and
flesh-wounds sustained, he got the vessel in readiness, and put to sea.

Who would not think that the Irish were a nation of misers, when
our readers are informed that all this bloodshed arose from their
unwillingness to lose a shilling by remaining in Liverpool another
night? Or who could believe that these very men, on reaching home, and
meeting their friends in a fair or market, or in a public-house after
mass on a Sunday, would sit down and spend, recklessly and foolishly,
that very money which in another country they part with as if it were
their very heart's blood? Yet so it is! Unfortunately, Paddy is wiser
anywhere than at home, where wisdom, sobriety, and industry are best
calculated to promote his own interests.

This slight sketch of Phil Purcel we have presented to our readers as
a specimen of the low, cunning Connaught-man; and we have only to add,
that neither the pig-selling scene, nor the battle on the deck of the
vessel in Liverpool, is fictitious. On the contrary, we have purposely
kept the tone of our description of the latter circumstance beneath the
reality. Phil, however, is not drawn as a general portrait, but as
one of that knavish class of men called “jobbers,” a description
of swindlers certainly not more common in Ireland than in any other
country. We have known Connaughtmen as honest and honorable as it was
possible to be; yet there is a strong prejudice entertained against
them in every other province of Ireland, as is evident by the old adage,
“Never trust a Connaugtaman.”






THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH.


No pen can do justice to the extravagance and frolic inseparable from
the character of of the Irish people; nor has any system of philosophy
been discovered that can with moral fitness be applied to them.
Phrenology fails to explain it; for, so far as the craniums of Irishmen
are concerned, according to the most capital surveys hitherto made and
reported on, it appears that, inasmuch as their moral and intellectual
organs predominate over the physical and sensual, the people ought,
therefore, to be ranked at the very tip-top of morality. We would warn
the phrenologists, however, not to be too sanguine in drawing inferences
from an examination of Paddy's head. Heaven only knows the scenes in
which it is engaged, and the protuberances created by a long life of
hard fighting. Many an organ and development is brought out on it by the
cudgel, that never would have appeared had Nature been left to herself.

Drinking, fighting, and swearing, are the three great characteristics
of every people. Paddy's love of fighting and of whiskey has been long
proverbial; and of his tact in swearing much has also been said. But
there is one department of oath-making in which he stands unrivalled and
unapproachable; I mean the alibi. There is where he shines, where his
oath, instead of being a mere matter of fact or opinion, rises up
into the dignity of epic narrative, containing within itself, all the
complexity of machinery, harmony of parts, and fertility of invention,
by which your true epic should be characterized.

The Englishman, whom we will call the historian in swearing, will depose
to the truth of this or that fact, but there the line is drawn; he
swears his oath so far as he knows, and stands still. “I'm sure, for my
part, I don't know; I've said all I knows about it,” and beyond this his
besotted intellect goeth not.

The Scotchman, on the other hand, who is the metaphysician in swearing,
sometimes borders on equivocation. He decidedly goes farther than the
Englisman, not because he has less honesty, but more prudence. He will
assent to, or deny a proposition; for the Englishman's “I don't know,”
 and the Scotchman's “I dinna ken,” are two very distinct assertions when
properly understood. The former stands out a monument of dulness, an
insuperable barrier against inquiry, ingenuity, and fancy; but the
latter frequently stretches itself so as to embrace hypothetically a
particular opinion.

But Paddy! Put him forward to prove an alibi for his fourteenth or
fifteenth cousin, and you will be gratified by the pomp, pride, and
circumstance of true swearing. Every oath with him is an epic--pure
poetry, abounding with humor, pathos, and the highest order of invention
and talent. He is not at ease, it is true, under facts; there is
something too commonplace in dealing with them, which his genius scorns.
But his flights--his flights are beautiful; and his episodes admirable
and happy. In fact, he is an improvisatore at oath-taking; with
this difference, that his extempore oaths possess all the ease and
correctness of labor and design.

He is not, however, _altogether_ averse to facts: but, like your true
poet, he veils, changes, and modifies them with such skill, that they
possess all the merit and graces of fiction. If he happen to make an
assertion incompatible with the plan of the piece, his genius acquires
fresh energy, enables him to widen the design, and to create new
machinery, with such happiness of adaptation, that what appeared out
of proportion of character is made, in his hands, to contribute to the
general strength and beauty of the oath.

'Tis true, there is nothing perfect under the sun; but if there were,
it would certainly be Paddy at an _alibi_. Some flaws, no doubt, occur;
some slight inaccuracies may be noticed by a critical eye; an occasional
anachronism stands out, and a mistake or so in geography; but let it
be recollected that Paddy's alibi is but a human production; let us not
judge him by harsher rules than those which we apply to Homer, Virgil,
or Shakspeare.

“Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus,” is allowed on all hands. Virgil made
Dido and AEneas contemporary, though they were not so; and Shakspeare,
by the creative power of his genius, changed an inland town into a
seaport. Come, come, have bowels. Let epic swearing be treated with the
same courtesy shown to epic poetry, that is, if both are the production
of a rare genius. I maintain, that when Paddy commits a blemish he
is too harshly admonished for it. When he soars out of sight here, as
occasionally happens, does he not frequently alight somewhere about
Sydney Bay, much against his own inclination? And if he puts forth
a hasty production, is he not compelled, for the space of seven or
fourteen years, to revise his oath? But, indeed, few words of fiction
are properly encouraged in Ireland.

It would be unpardonable in us, however, to overlook the beneficial
effects of Paddy's peculiar genius in swearing alibis. Some persons, who
display their own egregious ignorance of morality, may be disposed to
think that it tends to lessen the obligation of an oath, by inducing
a habit among the people of swearing to what is not true. We look upon
such persons as very dangerous to Ireland and to the repeal of the
Union; and we request them not to push their principles too far in the
disturbed parts of the country. Could society hold together a single
day, if nothing but truth were spoken, would not law and lawyers soon
become obsolete, if nothing but truth were sworn what would become of
parliament if truth alone were uttered there? Its annual proceedings
might be dispatched in a month. Fiction is the basis of society, the
bond of commercial prosperity, the channel of communication between
nation and nation, and not unfrequently the interpreter between a man
and his own conscience.

For these, and many other reasons which we could adduce, we say with
Paddy, “Long life to fiction!” When associated with swearing, it shines
in its brightest colors. What, for instance, is calculated to produce
the best and purest of the moral virtues so beautifully, as the swearing
an alibi? Here are fortitude and a love of freedom resisting oppression;
for it is well known that all law is oppression in Ireland.

There is compassion for the peculiar state of the poor boy, who,
perhaps, only burned a family in their beds; benevolence to prompt the
generous effort in his behalf; disinterestedness to run the risk of
becoming an involuntary absentee; fortitude in encountering a host
of brazen-faced lawyers; patience under the unsparing gripe of a
cross-examiner; perseverance in conducting the oath to its close against
a host of difficulties; and friendship, which bottoms and crowns them
all.

Paddy's merits, however, touching the alibi, rest not here. Fiction on
these occasions only teaches him how to perform a duty. It may be,
that he is under the obligation of a previous oath not to give evidence
against certain of his friends and associates. Now, could anything in
the whole circle of religion or ethics be conceived that renders the
epic style of swearing so incumbent upon Paddy? There is a kind of moral
fitness in all things; for where the necessity of invention exists, it
is consolatory to reflect that the ability to invent is bestowed along
with it.

Next to the alibi comes Paddy's powers in sustaining a
cross-examination. Many person thinks that this is his forte; but we
cannot yield to such an opinion, nor compromise his originality
of conception in the scope and plan of an alibi. It is marked by a
minuteness of touch, and a peculiarity of expression which give it every
appearance of real life. The circumstances are so well imagined,
the groups so naturally disposed, the coloring so finished, and the
background in such fine perspective, that the whole picture presents you
with such keeping and _vraisemblance_, as could be accomplished only by
the genius of a master.

In point of interest, however, we must admit that his ability in a
cross-examination ranks next to his skill in planning an alibi. There
is, in the former, a versatility of talent that keeps him always ready;
a happiness of retort, generally disastrous to the wit of the most
established cross-examiner; an apparent simplicity, which is quite as
impenetrable as the lawyer's assurance; a _vis comica_, which puts the
court in tears; and an originality of sorrow, that often convulses it
with laughter. His resources, when he is pressed, are inexhaustible; and
the address, with which he contrives to gain time, that he may suit his
reply to the object of his evidence, is beyond all praise. And yet his
appearance when he mounts the table is anything but prepossessing; a
sheepish look, and a loose-jointed frame of body, wrapped in a frieze
great-coat, do not promise much. Nay, there is often a rueful blank
expression in his visage, which might lead a stranger to anticipate
nothing but blunders and dulness. This, however, is hypocrisy of the
first water. Just observe the tact with which he places his caubeen upon
the table, his kippeen across it, and the experienced air with which he
pulls up the waistbands of his breeches, absolutely girding his loins
for battle. 'Tis true his blue eye has at present nothing remarkable in
it, except a drop or to of the native; but that is not remarkable.

[Illustration: PAGE 919-- A rueful blank expression in his visage]

When the direct examination has been concluded, nothing can be finer
than the simplicity with which he turns round to the lawyer who is to
cross-examine him. Yet, as if conscious that firmness and caution are
his main guards, he again pulls up his waistbands with a more vigorous
hitch, looks shyly into the very eyes of his opponent, and awaits the
first blow.

The question at length comes; and Paddy, after having raised the collar
of his big coat on his shoulder, and twisted up the shoulder along
with it, directly puts the query back to the lawyer, without altering a
syllable of it, for the purpose of ascertaining more accurately whether
that is the precise question that has been put to him; for Paddy is
conscientious. Then is the science displayed on both sides. The one,
a veteran, trained in all the technicalities of legal puzzles,
irony, blarney, sarcasm, impudence, stock jokes, quirks, rigmarolery,
brow-beating, ridicule, and subtlety; the other a poor peasant, relying
only upon the justice of a good cause and the gifts of nature; without
either experience, or learning, and with nothing but his native modesty
to meet the forensic effrontery of his antagonist.

Our readers will perceive that the odds are a thousand to one against
Paddy; yet, when he replies to a hackneyed genius at cross-examination,
how does it happen that he uniformly elicits those roars of laughter
which rise in the court, and convulse it from the judge to the crier? In
this laugh, which is usually at the expense of the cross-examiner, Paddy
himself always joins, so that the counsel has the double satisfaction of
being made not only the jest of the judge and his brother lawyers, but
of the ragged witness whom he attempted to make ridiculous.

It is not impossible that this merry mode of dispensing justice may
somewhat encourage Paddy in that independence of mind which relishes
not the idea of being altogether bound by oaths that are too often
administered with a jocular spirit. To most of the Irish in general an
oath is a solemn, to some, an awful thing. Of this wholesome reverence
for its sanction, two or three testimonies given in a court of justice
usually cured them. The indifferent, business-like manner in which the
oaths are put, the sing-song tone of voice, the rapid utterance of the
words, give to this solemn act an appearance of excellent burlesque,
which ultimately renders the whole proceedings remarkable for the
absence of truth and reality; but, at the same time, gives them
unquestionable merit as a dramatic representation, abounding with
fiction, well related and ably acted.

Thumb-kissing is another feature in Paddy's adroitness too important to
be passed over in silence. Here his tact shines out again! It would
be impossible for him, in many cases, to meet the perplexities of a
cross-examination so cleverly as he does, if he did not believe that he
had, by kissing his thumb instead of the book, actually taken no oath,
and consequently given to himself a wider range of action. We must
admit, however, that this very circumstance involves him in difficulties
which are sometimes peculiarly embarrassing. Taking everything into
consideration, the prospect of freedom for his sixth cousin, the
consciousness of having kissed his thumb, or the consoling reflection
that he swore only on a Law Bible, it must be granted that the
opportunities presented by a cross-examination are well calculated to
display his wit, humor, and fertility of invention. He is accordingly
great in it; but still we maintain that his execution of an alibi is
his ablest performance, comprising, as it does, both the conception and
construction of the work.

Both the oaths and imprecations of the Irish display, like those who use
them, indications of great cruelty and great humor. Many of the
former exhibit that ingenuity which comes out when Paddy is on his
cross-examination in a court of justice. Every people, it is true,
have resorted to the habit of mutilating or changing in their oaths
the letters which form the Creator's name; but we question if any have
surpassed the Irish in the cleverness with which they accomplish it.
Mock oaths are habitual to Irishmen in ordinary conversation; but the
use of any or all of them is not considered to constitute an oath: on
the contrary, they are in the mouths of many who would not, except upon
a very solemn occasion indeed, swear by the name of the Deity in its
proper form.

The ingenuity of their mock oaths is sufficient to occasion much
perplexity to any one disposed to consider it in connection with the
character and moral feelings of the people. Whether to note it as a
reluctance on their part to incur the guilt of an oath, or as a proof of
habitual tact in evading it by artifice, is manifestly a difficulty hard
to be overcome. We are decidedly inclined to the former; for although
there is much laxity of principle among Irishmen, naturally to
be expected from men whose moral state has been neglected by the
legislature, and deteriorated by political and religious asperity,
acting upon quick passions and badly regulated minds--yet we know
that they possess, after all, a strong, but vague undirected sense of
devotional feeling and reverence, which are associated with great crimes
and awfully dark shades of character. This explains one chief cause of
the sympathy which is felt in Ireland for criminals from whom the law
exacts the fatal penalty of death; and it also accounts, independently
of the existence of any illegal association, for the terrible
retribution inflicted upon those who come forward to prosecute them.
It is not in Ireland with criminals as in other countries, where the
character of a murderer or incendiary is notoriously bad, as resulting
from a life of gradual profligacy and villany. Far from it. In Ireland
you will find those crimes perpetrated by men who are good fathers, good
husbands, good sons, and good neighbors--by men who would share
their last morsel or their last shilling with a fellow-creature in
distress--who would generously lose their lives for a man who had
obliged them, provided he had not incurred their enmity--and who would
protect a defenseless stranger as far as lay in their power. There are
some mock oaths among Irishmen which must have had their origin amongst
those whose habits of thought were much more elevated than could be
supposed to characterize the lower orders. “By the powers of death” is
never now used as we have written it; but the ludicrous travestie of it,
“by the powdhors o' delf,” is quite common. Of this and other mock oaths
it may be right to observe, that those who swear by them are in general
ignorant of their proper origin. There are some, however, of this
description whose original form is well known. One of these Paddy
displays considerable ingenuity in using. “By the cross” can scarcely be
classed under the mock oaths, but the manner in which it is pressed into
asseverations is amusing. When Paddy is affirming a truth he swears
“by the crass” simply, and this with him is an oath of considerable
obligation. He generally, in order to render it more impressive,
accompanies it with suitable action, that is, he places the forefinger
of each hand across, that he may assail you through two senses instead
of one. On the contrary, when he intends to hoax you by asserting what
is not true, he ingeniously multiplies the oath, and swears “by the five
crashes,” that is by his own five fingers, placing at the same time his
four fingers and his thumbs across each other in a most impressive and
vehement manner. Don't believe him then--the knave is lying as fast as
possible, and with no remorse. “By the crass o' Christ” is an oath of
much solemnity, and seldom used in a falsehood. Paddy also often places
two bits of straws across, and sometimes two sticks, upon which he
swears with an appearance of great heat and sincerity--_sed caveto!_

Irishmen generally consider iron as a sacred metal. In the interior of
the country, the thieves (but few in number) are frequently averse to
stealing it. Why it possesses this hold upon their affections it is
difficult to say, but it is certain that they rank it among their sacred
things, consider that to find it is lucky, and nail it over their doors
when found in the convenient shape of a horse-shoe. It is also used as
a medium of asserting truth. We believe, however, that the sanction it
imposes is not very strong. “By this blessed iron!”--“by this blessed
an' holy iron!” are oaths of an inferior grade; but if the circumstance
on which they are founded be a matter of indifference, they seldom
depart from truth in using them.

