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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

         NUMBER 15.    SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1840.    VOLUME I.

[Illustration: THE TOWN AND CASTLE OF LEIXLIP, COUNTY OF KILDARE.]

Localities are no less subject to the capricious mutations of fashion in
taste, than dress, music, or any other of the various objects on which
it displays its extravagant vagaries. The place which on account of its
beauties is at one period the chosen resort of pleased and admiring
crowds, at another becomes abandoned and unthought of, as if it were
an unsightly desert, unfit for the enjoyment or happiness of civilized
man. Some other locality, perhaps of less natural or acquired beauty,
becomes the fashion of the day, and after a time gets out of favour in
turn, and is neglected for some other novel scene before unthought of or
disregarded. Yet the principles of true taste are immutable, and that
which is really beautiful is not the less so because it has ceased to
attract the multitude, who are generally governed to a far greater extent
by accidental associations of ideas than by any abstract feelings of the
mind.

Perhaps it is less attributable to any characteristic volatility in the
character of the inhabitants of our metropolis, than to the singular
variety and number of the beautiful localities which surround our city,
and in emulous rivalry attract our attention, that this inconstancy
of attachment to any one locality is more strikingly instanced among
ourselves, than among the citizens of any other great town with which
we are acquainted. But, however this may be, the fact is unquestionable,
that there is scarcely a spot of any natural or improved beauty, within
a few miles of us, which has not in turn had its day of fashion, and its
subsequent period of unmerited neglect. Clontarf, with its sequestered
green lanes, and its glorious views of the bay--Glasnevin, the classical
abode of Addison, Parnell, Tickell, Sheridan, and Delany--Finglas,
with its rural sports--Chapelizod, the residence of the younger
Cromwell--Lucan, Leixlip, with their once celebrated spas, and all
the delightful epic scenery of the Liffey--Dundrum, with its healthy
mountain walks and atmosphere, and many others unnecessary to mention,
all experiencing the effects of this inconstancy of fashion, have found
their once admired beauties totally disregarded, and the admiration of
the multitude almost wholly transferred to a wild and unadorned beauty on
the rocky shores of Kingstown and Bullock, which our forefathers deemed
unworthy of notice. But let that beauty take warning from the fate of her
predecessors, and not hold her head too high in her day of triumph, for
she too will assuredly be cast off in turn, and find herself neglected
for some rival as yet unnoticed.

Of such unmerited inconstancy and neglect there are no localities in
the neighbourhood of Dublin which have greater reason to complain than
the village of Lucan and that which forms the subject of our prefixed
embellishment. As the establishment of peace in Ireland led to an
increase of civilization, which exhibited itself in improved roads and
vehicles of conveyance, and the citizens, emerging from their embattled
strongholds, ventured to enjoy the pleasures of nature and rural life,
Lucan and Leixlip, with the beautiful scenery in which they are situated,
became the favourite places of resort; and their various natural
attractions becoming heightened by art, were described by travellers,
and chaunted in song. About “sixty years since” they had reached their
greatest glory, and Leixlip was the favourite of the day. It is thus
described at this period by the celebrated Doctor Campbell:--“All the
outlets of Dublin are pleasant, but this is superlatively so which leads
through Leixlip, a neat little village about seven miles from Dublin, up
the Liffey; whose banks being prettily tufted with wood, and enlivened
by gentlemen’s seats, afford a variety of landscapes, beautiful beyond
description.” It was at this period also that O’Keefe, in his popular
opera of “The Poor Soldier,” makes Patrick sing--

    “Though Leixlip is proud of its close shady bowers,
      Its clear falling waters and murmuring cascades,
    Its groves of fine myrtle, its beds of sweet flowers,
      Its lads so well dressed, and its neat pretty maids.”

But though Leixlip no longer holds out attractions sufficient to gratify
those whose tastes are dependent on fashion, it has never ceased to be
a favourite with all whose tastes had a more solid foundation. It was
here, and in its immediate vicinity, that the two Robertses, genuine
Irish landscape painters, found many of the most congenial subjects
for their pencils. It was here, too, that the strong-headed painter of
strong heads--the Rembrandt of miniature painters, John Comerford--used
occasionally to retire, abandoning for a week or two the intellectual
society of Dublin which he so much enjoyed, and the acquisition of gain
which he no less relished, to make some elaborate study of one of the
scenes about the Bridge of Leixlip, which he, in his own dogmatic way,
asserted, “for genuine landscape beauty, could not be surpassed or
even rivalled any where!” This estimate of the beauties of Leixlip’s
“close shady bowers, &c.” was, we confess, a somewhat extravagant one;
yet, like most other honestly formed opinions of Comerford’s, it would
not have been an easy task to shake his belief in its truth, and to
sustain it he could, if combated, adduce the testimony of his and our
friend Gaspar Gabrielli, the first of Italian landscape painters of our
times, who notwithstanding his pride in being a Roman, and his national
predilections in favour of the classic scenery of his dear Italy, has
often declared in our hearing that he had never seen in his own country
scenery of its kind comparable with that of the Liffey, in the vicinity
of Lucan and Leixlip.

But enthusiastic admiration of the scenery of Leixlip has not been
confined to the painters. Hear with what gusto our friend C. O. lets
himself out on this subject, not in his drawing-room character as the
clerical Connaught tourist, but in his more natural, buoyant, and Irish
one, as Terence O’Toole, our co-labourer in the first volume of the
_Dublin Penny Journal_:--

“Any one passing over the Bridge of Leixlip, must, if his eye is worth a
farthing for anything else than helping him to pick his way through the
puddle, look up and down with delight while moving over this bridge. To
the right, the river winning its noisy turbulent way over its rocky bed,
and losing itself afar down amidst embossing woods; to the left, after
plunging over the Salmon-leap, whose roar is heard though half a mile
off, and forming a junction with the Rye-water, it takes a bend to the
east, and washes the rich amphitheatre with which Leixlip is environed. I
question much whether any castle, even Warwick itself [bravo, Terence!]
stands in a grander position than Leixlip Castle, as it embattles the
high and wooded grounds that form the forks of the two rivers. Of the
towers, the round one of course was built by King John, the opposite
square one by the Geraldines. This noble and grandly circumstanced pile
has been in latter days the baronial residence of the White family, and
subsequently the residence of [lord-lieutenants] generals and prelates.
Here Primate Stone, more a politician than a Christian [churchman],
retired from his contest with the Ponsonbys and the Boyles to play at
cricket with General Cunningham; here resided Speaker Connolly before
he built his splendid mansion at Castletown; here the _great_ commoner,
as he was called, Tom Connolly, was born. Like many such edifices, this
castle is haunted: character and keeping would be altogether lost if
towers of 600 years’ standing, with rich mullioned ‘windows that exclude
the light, and passages that lead to nothing,’ with tapestried chambers
that have witnessed pranks of revelry and feats of war, of Norman,
Cromwellian, and Williamite possession, if such a place had not its
legend; and one of Ireland’s wildest geniuses, the eccentric and splendid
Maturin, has decorated the subject with the colourings of his vivid
fancy.”

