CHAPTER VI.

Nearly a week had passed since the arrival of Ensign Wiley in the neighborhood of Fort Constitution, and he had as yet manifested no disposition to return. The vessel from which he landed still lay sleeping at anchor, just beyond the reach of the cannons of the fort; and himself, mingling freely in society, was every where received as a welcome addition to its limited numbers. Gansevoort, at this period, received a letter from his sister, which she had found means to send to Washington’s camp in New Jersey, and which had been forwarded from there. It was of recent date, and fully detailed the unparalleled persecution to which she had been subjected, and to a recurrence of which she was so soon to be exposed. Utterly astounded by this intelligence, and moved almost to madness by her earnest appeals for a relief beyond his ability to bestow, his grief yielded only to the most bitter and burning wrath against the infamous author of her sufferings. Long and anxiously he revolved the subject in his mind, without being able to decide upon any feasible plan of relief. The time appointed for the compulsory nuptials was so close at hand, that no action but the most speedy could be of the least avail. There was no possibility of his quitting his post, without special leave of the commander-in-chief, which could not be obtained within the requisite time; and to complete the combination of untoward events, his friend and counsellor, the Count De Zeng, was temporarily absent from the fort. His return was not expected until the ensuing morning, and Gansevoort was compelled patiently to await that event, with the very faint hope that some means of rescue might be devised. In the mean time, hoping to meet Wiley, and obtain from him some information that might be serviceable to his plans, he made an evening visit at the house of Captain Wilton, where, for the first time, he found himself alone with Arabella. Conversation, as was not unusual, took a political turn, and the affairs of King and Congress were discussed for some time in a semi-jocular vein.

“Colonel Gansevoort is now in the camp of the enemy,” Miss Wilton at length remarked; “if I could expect him to speak the truth under such circumstances, I should be disposed to trouble him with a very serious question.”

“Colonel Gansevoort will speak the truth, if he speaks at all,” replied the latter, smiling, “even in the enemy’s camp.”

“Tell me, then, Frank,” she rejoined, assuming a familiarity that their acquaintance in early life may possibly have justified, “tell me if you really desire to see the independence of these colonies established.”

For a moment Gansevoort was too much astonished at this question to reply. While he hesitated, a light of startling intensity broke upon his mind; but subduing every sign of emotion, he still remained silent.

“I know,” she continued, “that although Congress has declared independence, there are many of its supporters who in reality desire nothing more than an honorable peace with Great Britain, as her subjects. Suppose, then,” she added, “that you had it in your power to contribute to that end, and thus to promote the best interests of your country, and spare the effusion of human blood—would you not do it?”

Still Gansevoort did not reply.

“Suppose, also,” she continued, “that in so doing an honorable, praiseworthy action, you could secure to yourself affluence and distinction, would you not do it?”

Her companion at length spoke. “Why should we waste time in these idle hypotheses?” he said; “I know of no such opportunities.”

“But would you avail yourself of them if presented to you?”

“If Miss Wilton believes that I would not act in accordance with what was at once just and honorable, best for my country, and most advantageous to myself, she certainly gives me but little credit for discretion.”

“You have spoken at last, sir oracle, and like a man of sense and spirit. You seek the substantial good of your country. For this alone you have taken up arms; and for this, when it can be best accomplished by so doing, you are willing to lay them down. You are ready to take part in that patriotic and spontaneous movement which is every where making to promote a permanent peace. You are a prominent and influential man, whose example will lead others to return to their duty; and as such, his majesty is ready to testify his regard for you, in a particular and most gratifying manner.”

“His majesty has long had the reputation of being a gentleman of benevolence,” replied Gansevoort. “May I inquire in what manner he proposes to display it toward so insignificant a personage as myself?”

“Francis Gansevoort,” said Miss Wilton, “it is not unknown to the officers of the king, that your patriotism has brought upon you the curse of a loyal father, and that you are a disinherited and penniless man. You shall see that your sovereign is more easily propitiated than your sire. The royal exchequer will furnish an ample substitute for a forfeited patrimony. A free gift of ten thousand pounds will testify the approbation of our most gracious sovereign for his friend and subject, _Sir_ Francis Gansevoort.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Gansevoort; “Is it possible?” now carried away by real surprise. “But,” he continued, after a pause, “is there nothing expected from me in return for such munificence, besides renewed allegiance?”