We have said that Paddy, when engaged in a fight, is never at a loss for
a weapon, and we may also affirm that he is never at a loss for an
oath. When relating a narrative, or some other circumstance of his own
invention, if contradicted, he will corroborate it, in order to sustain
his credit or produce the proper impression, by an abrupt oath upon the
first object he can seize. “Arrah, nonsense! by this pipe in my hand,
it's as thrue as”--and then, before he completes the illustration, he
goes on with a fine specimen of equivocation--“By the stool I'm sittin'
an, it is; an' what more would, you have from me barrin' I take my book
oath of it?” Thus does he, under the mask of an insinuation, induce you
to believe that he has actually sworn it, whereas the oath is always
left undefined and incomplete.

Sometimes he is exceedingly comprehensive in his adjurations, and swears
upon a magnificent scale; as, for instance,--“By the contints of all
the books that ever wor opened an' shut, it's as thrue as the sun to
the dial.” This certainly leaves “the five crasses” immeasurably behind.
However, be cautious, and not too confident in taking so sweeping and
learned an oath upon trust, notwithstanding its imposing effect. We
grant, indeed, that an oath which comprehends within its scope all the
learned libraries of Europe, including even the Alexandrian of old, is
not only an erudite one, but establishes in a high degree the taste of
the swearer, and displays on his part an uncommon grasp of intellect.
Still we recommend you, whenever you hear an alleged fact substantiated
by it, to set your ear as sharply as possible; for, after all, it
is more than probable that every book by which he has sworn might be
contained in a nutshell. The secret may be briefly explained:--Paddy is
in the habit of substituting the word never for ever. “By all the books
that never wor opened or shut,” the reader perceives, is only a nourish
of trumpets--a mere delusion of the enemy.

In fact, Paddy has oaths rising gradually from the lying ludicrous to
the superstitious solemn, each of which finely illustrates the nature of
the subject to which it is applied. When he swears “By the contints o'
Moll Kelly's Primer,” or “By the piper that played afore Moses,” you
are, perhaps, as strongly inclined to believe him as when he draws upon
a more serious oath; that is, you almost regret the thing is not the
gospel that Paddy asserts it to be. In the former sense, the humorous
narrative which calls forth the laughable burlesque of “By the piper o'
Moses,” is usually the richest lie in the whole range of fiction.

Paddy is, in his ejaculatory, as well as in all his other mock oaths, a
kind, of smuggler in morality, imposing as often as he can upon his own
conscience, and upon those who exercise spiritual authority over him.
Perhaps more of his oaths are blood-stained than would be found among
the inhabitants of all Christendom put together.

Paddy's oaths in his amours are generally rich specimens of humorous
knavery and cunning. It occasionally happens--but for the honor of
our virtuous countrywomen, we say but rarely--that by the honey of his
flattering and delusive tongue, he succeeds in placing some unsuspecting
girl's reputation in rather a hazardous predicament. When the priest
comes to investigate the affair, and to cause him to make compensation
to the innocent creature who suffered by his blandishments, it is almost
uniformly ascertained that, in order to satisfy her scruples as to
the honesty of his promises, he had sworn marriage to her on a book
of ballads!!! In other cases blank books have been used for the same
purpose.

If, however, you wish to pin Paddy up in a corner, get him a Relic, a
Catholic prayer-book, or a Douay Bible to swear upon. Here is where the
fox--notwithstanding all his turnings and windings upon heretic Bibles,
books, or ballads, or mock oaths--is caught at last. The strongest
principle in him is superstition. It may be found as the prime mover in
his best and worst actions. An atrocious man, who is superstitious, will
perform many good and charitable actions, with a hope that their merit
in the sight of God may cancel the guilt of his crimes. On the other
hand, a good man, who is superstitiously the slave of his religious
opinions, will lend himself to those illegal combinations, whose object
is, by keeping ready a system of organized opposition to an heretical
government, to fulfil, if a political crisis should render it
practicable, the absurd prophecies of Pastorini and Columbkil. Although
the prophecies of the former would appear to be out of date to a
rational reader, yet Paddy, who can see farther into prophecy than any
rational reader, honestly believes that Pastorini has left for those who
are superstitiously given, sufficient range of expectation in several
parts of his work.

We might enumerate many other oaths in frequent use among the peasantry;
but as our object is not to detail them at full length, we trust that
those already specified may be considered sufficient to enable our
readers to get a fuller insight into their character, and their moral
influence upon the people.

The next thing which occurs to us in connection with the present
subject, is cursing; and here again Paddy holds the first place. His
imprecations are often full, bitter, and intense. Indeed, there is more
poetry and epigrammatic point in them than in those of any other country
in the world.

We find it a difficult thing to enumerate the Irish curses, so as to do
justice to a subject so varied and so liable to be shifted and improved
by the fertile genius of those who send them abroad. Indeed, to reduce
them into order and method would be a task of considerable difficulty.
Every occasion, and every fit of passion, frequently produce a new
curse, perhaps equal in bitterness to any that has gone before it.

Many of the Irish imprecations are difficult to be understood, having
their origin in some historical event, or in poetical metaphors that
require a considerable process of reasoning to explain them. Of this
twofold class is that general one, “The curse of Cromwell on you!” which
means, may you suffer all that a tyrant like Cromwell would inflict! and
“The curse o'the crows upon you!” which is probably an allusion to
the Danish invasion--a raven being the symbol of Denmark; or it may be
tantamount to “May you rot on the hills, that the crows may feed upon
your carcass!” Perhaps it may thus be understood to imprecate death upon
you or some member of your house--alluding to the superstition of rooks
hovering over the habitations of the sick, when the malady with which
they are afflicted is known to be fatal. Indeed, the latter must
certainly be the meaning of it, as is evident from the proverb of “Die,
an' give the crow a puddin'.”

“Hell's cure to you!--the devil's luck to you!--high hanging to
you!--hard feeling to you!--a short coorse to you!” are all pretty
intense, and generally used under provocation and passion. In these
cases the curses just mentioned are directed immediately to the
offensive object, and there certainly is no want of the _malus animus_
to give them energy. It would be easy to multiply the imprecations
belonging to this class among the peasantry, but the task is rather
unpleasant. There are a few, however, which, in consequence of their
ingenuity, we cannot pass over: they are, in sooth, studies for the
swearer. “May you never die till you see your own funeral!” is a very
beautiful specimen of the periphrasis: it simply means, may you be
hanged; for he who is hanged is humorously said to be favored with a
view of that sombre spectacle, by which they mean the crowd that attends
an execution. To the same purpose is, “May you die wid a caper in your
heel!”--“May you die in your pumps!”--“May your last dance be a hornpipe
on the air!” These are all emblematic of hanging, and are uttered
sometimes in jest, and occasionally in earnest. “May the grass grow
before your door!” is highly imaginative and poetical. Nothing, indeed,
can present the mind with a stronger or more picturesque emblem of
desolation and ruin. Its malignity is terrible.

There are also mock imprecations as well as mock oaths. Of this
character are, “The devil go with you an' sixpence, an' thin you'll
want neither money nor company!” This humorous and considerate curse
is generally confined to the female sex. When Paddy happens to be in a
romping mood, and teases his sweetheart too much, she usually utters it
with a countenance combating with smiles and frowns, while she stands in
the act of pinning up her dishevelled hair; her cheeks, particularly the
one next Paddy, deepened into a becoming blush.

“Bad scran to you!” is another form seldom used in anger: it is the same
as “Hard feeding to you!” “Bad win' to you!” is “Ill health to you!”
 it is nearly the same as “Consumin' (consumption) to you!” Two other
imprecations come under this head, which we will class together, because
they are counterparts of each other, with this difference, that one of
them is the most subtilely and intensely withering in its purport that
can well be conceived. The one is that common curse, “Bad 'cess to you!”
 that is, bad success to you: we may identify it with “Hard fortune to
you!” The other is a keen one, indeed--“Sweet bad luck to you!” Now,
whether we consider the epithet sweet as bitterly ironical, or deem it
as a wish that prosperity may harden the heart to the accomplishment of
future damnation, as in the case of Dives, we must in either sense grant
that it is an oath of powerful hatred and venom. Occasionally the curse
of “Bad luck to you!” produces an admirable retort, which is pretty
common. When one man applies it to another, he is answered with “Good
luck to you, thin; but may neither of thim ever happen.”

“Six eggs to you, an' half-a-dozen o' them rotten!”--like “The devil go
with you an' sixpence!” is another of those pleasantries which mostly
occur in the good-humored badinage between the sexes. It implies
disappointment.

There is a species of imprecation prevalent among Irishmen which we may
term neutral. It is ended by the word bit, and merely results from a
habit of swearing where there is no malignity of purpose. An Irishman,
when corroborating an assertion, however true or false, will often
say, “Bad luck to the bit but it is;”--“Divil fire the bit but it's
thruth!”--“Damn the bit but it is!” and so on. In this form the mind is
not moved, nor the passions excited: it is therefore probably the most
insipid of all their imprecations.

Some of the most dreadful maledictions are to be heard among the
confirmed mendicants of Ireland. The wit, the gall, and the poetry
of these are uncommon. “May you melt off the earth like snow off the
ditch!” is one of a high order and intense malignity; but it is not
exclusively confined to mendicants, although they form that class among
which it is most prevalent. Nearly related to this is, “May you melt
like butther before a summer sun!” These are, indeed, essentially
poetical; they present the mind with appropriate imagery, and exhibit a
comparison perfectly just and striking. The former we think unrivalled.

Some of the Irish imprecations would appear to have come down to us from
the Ordeals. Of this class, probably, are the following: “May this be
poison to me!”--“May I be roasted on red hot iron!” Others of them,
from their boldness of metaphor, seem to be of Oriental descent. One
expression, indeed, is strikingly so. When a deep offence is offered
to an Irishman, under such peculiar circumstances that he cannot
immediately retaliate, he usually replies to his enemy--“You'll sup
sorrow for this!”--“You'll curse the day it happened!”--“I'll make you
rub your heels together!” All those figurative denunciations are used
for the purpose of intimating the pain and agony he will compel his
enemy to suffer.

We cannot omit a form of imprecation for good, which is also habitual
among the peasantry of Ireland. It is certainly harmless, and argues
benevolence of heart. We mean such expressions as the following:
“Salvation to me!--May I never do harm!--May I never do an ill
turn!--May I never sin!” These are generally used by men who are
blameless and peaceable in their lives--simple and well-disposed in
their intercourse with the world.

At the head of those Irish imprecations which are dreaded by the people,
the Excommunication, of course, holds the first and most formidable
place. In the eyes of men of sense it is as absurd as it is illiberal:
but to the ignorant and superstitious, who look upon it as anything but
a _brutum fulmen_, it is terrible indeed.

Next in order are the curses of priests in their private capacity,
pilgrims, mendicants, and idiots. Of those also Paddy entertains a
wholesome dread; a circumstance which the pilgrim and mendicant turn
with great judgment to their own account. Many a legend and anecdote do
such chroniclers relate, when the family, with whom they rest for
the night, are all seated around the winter hearth. These are often
illustrative of the baneful effects of the poor man's curse. Of course
they produce a proper impression; and, accordingly, Paddy avoids
offending such persons in any way that might bring him under their
displeasure.

A certain class of cursers much dreaded in Ireland are those of
the widow and the orphan. There is, however, something touching and
beautiful in this fear of injuring the sorrowful and unprotected. It
is, we are happy to say, a becoming and prominent feature in Paddy's
character; for, to do him justice in his virtues as well as in his
vices, we repeat that he cannot be surpassed in his humanity to the
lonely widow and her helpless orphans. He will collect a number of his
friends, and proceed with them in a body to plant her bit of potato
ground, to reap her oats, to draw home her turf, or secure her hay. Nay,
he will beguile her of her sorrows with a natural sympathy and delicacy
that do him honor; his heart is open to her complaints, and his hand
ever extended to assist her.

There is a strange opinion to be found in Ireland upon the subject of
curses. The peasantry think that a curse, no matter how uttered, will
fall on something; but that it depends upon the person against whom it
is directed, whether or not it will descend on him. A curse, we have
heard them say, will rest for seven years in the air, ready to alight
upon the head of the person who provoked the malediction. It hovers
over him, like a kite over its prey, watching the moment when he may
be abandoned by his guardian angel: if this occurs, it shoots with the
rapidity of a meteor on his head, and clings to him in the shape of
illness, temptation, or some other calamity.

They think, however, that the blessing of one person may cancel the
curse of another; but this opinion does not affect the theory we have
just mentioned. When a man experiences an unpleasant accident, they will
say, “He has had some poor body's curse;” and, on the contrary, when he
narrowly escapes it, they say, “He has had some poor body's blessing.”

There is no country in which the phrases of good-will and affection are
so strong as in Ireland. The Irish language actually flows with the milk
and honey of love and friendship. Sweet and palatable is it to the other
sex, and sweetly can Paddy, with his deluding ways, administer it to
them from the top of his mellifluous tongue, as a dove feeds her young,
or as a kind mother her babe, shaping with her own pretty mouth every
morse of the delicate viands before it goes into that of the infant. In
this manner does Paddy, seated behind a ditch, of a bright Sunday, when
he ought to be at Mass, feed up some innocent girl, not with “false
music,” but with sweet words; for nothing more musical or melting than
his brogue ever dissolved a female heart. Indeed, it is of the danger
to be apprehended from the melody of his voice, that the admirable and
appropriate proverb speaks; for when he addresses his sweetheart, under
circumstances that justify suspicion, it is generally said--“Paddy's
feedin' her up wid false music.”