Terence adds:--“Leixlip is memorable in an historic point of view as the
place where, in the war commencing 1641, General Preston halted when on
his way to form a junction with the Marquis of Ormonde to oppose the
Parliamentarians. Acknowledging that his army was not excommunication
proof, he bowed before the fiat of the Nuncio, and lost the best
opportunity that ever offered of saving his cause and his country from
what has been called the ‘curse of Cromwell.’”

To this brief but graphic sketch of our friend we can add but little.
Leixlip is a market and post town of the county of Kildare, situated in
the barony of North _Salt_--a name derived from the Latin appellation of
the cataract called the _Saltus Salmonis_, “Salmon Leap,” in the vicinity
of the town--and is about eight miles from Dublin. It contains between
eleven and twelve hundred inhabitants, and consists of one long street of
houses, well, though irregularly built, but exhibiting for the greater
number an appearance of negligence and decay. It is bounded on one
extremity by the river Liffey, which is crossed by a bridge of ancient
construction, and on the other by the Rye-water, over which there is a
bridge of modern date. As the focus of a parish, it has a church and a
Roman Catholic chapel, both of ample size and substantial construction,
but, like most edifices of their class in Ireland, but little remarkable
for the purity of their architectural styles. The latter is of recent
erection. Its most imposing architectural feature is, however, its
castle, which is magnificently situated on a steep and richly wooded
bank over the Liffey; but though of great antiquity, it exhibits in its
external character but little of the appearance of an ancient fortress,
having been modernised by the Hon. George Cavendish, its present
occupier. On its west side it is flanked by a circular, and on its east
by a square tower. This castle is supposed to have been erected in the
reign of Henry II. by Adam de Hereford, one of the chief followers of
Earl Strongbow, from whom he received as a gift the tenement of the
Salmon Leap, and other extensive possessions. It is said to have been the
occasional residence of Prince John during his governorship of Ireland in
the reign of his father; and in recent times it was a favourite retreat
of several of the Viceroys, one of whom, Lord Townsend, usually spent
the summer here. From an inquisition taken in 1604, it appears that the
manor of Leixlip was part of the possessions of the abbey of St Thomas in
Dublin. In 1668, the castle, with sixty acres of land, belonged to the
Earl of Kildare. They afterwards passed into the hands of the Right Hon.
Thomas Connolly, Speaker of the Irish House of Commons, and are now the
property of Colonel Connolly of Castletown.

                                                                       P.




THE CHASE, A POEM TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH--CONCLUDED.


    PATRICK.

    O son of kings, adorned with grace,
      ’Twere music to my ear,
    Of Fionn and his wondrous chase
      The promised tale to hear.

    OISIN.

    Well--though afresh my bosom bleeds,
      Remembering days of old--
    When I think of my sire and his mighty deeds--
      Yet shall the tale be told.

    While the Fenian bands at Almhuin’s towers,
    In the hall of spears, passed the festive hours,
    The goblet crowned, with chessmen played,[1]
    Or gifts for gifts of love repaid;

    From the reckless throng Finn stole unseen,
    When he spied a young doe on the heath-clad green
      With agile spring draw near:
    On Sceolan and Bran his nimble hounds
    He whistles aloud, and away he bounds
      In chase of the hornless deer.

    With his hounds alone and his trusty blade,
      The son of Luno’s skill,
    On the track of the flying doe he strayed
      To Guillin’s pathless hill.
    But when he came to its hard-won height
      No deer appeared in view;
    If east or west she had sped her flight
      Nor hounds nor huntsman knew.
    But those sprang westward o’er the sod,
      While eastward Fionn press’d--
    Why did not pity touch thy God
      To see them thus distress’d?

    There while he gazes anxious round,
    Sudden he hears a doleful sound,
    And by a lake of crystal sheen
    Spies a nymph of loveliest form and mien:
    Her cheeks as the rose were crimson bright,
      Her lips the red berry’s glow;
    Her neck as the polished marble[2] white,
      Her breast the pure blossom’s full blow;
    Downy gold were her locks, and her sparkling eyes
    Like freezing stars in the ebon skies.
    Such beauty, O Sage, all cold as thou art,
    Would kindle warm raptures of love in thy heart.

    Nigh to the nymph of golden hair
      With courteous grace he drew--
    “O hast thou seen, enchantress fair,
      My hounds their game pursue?”[3]

    NYMPH.

    “Thy hounds I saw not in the chase,
    O noble prince of the Fenian race;
    But I have cause of woe more deep,
    For which I linger here and weep.”

    FIONN.

    “O, hast thou lost a husband dear?
    Falls for a darling son thy tear,
      Or daughter of thy heart?
    Sweet, soft-palmed nymph, the cause reveal
    To one who can thy sorrows feel,
      Perchance can ease thy smart?”

    The maid of tresses fair replied--
      “A precious ring I wore;
    Dropped from my finger in the tide,
      Its loss I now deplore:
    But by the sacred vows that bind
      Each brave and loyal knight,
    I now adjure thee, Chief, to find
      My peerless jewel bright.”

    He feels her adjuration’s ties;
      Disrobes each manly limb,
    And for the smooth-palmed princess hies
      The gulfy lake to swim.
    Five times deep-diving down the wave,
    Through every cranny, nook, and cave,
    With care he searches round and round,
    Till the golden ring at length he found;
    But scarce to shore the prize could bring,
      When by some blasting ban--
    Ah! piteous tale--the Fenian king
      Grew a withered, grey, old man!

    Meanwhile the Fenians passed the hours
    In the hall of spears, at Almhuin’s towers;
    The goblet crowned, with chessmen played,
    Or gifts for gifts of love repaid,
    When Caoilte rose and asked in grief,
    “Ye spearmen, where is our gallant chief?
    O, lost I dread is the Fenians’ boast--
    Then who shall lead our bannered host?”

    Bald Conan spoke--“A sweeter sound
      Ne’er tingled on my ear;
    If Fionn be lost, may he not be found
      Till end the distant year!
    But, Caoilte of the nimble feet,
    Ye shall not want a chieftain meet;
    In me, till Fionn’s fate be told,
    The leader of your host behold!”

    Although the Fenian bands were torn
      With agony severe,
    We burst into a laugh of scorn
      Such arrogance to hear.

    To urge the quest, we then decree,
    Of Finn and his hounds the joyous three
      That still to triumph led;
    And soon from Almhuin’s halls away,
    With Caoilte, I, and our dark array,
      North to Slew Guillin sped.
    There, as with searching glance the eye
      O’er all the prospect rolled,
    Beside the lake a wretch we spy,
      Poor, withered, grey, and old.
    Disgust and horror touched the heart
    To see the bones all fleshless start
      In a frame so lank and wan;
    We thought him some starved fisher torn
    From the whelming stream, by famine worn,
      And left but the wreck of man.

    We asked if he had chanced to see
      A swift-paced chieftain go,
    With two fleet hounds, across the lea,
      Behind a fair young doe.