“Nothing,” replied Miss Wilton, “literally nothing. It is true, that merely as a proof of your sincerity, you will be expected to give up this useless air-castle of yours, which, now that the war is exclusively in another quarter, is in reality of no value either to King or Congress.”

“It is an air-castle, truly,” exclaimed Gansevoort, glancing momentarily from the window at the flag which floated among the dark clouds of night. “Have I not reason to suspect that your dazzling project is also a castle in the air and of less substantial texture? Kings do not usually employ such agents in their negotiations.”

“His majesty does not lack an agent far more worthy to represent him than myself. When you are prepared to enter upon the negotiation, he shall be forthcoming. Ensign Wiley—”

“Enough!” cried Gansevoort; “I do not treat with ensigns. My own rank, and the importance of this transaction demand an envoy of far higher station, and one whose word is capable of binding the British government.”

“Be satisfied, then,” said Miss Wilton; “at this hour to-morrow, and at this place, you shall meet with one, to whose name, and rank, and authority, the utmost fastidiousness could not object.”

“Doubt not I will meet him,” was the reply. And thus they parted.

A few hours later in the evening now referred to, two individuals were seated in the cabin of the British sloop-of-war Dragon, engaged in earnest conversation. Both were in military undress. The one was young, slight, and good looking, with an air, however, of recklessness and audacity, that spoke the fitting agent of dark and hazardous deeds. The other was a middle-aged man, of more dignified and gentlemanly deportment. His demeanor was one that denoted station and influence, but his countenance bore that sinister expression, which nature often stamps upon the vile, and which no effort of assumed honesty can fully eradicate or conceal. Like the mark of Cain, it is indelible; but, unfortunately, unlike that sign, it is perceptible only to an eye practiced in the study of the human visage. An animated discussion had been followed by a prolonged silence, when the latter, after rising and rapidly pacing the floor, turned suddenly to his companion, and said,

“If you have made sure of success in this matter, Wiley, we shall have accomplished a work of the utmost magnitude, and your reward will be proportionate.”

“I assure you there is no room for doubt,” was the reply. “I have felt my way step by step. Our conversations have been frequent and prolonged. He believes that his cause is declining; that the leaders are rapidly giving in their adhesion to the crown; that all oppressive measures will be abandoned, and thus the chief object of the war attained. What wonder, then, that he should hasten to be among the earliest penitents, and thus secure to himself so brilliant a reward. In truth, I begin to regret that you bade so high.”

“It is too late to think of that,” said the other, musing. “And Miss Wilton is his affianced bride. Well, well—we have played for a heavy stake, and won. How will these tidings rejoice Sir William!” Thus muttering to himself, he continued to pace his limited apartment, until his companion reminded him of the lateness of the hour.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER.

A STORY OF CLARE.

BY J. GERAGHTY M‘TEAGUE.

Those of my readers, (and particularly of my fair readers,) who may expect to hear a love story, will, I am afraid, be grievously disappointed; for though my legend certainly treats of that which, in most countries, is the _consequence_ of the contrivances of the cunning little god, yet we will hazard our affirmation that the course of true love, as it runs through the hearts of the lads and lasses of Columbia, is widely different in its manner among those of the west of Ireland, and of all places in Ireland, the county of Clare.

To those who are familiar with the truly glorious tales of William Carleton, all this is unnecessary; for these, with wonderful humor and pathos, faithfully portray the endless peculiarities of Irish character. Who that has alternately roared with merriment which he could not suppress, and sobbed with strong emotion at the history of the “Poor Scholar,” can ever forget it?

Among all Carleton’s delineations of Irish character, that of the Shanahus is the one which chiefly bears on our present subject. “And who is the Shanahus?” you ask. Well, I will tell you a few of his characteristics from my own personal knowledge and observations.

In most countries under the sun, the getting of a wife is no such railroad-speed kind of affair; and, (dating from the _first_ eloquent glance of a bright eye, or sly _squeeze_ of a lily hand, to the happy day when a certain little ceremony is performed,) occupies some little time, and, as many probably will be inclined to admit, no little anxiety, interlaced with a thousand little disappointments, &c.; all very well known, and very delightful in their way, no doubt, _when all comes right at last_. But in the land we are treating of, unlike all others, except in some particulars the Eastern nations, from whom many of our customs are derived, affairs are carried on in another kind of manner.