What language has a phrase equal in beauty and tenderness to _cushla
machree_--_pulse of my heart?_ Can it be paralleled in the whole
range of all that are, ever were, or ever will be spoken, for music,
sweetness, and a knowledge of anatomy? If Paddy is unrivalled at
swearing, he fairly throws the world behind him at the blarney. In
professing friendship, and making love, give him but a taste of the
native, and he is a walking honey-comb, that every woman who sees him
wishes to have a lick at; and Heaven knows, that frequently, at all
times, and in all places, does he get himself licked on their account.

Another expression of peculiar force is _vick machree_--or, son of my
heart. This is not only elegant, but affectionate, beyond almost any
other phrase except the foregoing. It is, in a sense, somewhat different
from that in which the philosophical poet has used it, a beautiful
comment upon the sentiment of “the child's the father of the man,”
 uttered by the great, we might almost say, the glorious, Wordsworth.

We have seen many a youth, on more occasions than one, standing in
profound affliction over the dead body of his aged father, exclaiming,
“_Ahir, vick machree--vick machree--wuil thu marra wo'um? Wuil thu marra
wo'um?_ Father, son of my heart, son of my heart, art thou dead
from me--art thou dead from me?” An expression, we think, under
any circumstances, not to be surpassed in the intensity of domestic
affection which it expresses; but under those alluded to, we consider
it altogether elevated in exquisite and poetic beauty above the most
powerful symbols of Oriental imagery.

A third phrase peculiar to love and affection, is “_Manim asthee
hu--or_, My soul's within you.” Every person acquainted with languages
knows how much an idiom suffers by a literal translation. How beautiful,
then, how tender and powerful, must those short expressions be, uttered,
too, with a fervor of manner peculiar to a deeply feeling people, when,
even after a literal translation, they carry so much of their tenderness
and energy into a language whose genius is cold when compared to the
glowing beauty of the Irish.

_Mauourneen dheelish_, too, is only a short phrase, but, coming warm and
mellowed from Paddy's lips into the ear of his _colleen dhas_, it is
a perfect spell--a sweet murmur, to which the _lenis susurrus_ of the
Hybla bees is, with all their honey, jarring discord. How tame is
“My sweet darling,” its literal translation, compared to its soft and
lulling intonations. There is a dissolving, entrancing, beguiling,
deluding, flattering, insinuating, coaxing, winning, inveigling,
roguish, palavering, come-overing, comedhering, consenting, blarneying,
killing, willing, charm in it, worth all the philters that ever the
gross knavery of a withered alchemist imposed upon the credulity of
those who inhabit the other nations of the earth--for we don't read that
these shrivelled philter-mongers ever prospered in Ireland.

No, no--let Paddy alone. If he hates intensely and effectually, he loves
intensely, comprehensively, and gallantly. To love with power is a proof
of a large soul, and to hate well is, according to the great moralist,
a thing in itself to be loved. Ireland is, therefore, through all its
sects, parties, and religions, an amicable nation. Their affections are,
indeed, so vivid, that they scruple not sometimes to kill each other
with kindness: but we hope that the march of love and friendship will
not only keep pace with, but outstrip, the march of intellect.

*****

Peter Cornell was for many years of his life a pattern and proverb
for industry and sobriety. He first began the world as keeper of a
shebeen-house at the cross-roads, about four miles from the town of
Ballypoteen. He was decidedly an honest man to his neighbors, but a
knave to excisemen, whom he hated by a kind of instinct that he had,
which prompted him, in order to satisfy his conscience, to render
them every practicable injury within the compass of his ingenuity.
Shebeen-house keepers and excisemen have been, time out of mind,
destructive of each other; the exciseman pouncing like a beast or bird
of prey upon the shebeen man and his illicit spirits; the shebeen man
staving in the exciseman, like a barrel of doublings, by a knock
from behind a hedge, which sometimes sent him to that world which is
emphatically the world of spirits. For this, it some happened that the
shebeen man was hanged; but as his death only multiplied that of the
excisemen in a geometrical ratio, the sharp-scented fraternity resolved,
if possible, not to risk their lives, either by exposing themselves to
the necessity of travelling by night, or prosecuting by day. In this
they acted wisely and prudently: fewer of the unfortunate peasantry
were shot in their rencounters with the yeomanry or military on such
occasions, and the retaliations became by degrees less frequent, until,
at length, the murder of a gauger became a rare occurrence in the
country.

Peter, before his marriage, had wrought as laboring servant to a man
who kept two or three private stills in those caverns among the remote
mountains, to which the gauger never thought of penetrating, because he
supposed that no human enterprise would have ever dreamt of advancing
farther into them than appeared to him to be practicable. In this he
was frequently mistaken: for though the still-house was in many cases
inaccessible to horses, yet by the contrivance of slipes--a kind of
sledge--a dozen men could draw a couple of sacks of barley with less
trouble, and at a quicker pace, than if horses only had been employed.
By this, and many other similar contrivances, the peasantry were often
able to carry on the work of private distillation in places so distant,
that few persons could suspect them as likely to be chosen for such
purposes. The uncommon personal strength, the daring spirit, and great
adroitness of Peter Connell, rendered him a very valuable acquisition
to his master in the course of his illicit occupations. Peter was,
in addition to his other qualities, sober and ready-witted, so that
whenever the gauger made his appearance, his expedients to baffle him
were often inimitable. Those expedients did not, however, always arise
from the exigency of the moment; they were often deliberately, and with
much exertion of ingenuity, planned by the proprietors and friends
of such establishments, perhaps for weeks before the gauger's visit
occurred. But, on the other hand, as the gauger's object was to
take them, if possible, by surprise, it frequently happened that his
appearance was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. It was then that the
prompt ingenuity of the people was fully seen, felt, and understood
by the baffled exciseman, who too often had just grounds for bitterly
cursing their talent at outwitting him.

Peter served his master as a kind of superintendent in such places,
until he gained the full knowledge of distilling, according to the
processes used by the most popular adepts in the art. Having acquired
this, he set up as a professor, and had excellent business. In the
meantime, he had put together by degrees a small purse of money, to
the amount of about twenty guineas--no inconsiderable sum for a
young Irishman who intends to begin the world on his own account. He
accordingly married, and, as the influence of a wife is usually not to
be controlled during the honey-moon, Mrs. Connell prevailed on Peter
to relinquish his trade of distiller, and to embrace some other mode of
life that might not render their living so much asunder necessary. Peter
suffered himself to be prevailed upon, and promised to have nothing more
to do with private distillation, as a distiller. One of the greatest
curses attending this lawless business, is the idle and irregular habit
of life which it gradually induces. Peter could not now relish the
labor of an agriculturist, to which he had been bred, and yet he was
too prudent to sit down and draw his own and his wife's support from so
exhaustible a source as twenty guineas. Two or three days passed, during
which “he cudgelled his brains,” to use his own expression, in plans for
future subsistence; two or three consultations were held with Ellish,
in which their heads were laid together, and, as it was still the
honey-moon, the subject-matter of the consultation, of course, was
completely forgotten. Before the expiration of a second month, however,
they were able to think of many other things, in addition to the
fondlings and endearments of a new-married couple. Peter was every day
becoming more his own man, and Ellish by degrees more her own woman.
“The purple light of love,” which had changed Peter's red head into
a rich auburn, and his swivel eye into a knowing wink, exceedingly
irresistible in his bachelorship, as he made her believe, to the country
girls, had passed away, taking the aforesaid auburn along with it and
leaving nothing but the genuine carrot behind. Peter, too, on opening
his eyes one morning about the beginning of the third month, perceived
that his wife was, after all, nothing more than a thumping red-cheeked
wench, with good eyes, a mouth rather large, and a nose very much
resembling, in its curve, the seat of a saddle, allowing the top to
correspond with the pummel.

“Pether,” said she, “it's like a dhrame to me that you're neglectin'
your business, alanna.”

“Is it you, beauty? but, maybe, you'd first point out to me what
business, barrin' buttherin' up yourself, I have to mind, you phanix
bright?”

“Quit yourself, Pether! it's time for you to give up your ould ways; you
caught one bird wid them, an' that's enough. What do you intind to do!
It's full time for you to be lookin' about you.”

“Lookin' about me! What do you mane Ellish?”

“The dickens a bit o' me thought of it,” replied the wife, laughing
at the unintentional allusion to the circumspect character of Peter's
eyes,--“upon my faix, I didn't--ha, ha, ha!”

“Why, thin, but you're full o'your fun, sure enough, if that's what
you're at. Maybe, avourneen, if I had looked right afore me, as I ought
to do, it's Katty Murray an' her snug farm I'd have, instead of”--

Peter hesitated. The rapid feelings of a woman, and an Irishwoman, quick
and tender, had come forth and subdued him. She had not voluntarily
alluded to his eyes; but on seeing Peter offended, she immediately
expressed that sorrow and submission which are most powerful when
accompanied by innocence, and when meekly assumed, to pacify rather than
to convince. A tear started to her eye, and with a voice melted into
unaffected tenderness, she addressed him, but he scarcely gave her time
to speak.

“No, avourneen, no, I won't say what I was goin' to mintion. I won't
indeed, Ellish, dear; an' forgive me for woundin' your feelin's _alanna
dhas_. (* My pretty child.) Hell resave her an' her farm! I dunna what
put her into my head at all; but I thought you wor jokin' me about my
eyes: an' sure if you war, acushla, that's no rason that I'd not allow
you to do that an' more wid your own Pether. Give me a slewsther, (* a
kiss of fondness) agrah--a sweet one, now!”

He then laid his mouth to hers, and immediately a sound, nearly
resembling a pistol-shot, was heard through every part of the house. It
was, in fact, a kiss upon a scale of such magnitude, that the Emperor
of Morocco might not blush to be charged with it. A reconciliation took
place, and in due time it was determined that Peter, as he understood
poteen, should open a shebeen house. The moment this resolution was
made, the wife kept coaxing him, until he took a small house at the
cross-roads before alluded to, where, in the course of a short time,
he was established, if not in his own line, yet in a mode of life
approximating to it as nearly as the inclination of Ellish would permit.
The cabin which they occupied had a kitchen in the middle, and a room at
each end of it, in one of which was their own humble chaff bed, with its
blue quilted drugget cover; in the other stood a couple of small tables,
some stools, a short form, and one chair, being a present from his
father-in-law. These constituted Peter's whole establishment, so far +as
it defied the gauger. To this we must add! a five-gallon keg of spirits
hid in the garden, and a roll of smuggled tobacco. From the former he
bottled, over night, as much as was usually drank the following day;
and from the tobacco, which was also kept under ground, he cut, with the
same caution, as much as to-morrow's exigencies might require. This he
kept in his coat-pocket, a place where the gauger would never think
of searching for it, divided into halfpenny and pennyworths, ounces or
half-ounces, according as it might be required; and as he had it without
duty, the liberal spirit in which he dealt it out to his neighbors soon
brought him a large increase of custom.

Peter's wife was an excellent manager, and he himself a pleasant,
good-humored man, full of whim and inoffensive mirth. His powers of
amusement were of a high order, considering his station in life and his
want of education. These qualities contributed, in a great degree, to
bring both the young and old to his house during the long winter nights,
in order to hear the fine racy humor with which he related his frequent
adventures and battles with excisemen. In the summer evenings, he
usually engaged a piper or a fiddler, and had a dance, a contrivance by
which he not only rendered himself popular, but increased his business.

In this mode of life, the greatest source of anxiety to Peter and Ellish
was the difficulty of not offending their friends by refusing to give
them credit. Many plans, were, with great skill and forethought, devised
to obviate this evil; but all failed. A short board was first procured,
on which they got written with chalk--

“No credit giv'n--barrin' a thrifle to Pether's friends.”

Before a week passed, after this intimation, the number of “Pether's
friends” increased so rapidly, that neither he nor Ellish knew the half
of them. Every scamp in the parish was hand and glove with him: the
drinking tribe, particularly, became desperately attached to him and
Ellish. Peter was naturally kind-hearted, and found that his firmest
resolutions too often gave way before the open flattery with which he
was assailed. He then changed his hand, and left Ellish to bear the
brunt of their blarney. Whenever any person or persons were seen
approaching the house, Peter, if he had reason to suspect an attack upon
his indulgence, prepared himself for a retreat. He kept his eye to
the window, and if they turned from the direct line of the road, he
immediately slipped into bed, and lay close in order to escape them. In
the meantime they enter.

“God save all here. Ellish, agra machree, how are you?”

“God save you kindly! Faix, I'm mid-dim', I thank you, Condy: how is
yourself, an' all at home?”

“Devil a heartier, barrin' my father, that's touched wid a loss of
appetite afther his meals--ha, ha, ha!”

“Musha, the dickens be an you, Condy, but you're your father's son, any
way; the best company in Europe is the same man. Throth, whether you're
jokin' or not, I'd be sarry to hear of anything to his disadvantage,
dacent man. Boys, won't you go down to the other room?”

“Go way wid yez, boys, till I spake to Ellish here about the affairs
o' the nation. Why, Ellish, you stand the cut all to pieces. By the
contints o' the book, you do; Pether doesn't stand it half so well. How
is he, the thief?”

“Throth, he's not well, to-day, in regard of a smotherin' about the
heart he tuck this mornin' afther his breakfast. He jist laid himself
on the bed a while, to see if it would go off of him--God be praised for
all his marcies!”

“Thin, upon my _sole_vation, I'm sarry to hear it, and so will all at
home, for there's not in the parish we're sittin' in a couple that our
family has a greater regard an' friendship for, than him and yourself.
Faix, my modher, no longer ago than Friday night last, argued down
Bartle Meegan's throath, that you and Biddy Martin wor the two portliest
weemen that comes into the chapel. God forgive myself, I was near
quarrelin' wid Bartle on the head of it, bekase I tuck my modher's part,
as I had a good right to do.”

“Thrath, I'm thankful to you both, Condy, for your kindness.”

“Oh, the sarra taste o' kindness was in it at all, Ellish, 'twas only
the truth; an' as long as I live, I'll stand up for that.”

“Arrah, how is your aunt down at Carntall?”

“Indeed, thin, but middlin', not gettin' her health: she'll soon give
the crow a puddin', any way; thin, Ellish, you thief, I'm in for the
yallow boys. Do you know thim that came in wid me?”

“Why, thin, I can't say I do. Who are they, Condy?”