    He gave us back no answer clear,
    But in the nimble Caoilte’s ear
    He breathed his tale--O, tale of grief!--
    That in him we saw the Fenian chief!

    Three sudden shouts to hear the tale
      Our host raised loud and shrill--
    The badgers started in the vale,
      The wild deer on the hill.

    Then Conan fierce unsheathed his sword,
    And curs’d the Fenian king and his horde.
      “If true thy tale,” he cries,
    “This blade thy head would off thee smite;
    For ne’er my valour in the fight,
      Nor prowess didst thou prize.
    Would that like thee, both old and weak,
    Were the Fenians all, that my sword might reek
    In their craven blood, and their cairns might swell
    On the grassy lea!--for since Cumhail fell,
      O’ercome in fateful strife
    By Morni’s son of the golden shields,
    Our sons thou hast sent to foreign fields,
      Or of freedom reft and life.”

    “Bald, senseless wretch! our care is due
    To Finn’s sad state, or thy mouth should rue
    A speech so vile, and soon atone
    With shattered teeth and fractured bone.”

      Indignant Caoilte spoke.
    With equal wrath said Oscar stern,
      “Audacious babbler! silence learn--
    What foe e’er felt thy stroke?”

    Then Conan thus--“Vain boy! be dumb,
      Or tell what deed of fame
    Did e’er thy Finn, but gnaw his thumb[4]
      Until the marrow came?
    WE, not Clan-Boske, did the deed
    Whene’er we saw the foemen bleed.
    Behind thee, Oisin, may thy son
    A puling, whining chanter run,
      And bear white book and bell.
    His words I scorn--in open fight,
    Which of us twain is in the right
      Let swords, not speeches, tell.”

    Him answered Oscar’s trusty steel;
    When craven Conan, taught to feel,
    And trembling for his worthless life,
    The Fenians prayed to end the strife,
      And stay rough Oscar’s blade.
    Between them swift the Fenians rushed,
    The rising storm of battle hushed,
      And Oscar’s vengeance stayed.

    Of Cumhail’s son then Caoilte sought
    What wizard Danan foe had wrought
    Such piteous change--and Finn replied,
      “’Twas Guillin’s daughter--me she bound
    By a sacred spell to search the tide
      Till the ring she lost was found.”

    Then Conan spoke in altered mood--
      “Safe may we ne’er depart,
    Till we see restored our chieftain good,
      Or Guillin rue his art!”
    Then close around our chief we throng,
    And bear him on our shields along.

    Eight days and nights the caverned seat
    Where Guillin made his dark retreat
      We dig with sleepless care;
    Pour through its windings close the light,
    Till we see, in all her radiance bright,
      Spring forth th’ enchantress fair.

    A chalice she bore of angled mould,[5]
    And sparkling rich with gems and gold;
    Its brimming fount in the hand she placed
    Of Finn, whose looks small beauty graced.
    Feeble he drinks--the potion speeds
      Through every joint and pore;
    To palsied age fresh youth succeeds--
    Finn of the swift and slender steeds
      Becomes himself once more.
    His shape, his strength, his bloom returns,
    And in manly glory bright he burns!

    We gave three shouts that rent the air--
      The badgers fled the vale:
    And now, O sage of frugal care,
      Hast thou not heard the tale?

                                                                       D.

[1] The game of chess is repeatedly noticed in connection with various
historical incidents in the early history of Ireland. Theophilus
O’Flanagan, in a note to his translation of _Deirdri_, an ancient Irish
tale, published in the Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin,
speaks of it as “a military game that engages the mental faculties, like
mathematical science.” O’Flaherty’s Ogygia states that Cathir, the 120th
king of Ireland, left among his bequests to Crimthan “two chess-boards
with their chess-men distinguished with their specks and power; on which
account he was constituted master of the games in Leinster.”

In the first book of Homer’s Odyssey the suitors are described as amusing
themselves with the game of chess:--

    _With rival art and ardour in their mien,_
    _At chess they vie to captivate the queen,_
    _Divining of their loves._

In Pope’s translation there is a learned note on the subject, to which
the curious reader is referred; and also to a passage in Vallancey’s
Essay on the Celtic Language.

[2] Literally, _as lime_.

[3] This will remind the reader of a similar question by Venus in the
first Eneid:--

        ----Heus inquit, juvenes monstrate mearum
    Vidistis usquam hic errantem forte sororum
    Succinctam pharetra, et maculosæ tegmine lyncis,
    Aut spumantis apri cursum clamore prementem?--EN. I. 325.

    Ho, strangers! have you lately seen, she said,
    One of my sisters, like myself array’d,
    Who cross’d the lawn or in the forest stray’d?
    A painted quiver at her back she bore;
    Varied with spots, a lynx’s hide she wore;
    And at full cry pursued the tusky boar.--DRYDEN.


[4] A note in Miss Brooke’s translations informs us that “Finn was
reproached with deriving all his courage from his foreknowledge of
events, and chewing his thumb for prophetic information.”

[5] Quadrangular--the ancient cup of the Irish, called _meadar_.
Specimens of it may be seen in the Antiquarian Museum of the Royal Irish
Academy.

       *       *       *       *       *

DISCRETION.--This is a nice perception of what is right and proper
under the circumstances in which a person is called to act. It may be
illustrated by the _feelers_ of the cat, which are long hairs placed
upon her nose, with which she readily measures the space between sticks
and stones through which she desires to pass, and thus determines, by a
delicate touch, whether it is sufficiently large to let her go through
without being scratched. Thus discretion appreciates difficulties,
dangers, and obstructions around, and enables a person to decide upon the
proper course of action. “There are many more shining qualities in the
mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this which
gives a value to all the rest, which sets them at work, and turns them
to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. Without it,
learning is pedantry and wit impertinence; nay, virtue itself often looks
like weakness. Discretion not only shows itself in words, but in all the
circumstances of action; and is like an agent of Providence, to guide
and direct us in the ordinary chances of life.” But how shall discretion
be cultivated in children? Chiefly by example. It is a virtue especially
committed to the cultivation of the mother. She may do much to promote
it, by rebuking acts of imprudence, and bestowing due encouragement upon
acts of discretion. Let the mother remember that discretion is important
to men, and see that she cherishes it in her sons; let her remember that
it is essential to women, and make sure of it in her daughters.--_Dr
Channing._




THE IRISH MATCHMAKER.

BY WILLIAM CARLETON.