The week before Lent, or Shrove, is the great time in Clare. And, oh! what a study is here for the plenipotentiary, the _attaché_, or the financier. A young man, (suppose, for instance,) hears of the “great fortune” of some young lady in the neighborhood, or, what generally happens, he is waited on by one of his friends, (_quite by accident_) when a conversation to the following purport occurs:—

“Well, Jimmy, who do you think I’ve in my eye for you?”

“Why, then, how do I know, Corny?”

“What do you think of Judy Tucker?”

“Oh, that would be _great_, Corny! I hear she has a good stockin’ full?”

“Is it her? Two hundred pounds—no less; she’s no great beauty, but—”

“Oh, never heed, Corny. Do you think you could manage it?”

“Oh, let me alone.”

Corny then mentions it to his wife, and she takes an early opportunity to go over to Judy’s residence, where she (quite casually) mentions Jimmy Melish.

“Oh, but that’s the nice boy, Judy, agrah!”

“Is it Jemmy Melish you mane, that lives beyond the old church of Kilbricken?”

“Yes, agrah!” (softly.) “Oh, but it’s he would make you the dashin’ husband!”

“Oh, yeh! what’s that you say?”

“_A husband_, dear! And _sich_ a beautiful _farm_! Ten cows—no less, and every one of them white with a black star on their foreheads. Did you ever see him, Judy?”

“No, I never did.”

“Well, come wid me to mass on Sunday, an’ I’ll show him to you.”

And thus is the ice broken. But who is Corny, all this time? Why he is the veritable _Shanahus_; and he it is who is the oracle for all the matches in the neighborhood.

Every district has its “Corny,” and it is he who has been the projector of half the matches that have been made for years in that part of the country; and seldom does it happen, so good is his judgment, that any bad selection takes place.

As soon as the ice _is_ thus broken, sundry meetings take place at the houses of both the suitor and the sought. In former days, countless were the gallons of whiskey swallowed on these occasions, and bitter the disputes. I have known a match broken off altogether from a discussion as to which party was to provide the spirits for the wedding banquet; but they are frequently annulled, even now, by a dispute about a pig, which one side insists on being added to the “fortune,” and the other refuses.

And now you see, my fair readers, that love has but little to do with _these_ matches. I can positively state, and many will bear out my assertion, that the blooming bride, and the happy bridegroom, have frequently never before set eyes on each other until they stand up to the ceremony, and it is singular to see the lady nudge a neighbour on the arm, and say “_which av ’em is it?_” Yet these things are; though I’ve no doubt they will gradually wear out, become matters of history, and Clare grow “_like the rest of the world_.”

It is but justice to my country people to say, that in all my life, I have never heard of an unhappy match. _Unfortunate_ it may be, and the dire cravings of hunger may be often felt; but though these strange people may show but a faint trace of what we call love in these matrimonial _speculations_, of which I have given you a slight outline, that they possess the strongest affections for their partners, in their joys and sorrows, cannot for one instant be questioned. In sickness, health, joy, sorrow, fortunes, and reverses, we will, for constancy and affection, defend the “choice of the Shanahus” against the whole world.

Will it, then, be considered amiss, if we pass away one of these evenings, or wet days, as the case may be, by relating a few of the more remarkable doings of a pretty good specimen of the _genus_, who existed, or (as we may truly say) _flourished_, in the county of Clare, some little time ago?

Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick, (or Michael Fitzpatrick) then, was eminently fond of his jokes, and was accounted, by all, the most knowing fellow in the parish of Ballinacally. He had, withal, a happy genius, and was peculiarly famed as a mediator in matrimonial arrangements. On this account, Mehicle’s advice and assistance were frequently solicited to transact these little matters of business, and truly surprising was the consummate tact he would display on such occasions. Were he engaged on the part of the “boy,” who, perhaps with scanty means and expectations of his own, wished to secure a rich heiress, his _forte_ consisted in making him appear, in the eyes of the opposite party, as rich again as he really was. Was he, on the other hand, on the side of _her_ friends—in that case, he had to exert all his abilities in putting the very same “boy” off with the least possible amount of fortune. Notwithstanding, Mehicle was a jolly fellow, and no one could enjoy more than he a good-humored frolic, especially when coupled with an affair of this kind, which was ever to his fancy.

Now, some particularly “cute” things, which Mehicle did at various times, bid fair long to live in the remembrances of the good folks of Ballinacally; and if a sample or so will be at all acceptable (that is, amusing) to my readers, they shall have one, and “lead mille failte” into the bargain.