“Why one o' them's a bachelor to my sisther Norah, a very dacent boy,
indeed--him wid the frieze jock upon him, an' the buckskin breeches.
The other three's from Teernabraighera beyant. They're related to my
brother-in-law, Mick Dillon, by his first wife's brother-in-law's uncle.
They're come to this neighborhood till the 'Sizes, bad luck to them,
goes over; for you see, they're in a little throuble.”

“The Lord grant them safe out of it, poor boys!”

“I brought them up here to treat them, poor fellows; an', Ellish,
avourneen, you must credit me for whatsomever we may have. The thruth
is, you see, that when we left home, none of us had any notion of
drinkin' or I'd a put somethin' in my pocket, so that I'm taken at an
average.--Bud-an'-age! how is little Dan? Sowl, Ellish, that goorsoon,
when he grows up, will be a credit to you. I don't think there's a finer
child in Europe of his age, so there isn't.”

“Indeed, he's a good child, Condy. But Condy, avick, about givin'
credit:--by thim five crasses, if I could give score to any boy in the
parish, it 'ud be to yourself. It was only last night that I made a
promise against doin' such a thing for man or mortual. We're a'most
broken an' harrish'd out o' house an' home by it; an' what's more,
Condy, we intend to give up the business. The landlord's at us every day
for his rint, an' we owe for the two last kegs we got, but hasn't a
rap to meet aither o' thim; an' enough due to us if we could get
it together: an' whisper, Condy, atween ourselves, that's what ails
Pettier, although he doesn't wish to let an to any one about it.”

“Well, but you know I'm safe, Ellish?”

“I know you are, avourneen, as the bank itself; an' should have what you
want wid a heart an' a half, only for the promise I made an my two knees
last night, aginst givin' credit to man or woman. Why the dickens didn't
you come yistherday?”

“Didn't I tell you, woman alive, that it was by accident, an' that I
wished to sarve the house, that we came at all. Come, come, Ellish;
don't disgrace me afore my sisther's bachelor an' the sthrange boys
that's to the fore. By this staff in my hand, I wouldn't for the best
cow in our byre be put to the blush afore thim; an' besides, there's a
_cleeveen_ (* a kind of indirect relationship) atween your family an'
ours.”

“Condy, avourneen, say no more: if you were fed from the same breast wid
me, I couldn't, nor wouldn't break my promise. I wouldn't have the sin
of it an me for the wealth o' the three kingdoms.”

“Beclad, you're a quare woman; an' only that my regard for you is great
entirely, we would be two, Ellish; but I know you're dacent still.”

He then left her and joined his friends in the little room that was
appropriated for drinking, where, with a great deal of mirth, he related
the failure of the plan they had formed for outwitting Peter and Ellish.

“Boys,” said he, “she's too many for us! St. Pettier himself wouldn't
make a hand of her. Faix, she's a cute one. I palavered her at the
rate of a hunt, an' she ped me back in my own coin, with dacent
intherest--but no whiskey!--Now to take a rise out o' Pettier. Jist sit
where ye are, till I come back.”

He left them enjoying the intended “spree,” and went back to Ellish.

“Well, I'm sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck their book oath that you'd
refuse my father's son such a thrifle, I wouldn't believe them. It's not
wid Pettier's knowledge you do it, I'll be bound. But bad as you thrated
us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at an rate.”

As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed into
the room where Peter lay.

“Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are at this hour of the day?”

“Eh? Who's that--who's that? oh!”

“Why thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?”

“Oh!--oh! Eh? Is that Condy?”

“All that's to the fore of him. What's asthray wid you man alive?”

“Throth, Condy, I don't know, rightly. I went out, wantin' my coat,
about a week ago, an' got cowld in the small o' the back; I've a pain in
it ever since. Be sittin'.”

“Is your heart safe? You have no smotherin' or anything upon it?”

“Why thin, thank goodness, no; it's all about my back an' my inches.”

“Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an _alloverness_ ails
you, you shkaimer o' the world wide. 'Tis the oil o' the hazel, or a
rubbin' down wid an oak towel you want. Get up, I say, or, by this an'
by that, I'll flail you widin an inch o' your life.”

“Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?”

“No, no, faix; I've found you out: Ellish is afther tellin' me that it
was a smotherin' on the heart; but it's a pain in the small o' the back
wid yourself. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I take the
stick to you!”

“Why, thin, all sorts o' fortune to you, Condy--ha, ha, ha!--but you're
the sarra's pet, for there's no escapin' you. What was that I hard
atween you an' Ellish?” said Peter, getting up.

“The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into
the wrong side o' the sacret afore you die. Go an' get us a pint of what
you know,” replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen.

“Ellish,” said Peter, “I suppose we must give it to thim. Give it--give
it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin 'ill you pay me for this?”

“Never fret yourself about that; you'll be ped. Honor bright, as the
black said whin he stole the boots.”

“Now Pettier,” said the wife, “sure it's no use axin' me to give it,
afther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I'll
have no hand in such things good or bad. I hope we'll soon get out of it
altogether, for myselfs sick an' sore of it, dear knows!”

Pettier accordingly furnished them with the liquor, and got a promise
that Condy would certainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday,
which was only three days distant. The fun of the boys was exuberant
at Condy's success: they drank, and laughed, and sang, until pint after
pint followed in rapid succession.

Every additional inroad upon the keg brought a fresh groan from Ellish;
and even Peter himself began to look blank as their potations deepened.
When the night was far advanced they departed, after having first
overwhelmed Ellish with professions of the warmest friendship, promising
that in future she exclusively should reap whatever benefit was to be
derived from their patronage.

In the meantime, Condy forgot to perform his promise. The next Sunday
passed, but Peter was not paid, nor was his clever debtor seen at mass,
or in the vicinity of the shebeen-house, for many a month afterwards--an
instance of ingratitude which mortified his creditor extremely. The
latter, who felt that it was a take in, resolved to cut short all hopes
of obtaining credit from them in future. In about a week after the
foregoing hoax, he got up a board, presenting a more vigorous refusal
of score than the former. His friends, who were more in number than he
could have possibly imagined, on this occasion, were altogether wiped
out of the exception. The notice ran to the following effect:--

“Notice to the Public, _and to Pether Connell's friends in
particular_.--Divil resave the morsel of credit will be got or given in
this house, while there is stick or stone of it together, barrin' them
that axes it has the ready money.

     “Pettier X his mark Connell,
     “Ellish X her mark Connell.”

This regulation, considering everything, was a very proper one. It
occasioned much mirth among Peter's customers; but Peter cared little
about that, provided he made the money.

The progress of his prosperity, dating it from so small a beginning, was
decidedly slow. He owed it principally to the careful habits of Ellish,
and his own sobriety. He was prudent enough to avoid placing any sign in
his window, by which his house could be known as a shebeen; for he was
not ignorant that there is no class of men more learned in this species
of hieroglyphics than excisemen. At all events, he was prepared for
them, had they come to examine his premises. Nothing that could bring
him within the law was ever kept visible. The cask that contained the
poteen was seldom a week in the same place of concealment, which was
mostly, as we have said, under ground. The tobacco was weighed and
subdivided into small quantities, which, in addition to what he carried
in his pocket, were distributed in various crevices and crannies of
the house; sometimes under the thatch; sometimes under a dish on the
dresser, but generally in a damp place.

When they had been about two or three years thus employed, Peter, at the
solicitation of the wife, took a small farm.

“You're stout an' able,” said she; “an' as I can manage the house widout
you, wouldn't it be a good plan to take a bit o' ground--nine or
ten acres, suppose--an' thry your hand at it? Sure you wor wanst the
greatest man in the parish about a farm. Surely that 'ud be dacenter nor
to be slungein' about, invintin' truth and lies for other people, whin
they're at their work, to make thim laugh, an you doin' nothin' but
standin' over thim, wid your hands down to the bottom o' your pockets?
Do, Pether, thry it, avick, an' you'll see it 'ill prosper wid us, plase
God?'

“Faix I'm ladin' an asier life, Ellish.”

“But are you ladin' a dacenter or a more becominer life?”

“Why, I think, widout doubt, that it's more becominer to walk about like
a gintleman, nor to be workin' like a slave.”

“Gintleman! Musha, is it to the fair you're bringin' yourself? Why, you
great big bosthoon, isn't it both a sin an' a shame to see you sailin'
about among the neighbors, like a sthray turkey, widout a hand's turn to
do? But, any way, take my advice, avillish,--will you, aroon?--an' faix
you'll see how rich we'll get, wid a blessin'?”

“Ellish, you're a deludher!”

“Well, an' what suppose? To be sure I am. Usen't you be followin' me
like a calf afther the finger?--ha, ha, ha!--Will you do my biddin',
Pether darlin'?”

Peter gave her a shrewd, significant wink, in contradiction to what he
considered the degrading comparison she had just made.

“Ellish, you're beside the mark, you beauty; always put the saddle on
the right horse, woman alive! Didn't you often an' I often swear to me,
upon two green ribbons, acrass one another, that you liked a red head
best, an' that the redder it was you liked it the betther?”

“An' it was thruth, too; an' sure, by the same a token, whore could
I get one half so red as your own? Faix, I knew what I was about! I
wouldn't give you yet for e'er a young man in the parish, if I was a
widow to-morrow. Will you take the land?”

“So thin, afther all, if the head hadn't been an me, I wouldn't be a
favorite wid you?--ha, ha, ha!”

“Get out wid you, and spake sinse. Throth, if you don't say aither ay or
no, I'll give myself no more bother about it, There we are now wid some
guineas together, an'--Faix, Pettier, you're vexin' me!”

“Do you want an answer?”

“Why, if it's plasin' to your honor, I'd have no objection.”

“Well, will you have my new big coat made agin Shraft?” (* Shrovetide)

“Ay, will I, in case you do what I say; but if you don't the sarra
stitch of it 'll go to your back this twelvemonth, maybe, if you vex me.
Now!”

“Well, I'll tell you what: my mind's made up--I will take the land; an'
I'll show the neighbors what Pether Connell can do yit.”

“Augh! augh! mavoumeen, that you wor! Throth I'll fry a bit o' the bacon
for our dinner to-day, on the head o' that, although I didn't intind to
touch it till Sunday. Ay, faix, an' a pair o' stockins, too, along wid
the coat; an' somethin' else, that you didn't hear of yit.”

Ellish, in fact, was a perfect mistress of the science of wheedling;
but as it appears instinctive in the sex, this is not to be wondered at.
Peter himself was easy, or rather indolent, till properly excited by
the influence of adequate motives; but no sooner were the energies that
slumbered in him called into activity, than he displayed a firmness of
purpose, and a perseverance in action, that amply repaid his exertions.

The first thing he did, after taking, his little farm, was to prepare
for its proper cultivation, and to stock it. His funds were not,
however, sufficient for this at the time. A horse was to be bought, but
the last guinea they could spare had been already expended, and this
purchase was, therefore, out of the question. The usages of the small
farmers, however, enabled him to remedy this inconvenience. Peter made
a bargain with a neighbor, in which he undertook to repay him by an
exchange of labor, for the use of his plough and horses in getting
down his crop. He engaged to give him, for a stated period in the slack
season, so many days' mowing as would cover the expenses of ploughing
and harrowing his land. There was, however, a considerable portion
of his holding potato-ground; this Peter himself dug with his spade,
breaking it as he went along into fine mould. He then planted the
seed--got a hatchet, and selecting the best thorn-bush he could find,
cut it down, tied a rope to the trunk, seized the rope, and in this
manner harrowed his potato-ground. Thus did he proceed, struggling to
overcome difficulties by skill, and substituting for the more efficient
modes of husbandry, such rude artificial resources as his want of
capital compelled him to adopt.

In the meantime, Ellish, seeing Peter acquitting himself in his
undertaking with such credit, determined not to be outdone in her
own department. She accordingly conceived the design of extending her
business, and widening the sphere of her exertions. This intention,
however, she kept secret from Peter, until by putting penny to penny,
and shilling to shilling, she was able to purchase a load of crockery.
Here was a new source of profit opened exclusively by her own address.
Peter was astonished when he saw the car unloaded, and the crockery
piled in proud array by Ellish's own hands.

“I knew,” said she, “I'd take a start out o' you. Faix, Pether, you'll
see how I'll do, never fear, wid the help o' Heaven! I'll be off to the
market in the mornin', plase God, where I'll sell rings around me * o'
them crocks and pitchers. An' now, Pether, the sarra one o' me would do
this, good or bad, only bekase your managin' the farm so cleverly. Tady
Gormley's goin' to bring home his meal from the mill, and has promised
to lave these in the market for me, an' never fear but I'll get some o'
the neighbors to bring them home, so that there's car-hire saved. Faix,
Pether, there's nothin' like givin' the people sweet words, any way;
sure they come chape.”

     * This is a kind of hyperbole for selling a grout
     quantity.

“Faith, an' I'll back you for the sweet words agin any woman in the
three kingdoms, Ellish, you darlin'. But don't you know the proverb,
'sweet words butther no parsnips.'”

“In throth, the same proverb's a lyin' one, and ever was; but it's not
parsnips I'll butther wid 'em, you gommoch.”

“Sowl, you butthered me wid 'em long enough, you deludher--devil a lie
in it; but thin, as you say, sure enough, I was no parsnip--not so soft
as that either, you phanix.”

“No? Thin I seldom seen your beautiful head without thinkin' of a
carrot, an' it's well known they're related--ha, ha, ha!--Behave,
Pether--behave, I say--Pether, Pether--ha, ha, ha!--let me alone! Katty
Hacket, take him away from me--ha, ha, ha!”

“Will ever you, you shaver wid the tongue that you are? Will ever you, I
say? Will ever you make delusion to my head again--eh?”

“Oh, never, never--but let me go, an' me go full o' tickles! Oh, Pether,
avourneen, don't, you'll hurt me, an' the way I'm in--quit, avillish!”

“Bedad, if you don't let my head alone, I'll--will ever you?”

“Never, never. There now--ha, ha, ha!--oh, but I'm as wake as wather wid
what I laughed. Well now, Pether, didn't I manage bravely--didn't I?”

“Wait till we see the profits first, Ellish--crockery's very tindher
goods.”

“Ay!--just wait, an'I'll engage I'll turn the penny. The family's risin'
wid us.”--

“Very thrue,” replied Peter, giving a sly wink at the wife--“no doubt of
it.”

“--Kisin' wid us--I tell you to have sinse, Pether; an' it's our duty to
have something for the crathurs when they grow up.”

“Well, that's a thruth--sure I'm not sayin' against it.”

“I know that; but what I say is, if we hould an, we may make money.
Everything, for so far, has thruv wid us, God be praised for it. There's
another thing in my mind, that I'll be tellin' you some o' these days.”