Though this word at a glance may be said to explain itself, yet lest our
English or Scotch readers might not clearly understand its meaning, we
shall briefly give them such a definition of it as will enable them to
comprehend it in its full extent. The Irish Matchmaker, then, is a person
selected to conduct reciprocity treaties of the heart between lovers
themselves in the first instance, or, where the principal parties are
indifferent, between their respective families, when the latter happen to
be of opinion that it is a safer and more prudent thing to consult the
interest of the young folk rather than their inclination. In short, the
Matchmaker is the person engaged in carrying from one party to another
all the messages, letters, tokens, presents, and secret communications of
the tender passion, in whatever shape or character the said parties may
deem it proper to transmit them. The Matchmaker, therefore, is a general
negociator in all such matters of love or interest as are designed by
the principals or their friends to terminate in the honourable bond of
marriage; for with nothing morally improper or licentious, or approaching
to the character of an intrigue, will the regular Irish Matchmaker have
any thing at all to do. The Matchmaker, therefore, after all, is only
the creature of necessity, and is never engaged by an Irishman unless
to remove such preliminary obstacles as may stand in the way of his own
direct operations. In point of fact, the Matchmaker is nothing but a
pioneer, who, after the plan of the attack has been laid down, clears
away some of the rougher difficulties, until the regular advance is made,
the siege opened in due form, and the citadel successfully entered by the
principal party.

We have said thus much to prevent our fair neighbours of England and
Scotland from imagining that because such a character as the Irish
Matchmaker exists at all, Irishmen are personally deficient in that
fluent energy which is so necessary to express the emotions of the tender
passion. Addison has proved to the satisfaction of any rational mind that
modesty and assurance are inseparable--that a blushing face may accompany
a courageous, nay, a desperate heart--and that, on the contrary, an
abundance of assurance may be associated with a very handsome degree of
modesty. In love matters, I grant, modesty is the _forte_ of an Irishman,
whose character in this respect has been unconsciously hit off by the
poet. Indeed he may truly be termed _vultus ingenui puer, ingenuique
pudoris_; which means, when translated, that in looking for a wife an
Irishman is “a _boy_ of an _easy_ face, and remarkable modesty.”

At the head of the Matchmakers, and far above all competitors, stands
the Irish Midwife, of whose abilities in this way it is impossible to
speak too highly. And let not our readers imagine that the duties which
devolve upon her, as well as upon matchmakers in general, are slight or
easily discharged. To conduct a matter of this kind ably, great tact,
knowledge of character, and very delicate handling, are necessary. To
be incorruptible, faithful to both parties, not to give offence to
either, and to obviate detection in case of secret bias or partiality,
demand talents of no common order. The amount of fortune is often to be
regulated--the good qualities of the parties placed in the best, or, what
is often still more judicious, in the most suitable light--and when there
happens to be a scarcity of the commodity, it must be furnished from her
own invention. The miser is to be softened, the contemptuous tone of the
purse-proud _bodagh_ lowered without offence, the crafty cajoled, and
sometimes the unsuspecting overreached. Now, all this requires an able
hand, as matchmaking in general among the Irish does. Indeed I question
whether the wiliest politician that ever attempted to manage a treaty of
peace between two hostile powers could have a more difficult card to play
than often falls to the lot of the Irish Matchmaker.

The Midwife, however, from her confidential intercourse with the sex,
and the respect with which both young and old of them look upon her, is
peculiarly well qualified for the office. She has seen the youth shoot up
and ripen into the young man--she has seen the young man merged into the
husband, and the husband very frequently lost in the wife. Now, the marks
and tokens by which she noted all this are as perceptible in the young of
this day as they were in the young of fifty years ago; she consequently
knows from experience how to manage each party, so as to bring about the
consummation which she so devoutly wishes.

Upon second thoughts, however, we are inclined to think after all that
the right of precedence upon this point does not exclusively belong to
the Midwife; or at least, that there exists another person who contests
it with her so strongly that we are scarcely capable of determining
their respective claims: this is the _Cosherer_. The Cosherer in Ireland
is a woman who goes from one relation’s house to another, from friend
to friend, from acquaintance to acquaintance--is always welcome, and
uniformly well treated. The very extent of her connexions makes her
independent; so that if she receives an affront, otherwise a cold
reception, from one, she never feels it to affect her comfort, but on the
contrary carries it about with her in the shape of a complaint to the
rest, and details it with such a rich spirit of vituperative enjoyment,
that we believe in our soul some of her friends, knowing what healthful
occupation it gives her, actually affront her from pure kindness. The
Cosherer is the very impersonation of industry. Unless when asleep,
no mortal living ever saw her hands idle. Her principal employment is
knitting; and whether she sits, stands, or walks, there she is with the
end of the stocking under her arm, knit, knit, knitting. She also sews
and quilts; and whenever a quilting is going forward, she can tell you
at once in what neighbour’s house the quilting-frame was used last,
and where it is now to be had; and when it has been got, she is all
bustle and business, ordering and commanding about her--her large red
three-cornered pincushion hanging conspicuously at her side, a lump of
chalk in one hand, and a coil of twine in the other, ready to mark the
pattern, whether it be wave, square, or diamond.

The Cosherer is always dressed with neatness and comfort, but generally
wears something about her that reminds one of a day gone by, and may be
considered as the lingering remnant of some old custom that has fallen
into disuse. This, slight as it is, endears her to many, for it stands
out as the memorial of some old and perhaps affecting associations, which
at its very appearance are called out from the heart in which they were
slumbering.

It is impossible to imagine a happier life than that of the Cosherer. She
has evidently no trouble, no care, no children, nor any of the various
claims of life, to disturb or encumber her. Wherever she goes she is
made, and finds herself, perfectly at home. The whole business of her
life is carrying about intelligence, making and projecting matches,
singing old songs and telling old stories, which she frequently does
with a feeling and unction not often to be met with. She will sing you
the different sets and variations of the old airs, repeat the history
and traditions of old families, recite _ranns_, interpret dreams, give
the origin of old local customs, and tell a ghost story in a style that
would make your hair stand on end. She is a bit of a doctress, too--an
extensive herbalist, and is very skilful and lucky among children. In
short, she is a perfect Gentleman’s Magazine in her way--a regular
repertory of traditionary lore, a collector and distributor of social
antiquities, dealing in every thing that is timeworn or old, and handling
it with such a quiet and antique air, that one would imagine her life
to be a life not of years but of centuries, and that she had passed the
greater portion of it, long as it was, in “wandering by the shores of old
romance.”

Such a woman the reader will at once perceive is a formidable competitor
for popular confidence with the Midwife. Indeed there is but one
consideration alone upon which we would be inclined to admit that
the latter has any advantage over her--and it is, that she _is the
Midwife_; a word which is a tower of strength to her, not only against
all professional opponents, but against such analogous characters as
would intrude even upon any of her subordinate or collateral offices.
As matchmakers, it is extremely difficult to decide between her and the
Cosherer; so much so, indeed, that we are disposed to leave the claim for
priority undetermined. In this respect each pulls in the same harness;
and as they are so well matched, we will allow them to jog on side by
side, drawing the youngsters of the neighbouring villages slowly but
surely towards the land of matrimony.

In humble country life, as in high life, we find in nature the same
principles and motives of action. Let not the speculating mother of rank,
nor the husband-hunting dowager, imagine for a moment that the plans,
stratagems, lures, and trap-falls, with which they endeavour to secure
some wealthy fool for their daughters, are not known and practised--ay,
and with as much subtlety and circumvention too--by the very humblest of
their own sex. In these matters they have not one whit of superiority
over the lowest, sharpest, and most fraudulent gossip of a country
village, where the arts of women are almost as sagaciously practised, and
the small scandal as ably detailed, as in the highest circles of fashion.