Mehicle, then, had occasion one season, in conformity, alas! to a too general custom, (which would plunge me too much into an Irish agrarian political discussion were I to describe,) had occasion, I say, to sow his “handful of pratees” on a farm some miles from his own house, and might be seen, early and late, going to and returning from his work.

He had been for some time thus engaged in preparing his potato-field, when he observed that every day a young man of his acquaintance regularly passed through the end of the same field, on his way to and from the house of a rich old farmer, who lived on the other side of the hill.

Now, as Mehicle watched him night and morning, he could not help guessing (and he guessed rightly for once, for he was a shrewd observer in these matters) that this young man was hard at work making love to the said rich farmer’s daughter.

It happened, that between the field in which Mehicle was sowing his potatoes, and that which led to the rich farmer’s house, there was a wide water-course; not exactly a drain, but a hollow, wet, rushy place, that divided the lands. It was dry enough in summer, no doubt; but, in its flooded state it was, though very wide, quite such a place as a young, active fellow like Aidey Hartigan, who possessed a clean pair of stockings, and brightly polished shoes, would rather risk a flying jump across, than wet the one, or sully the lustre of the other, by splashing through.

Not a little surprising was it to Mehicle to observe his friend Aidey, every morning, after having come out of the farmer’s house, (where he had spent the night,) walk straight through this nasty, wet, boggy place, to the great detriment of the nice clothing of his nether man; but what still more astonished him was, that just when he was about to leave off work, he saw Aidey, as he was coming to the farmer’s hopping and jumping as he neared the trench, and clearing it at a bound.

Mehicle, who as I have hinted, was ever inquisitive, could at last no longer bear to see Aidey going on in this manner, and determined not only to inquire the reason of this strange behavior, but also to try to have his hand in the making of the match, if such was in view; and accordingly, when Aidey appeared next morning, after having as usual covered himself with bog-dirt and mud, in blundering through the trench, he went forward to meet him, and they addressed each other with the usual salutations. Let me detail their conversation, as Mehicle used to relate it, and fond was that very same boy to tell over all the adventures, schemes and diplomacies, in his life of _Shanahusy_.

“Good morrow, Mehicle! God bless your work.”[1]

“And you likewise, Aidey. How are you to-day?”

“Why, then, middlin’, only! but there’s no use in complainin’!”

“Indeed, faix, Aidey, you’re airly up! but an’ sure they say it’s the airly thrushes get the airly worms. Whisper! what are you about above here at big house?”

“What house? Is it Brian Mungavan’s you the mane?”

“Yes, to be sure!”

“Ah! _myself_ that knows that! Maybe, though, I might tell _you_, in the course of time, and maybe yourself might assist me for a bit.”

“Oho! is that the way? Well _that_ it may thrive with you! _That’s_ a business, at any rate, that serves all men, includin’ the priests!”

“And Shanahuses!” said Aidey, grinning, “and I ever knew you to be a capital one!”

“Well, I’m glad you’re going to make a trial of me, and I say again, _that_ it may thrive with you! But, aisy awhile, and answer me one question. I’ve been noticing you, and I’ve seen you passing backward and forward, these few days past, being, as you see, diggin’ the place of a half acre of pratees for myself, and every morning, when you used to be coming out of owld Brian Mungavan’s house, and over that wet place beyant, you used to walk straight through it, and not mind the wet one straw; but when you used to be going in to Brian’s when I was lavin’ off work for the day, and when I was wairy and tired enough myself, it’s then I used to see you give a hop and a jump, and clear the trench in flyin’ colors. And faith it’s not such a bad jump aither, not at all; and it’s no wonder (so it isn’t) that you’d like to carry a dry shoe in to _herself_; but why shouldn’t you do the same when you’re comin’ out?”

“Why, then,” answered Aidey, mournfully, “I’ll tell you. Every word of what you say is true; and I’m much afeard it’ll be the cause of my giving up Brian Mungavan’s house; and what’s worse, Eileen herself; and what’s worse again, her _fortune_—for the rale honest fact is, I _must_ do it; I can’t stand it any longer—for, indeed, when I come out of Brian Mungavan’s house, Mehicle, I am not able to jump over the trench.”

“Why, man alive, why not? Wouldn’t one think now, that the good dinner you’d get, and good supper, and good sleep, _and the sight of herself_, would put you in the best of spirits, and that you’d clear the trench in a jiffey? But, God help you! Sure you’re in love, I suppose. As Larry Burk says in the song,—

“_Love, she_ is a _killin’ thing_!”