“I believe, Ellish, you dhrame about makin' money.”

“Well, an' I might do worse; when I'm dhramin' about it, I'm doin' no
sin to any one. But, listen, you must keep the house to-morrow while I'm
at the market. Won't you, Pether?”

“An' who's to open the dhrain in the bottom below?”

“That can be done the day afther. Won't you, abouchal?”

“Ellish, you're a deludher, I tell you. Sweet words;--sowl, you'd
smooth a furze bush wid sweet words. How-an-ever, I will keep the house
to-morrow, till we see the great things you'll do wid your crockery.”

Ellish's success was, to say the least of it, quite equal to, her
expectations. She was certainly an excellent wife, full of acuteness,
industry, and enterprise. Had Peter been married to a woman of a
disposition resembling his own, it is probable that he would have sunk
into indolence, filth, and poverty, these miseries might have soured
their tempers, and driven them into all the low excesses and crimes
attendant upon pauperism. Ellish, however, had sufficient spirit to act
upon Peter's natural indolence, so as to excite it to the proper pitch.
Her mode of operation was judiciously suited to his temper. Playfulness
and kindness were the instruments by which she managed him. She knew
that violence, or the assumption of authority, would cause a man who,
like him, was stern when provoked, to react, and meet her with an
assertion of his rights and authority not to be trifled with. This she
consequently avoided, not entirely from any train of reasoning on the
subject; but from that intuitive penetration which taught her to know
that the plan she had resorted to was best calculated to make him
subservient to her own purposes, without causing him to feel that he was
governed.

Indeed, every day brought out her natural cleverness more clearly. Her
intercourse with the world afforded her that facility of understanding
the tempers and dispositions of others, which can never be acquired
when it has not been bestowed as a natural gift. In her hands it was
a valuable one. By degrees her house improved in its appearance, both
inside and outside. From crockery she proceeded to herrings, then to
salt, in each of which she dealt with surprising success. There was,
too, such an air of bustle, activity, and good-humor about her that
people loved to deal with her. Her appearance was striking, if not
grotesque. She was tall and strong, walked rapidly, and when engaged
in fair or market disposing of her coarse merchandise, was dressed in a
short red petticoat, blue stockings, strong brogues, wore a blue cloak,
with the hood turned up, over her head, on the top of which was a man's
hat, fastened by a, ribbon under her chin. As she thus stirred about,
with a kind word and a joke for every one, her healthy cheek in full
bloom, and her blue-gray eye beaming with an expression of fun and
good-nature, it would be difficult to conceive a character more
adapted for intercourse with, a laughter-loving people. In fact, she
soon became a favorite, and this not the less that she was as ready to
meet her rivals in business with a blow as with a joke. Peter witnessed
her success with unfeigned pleasure; and although every feasible
speculation was proposed by her, yet he never felt that he was a mere
nonentity when compared to his wife. 'Tis true, he was perfectly capable
of executing her agricultural plans when she proposed them, but his own
capacity for making a lucky hit was very limited. Of the two, she was
certainly the better farmer; and scarcely an improvement took place in
his little holding which might not be traced to Ellish.

In the course of a couple of years she bought him a horse, and Peter was
enabled, to join with a neighbor, who had another. Each had a plough
and tackle, so that here was a little team made up, the half of which
belonged to Peter. By this means they ploughed week about, until their
crops were got down. Peter finding his farm doing well, began to feel a
kind of rivalship with his wife--that is to say, she first suggested
the principle, and afterwards contrived to make him imagine that it was
originally his own.

“The sarra one o' you, Pettier,” she exclaimed to him one day, “but's
batin' me out an' out. Why, you're the very dickins at the farmin', so
you are. Faix, I suppose, if you go an this way much longer, that
you'll be thinkin' of another farm, in regard that we have some guineas
together. Pettier, did you ever think of it, abouchal?”

“To be sure, I did, you beauty; an' amn't I in fifty notions to take
Harry Neal's land, that jist lies alongside of our own.”

“Faix, an' you're right, maybe; but if it's strivin' again me you are,
you may give it over: I tell you, I'll have more money made afore this
time twelvemonth than you will.”

“Arrah, is it jokin' you are? More money? Would you advise me to take
Harry's land? Tell me that first, you phanix, an' thin I'm your man!”

“Faix, take your own coorse, avourneen. If you get a lase of it at a
fair rint, I'll buy another horse, any how. Isn't that doin' the thing
dacent'?”

“More power to you, Ellish! I'll hold you a crown, I pay you the price
o' the horse afore this time twelvemonth.”

“Done! The sarra be off me but done!--an' here's Barny Dillon an' Katty
Hacket to bear witness.”

“Sure enough we will,” said Barny, the servant.

“I'll back the misthress any money,” replied the maid.

“Two to one on the masther,” said the man. “Whoo! our side o' the house
for ever! Come, Pether, hould up your head, there's money bid for you!”

“Ellish, I'll fight for you ankle deep,” said Katty--“depind your life
an me.”

“In the name o' goodness, thin, it's a bargain,” said Ellish; “an' at
the end o' the year, if we're spared, we'll see what we'll see. We'll
have among ourselves a little sup o' tay, plase goodness, an' we'll be
comfortable. Now, Barny, go an' draw home thim phaties from the pits
while the day's fine; and Katty, a colleen, bring in some wather, till
we get the pig killed and scalded--it'll hardly have time to be good
bacon for the big markets at Christmas. I don't wish,” she continued,
“to keep it back from them that we have a thrifle o' money. One always
does betther when it's known that they're not strugglin'. There's Nelly
Cummins, an' her customers is lavin' her, an' dalin' wid me, bekase
she's goin' down in business. Ay an', Pether, ahagur, it's the way o'
the world.”

“Well but, Ellish, don't you be givin' Nelly Cummins the harsh word, or
lanin' too heavily upon her, the crathur, merely in regard that she is
goin' down. Do you hear, acolleen?”

“Indeed I don't do it, Pether; but you know she has a tongue like a
razor at times, and whin it gets loose she'd provoke St. Pether himself.
Thin she's takin' to the dhrink, too, the poor misfortunate vagabone!”

“Well, well, that's no affair o' yours, or mine aither--only don't be
risin' ructions and norrations wid her. You _threwn_ a jug at her the
last day you war out, an' hot the poor ould Potticary as he was passin'.
You see I hard that, though you kept it close from me!--ha, ha, ha!”

“Ha, ha, ha!--why you'd split if you had seen the crathur whin he fell
into Pether White's brogue-creels, wid his heels up. But what right
had she to be sthrivin' to bring away my customers afore my face? Ailey
Dogherty was buying a crock wid me, and Nelly shouts over to her from
where she sot like a queen on her stool, 'Ailey,' says she, 'here's a
betther one for three fardens less, an' another farden 'ill get you a
pennorth o' salt.' An', indeed, Ailey walks over, manely enough, an'
tuck her at her word. Why, flesh an' blood couldn't bear it.”

“Indeed, an' you're raal flesh and blood, Ellish, if that's thrue.”

“Well, but consarnin' what I mintioned awhile agone--hut! the poor mad
crathur, let us have no more discoorse about her--I say, that no one
ever thrives so well as when the world sees that they are gettin' an,
an' prosperin'; but if there's not an appearance, how will any one know
whether we are prosperin' or not, barrin' they see some sign of it about
us; I mane, in a quiet rasonable way, widout show or extravagance. In
the name o' goodness, thin, let us get the house brushed up, an' the
outhouses dashed. A bushel or two of lime 'ill make this as white as
an egg widin, an' a very small expinse will get it plastered, and
whitewashed widowt. Wouldn't you like it, avourneen? Eh, Pether?”

“To be sure I'd like it. It'll give a respectful look to the house and
place.”

“Ay, an' it'll bring customers, that's the main thing. People always
like to come to a snug, comfortable place. An', plase God, I'm thinkin'
of another plan that I'll soon mintion.”

“An' what may that be, you skamer? Why, Ellish, you've ever and always
some skam'e or other in that head o' yours. For my part, I don't know
how you get at them.”

“Well, no matter, acushla, do you only back me; just show me how I ought
to go on wid them, for nobody can outdo you at such things, an' I'll
engage we'll thrive yit, always wid a blessin' an us.”

“Why, to tell God's thruth, I'd bate the devil himself at plannin' out,
an' bringin' a thing to a conclusion--eh, you deludher?”

“The sarra doubt of it; but takin' the other farm was the brightest
thought I seen wid you yit. Will you do it, avillish?”

“To be sure. Don't I say it? An' it'll be up wid the lark wid me. Hut,
woman, you don't see the half o' what's in me, yet.”

“I'll buy you a hat and a pair o' stockins at Christmas.”

“Will you, Ellish? Then, by the book, I'll work like a horse.”

“I didn't intind to tell you, but I had it laid out for you.”

“Faith, you're a beauty, Ellish. What'll we call this young chap that's
comin', acushla?”

“Now, Pether, none o' your capers. It's time enough when the thing
happens to be thinkin' o' that, Glory be to God!”

“Well, you may talk as you plase, but I'll call him Pether.”

“An' how do you know but he'll be a girl, you omadhawn?”

“Murdher alive, ay, sure enough! Faith, I didn't think o' that!”

“Well, go up now an' spake to Misther Eccles about the land; maybe
somebody else 'ud slip in afore us, an' that wouldn't be pleasant.
Here's your brave big coat, put it an; faix, it makes a man of
you--gives you a bodagh* look entirely; but that's little to what you'll
be yet, wid a blessin'--a Half-Sir, any way.”

     * This word is used in Ireland sometimes in a good and
     sometimes in a bad sense. For instance, the peasantry
     will often say in allusion to some individual who may
     happen to be talked of, “Hut! he's a dirty bodagh;” but
     again, you may hear them use it in a sense directly the
     reverse of this; for instance, “He's a very dacent
     man, and looks the bodagh entirely.” As to the “Half
     sir,” he stands about half-way between the bodagh and
     the gentleman, Bodagh--signifying churl--was applied
     originally as a term of reproach to the English
     settlers.

In fact, Ellish's industry had already gained a character for both
herself and her husband. He got credit for the assiduity and activity to
which she trained him: and both were respected for their cleverness in
advancing themselves from so poor a beginning to the humble state of
independence they had then reached. The farm which Ellish was so anxious
to secure was the property of the gentleman from whom they held the
other. Being a man of sense and penetration, he fortunately saw--what,
indeed, was generally well known--that Peter and Ellish were rising in
the world, and that their elevation was the consequence of their own
unceasing efforts to become independent, so that industry is in every
possible point of view its own reward. So long as the farm was open to
competition the offers for it multiplied prodigiously, and rose in equal
proportion. Persons not worth twenty shillings in the world offered
double the rent which the utmost stretch of ingenuity, even with
suitable capital, could pay. New-married couples, with nothing but the
strong imaginative hopes peculiar to their country, proposed for it in
a most liberal spirit. Men who had been ejected out of their late farms
for non-payment of rent, were ready to cultivate this at a rent much
above that which, on better land, they were unable to pay. Others, who
had been ejected from farm after farm--each of which they undertook as a
mere speculation, to furnish them with present subsistence, but without
any ultimate expectation of being able to meet their engagements--came
forward with the most laudable efforts. This gentleman, however, was
none of those landlords who are so besotted and ignorant of their own
interests, as to let their lands simply to the highest bidders, without
taking into consideration their capital, moral character, and habits
of industry. He resided at home, knew his tenants personally, took an
interest in their successes and difficulties, and instructed them in the
best modes of improving their farms.

Peter's first interview with him was not quite satisfactory on
either side. The honest man was like a ship without her rudder, when
transacting business in the absence of his wife. The fact was, that on
seeing the high proposals which were sent in, he became alarmed lest, as
he flattered himself, that the credit of the transaction should be all
his own, the farm might go into the hands of another, and his character
for cleverness suffer with Ellish. The landlord was somewhat astounded
at the rent which a man who bore so high a name for prudence offered
him. He knew it was considerably beyond what the land was worth, and he
did not wish that any tenant coming upon his estate should have no other
prospect than that of gradually receding into insolvency.

“I cannot give you any answer now,” said he to Peter; “but if you will
call in a day or two I shall let you know my final determination.”

Peter, on coming home, rendered an account of his interview with the
landlord to his wife, who no sooner heard of the extravagant proposal he
made, than she raised her hands and eyes, exclaiming--

“Why, thin, Pether, alanna, was it beside yourself you wor, to go for to
offer a rint that no one could honestly pay! Why, man alive, it 'ud
lave us widout house or home in do time, all out! Sure Pettier, acushla,
where 'ud be the use of us or any one takin' land, barrin' they could
make somethin' by it? Faix, if the gintleman had sinse, he wouldn't give
the same farm to anybody at sich a rint; an' for good rasons too--bekase
they could never pay it, an' himself 'ud be the sufferer in the long
run.”

“Dang me, but you're the long-headedest woman alive this day, Ellish.
Why, I never wanst wint into the rason o' the thing, at all. But you
don't know the offers he got.”

“Don't I? Why do you think he'd let the Mullins, or the Conlans, or the
O'Donog-hoes, or the Duffys, upon his land, widout a shillin' in one o'
their pockets to stock it, or to begin workin' it properly wid. Hand me
my cloak from the pin there, an' get your hat. Katty, avourneen, have an
eye to the house till we come back; an' if Dick Murphy comes here to get
tobaccy on score, tell him I can't afford it, till he pays up what he
got. Come, Pether, in the name o' goodness--come, abouchal.”

Ellish, during their short journey to the landlord's, commenced, in her
own way, a lecture upon agricultural economy, which, though plain and
unvarnished, contained excellent and practical sense. She also pointed
out to him when to speak and when to be silent; told him what rent to
offer, and in what manner he should offer it; but she did all this so
dexterously and sweetly, that honest Peter thought the new and corrected
views which she furnished him with, were altogether the result of his
own penetration. The landlord was at home when they arrived, and ordered
them into the parlor, where he soon made his appearance.

“Well, Connell,” said he, smiling, “are you come to make me a higher
offer?”

“Why thin no, plase your honor,” replied Peter, looking for confidence
to Ellish: “instead o' that, sir, Ellish here--”

“Never heed me, alanna; tell his honor what you've to say, out o' the
face. Go an acushla.”

“Why, your honor, to tell the blessed thruth, the dickens a bit o'
myself but had a sup in my head when I was wid your honor to-day
before.”