The third great master of the art of matchmaking is the _Shanahus_,
who is nothing more or less than the counterpart of the Cosherer; for
as the Cosherer is never of the male sex, so the Shanahus is never of
the female. With respect to their habits and modes of life, the only
difference between them is, that as the Cosherer is never idle, so the
Shanahus never works; and the latter is a far superior authority in old
popular prophecy and genealogy. As a matchmaker, however, the Shanahus
comes infinitely short of the Cosherer; for the truth is, that this
branch of diplomacy falls naturally within the manœuvring and intriguing
spirit of a woman.

Our readers are not to understand that in Ireland there exists, like
the fiddler or dancing-master, a distinct character openly known by
the appellation of matchmaker. No such thing. On the contrary, the
negotiations they undertake are all performed under false colours. The
business, in fact, is close and secret, and always carried on with the
profoundest mystery, veiled by the sanction of some other ostensible
occupation.

One of the best specimens of the kind we ever met was old Rose Mohan, or,
as she was called, Moan, a name, we doubt, fearfully expressive of the
consequences which too frequently followed her own negociations. Rose
was a tidy creature of middle size, who always went dressed in a short
crimson cloak much faded, a striped red and blue drugget petticoat, and
a heather-coloured gown of the same fabric. When walking, which she did
with the aid of a light hazel staff hooked at the top, she generally
kept the hood of the cloak over her head, which gave to her whole figure
a picturesque effect; and when she threw it back, one could not help
admiring how well her small but symmetrical features agreed with the dowd
cap of white linen, with a plain muslin border, which she wore. A pair of
blue stockings and sharp-pointed shoes high in the heels completed her
dress. Her features were good-natured and Irish; but there lay over the
whole countenance an expression of quickness and sagacity, contracted
no doubt by a habitual exercise of penetration and circumspection. At
the time I saw her she was very old, and I believe had the reputation
of being the last in that part of the country who was known to go about
from house to house spinning on the distaff, an instrument which has now
passed away, being more conveniently replaced by the spinning-wheel.

The manner and style of Rose’s visits were different from those of any
other who could come to a farmer’s house, or even to an humble cottage,
for to the inmates of both were her services equally rendered. Let
us suppose, for instance, the whole female part of a farmer’s family
assembled of a summer evening about five o’clock, each engaged in
some domestic employment: in runs a lad who has been sporting about,
breathlessly exclaiming, whilst his eyes are lit up with delight,
“Mother! mother! here’s Rose Moan coming down the boreen!” “Get out,
avick; no, she’s not.” “Bad cess to me but she is; that I may never stir
if she isn’t! Now!” The whole family are instantly at the door to see
if it be she, with the exception of the prettiest of them all, Kitty,
who sits at her wheel, and immediately begins to croon over an old Irish
air which is sadly out of tune; and well do we know, notwithstanding
the mellow tones of that sweet voice, why it is so, and also why that
youthful cheek in which health and beauty meet, is now the colour of
crimson.

“_Oh, Rosha, acushla, cead millie failte ghud!_ (Rose, darlin’, a hundred
thousand welcomes to you!) Och, musha, what kep you away so long, Rose?
Sure you won’t lave us this month o’ Sundays, Rose?” are only a few of
the cordial expressions of hospitality and kindness with which she is
received. But Kitty, whose cheek but a moment ago was carmine, why is it
now pale as the lily?

“An’ what news, Rose?” asks one of her sisters; “sure you’ll tell us
every thing; won’t you?”

“Throth, avillish, _I have no bad news_, any how--an’ as to tellin’ you
_all_--Biddy, _lhig dumh_, let me alone. No, I have no bad news, God be
praised, _but good news_.”

Kitty’s cheek is again crimson, and her lips, ripe and red as cherries,
expand with the sweet soft smile of her country, exhibiting a set of
teeth for which many a countess would barter thousands, and giving out
a breath more delicious than the fragrance of a summer meadow. Oh, no
wonder, indeed, that the kind heart of Rose contains in its recesses a
message to her as tender as ever was transmitted from man to woman!

“An’, Kitty, acushla, where’s the welcome from _you_, that’s my
favourite? Now don’t be jealous, childre; sure you all know she is, an’
ever an’ always was.”

“If it’s not upon my lips, it’s in my heart, Rose, an’ from that heart
you’re welcome!”

She rises up and kisses Rose, who gives her one glance of meaning,
accompanied by the slightest imaginable smile, and a gentle but
significant pressure of the hand, which thrills to her heart and diffuses
a sense of ecstacy through her whole spirit. Nothing now remains but the
opportunity, which is equally sought for by Rose and her, to hear without
interruption the purport of her lover’s communication; and this we leave
to lovers to imagine.

In Ireland, however odd it may seem, there occur among the very poorest
classes some of the hardest and most penurious bargains in matchmaking
that ever were heard of or known. Now, strangers might imagine that all
this close higgling proceeds from a spirit naturally near and sordid, but
it is not so. The real secret of it lies in the poverty and necessity
of the parties, and chiefly in the bitter experience of their parents,
who, having come together in a state of destitution, are anxious, each as
much at the expense of the other as possible, to prevent their children
from experiencing the same privation and misery which they themselves
felt. Many a time have matches been suspended or altogether broken off
because one party refuses to give his son a slip of a pig, or another his
daughter a pair of blankets; and it was no unusual thing for a matchmaker
to say, “Never mind; I have it all settled _but the slip_.” One might
naturally wonder why those who are so shrewd and provident upon this
subject do not strive to prevent early marriages where the poverty is
so great. So unquestionably they ought, but it is a settled usage of
the country, and one too which Irishmen have never been in the habit
of considering as an evil. We have no doubt that if they once began to
reason upon it as such, they would be very strongly disposed to check a
custom which has been the means of involving themselves and their unhappy
offspring in misery, penury, and not unfrequently in guilt itself.

Rose, like many others in this world who are not conscious of the same
failing, smelt strongly of the shop; in other words, her conversation
had a strong matrimonial tendency. No two beings ever lived so decidedly
antithetical to each other in this point of view as the Matchmaker and
the Keener. Mention the name of an individual or a family to the Keener,
and the medium through which her memory passes back to them is that of
her professed employment--a mourner at wakes and funerals.

“Don’t you know young Kelly of Tamlaght?”

“I do, avick,” replies the Keener, “and what about him?”

“Why, he was married to-day mornin’ to ould Jack M’Cluskey’s daughter.”

“Well, God grant them luck an’ happiness, poor things! I do indeed
remember his father’s wake an’ funeral well--ould Risthard Kelly of
Tamlaght--a dacent corpse he made for his years, an’ well he looked. But
indeed I _knewn_ by the colour that sted in his checks, an’ the limbs
remainin’ soople for the twenty-four hours afther his departure, that
some of the family ’ud follow him afore the year was out: an’ so she
did. The youngest daughter, poor thing, by raison of a could she got,
over-heatin’ herself at a dance, was stretched beside him that very day
was eleven months; and God knows it was from the heart my grief came
for _her_--to see the poor handsome colleen laid low so soon. But when
a gallopin’ consumption sets in, avourneen, sure we all know what’s to
happen. In Crockaniska churchyard they sleep--the Lord make both their
beds in heaven this day!” The very reverse of this, but at the same time
as inveterately professional, was Rose Moan.