“Ah, let me alone! Faith, then, that’s not what’s killin’ _me_, I can tell you. Little you know what a place that house above is. Little you know what sort of a man is Mungavan. There! redden the pipe, and let’s sit down behind the rock, and I’ll tell you all about it, and let you know the hobble I’m in.”

“Very well, out with it,” said Mehicle, as he drew a puff of his pipe; “and if I can serve you, you know _me_, and what _I_ am.”

“Oh, well I know who and what you are; and that the dickens a better Shanahus than your four bones ever stood in shoe leather to undertake a bargain of the kind; and so I’ll ask your opinion. And, first and foremost, you must know that there’s not such a kinnadt[2] in the province of Munster, than that same Brian Mungavan—and himself knows it well; and it’s an unhappy life he lades his poor wife, and his nice girl of a daughter, he’s such an owld crust himself; and, indeed, myself believes he begrudges even the crusts to the poor dogs. In fact, I’d have run off with Eileen long ago—for I could do it in a minute—only I know if I did, I’d never finger a penny of her fortune, which is pretty nice, too.”

“But,” said Mehicle, “what, in the name of goodness, has this to do with jumping over the trench?”

“Every thing,” said Aidey, groaning—“wait a minute. When I go in, you see, at night, I’m in tolerable good spirits; and then I think nothing of the trench—so much for that. Well—that’s all very well. I go in, and after a while, we all sit down to dinner; and, to be sure, to do the man justice, it’s not a very bad dinner at all that he gives us. Well, we begin; and all of us pelt, and cut, and tear, and ate away at the dinner, as hard as ever as we can; but all wont do, Mehicle. Brian ates twice faster nor any of us; and in less than five minutes he purtends to be done, and—‘Here, now,’ says he, ‘take away,’ says he. ‘Remove those dishes immediately,’ says he. ‘The Lord be praised, we’ve had enough! and thousands of the poor starvin’ all over the country,’ says the big rogue; and all the while, Mehicle, we haven’t half enough to ate, nor a quarter; and then it’s a poor night’s rest a man gets on an empty belly, Mehicle. So, then, for fear of bein’ starved intirely, I start off before breakfast. I don’t go home at night, (because she and I can get a great dale of talk before bed-time, and then it’s too late to be goin’ home so far.) I go, I say, before breakfast, for then I’m lost altogether with the hunger, and I’m not able hardly to move, and I come to the trench, and it bothers me entirely, and I’m _obligated_ to _wade_. And, Mehicle, Eileen tells me it’s the same way at breakfast, and he allows them but the two meals a-day; _but_, and listen to me, now. She says he gets up in the night, and gets things that’s left from the dinner, and ates them within in his bed, the dirty, unmannerly brute! Now, did you ever hear of such a rascal? Oho! Muvrone! if I ever get the fingerin’ of any of his cash, it’s I’ll show him how a good boy can spend good money. But how can we manage it, Mehicle? Can you give me any resate to cook the old scoundrel with?”

“Faix, I can _so_!” said Mehicle, handing him the pipe, “and a good way. It’s easily known that you’ve not the laste sperrit, though, indeed, you’re a fine, likely lad—but, to be sure, you’re in love? _You_ can’t do a single ha’porth. No, if you really want to _cook_ that chap, you must get an _owld trainer_ like me, and then, maybe, if both of you help me right, we may get some good out of him; at any rate we’ll have diversion, and, Aidey, my boy, take courage, and if you _do_ lose her, _and_ her dirty fortune, I’ll be bound, by the pipe in your mouth, to secure as good a one for you in the space of one month.”

“O, Mehicle, I don’t doubt that in the least; but my heart is for Eileen, and you must try and get her _first_, any how.”

“Very well, Aidey, we’ll try. ‘Worse than lose we can’t,’ as Mike Gorman said, when the doctor pulled out his tooth; do you stop diggin’ here along with me to-day, it’s the least you can do. I have a famous dinner here in the basket—we’ll ate that soon, and then we’ll have a tremendious, grand, famous appetite by evening; and my hand and word to you, we shall have enough and lavins at dinner to-day.”

“Do you think so, Mehicle? God bless you for sayin’ so! I always heard you had a great head for these things.”

“Yes, maybe I have; but two heads are always better than one, even supposin’ they were no better than a couple of boiled pigs’ heads.”