Ellish was thunderstruck at this most unexpected apology from Peter; but
the fact was, that the instructions which she had given him on their
way had completely evaporated from his brain, and he felt himself thrown
altogether upon his own powers of invention. Here, however, he was at
home; for it was well known among all his acquaintances, that, however
he might be deficient in the management of a family when compared to his
wife, he was capable, notwithstanding, of exerting a certain imaginative
faculty in a very high degree. Ellish felt that to contradict him on the
spot must lessen both him and herself in the opinion of the landlord, a
circumstance that would have given her much pain.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Connell,” said Mr. Eccles; “you bear the
character of being strictly sober in your habits. You must have been
early at the bottle, too, which makes your apology rather unhappy. Of
all tipplers, he who drinks early is the worst and most incurable.”

“Thrue for you, sir, but this only happens me wanst a year, your honor.”

“Once a year! But, by the by, you had no appearance of being tipsy,
Peter.”

“Tipsy! Bud-a'-age, your honor, I was never seen tipsy in all my life,”
 said Peter,--“That's a horse of another color, sir, plase your honor.”

The reader must at once perceive that Peter here was only recovering
himself from the effects of the injurious impression which his first
admission was calculated to produce against him in the mind of his
landlord. “Tipsy! No, no, sir; but the rason of it, sir, was this: it
bein' my birthday, sir, I merely tuck a sup in the mornin', in honor o'
the day. It's altogether a lucky day to me, sir!”

“Why, to be sure, every man's birthday may, probably, be called
such--the gift of existence being, I fear, too much undervalued.”

“Bedad, your honor, I don't mane that, at all.”

“Then what do you mean, Peter?”

“Why, sir, you see, it's not that I was _entirely_ born on this day, but
partly, sir; I was marrid to Ellish here into the bargain,--one o'
the best wives, sir--however, I'll say no more, as she's to the fore
herself. But, death alive, sir, sure when we put both conclusions
together--myself bein' sich a worthy man, and Ellish such a tip-top
wife, who could blame me for smellin' the bottle?--for divil a much more
I did--about two glasses, sir--an' so it got up into my head a little
when I was wid your honor to-day before.”

“But what is the amount of all this, Peter?”

“Why, sir, you see only I was as I said, Sir--not tipsy, your honor, any
way, but seein' things double or so; an' that was, I suppose, what made
me offer for the farm double what I intinded. Every body knows, sir,
that the 'crathur' gives the big heart to us, any how, your honor.”

“But you know, Peter, we entered into no terms about it. I, therefore,
have neither power nor inclination to hold you to the offer you made.”

“Faith, sir, you're not the gintleman to do a shabby turn, nor ever was,
nor one o' your family. There's not in all Europe”--

Ellish, who was a point blank dealer, could endure Peter's mode of
transacting business no longer. She knew that if he once got into the
true spirit of applying the oil of flattery to the landlord, he would
have rubbed him into a perfect froth ere he quitted him. She, therefore,
took up the thread of the discourse, and finished the compliment with
much more delicacy than honest Peter could have displayed.

“Thrue for you, Pether,” she added; “there is not a kinder family to
the poor, nor betther landlords in the country they live in. Pether an'
myself, your honor, on layin' both our 'heads together, found that he
offered more rint for the land nor any! tenant could honestly pay. So,
sir, where's the use of keepin' back God's truth--Pether, sir”--

Peter here trembled from an apprehension that the wife, in accomplishing
some object of her own in reference to the land, was about to undeceive
the landlord, touching the lie which he had so barefacedly palmed upon
that worthy gentleman for truth. In fact, his anxiety overcame his
prudence, and he resolved to anticipate her.

“I'd advise you, sir,” said he, with a smile of significant good-humor,
“to be a little suspicious of her, for, to tell the truth, she draws
the”--here he illustrated the simile with his staff--“the long bow of an
odd time; faith she does. I'd kiss the book on the head of what I tould
you, sir, plase your honor. For the sacret of it is, that I tuck the
moistare afore she left her bed.”

“Why, Peter, alanna,” said Ellish, soothingly, “what's comin' over you,
at all, an' me; goin' to explain to his honor the outs and ins I of our
opinion about the land? Faix, man, we're not thinkin' about you, good or
bad.”

“I believe the drop has scarcely left your head yet, Peter,” said the
landlord.

“Bud-an'-age, your honor, sure we must have our joke, any how--doesn't
she deserve it for takin' the word out o' my mouth?”

“Whisht, avillish; you're too cute for us all, Pether. There's no use,
sir, as I was sayin', for any one to deny that when they take a farm
they do it to make by it, or at the laste to live comfortably an it.
That's the thruth, your honor, an' it's no use to keep it back from you,
sir.”

“I perfectly agree with you,” said the landlord. “It is with these
motives that a tenant should wish to occupy land; and it is the duty of
every landlord who has his own interest truly at heart, to see that
his land be not let at such a rent as will preclude the possibility of
comfort or independence on the part of his tenantry. He who lets his
land above its value, merely because people are foolish enough to offer
more for it than it is worth, is as great an enemy to himself as he is
to the tenant.”

“It's God's thruth, sir, an' it's nothin' else but a comfort to hear
sich words comin' from the lips of a gintleman that's a landlord
himself.”

“Ay, an' a good one, too,” said Peter; “an' kind father for his honor to
be what he is. Divil resave the family in all Europe”--

“Thrue for you, avourneen, an' even' one knows that. We wor talkin' it
over, sir, betuxt ourselves, Pether an' me, an' he says very cutely,
that, upon second thoughts, he offered more nor we could honestly pay
out o' the land: so”--

“Faith, it's a thrue as gospel, your honor. Says I, 'Ellish, you
beauty'”--

“I thought,” observed Mr. Eccles, “that she sometimes drew the long bow,
Peter.”

“Oh, murdher alive, sir, it was only in regard of her crassin' in an'
whippin' the word out o' my mouth, that I wanted to take a rise out
of her. Oh, bedad, sir, no; the crathur's thruth to the backbone, an'
farther if I'd say it.”

“So, your honor, considherin' everything, we're willin' to offer thirty
shillin's an acre for the farm. That rint, sir, we'll be able to pay,
wid the help o' God, for sure we can do nothin' widout his assistance,
glory be to his name! You'll get many that'll offer you more, your
honor; but if it 'ud be plasin' to you to considher what manes they have
to pay it, I think, sir, you'd see, out o' your own sinse, that it's not
likely people who is gone to the bad, an' has nothin' could stand it out
long.”

“I wish to heaven,” replied Mr. Eccles, “that every tenant in Ireland
possessed your prudence and good sense. Will you permit me to ask, Mrs.
Connell, what capital you and your husband can command provided I should
let you have it.”

“Wid every pleasure in life, sir, for it's but a fair question to put.
An' sure, it is to God we owe it, whatever it is, plase your honor. But,
sir, if we get the land, we're able to stock it, an' to crop it well an'
dacently; an' if your honor would allow us for sartin improvements, sir,
we'd run it into snug fields, by plantin' good hedges, an' gettin' up
shelther for the outlyin' cattle in the hard seasons, plase your honor,
and you know the farm is very naked and bare of shelter at present.”

“Sowl, will we, sir, an' far more nor that if we get it. I'll
undhertake, sir, to level”--

“No, Pether, we'll promise no more nor we'll do; but anything that his
honor will be plased to point out to us, if we get fair support, an'
that it remains on the farm afther us, we'll be willin' to do it.”

“Willin'!” exclaimed Peter!--“faith, whether we're willin' or not, if
his honor but says the word”----

“Mrs. Connell,” said their landlord, “say no more. The farm is yours,
and you may, consider yourselves as my tenants.”

“Many thanks to you, sir, for the priference. I hope, sir, you'll not
rue what you did in givin' it to us before them that offered a higher
rint. You'll find, sir, wid the help o' the Almighty, that we'll pay you
your rint rigular an' punctual.”

“Why, thin, long life, an' glory, an' benedication to your honor! Faith,
it's only kind father for you, sir, to be what you are. The divil resave
the family in all Europe”--

“Peter, that will do,” replied the landlord, “it would be rather
hazardous for our family to compete with all Europe. Go home, Peter,
and be guided by your wife, who has more sense in her little finger than
ever your family had either in Europe or out of it, although I mean you
no offense by going beyond Europe.”

“By all the books that never wor opened an' shut,” replied Peter,
with the intuitive quickness of perception peculiar to Irishmen, “an
innocenter boy than Andy Connell never was sent acrass the water. I
proved as clear an alibi for him as the sun in the firmanent; an' yit,
bad luck to the big-wig O'Grady, he should be puttin' in his leek an me
afore the jury, jist whin I had the poor boy cleared out dacently, an'
wid all honor. An' bedad, now, that we're spakin about it, I'll tell
your honor the whole conclusions of it. You see, sir, the Agint was shot
one night; an' above all nights in the year, your honor, a thief of a
toothache that I had kep me”--

“Pether, come away, abouchal: his honor kaows as much about it as you
do, Come, aroon; you know we must help to scald an' scrape the pig afore
night, an' it's late now.”

“Bodad, sir, she's a sweet one, this.”

“Be guided by her, Peter, if you're wise, she's a wife you ought to be
proud of.”

“Thrue for you, sir; divil resave the word o' lie in that, any how.
Come, Ellish; come, you deludher, I'm wid you.”

“God bless your honor, sir, an' we're ob'laged to you for you kindness
an' patience wid the likes o' us.”

“I say ditto, your honor. Long life an' glory to you every day your
honor rises!”

Peter, on his way home, entered into a defence of his apology for
offering so high a rent to the landlord; but although it possessed both
ingenuity and originality, it was, we must confess, grossly defective in
those principles usually inculcated by our best Ethic writers.

“Couldn't you have tould him what we agreed upon goin' up,” observed
Ellish; “but instead o' that, to begin an' tell the gintlemen so many
lies about your bein' dhrunk, an' this bein' your birth-day, an' the
day we wor marrid, an',----Musha, sich quare stories to come into your
head?”

“Why,” said Peter, “what harm's in all that, whin he didn't _find me
out?_”

“But why the sarra did you go to say that I was in the custom o' tellin'
lies?”

“Faix, bekase I thought you wor goin' to let out all, an' I thought
it best to have the first word o' you. What else?--but sure I brought
myself off bravely.”

“Well, well, a hudh; don't be invintin' sich things another time, or
you'll bring yourself into a scrape, some way or other.”

“Faix, an' you needn't spake, Ellish; you can let out a nate bounce
yourself, whin it's to sarve you. Come now, don't run away wid the
story!”

“Well, if I do, it's in the way o' my business; whin I'm batin' them
down in the price o' what I'm buyin', or gettin' thim to bid up for any
thing I'm sellin': besides, it's to advance ourselves in the world that
I do it, abouchal.”

“Go an, go an; faix, you're like the new moon, sharp at both corners:
but what matther, you beauty, we've secured the farm, at any rate, an',
by this an' by that, I'll show you tip-top farmin' an it.”

A struggle now commenced between the husband and wife, as to which of
them should, in their respective departments, advance themselves with
greater rapidity in life. This friendly contest was kept up principally
by the address of Ellish, who, as she knew those points in her husband's
character most easily wrought upon, felt little difficulty in shaping
him to her own purposes. Her great object was to acquire wealth; and it
mostly happens, that when this is the ruling principle in life, there is
usually to be found, in association with it, all those qualities which
are best adapted to secure it. Peter, on finding that every succeeding
day brought something to their gains, began to imbibe a portion of
that spirit which wholly absorbed Ellish. He became worldly; but it
was rather the worldliness of habit than of principle. In the case
of Ellish, it proceeded from both; her mind was apt, vigorous, and
conceptive; her body active, her manners bland and insinuating, and her
penetration almost intuitive. About the time of their entering upon the
second farm, four children had been, the fruit of their marriage--two
sons and two daughters. These were now new sources of anxiety to their
mother, and fresh impulses to her industry. Her ignorance, and that of
her husband, of any kind of education, she had often, in the course
of their business, bitter cause to regret. She now resolved that their
children should be well instructed; and no time was lost in sending them
to school, the moment she thought them capable of imbibing the simplest
elements of instruction.

“It's hard to say,” she observed to her husband, “how soon they may be
useful to us. Who knows, Pether, but we may have a full shop yit,
an' they may be able to make up bits of accounts for us, poor things?
Throth, I'd be happy if I wanst seen it.”

“Faix, Ellish,” replied Peter, “if we can get an as we're doin', it is
hard to say. For my own part, if I had got the larnin' in time, I might
be a bright boy to-day, no doubt of it--could spake up to the best
o' thim. I never wint to school but wanst, an' I remimber I threw the
masther into a kiln-pot, an' broke the poor craythur's arm; an' from
that day to this, I never could be brought a single day to school.”

Peter and Ellish now began to be pointed out as a couple worthy of
imitation by those who knew that perseverance and industry never fail of
securing their own reward. Others, however,--that is to say, the lazy,
the profligate, and the ignorant,--had a ready solution of the secret of
their success.

“Oh, my dear, she's a lucky woman, an' anything she puts her hand to
prospers. Sure sho was born wid a _lucky caul_* an her head; an', be
sure, ahagur, the world will flow in upon thim. There's many a neighbor
about thim works their fingers to the stumps, an' yit you see they can't
get an: for Ellish, if she'd throw the sweepins of her hearth to the
wind, it 'ud come back to her in money. She was born to it, an' nothin'
can keep her from her luck!”**

     * The caul is a, thin membrane, about the consistence
     of very fine silk, which sometimes covers the head on a
     new-born infant like a cap. It is always the omen of
     great good fortune to the infant and parents; and in
     Ireland, when any one has unexpectedly fallen into the
     receipt of property, or any other temporal good, it is
     customary to say, “such a person was born with a 'lucky
     caul' on his head.”

     Why these are considered lucky, it would be a very
     difficult matter to ascertain. Several instances of
     good fortune, happening to such as were born with them,
     might, by their coincidences, form a basis for the
     superstition; just as the fact of three men during one
     severe winter having been found drowned, each with two
     shirts on, generated an opinion which has now become
     fixed and general in that parish, that it is unlucky to
     wear two shirts at once. We are not certain whether the
     caul is in general the perquisite of the midwife--
     sometimes we believe it is; at all events, her
     integrity occasionally yields to the desire of
     possessing it. In many cases she conceals its
     existence, in order that she may secretly dispose of it
     to good advantage, which she frequently does; for it is
     considered to be the herald of good fortune to those
     who can get it into their possession. Now, let not our
     English neighbors smile at us for those things until
     they wash their own hands clear of such practices. At
     this day a caul will bring a good price in the most
     civilized city in the world--to wit, the good city of
     London--the British metropolis. Nay to such lengths has
     the mania for cauls been carried there, that they have
     been actually advertised for in the Times newspaper.

     * This doctrine of fatalism is very prevalent among the
     lower orders in Ireland.