“God save you, Rose.”

“God save you kindly, avick. Eh!--let me look at you. Aren’t you red
Billy M’Guirk’s son from Ballagh?”

“I am, Rose. An’, Rose, how is yourself an’ the world gettin’ an?”

“Can’t complain, dear, in such times. How are yez all at home, alanna?”

“Faix, middlin’ well, Rose, thank God an’ you.--You heard of my
granduncle’s death, big Ned M’Coul?”

“I did, avick, God rest him. Sure it’s well I remimber his weddin’, poor
man, by the same atoken that I know one that helped him on wid it a
thrifle. He was married in a blue coat and buckskins, an’ wore a scarlet
waistcoat that you’d see three miles off. Oh, well I remimber it. An’
whin he was settin’ out that mornin’ to the priest’s house, ‘Ned,’ says
I, an’ I fwhishspered him, ‘dhrop a button on the right knee afore you
get the words said.’ ‘_Thighum_,’ said he, wid a smile, an’ he slipped
ten thirteens into my hand as he spoke. ‘I’ll do it,’ said he, ‘and thin
a fig for the fairies!’--becase you see if there’s a button of the right
knee left unbuttoned, the fairies--this day’s Friday, God stand betune us
and harm!--can do neither hurt nor harm to sowl or body, an’ sure that’s
a great blessin’, avick. He left two fine slips o’ girls behind him.”

“He did so--as good-lookin’ girls as there’s in the parish.”

“Faix, an’ kind mother for them, avick. She’ll be marryin’ agin, I’m
judgin’, she bein’ sich a fresh good-lookin’ woman.”

“Why, it’s very likely, Rose.”

“Throth it’s natural, achora. What can a lone woman do wid such a large
farm upon her hands, widout having some one to manage it for her, an’
prevint her from bein’ imposed on? But indeed the first thing she ought
to do is to marry off her two girls widout loss of time, in regard that
it’s hard to say how a stepfather an’ thim might agree; and I’ve often
known the mother herself, when she had a fresh family comin’ an her,
to be as unnatural to her fatherless childre as if she was a stranger
to thim, and that the same blood did’nt run in their veins. Not saying
that Mary M’Coul will or would act that way by her own; for indeed she’s
come of a kind ould stock, an’ ought to have a good heart. Tell her,
avick, when you see her, that I’ll spind a day or two wid her--let me
see--to-morrow will be Palm Sunday--why, about the Aisther holidays.”

“Indeed I will, Rose, with great pleasure.”

“An’ fwhishsper, dear, jist tell her that I’ve a thing to say to
her--that I had a long dish o’ discoorse about her wid _a friend o’
mine_. You wont forget now?”

“Oh the dickens a forget!”

“Thank you, dear: God mark you to grace, avourneen! When you’re a little
ouldher, maybe I’ll be a friend to you yet.”

This last intimation was given with a kind of mysterious benevolence,
very visible in the complacent shrewdness of her face, and with a twinkle
in the eye, full of grave humour and considerable self-importance,
leaving the mind of the person she spoke to in such an agreeable
uncertainty as rendered it a matter of great difficulty to determine
whether she was serious or only in jest, but at all events throwing the
onus of inquiry upon him.

The ease and tact with which Rose could involve two young persons of
opposite sexes in a mutual attachment, were very remarkable. In truth,
she was a kind of matrimonial incendiary, who went through the country
holding her torch now to this heart and again to that--first to one and
then to another, until she had the parish more or less in a flame. And
when we consider the combustible materials of which the Irish heart is
composed, it is no wonder indeed that the labour of taking the census
in Ireland increases at such a rapid rate during the time that elapses
between the periods of its being made out. If Rose, for instance, met
a young woman of her acquaintance accidentally--and it was wonderful
to think how regularly these accidental meetings took place--she would
address her probably somewhat as follows:--

“Arra, Biddy Sullivan, how are you, a-colleen?”

“Faix, bravely, thank you, Rose. How is yourself?”

“Indeed, thin, sorra bit o’ the health we can complain of, Bhried,
barrin’ whin this pain in the back comes upon us. The last time I seen
your mother, Biddy, she was complainin’ of a _weid_.[6] I hope she’s
betther, poor woman?”

“Hut! bad scran to the thing ails her! She has as light a foot as e’er a
one of us, an’ can dance ‘Jackson’s mornin’ brush’ as well as ever she
could.”

“Throth, an’ I’m proud to hear it. Och! och! ‘Jackson’s mornin’ brush!’
and it was she that _could_ do it. Sure I remimber her wedding-day
like yestherday. Ay, far an’ near her fame wint as a dancer, an’ the
clanest-made girl that ever came from Lisbuie. Like yestherday do I
remimber it, an’ how the squire himself an’ the ladies from the Big
House came down to see herself an’ your father, the bride and groom--an’
it wasn’t on every hill head you’d get sich a couple--dancin’ the same
‘Jackson’s mornin’ brush.’ Oh! it was far and near her fame wint for
dancin’ that.--An’ is there no news wid you, Bhried, at all at all?”

“The sorra word, Rose: where ud I get news? Sure it’s yourself that’s
always on the fut that ought to have the news for _us_, Rose alive.”

“An’ maybe I have too. I was spaikin’ to a friend o’ mine about you the
other day.”

“A friend o’ yours, Rose! Why, what friend could it be?”

“A friend o’ mine--ay, an’ of yours too. Maybe you have more friends than
you think, Biddy--and kind ones too, as far as wishin’ you well goes,
’tany rate. Ay have you, faix, an’ friends that e’er a girl in the parish
might be proud to hear named in the one day wid her. Awouh!”

“Bedad we’re in luck, thin, for that’s more than I knew of. An’ who may
these great friends of ours be, Rose?”

“Awouh! Faix, as dacent a boy as ever broke bread the same boy is, ‘and,’
says he, ‘if I had goold in bushelfuls, I’d think it too little for that
girl;’ but, poor lad, he’s not aisy or happy in his mind in regard o’
that. ‘I’m afeard,’ says he, ‘that she’d put scorn upon me, an’ not think
me her aiquals. An’ no more I am,’ says he again, ‘for where, afther all,
would you get the likes of Biddy Sullivan?’--Poor boy! throth my heart
aches for him!”

“Well, can’t you fall in love wid him yourself, Rose, whoever he is?”

“Indeed, an’ if I was at your age, it would be no shame to me to do so;
but, to tell you the thruth, the sorra often ever the likes of Paul
Heffernan came acrass me.”

“Paul Heffernan! Why, Rose,” replied Biddy, smiling with the assumed
lightness of indifference, “is that your beauty? If it is, why, keep him,
an’ make much of him.”