With this profound reflection, they set to work, and with the help of the dinner which Mehicle had brought, and the tibbacky, managed to dig a good piece of the stubbles; and when evening came on, they made their way over the hill to Brian Mungavan’s house.

“And now,” said Mehicle, “do you introduce me just as your friend, but say nothing whatever about the match; lave all that to my management.”

They went in accordingly, and were welcomed, civilly by Mrs. Mungavan, coolly enough by Mr. Mungavan; but as for Miss Mungavan, it may not be too great a presumption to suppose that the fault would not lie in _that_ quarter, were the match not made.

Dinner, the much dreaded dinner, was announced; and, as faithful historians, we must say, too, _what_ was for dinner. There were, then, a couple of good sized fat fowls, a turkey, too, and some bacon, with a proportionate supply of cabbage. Miss Mungavan, on being asked the dish of her choice, preferred, for certain reasons of her own, the delicate _breast_ of the turkey; Mehicle, before whom were placed the fowls, not a little to the astonishment of all, who stared at so unusual a proceeding, clapped one on Aidey’s plate, and kept the other himself, observing that “it wasn’t worth while to be dividin’ them for birds.”

Mr. Brian Mungavan, from old custom, gobbled up his bacon and cabbage with all celerity; but when he raised his eyes, and beheld the fierce and determined attack on the good things, he evidently foresaw it was useless to give the accustomed order to “take away;” for that if given, it would remain perfectly unheeded.

A fowl a-piece, with the bacon and various other appurtenances, was not a bit too much for men who possessed such keen appetites as Aidey and Mehicle; Miss Mungavan, as she had some one to keep her in countenance, also transgressed the rules, and doubtless enjoyed her share; the old woman, her mother, had enough; in short, it was a great day for that family. A dinner so completely discussed, was there, a rare occurrence. Such a day had never before been seen; but it was but a trifling forerunner of what was to come.

In fact they ate enough, and after they had eaten, they drank, all but the old kinnadt; he seemed quite lost in amazement at the quantity eaten, and bewildered at the assurance of Mehicle, who laughed, and talked, and played all sorts of antics, and cracked lots of jokes, as he always did, when engaged in an adventure just to his mind, as this was.

At length night came on, and bed-time was declared. All separated to their respective rooms, with the exception of Mehicle, who was to remain where he was, and to be content with occupying a “settle-bed” near the kitchen fire—and a not uncomfortable berth it is. But not long had Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick enjoyed his first sleep, when as he was, I believe, chuckling inwardly, while he dreamt of the tricks he was playing, a slight noise near the fire attracted his attention, and rousing him from his slumbers, caused him to raise his head cautiously. Peeping over the side of the settle-bed, he discovered Brian’s wife in the act of kneading on the table a cake of wheaten flour.

“Oho!” thought Mehicle, “this must be the supper that Brian gets every night, the scoundrel. He begrudges honest people the bite, and the sup, and it would be only a proper good deed to chate him out of it himself.”

So Mehicle waited until he saw the old woman finish her cake, and cover it carefully in the hot ashes that still remained red on the hearth; and as soon as she had gone in to her room, he got up, slipped on his clothes, took his seat at the fire, and in a short time, out came the old woman, thinking the cake was now almost ready.

“O,” said Mehicle, “good morning, ma’am. I heard the cock crowing, and I thought it was break-of-day, and then I got up and sat here; and after that I considered it _couldn’t_ be day, or you’d be up; but _now_ I see it is.”

“See _that_, now,” said Mrs. Mungavan, “you’re wrong all the while. Our cock always crows at twelve o’clock, and it’s not one at present; but my husband has a _great tooth-ache_, and he says he’d be the better for a smoke, and I just came in for a red coal, and I’d advise you to go to bed again.”

“So I will, ma’am, by and bye; but as I’m up at all, I’ll wait until he’s done smokin’, and when I’ve got a puff of the pipe myself, I’ll go to bed.”

“O, wisha, wisha!” thought she, “what’ll I do? I’ll be kilt both ways. I’d be ashamed to take up the cake, and it’ll be burned entirely—and what’ll _he_ say?”

“What are we to do?” said she, going in to her husband, “there’s that man, bad manners to him, up, and sittin’ near the fire; and I don’t like to let him see me take up the cake, but he says he’ll go to bed when he smokes; he heard our old cock, bad luck to him, bawlin’ and he thought it was day.”