Such are many of the senseless theories that militate against exertion
and industry in Ireland, and occasion many to shrink back from the
laudible race of honest enterprise, into filth, penury, and crime. It
is this idle and envious crew, who, with a natural aversion to domestic
industry, become adepts in politics, and active in those illegal
combinations and outrages which retard the prosperity of the country,
and bring disgrace upon the great body of its peaceable inhabitants.

In the meantime Ellish was rapidly advancing in life, while such persons
were absurdly speculating upon the cause of her success. Her business
was not only increased, but extended. From crockery, herrings, and salt,
she advanced gradually to deal in other branches adapted to her station,
and the wants of the people. She bought stockings, and retailed them
every market-day. By and by a few pieces of soap might be seen in her
windows; starch, blue, potash, and candles, were equally profitable.
Pipes were seen stuck across each other, flanked by tape, cakes,
children's books, thimbles, and bread. In fact, she was equally clever
and expert in whatever she undertook. The consciousness of this, and the
reputation of being “a hard honest woman,” encouraged her to get a cask
or two of beer, and a few rolls of tobacco. Peter, when she proposed
the two last, consented only to sell them still as smuggled, goods--sub
silentio. With her usual prudence, however, she declined this.

“We have gone on that way purty far,” she replied, “an' never got a
touch, (* never suffered by the exciseman) thanks to the kindness o' the
neighbors that never informed an us: but now, Pether, that we're able we
had betther do everything above boord. You know the ould say, 'long runs
the fox, but he's catched at last:' so let us give up in time, an' get
out a little bit o' license.”

“I don't like that at all,” replied Peter: “I cain't warm my heart to
the license. I'll back you in anything but that. The gauger won't come
next or near us: he has thried it often, an' never made anything of it.
Dang me, but I'd like to have a bit o' fun with the gauger to see if my
hand's still ready for practice.”

“Oh, thin, Pether, how can you talk that way, asthore? Now if what
I'm sayin' was left to yourself wouldn't you be apt to plan it as
I'm doin'?--wouldn't you, acushla? Throth, I know you're to cute an'
sinsible not to do it.”

“Why thin, do you know what, Ellish--although I didn't spake it out,
upon my faix I was thinkin' of it. Divil a word o' lie in it.”

“Oh, you thief o' the world, an' never to tell it to me. Faix, Pether,
you're a cunnin' shaver, an' as deep as a draw well.”

“Let me alone. Why I tell you if I study an' lay myself down to it, I
can conthrive anything. When I was young, many a time my poor father,
God be good to him! said that if there was any possibility of gettin' me
to take to larnin', I'd be risin' out o' the ashes every mornin' like a
phanix.”

“But won't you hould to your plan about the license?”

“Hould! To be sure I will. What was I but takin' a rise out o' you. I
intinded it this good while, you phanix--faix, I did.”

In this manner did Ellish dupe her own husband into increasing wealth.
Their business soon became so extensive, that a larger house was
absolutely necessary. To leave that, beneath whose roof she succeeded
so well in all her speculations, was a point--be it of prudence or of
prejudice--which Ellish could not overcome. Her maxim was, whereever you
find yourself doing well, stay there. She contrived, however, to remedy
this. To the old house additional apartments were, from time to time,
added, into which their business soon extended. When these again became
too small, others were also built; so that in the course of about twenty
years, their premises were so extensive, that the original shebeen-house
constituted a very small portion of Peter's residence. Peter, during
Ellish's progress within doors, had not been idle without. For every new
room added to the house, he was able to hook in a fresh farm in addition
to those he had already occupied. Unexpected success had fixed his heart
so strongly upon the accumulation of money, and the pride of rising
in the world, as it was possible for a man, to whom they were only
adventitious feelings, to experience. The points of view in which he
and his wife were contemplated by the little public about them were
peculiar, but clearly distinct. The wife was generally esteemed for
her talents and incessant application to business; but she was not so
cordially liked as Peter. He, on the other hand, though less esteemed,
was more beloved by all their acquaintances than Ellish. This might
probably originate from the more obvious congeniality which existed
between Peter's natural disposition, and the national character; for
with the latter, Ellish, except good humor, had little in common.

The usual remarks upon both were--“she would buy an' sell him”--“'twas
she that made a man of him; but for all that, Pether's worth a ship-load
of her, if she'd give him his own way.” That is, if she would permit him
to drink with the neighbors, to be idle and extravagant.

Every year, now that their capital was extending, added more perceptibly
to their independence. Ellish's experience in the humbler kinds of
business, trained her for a higher line; just as boys at school rise
from one form to another. She made no plunges, nor permitted Peter, who
was often, inclined to jump at conclusions, to make any. Her elevation
was gradual and cautious; for her plans were always so seasonable and
simple that every new description of business, and every new success,
seemed to arise naturally from that which went before it.

Having once taken out a license, their house soon became a decent
country spirit establishment; from soap, and candles, and tobacco, she
rose into the full sweep of groceries; and from dealing in Connemara
stockings and tape, she proceeded in due time to sell woollen and linen
drapery. Her crockery was now metamorphosed into delf, pottery, and
hardware; her gingerbread into stout loaves, for as Peter himself grew
wheat largely, she seized the opportunity presented by the death of the
only good baker in the neighborhood, of opening an extensive bakery.

It may be asked, how two illiterate persons, like Peter and Ellish,
could conduct business in which so much calculation was necessary,
without suffering severely by their liability to make mistakes. To this
we reply--first, that we should have liked to see any person attempting
to pass a bad note or a light guinea upon Ellish after nine or ten
years' experience; we should like to have seen a smug clerk taking his
pen from behind his ear, and after making his calculation, on inquiring
from Ellish if she had reckoned up the amount, compelled to ascertain
the error which she pointed out to him. The most remarkable point in
her whole character, was the rapid accuracy she displayed in mental
calculation, and her uncommon sagacity in detecting bad money.

There is, however, a still more satisfactory explanation of this
circumstance to be given. She had not neglected the education of her
children. The eldest was now an intelligent boy, and a smart accountant,
who, thanks to his master, had been taught to keep their books by Double
Entry. The second was little inferior to him as a clerk, though as a
general dealer he was far his superior. The eldest had been principally
behind the counter; whilst the younger, in accompanying his mother in
all her transactions and bargain-making, had in a great measure imbibed
her address and tact.

It is certainly a pleasing, and, we think, an interesting thing, to
contemplate the enterprise of an humble, but active, shrewd woman,
enabling her to rise, step by step, from the lowest state of poverty to
a small sense of independence; from this, by calling-fresh powers into
action, taking wider views, and following them up by increased efforts,
until her shebeen becomes a small country public-house; until her roll
of tobacco, and her few pounds of soap and starch, are lost in the
well-filled drawers of a grocery shop; and her gray Connemara stockings
transformed by the golden wand of industry into a country cloth
warehouse. To see Peter--from the time when he first harrowed part of
his farm with a thorn-bush, and ploughed it by joining his horse to that
of a neighbor--adding farm to farm, horse to horse, and cart to cart,
until we find him a wealthy and extensive agriculturist.

The progress of Peter and Ellish was in another point of view a good
study for him who wishes to look into human nature, whilst adapting
itself to the circumstances through which it passes. When this couple
began life, their friends and acquaintancess were as poor as themselves;
as they advanced from one gradation to another, and rose up from a lower
to a higher state, their former friends, who remained in their original
poverty, found themselves left behind in cordiality and intimacy, as
well as in circumstances; whilst the subjects of our sketch continued
to make new friendships of a more respectable stamp, to fill up, as it
were, the places held in their good will by their humble, but neglected,
intimates. Let not our readers, however, condemn them for this.

It was the act of society, and not of Peter and Ellish. On their parts,
it was involuntary; their circumstances raised them, and they were
compelled, of course, to rise with their circumstances. They were
passing through the journey of life, as it were, and those with whom
they set out, not having been able to keep up with them, soon lost their
companionship, which was given to those with whom they travelled for
the time being. Society is always ready to reward the enterprising and
industrious by its just honors, whether they are sought or not; it is so
disposed, that every man falls or rises into his proper place in it,
and that by the wisdom and harmony of its structure. The rake, who
dissipates by profligacy and extravagance that which might have secured
him an honorable place in life, is eventually brought to the work-house;
whilst the active citizen, who realizes an honest independence, is
viewed with honor and esteem.

Peter and Ellish were now people of consequence in the parish; the
former had ceased to do anything more than superintend the cultivation
of his farms; the latter still took an active part in her own business,
or rather in the various departments of business Which she carried on.
Peter might be seen the first man abroad in the morning proceeding to
some of his farms mounted upon a good horse, comfortably dressed in
top boots, stout corduroy breeches, buff cashmere waistcoat, and
blue broad-cloth coat, to which in winter was added a strong frieze
greatcoat, with a drab velvet collar, and a glazed hat. Ellish was also
respectably dressed, but still considerably under her circumstances.
Her mode of travelling to fairs or markets was either upon a common car,
covered with a feather-bed and quilt, or behind Peter upon a pillion.
This last method flattered Peter's vanity very much; no man could ride
on these occasions with a statelier air. He kept himself as erect and
stiff as a poker, and brandished the thong of his loaded whip with the
pride of a gentleman farmer.

'Tis true, he did not always hear the sarcastic remarks which were
passed upon him by those who witnessed his good-natured vanity:

“There he goes,” some laboring man on the wayside would exclaim, “a
purse-proud _bodagh_ upon our hands. Why, thin, does he forget that we
remimber when he kept the shebeen-house, an' sould his smuggled to-baccy
in gits (* the smallest possible quantities) out of his pocket, for
fraid o' the gauger! Sowl, he'd show a blue nose, any way, only for the
wife--'Twas she made a man of him.”

“Faith, an' I for one, won't hear Pether Connell run down,” his
companion would reply; “he's a good-hearted, honest man, an' obligin'
enough; an' for that matter so is the wife, a hard honest woman, that
made what they have, an' brought herself an' her husband from nothin' to
somethin'.”

“Thrue for you, Tim; in throth, they do desarve credit. Still, you see,
here's you an' me, an' we've both been slavin' ourselves as much as they
have, an' yet you see how we are! However, _its their luck_, and there's
no use in begrudgin' it to them.”

When their children were full-grown, the mother did not, as might have
been supposed, prevent them from making a respectable appearance.
With excellent judgment, she tempered their dress, circumstances, and
prospects so well together, that the family presented an admirable
display of economy, and a decent sense of independence. From the moment
they were able to furnish solid proofs of their ability to give a
comfortable dinner occasionally, the priest of the parish began to
notice them; and this new intimacy, warmed by the honor conferred on
one side, and by the good dinners on the other, ripened into a strong
friendship. For many a long year, neither Peter nor Ellish, God forgive
them, ever troubled themselves about going to their duty. They soon
became, however, persons of too much importance to be damned without
an effort made for their salvation. The worthy gentleman accordingly
addressed them on the subject, and as the matter was one of perfect
indifference to both, they had not the slightest hesitation to go to
confession--in compliment to the priest. We do not blame the priest for
this; God forbid that we should quarrel with a man for loving a good
dinner. If we ourselves were a priest, it is very probable,--nay, from
the zest with which we approach a good dinner, it is quite certain--that
we would have cultivated honest Peter's acquaintance, and drawn him
out to the practice of that most social of virtues--hospitality. The
salvation of such a man's soul was worth looking after; and, indeed,
we find a much warmer interest felt, in all churches, for those who are
able to give good dinners, than for those poor miserable sinners who can
scarcely get even a bad one.

But besides this, there was another reason for the Rev. Mr. Mulcahy's
anxiety to cultivate a friendship with Peter and his wife--which
reason consisted in a very laudable determination to bring about a match
between his own niece, Miss Granua Mulcahy, and Peter's eldest son, Dan.
This speculation he had not yet broached to the family, except by broken
hints, and jocular allusions to the very flattering proposals that had
been made by many substantial young men for Miss Granua.

In the mean time the wealth of the Connells had accumulated to
thousands; their business in the linen and woollen drapery line was
incredible. There was scarcely a gentleman within many miles of them,
who did not find it his interest to give them his custom. In the
hardware, flour, and baking concerns they were equally fortunate. The
report of their wealth had gone far and near, exaggerated, however,
as everything of the kind is certain to be; but still there were ample
grounds for estimating it at a very high amount.

Their stores were large, and well filled with many a valuable bale;
their cellars well stocked with every description of spirits; and their
shop, though not large in proportion to their transactions, was well
filled, neat, and tastefully fitted up. There was no show, however--no
empty glare to catch the eye; on the contrary, the whole concern was
marked by an air of solid, warm comfort, that was much more indicative
of wealth and independence than tawdry embellishment would have been.

“Avourneen,” said Ellish, “the way to deck out your shop is to keep
the best of goods. Wanst the people knows that they'll get betther
money-worth here than they'll get anywhere else, they'll come here,
whether the shop looks well or ill. Not savin' but every shop ought to
be clane an' dacent, for there's rason in all things.”

This, indeed, was another secret of their success. Every article in
their shop was of the best description, having been selected by Ellish's
own eye and hand in the metropolis, or imported directly from the place
of its manufacture. Her periodical visits to Dublin gave her great
satisfaction; for it appears that those with whom she dealt, having
had sufficient discrimination to appreciate her talents and integrity,
treated her with marked respect.

Peter's farm-yard bore much greater evidence of his wealth than did
Ellish's shop. It was certainly surprising to reflect, that by the
capacity of two illiterate persons, who began the world with nothing,
all the best and latest improvements in farming were either adopted or
anticipated. The farmyard was upon a great scale; for Peter cultivated
no less than four hundred acres of land--to such lengths had his
enterprise carried him. Threshing machines, large barns, corn kilns,
large stacks, extensive stables, and immense cow-houses, together with
the incessant din of active employment perpetually going on--all gave
a very high opinion of their great prosperity, and certainly reflected
honor upon those whose exertions had created such a scene about them.
One would naturally suppose, when the family of the Connells had arrived
to such unexpected riches, and found it necessary to conduct a system
whose machinery was so complicated and extensive that Ellish would have
fallen back to the simple details of business, from a deficiency of
that comprehensive intelligence which is requisite to conduct the higher
order of mercantile transactions; especially as her sons were admirably
qualified by practice, example, and education, to ease her of a task
which would appear one of too much difficulty for an unlettered farmer's
wife. Such a supposition would be injurious to this excellent woman. So
far from this being the case, she was still the moving spirit, the
chief conductor of the establishment. Whenever any difficulty arose
that required an effort of ingenuity and sagacity, she was able in the
homeliest words to disentangle it so happily, that those who heard her
wondered that it should at all have appeared to them as a difficulty.
She was everywhere. In Peter's farm-yard her advice was as excellent
and as useful as in her own shop. On his farms she was the better
agriculturist, and she frequently set him right in his plans and
speculations for the ensuing year.