“Oh, wurrah! the differ there is between the hearts an’ tongues of some
people--one from another--an’ the way they spaik behind others’ backs!
Well, well, I’m sure that wasn’t the way he spoke of you, Biddy; an’
God forgive you for runnin’ down the poor boy as you’re doin’. Trogs! I
believe you’re the only girl would do it.”

“Who, me! I’m not runnin’ him down. I’m neither runnin’ him up nor down.
I have neither good nor bad to say about him--the boy’s a black sthranger
to me, barrin’ to know his face.”

“Faix, an’ he’s in consate wid you these three months past, an’ intinds
to be at the dance on Friday next, in Jack Gormly’s new house. Now, good
bye, alanna; keep your own counsel till the time comes, an’ mind what
I said to you. It’s not behind every ditch the likes of Paul Heffernan
grows. _Bannaght lhath!_ My blessin’ be wid you!”

Thus would Rose depart just at the critical moment, for well she knew
that by husbanding her information and leaving the heart something to
find out, she took the most effectual steps to excite and sustain that
kind of interest which is apt ultimately to ripen, even from its own
agitation, into the attachment she is anxious to promote.

The next day, by a meeting similarly accidental, she comes in contact
with Paul Heffernan, who, honest lad, had never probably bestowed a
thought upon Biddy Sullivan in his life.

“_Morrow ghud_, Paul!--how is your father’s son, ahager?”

“_Morrow ghuteha_, Rose!--my father’s son wants nothin’ but a good wife,
Rosha.”

“An’ it’s not every set day or bonfire night that a good wife is to be
had, Paul--that is, a _good_ one, as you say; for, throth, there’s many
o’ them in the market sich as they are. I was talkin’ about you to a
friend of mine the other day--an’, trogs, I’m afeard you’re not worth all
the abuse we gave you.”

“More power to you, Rose! I’m oblaged to you. But who is the friend in
the manetime?”

“Poor girl! Throth, when your name slipped out an her, the point of a
rush would take a drop of blood out o’ her cheek, the way she crimsoned
up. ‘An’, Rose,’ says she, ‘if ever I know you to breathe it to man or
mortual, my lips I’ll never open to you to my dyin’ day.’ Trogs, whin I
looked at her, an’ the tears standin’ in her purty black eyes, I thought
I didn’t see a betther favoured girl, for both face and figure, this many
a day, than the same Biddy Sullivan.”

“Biddy Sullivan! Is that long Jack’s daughter of Cargah?”

“The same. But, Paul, avick, if a syllable o’ what I tould you----”

“Hut, Rose! honour bright! Do you think me a _stag_, that I’d go and
inform on you?”

“Fwhishsper, Paul; she’ll be at the dance on Friday next in Jack Gormly’s
new house. So _bannaght lhath_, an’ think o’ what I betrayed to you.”

Thus did Rose very quietly and sagaciously bind two young hearts
together, who probably might otherwise have never for a moment even
thought of each other. Of course, when Paul and Biddy met at the dance on
the following Friday, the one was the object of the closest attention to
the other; and each being prepared to witness strong proofs of attachment
from the opposite party, every thing fell out exactly according to their
expectations.

Sometimes it happens that a booby of a fellow during his calf love will
employ a male friend to plead his suit with a pretty girl, who, if the
principal party had spunk, might be very willing to marry him. To the
credit of our fair countrywomen, however, be it said, that in scarcely
one instance out of twenty does it happen, or has it ever happened, that
any of them ever fails to punish the faint heart by bestowing the fair
lady upon what is called the blackfoot or spokesman whom he selects to
make love for him. In such a case it is very naturally supposed that
the latter will speak two words for himself and one for his friend,
and indeed the result bears out the supposition. Now, nothing on earth
gratifies the heart of the established Matchmaker so much as to hear
of such a disaster befalling a spoony. She exults over his misfortune
for months, and publishes his shame to the uttermost bounds of her own
little world, branding him as “a poor pitiful crature, who had not the
courage to spaik up for himself or to employ them that could.” In fact,
she entertains much the same feeling against him that a regular physician
would towards some weak-minded patient, who prefers the knavish ignorance
of a quack to the skill and services of an able and educated medical
practitioner.

Characters like Rose are fast disappearing in Ireland; and indeed in a
country where the means of life were generally inadequate to the wants
of the population, they were calculated, however warmly the heart may
look back upon the memory of their services, to do more harm than good,
by inducing young folks to enter into early and improvident marriages.
They certainly sprang up from a state of society not thoroughly formed
by proper education and knowledge--where the language of a people, too,
was in many extensive districts in such a state of transition as in the
interchange of affection to render an interpreter absolutely necessary.
We have ourselves witnessed marriages where the husband and wife spoke
the one English and the other Irish, each being able with difficulty to
understand the other. In all such cases Rose was invaluable. She spoke
Irish and English fluently, and indeed was acquainted with every thing in
the slightest or most remote degree necessary to the conduct of a love
affair, from the first glance up until the priest had pronounced the last
words--or, to speak more correctly, until “the throwing of the stocking.”

Rose was invariably placed upon the _hob_, which is the seat of comfort
and honour at a farmer’s fireside, and there she sat neat and tidy,
detailing all the news of the parish, telling them how such a marriage
was one unbroken honeymoon--a sure proof by the way that she herself had
a hand in it--and again, how another one did not turn out well, and she
said so; “there was always a bad dhrop in the Haggarties; but, my dear,
the girl herself was _for_ him; so as she made her own bed she must lie
in it, poor thing. Any way, thanks be to goodness I had nothing to do wid
it!”

Rose was to be found in every fair and market, and always at a particular
place at a certain hour of the day, where the parties engaged in a
courtship were sure to meet her on these occasions. She took a chirping
glass, but never so as to become unsteady. Great deference was paid to
every thing she said; and if this was not conceded to her, she extorted
it with a high hand. Nobody living could drink a health with half the
comic significance that Rose threw into her eye when saying, “Well, young
couple, here’s everything as you wish it!”

Rose’s motions from place to place were usually very slow, and for the
best reason in the world, because she was frequently interrupted. For
instance, if she met a young man on her way, ten to one but he stood
and held a long and earnest conversation with her; and that it was both
important and confidential, might easily be gathered from the fact that
whenever a stranger passed, it was either suspended altogether, or
carried on in so low a tone as to be inaudible. This held equally good
with the girls. Many a time have I seen them retracing their steps, and
probably walking back a mile or two, all the time engaged in discussing
some topic evidently of more than ordinary interest to themselves. And
when they shook hands and bade each other good bye, heavens! at what a
pace did the latter scamper homewards across fields and ditches, in order
to make up for the time she had lost!

Nobody ever saw Rose receive a penny of money, and yet when she took
a fancy, it was beyond any doubt that she has often been known to
assist young folks in their early struggles; but in no instance was the
slightest aid ever afforded to any one whose union she had not herself
been instrumental in bringing about. As to the _when_ and the _how_ she
got this money, and the great quantity of female apparel which she was
known to possess, we think we see our readers smile at the simplicity of
those who may not be able to guess the several sources from whence she
obtained it.