She herself was not ignorant of her skill. Many a time has she surveyed
the scene about her with an eye in which something like conscious pride
might be seen to kindle. On those occasions she usually shook her head,
and exclaimed, either in soliloquy, or by way of dialogue, to some
person near her:--

“Well, avourneen, all's very right, an' goin' an bravely; but I only
hope that when I'm gone I won't be missed!”

“Missed,” Peter would reply, if he happened to hear her; “oh, upon my
credit”--he was a man of too much consequence to swear “by this and
by that” now--“upon my credit, Ellish, if you die soon, you'll see the
genteel wife I'll have in your place.”

“Whisht, avourneen! Although you're but jokin', I don't like to hear it,
avillish! No, indeed; we wor too long together, Pether, and lived too
happily wid one another, for you to have the heart to think of sich a
thing!”

“No, in troth, Ellish, I would be long sarry to do it. It's displasin'
to you, achree, an' I won't say it. God spare you to us! It was you put
the bone in us, an' that's what all the country says, big an' little,
young and ould; an' God He knows it's truth, and nothin' else.”

“Indeed, no, thin, Pether, it's not altogether thruth, you desarve your
full share of it. You backed me well, acushla, in everything, an' if you
had been a dhrinkin', idle, rollikin' vagabone, what 'ud signify all,
that me or the likes o' me could do.”

“Faith, an' it was you made me what I am, Ellish; you tuck the soft
side o' me, you beauty; an' it's well you did, for by this--hem, upon
my reputation, if you had gone to cross purposes with me you'd find
yourself in the wrong box. An', you phanix of beauty, you managed the
childhre, the crathurs, the same way--an' a good way it is, in throth.”

“Pether, wor you ever thinkin' o' Father Muloahy's sweetness to us of
late?”

“No, thin, the sorra one o' me thought of it. Why, Ellish?”

“Didn't you obsarve that for the last three or four months he's full of
attintions to us? Every Sunday he brings you up, an' me, if I'd go, to
the althar,--an' keeps you there by way of showin' you respect. Pether,
it's not you, but your money he respects; an' I think there ought to be
no respect o' persons in the chapel, any how. You're not a bit nearer
God by bein' near the althar; for how do we know but the poorest crathur
there is nearer to heaven than we are!”

“Faith, sure enough, Ellish; but what deep skame are you penethratin'
now, you desaver?”

“I'd lay my life, you'll have a proposial o' marriage from Father
Mulcahy, atween our Dan an' Miss Granua. For many a day he's hintin' to
us, from time to time, about the great offers she had; now what's the
rason, if she had these great offers, that he didn't take them?”

“Bedad, Ellish, you're the greatest headpiece in all Europe. Murdher
alive, woman, what a fine counsellor you'd make. An' suppose he did
offer, Ellish, what 'ud you be sayin' to him?”

“Why, that 'ud depind entirely upon what he's able to give her--they say
he has money. It 'ud depind, too, upon whether Dan has any likin' for
her or not.”

“He's often wid her, I know; an' I needn't tell you, Ellish, that afore
we wor spliced together, I was often wid somebody that I won't mintion.
At all evints, he has made Dan put the big O afore the Connell, so that
he has him now full namesake to the Counsellor; an', faith, that itself'
'ud get him a wife.”

“Well, the best way is to say nothin', an' to hear nothin', till his
Reverence spates out, an' thin we'll see what can be done.”

Ellish's sagacity had not misled her. In a few months afterwards Father
Mulcahy was asked by young Dan Connell to dine; and as he and holiest
Ellish were sitting together, in the course of the evening, the priest
broached the topic as follows:--

“Mrs. Connell, I think this whiskey is better than my four-year old,
that I bought at the auction the other day, although Dan says mine's
better. Between ourselves, that Dan is a clever, talented young fellow;
and if he happens upon a steady, sensible wife, there is no doubt but he
will die a respectable man. But, by the by, Mrs. Connell, you've never
tried my whiskey; and upon my credit, you must soon, for I know your
opinion would decide the question.”

“Is it worth while to decide it, your Reverence? I suppose the thruth
is, sir, that both is good enough for anyone; an' I think that's as much
as we want.”

Thus far she went, but never alluded to Dan, judiciously throwing the
onus of introducing that subject upon the priest.

“Dan says mine's better,” observed Father Mulcahy; “and I would
certainly give a great deal for his opinion upon that or any other
subject, except theology.”

“You ought,” replied Ellish, “to be a bether judge of whiskey nor either
Dan nor me; an' I'll tell you why--you dhrink it in more places, and can
make comparishment one wid another; but Dan an' me is confined mostly to
our own, an' of that same we take very little, an' the less the betther
for people in business, or indeed for anybody.”

“Very true, Mrs. Connell! But for all that, I won't give up Dan's
judgment in anything within his own line of business, still excepting
theology, for which, he hasn't the learning.”

“He's a good son, without _tay_ology--as good as ever broke the world's
bread,” said Peter, “glory be to God! Although, for that matther, he
ought to be as well acquainted wid _tay_ology as your Reverence, in
regard that he _sells_ more of it nor you do.”

“A good son, they say, Mrs. Connell, will make a good husband. I wonder
you don't think of settling him in life. It's full time.”

“Father, avourneen, we must lave that wid himself. I needn't be tellin'
you, that it 'ud be hard to find a girl able to bring what the girl that
'ud expect Dan ought to bring.”

This was a staggerer to the priest, who recruited his ingenuity by
drinking Peter's health, and Ellish's.

“Have you nobody in your eye for him, Mrs. Connell?”

“Faith, I'll engage she has,” replied Peter, with a ludicrous
grin--“I'll venture for to say she has that.”

“Very right, Mrs. Connell; it's all fair. Might one ask who she is; for,
to tell you the truth, Dan is a favorite of mine, and must make it a
point to see him well settled.”

“Why, your Reverence,” replied Peter again, “jist the one you
mintioned.”

“Who? I? Why I mentioned nobody.”

“An' that's the very one she has in her eye for him, plase your
Reverence--ha, ha, ha! What's the world widout a joke, Docthor? beggin'
your pardon for makin' so free wid you.”

“Peter, you're still a wag,” replied the priest; “but, seriously, Mrs.
Connell, have you selected any female, of respectable connections, as a
likely person to be a wife for Dan?”

“Indeed no, your Reverence, I have not. Where could I pitch upon a
girl--barrin' a Protestant, an' that 'ud never do--who has a fortune to
meet what Dan's to get?”

The priest moved his chair a little, and drank their healths a second
time.

“But you know, Mrs. Connell, that Dan needn't care so much about
fortune, if he got a girl of respectable connections. He has an
independence himself.”

“Thrue for you, father; but what right would any girl have to expect to
be supported by the hard arnin' of me an' my husband, widout bringin'
somethin' forrid herself? You know, sir, that the fortune always goes
wid the wife; but am I to fortune off my son to a girl that has nothin'?
If my son, plase your Reverence, hadn't a coat to his back, or a guinea
in his pocket--as, God be praised, he has both--but, supposin' he
hadn't, what right would he have to expect a girl wid a handsome fortune
to marry him? There's Paddy Neil your sarvint-boy; now, if Paddy, who's
an honest man's son, axed your niece, wouldn't you be apt to lose your
timper?”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Connell, I think your fire's rather hot--allow
me to drawback a little. Mrs. Connell, your health again!--Mr. Connell,
your fireside!”

“Thank you, Docthor; but faith I think you ought hardly to dhrink the
same fireside, becase it appears to be rather hot for your Reverence, at
the present time--ha, ha, ha! Jokin' still, Docthor, we must be. Well,
what harm! I wish we may never do worse!”

“And what fortune would you expect with a girl of genteel connexion--a
girl that's accomplished, well say in music, plain work, and Irish,
vernacularly?--hem! What fortune would you be expecting with such a
girl?”

“Why, Docthor, ahagur, the only music I'd wish for my son's wife is a
good timper; an' that's what their music-masthers can't tache thim.
The plain work, although I don't know what you mane by it, sounds well
enough; an' as to Irish, whick-whacku-larly, if you mane our own ould
tongue, he may get thousands that can spake it whackinly, an' nothin'
else.”

“You're a wealthy woman, certainly, Mrs. Connell, and what's more, I'm
not at all surprised at it. Your health, once more, and long life to
you! Suppose, however, that Dan got a fitting wife, what would you
expect as a proper portion? I have a reason for asking.”

“Dan, plase your Reverence, will get four thousand to begin the world
wid; an', as he's to expect none but a Catholic, I suppose if he gets
the fourth part of that, it's as much as he ought to look for.”

“A thousand pounds!--hut tut! The woman's beside herself. Why look about
you and try where you can find a Catholic girl with a thousand pounds
fortune, except in a gentleman's family, where Dan could never think of
going.”

“That's thrue, any how, your Reverence,” observed Peter.--“A thousand
pounds! Ellish! you needn't look for it. Where is it to be had out of a
gintleman's family, as his Reverence says thrue enough.”

“An' now, Docthor,” said Ellish, “what 'ud you think a girl ought to
bring a young man like Dan, that's to have four thousand pounds?”

“I don't think any Catholic girl of his own rank in the county, could
get more than a couple of hundred.”

“That's one shillin' to every pound he has,” replied Ellish, almost
instantaneously. “But, Father, you may as well spake out at wanst,” she
continued, for she was too quick and direct in all her dealings to be
annoyed by circumlocution; “you're desairous of a match between Dan an'
Miss Granua?”

“Exactly,” said the priest; “and what is more, I believe they are fond
of each other. I know Dan is attached to her, for he told me so.
But, now that we have mentioned her, I say that there is not a more
accomplished girl of her persuasion in the parish we sit in. She can
play on the bagpipes better than any other piper in the province, for
I taught her myself; and I tell you that in a respectable man's wife
a knowledge of music is a desirable thing. It's hard to tell, Mrs.
Connell, how they may rise in the World, and get into fashionable
company, so that accomplishments, you persave, are good, she can make a
shirt and wash it, and she can write Irish. As for dancing, I only wish
you'd see her at a hornpipe. All these things put together, along with
her genteel connections, and the prospect of what I may be able to lave
her--I say your son may do worse.”

“It's not what you'd lave her, sir, but what you'd give her in the first
place, that I'd like to hear. Spake up, your Reverence, an' let us know
how far you will go.”

“I'm afeard, sir,” said Peter, “if it goes to a clane bargain atween
yez, that Ellish will make you bid up for Dan. Be sharp; sir, or you'll
have no chance; faix, you won't.”

“But, Mrs. Connell;” replied the priest, “before I spake up, consider
her accomplishments. I'll undertake to say, that the best bred girl in
Dublin cannot perform music in such style, or on such an instrument as
the one she uses. Let us contemplate Dan and her after marriage, in an
elegant house, and full business, the dinner over, and they gone up to
the drawing-room. Think how agreeable and graceful it would be for Mrs.
Daniel O'Connell to repair to the sofa, among a few respectable friends,
and, taking up her bagpipes, set her elbow a-going, until the drone
gives two or three broken groans, and the chanter a squeak or two, like
a child in the cholic, or a cat that you had trampled on by accident.
Then comes the real ould Irish music, that warms the heart. Dan
looks upon her graceful position, until the tears of love, taste, and
admiration are coming down his cheeks. By and by, the toe of him moves:
here another foot is going; and, in no time, there is a hearty dance,
with a light heart and a good conscience. You or I, perhaps, drop in to
see them, and, of course, we partake of the enjoyment.”

“Divil a pleasanter,” said Peter: “I tell you, I'd like it well; an',
for my own part, if the deludher here has no objection, I'm not goin' to
spoil sport.”

Ellish looked hard at the priest; her keen blue eye glittered with
a sparkling light, that gave decided proofs of her sagacity being
intensely excited.

“All that you've said,” she replied, “is very fine; but in regard o'
the bag-pipes, an' Miss Granua Mulcahy's squeezin' the music out o'
thim--why, if it plased God to bring my son to the staff an' bag--a
common beggar--indeed, in that case, Miss Granua's bagpipes might sarve
both o' thim, an' help, maybe, to get them a night's lodgin' or so;
but until that time comes, if you respect your niece, you'll burn her
bagpipes, dhrone, chanther, an' all. If you are for a match, which I
doubt, spake out, as I said, and say what fortune you'll pay down on
the nail wid her, otherwise we're losin' our time, an' that's a loss one
can't make up.”

The priest, who thought he could have bantered Ellish into an alliance,
without pledging himself to pay any specific fortune, found that it
was necessary for him to treat the matter seriously, if he expected to
succeed. He was certainly anxious for the match; and as he really
wished to see his niece--who, in truth, was an excellent girl, and
handsome--well settled, he resolved to make a stretch and secure Dan if
possible.

“Mrs. Connell,” said he, “I will be brief with you. The most I can give
her is three hundred pounds, and even that by struggling and borrowing:
I will undertake to pay it as you say--on the nail! for I am really
anxious that my niece should be connected with so worthy and industrious
a family. What do you say?”

“I'm willin' enough,” replied Peter. It's not asy to get that and a
Catholic girl.”

“There's some thruth in what you say, aroon, sure enough,” observed
Ellish; “an' if his Reverence puts another hundhre to it, why, in
the name of goodness, let them go together. If you don't choose that,
Docthor, never breathe the subject to me agin. Dan's not an ould man
yit, an' has time enough to get wives in plenty.”

“Come,” replied the priest, “there's my hand, it's a bargain; although
I must say there's no removing you from your point. I will give four
hundred, hook or crook; but I'll have sad scrambling to get it together.
Still I'll make it good.”

“Down on the nail?” inquired Ellish.

“Ay! ay! Down on the nail,” replied the priest.

“Well, in the name o' Goodness, a bargain be it,” said Peter; “but, upon
my credit, Ellish, I won't have the bag-pipes burnt, anyhow. Faith, I
must hear an odd tune, now an' thin, when I call to see the childhre.”

“Pether, acushla, have sinse. Would you wish to see your daughter-in-law
playin' upon the bag-pipes, when she ought to be mindin' her business,
or attendin' her childhre? No, your Reverence, the pipes must be laid
aside. I'll have no pipery connection for a son of mine.”

The priest consented to this, although Peter conceded it with great
reluctance. Further preliminaries were agreed upon, and the evening
passed pleasantly, until it became necessary for Mr. Mulcahy to bid them
good-night.

When they were gone, Peter and Ellish talked over the matter between
themse

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