One other fact we must mention before we close this sketch of her
character. There were _some_ houses--we will not, for we dare not, say
_how many_--into which Rose was never seen to enter. This, however, was
not her fault. Every one knew that what she did, she did always for the
best; and if some small bits of execration were occasionally levelled
at her, it was not more than the parties levelled at each other. All
marriages cannot be happy; and indeed it was a creditable proof of Rose
Moan’s sagacity that so few of those effected through her instrumentality
were unfortunate.

Poor Rose! matchmaking was the great business of your simple but not
absolutely harmless life. You are long since, we trust, gone to that
happy place where there are neither marryings nor givings in marriage,
but where you will have a long Sabbath from your old habits and
tendencies. We love for more reasons than either one or two to think of
your faded crimson cloak, peaked shoes, hazel staff, clear grey eye,
and nose and chin that were so full of character. As you used to say
yourself, _bannaght lhath!_--my blessing be with you!

[6] A feverish cold.




RANDOM SKETCHES.--No. I.

FELINE RECOLLECTIONS.


One result of perusing such interesting papers on “the Intellectuality of
Domestic Animals” as that which lately appeared in the _Dublin University
Magazine_, should be the publication of similar facts; another, the
promotion of that kindness towards the inferior creation which is still,
alas! so sparingly manifested. I therefore propose stuffing a cranny
of the _Irish Penny Journal_ with a few particulars relating, firstly,
to the maternal and filial piety of the cat; secondly, to the humanity
(or, psychologically speaking, brutality) of the same animal. Of the
facts illustrative of the former virtues I was an eye-witness--those
illustrative of the latter I had from a member of the family in which
they occurred.

In my early home two cats, a mother and a son, formed part of the
establishment. The former, a dark-grey matron, rejoiced in the euphonious
name of SMUT--the colour of the latter may be inferred from his
appellation, FOX. Smut was, to be brief, the most lady-like cat I ever
saw; Fox was a huge Dan Donnelly of a brute, a very hero of the slates,
and the terror of all the cats in the neighbourhood, _save one_; he
walloped them right and left; and many a smirking sylph of the gutters,
wont to pick her steps daintily to avoid all possible contact with the
wet, was seen to scamper away screaming when Fox appeared in view, for
truth obliges me to record that he spared neither age nor sex. Nor was he
formidable to the brute creation alone--humanity often suffered under his
visitations. There was no keener forager among the larders and pantries
of the neighbourhood. A poor dancing-master who had a way of leaving his
window open was most frequently victimized; for as the said window was
_convenient_ to the low roof of a back house, our hero used to quietly
walk in and purvey to his liking. In the recess of a chimney, and several
feet above the roof of our house, was a kind of small platform, where
Master Fox was usually pleased to regale himself on his ill-gotten gains.
One day I saw him with a calf’s or lamb’s pluck in his mouth, twice as
long as himself, darting aloft towards his refectory. The weight of the
booty several times dragged him back; but he persevered till he gained
his point: it was a sight ludicrous beyond all imagining.

But as it was not every day Master Fox could mulct the circumambient
dancing-master in a beef-steak or a calf’s pluck, he often returned home
hungry; and I am now come to the point of proving the “intellectuality”
of Madam Smut, as evidenced in her maternal piety. Within the
kitchen-door lay a mat, in a hole in which she daily hid a portion of her
lights. She was generally dozing before the fire when her son came in for
the night, and whenever I happened to follow him and watch her movements,
she invariably looked up to see whether he had scented the provender:
and when satisfied on that point, coiled herself up to sleep again. But
her maternal tenderness never interfered with her matronly dignity. Woe
betide Fox, if, in proceeding to take his place at the fire, he attempted
to pass between her and it. She would instantly spring up and deal him
a dab, which prevented for that time a repetition of the indecorum. I
have seen him steal most cautiously along the forbidden path in the
presumption that she was asleep, but I do not remember to have ever seen
him effect a passage. I have said that he leathered all the cats about
him save one--that one was his mother. Determined pugilist and fire-eater
as he was, he never returned the dab she gave him.

The fact of which I was only an ear-witness may be briefly related. A
lady of this city observing one day a wretched kitten which had been
ruthlessly flung into the street before her residence, had it taken into
the house and carefully tended. Some time after, when it had grown into
a thorough-bred mouser, a strange cat with a broken leg hobbled into the
yard, where it was discovered by the foundling, which immediately took
charge of it, and regularly allotted to the sufferer a portion of its own
daily food till it was sufficiently recovered to shift for itself.

As a warm friend of the inferior creation, I was much pleased to find
their cause pleaded towards the close of the article, which gave rise
to the present sketch, and a just encomium passed on the author of “the
Rights of Animals.” And much was I gratified to find that the same cause
appears to maintain an abiding interest in the bosom of the first of
living poets. “C. O.” alludes as follows to a conversation he had with
Mr Wordsworth on the subject:--“I remember an observation made to me
by one of the most gifted of the human race--one of the stars of this
generation--the poet of nature and of feeling--the good and the great Mr
Wordsworth. Having the honour of a conversation with him after he had
made a tour through Ireland, I in the course of it asked what was the
thing that most struck his observation here as making us differ from the
English; and he without hesitation said it was the ill-treatment of our
horses: that his soul was often, too often, sick within him at the way
in which he saw these creatures of God abused.” One evening, which I
had the happiness of spending at Rydal Mount, the very same subject was
broached by Mr W. Defend my countrymen I could not, but I parried the
attack by showing that other segments of the united kingdom had little
right to boast over them in this particular. This I proved by adverting
to the notorious cat-skinning of London--a horror unknown in Ireland,
bad as we are--and to certain atrocious cruelties which had just been
perpetrated on some horses in Sutherland (though I must confess that I
know too little of Scotland to pronounce whether its national character
is tarnished by cruelty to animals or not). And much was I surprised when
the son of the poet threw discredit on the character of one of the first
of London newspapers, from which I had cited a recent case in proof of
my assertion. It was in 1833 I visited Rydal Mount. Should this paper
reach the eye of Mr W. jun., he may find my statement corroborated, and
the perpetration of the barbarous trade demonstrated, by referring to the
case of Elizabeth Rogerson, an old offender, who in 1839 was condemned
to the ridiculously lenient penalty of two months’ imprisonment for the
crime, without hard labour. A diametrically opposite opinion respecting
the treatment of horses in Ireland was once expressed to me by another
English gentleman of some celebrity in the religious world. He passed an
encomium on the kindness to animals observable in this country, from the
habit he had noticed among the drivers of jaunting-cars, during his short
stay in Dublin, of feeding their horses from their hands with a wisp of
hay at leisure moments--a pitch of humanity just equivalent to that of
greasing the wheels of their vehicles.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Printed and published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON,
    No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin; and sold by all
    Booksellers.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1, No.
15, October 10, 1840, by Various

*** 