“Well, here,” said Brian, “take him the pipe, and make haste and bring me the cake; but don’t let him see you takin’ it up.”

“Here, sir,” said she, “here’s the pipe; his tooth-ache’s _greatly_ better. Well, now, to be sure, tibbacky is a fine thing. Myself takes a sly puff now and again, to comfort me; can you tell me, sir, where it grows? I heard it grew up in Ulster?”

“O, not at all ma’am, but in _Americky_, ma’am, where there’s plenty av land idle, and wantin’ occypation; and, faix, indeed, ma’am, that’s not the way here, when we’re a’most starved, and it’s so scarce, and wonderful dear; sit down here, if you plaze, ma’am, and I’ll tell you all about _my own_ land, and how I lost it, and the hobble I’m in. Will we put down some turf, and make a good rousin’ fire?”

“O, yeh, no, sir!” getting frightened about the cake, “we’d never get to bed if we’d a good fire.”

“Well, then, never mind, ma’am. You see, about my farm. I was tellin’ you, ma’am, my farm (puff) was just like _that_,” pointing to the ashes smoothed down quite flat over the _cake_; “well, my farm was quite smooth, and level, and flat, just like _that_; but if it was, ma’am, my second brother, Pat, ma’am, (p-p-f-f-f)—here, ma’am, here’s the pipe for you, and smoke for a bit.”

“Thank’e, sir. Well! well, what about your brother Pat?”

“O, I’ll tell you. My second brother, Pat, ma’am, went to a blackguard ’torney, and got _an advice_, and found out that he’d as good a right to the farm as I had myself; and he went to law with me, and he bate me, ma’am; and then it was all left to arbitration, ma’am, and,” said Mehicle, taking a piece of broken scythe in his hand, as if to illustrate his description, “the rascals were bribed, I’m sure; but, however, they made me divide the land into two halves, just now as I might divide _this_,” making a desperate cut across the ashes, and, of course, through the centre of the cake.

“O, dear, sir! _that_ was _terrible_,” said she. “I _hope_ they didn’t do _any more_ to your land?”

“O, yes; that was _nothing_, ma’am. The next brother, Terry, then, ma’am, says, says he, ‘Why hasn’t myself as good a right as them two?’ says he. ‘I’ll go to law,’ says he; and so _he_ went to law, and we did our best, but he bate us, and it was left to arbitration; and then we had to divide our land somehow _so_,” cutting across again, “or, stop, I’m wrong, there was more of a corner cut off than that—it was more like _this_;” another sliver, “and there was a wall running across, as it might be _so_;” and here followed another slice; by this time, too, the cake was pretty well minced.

“O, dear, dear!” said she, “it must have been _spylte entirely_ for you, then, sir;” said she, thinking of the cake.

“O, musha, then! indeed it was, ma’am, not worth one fraction. But that wasn’t half of the misfortune; my youngest brother, Jack, ma’am, says, says he, ‘Why,’ says he, ‘why isn’t it mine as much as theirs?’ says he. ‘_I’ll_ go to law,’ says he; and _he_ went to law, and it was left to arbitration; and _they_ were bribed, and if they were, they made us turn, and mix, and twist it all to and fro, higgeldy piggeldy, in and out, this way and that way, just for all the world like _that_,” said Mehicle, mixing ashes and cake all up together with the bit of scythe; “and see, now, it’s all destroyed and ruined, and broken up, just like _that_,” pointing down at the fire.

Mrs. Mungavan was, to be sure, grievously vexed, but said nothing till she went in to her husband.

“O, Brian,” said she, “that’s a terrible man, that man at the fire. He has cut up and spylte your eligant cake, tellin’ me a story;” and here she told her husband how it happened.

“Well, Molly, accidents can’t be helped; but, indeed, faith, I’m very hungry. What else is there in the house?”

“Nothing, agrah, nothing. Them lads eat every bit that we had at dinner—howld on, there’s the cabbage that was boilt with the bacon, and maybe some av the bacon itself.”

“O, that’s right. Is that man in bed?”

“O, I’m sure he is.”

“Well, where’s the bacon and cabbage?”

“In the skillet, near the settle-bed.”

It was rather dark in the room; however, he found the right skillet, which Mehicle watched him putting down, determined, however, to cheat him of it if he could. As soon as Mr. Mungavan had put down the cabbage, he retired to bed, and Mehicle hopped up.

Seeing another skillet near him, he examined it, and, O, joy! it was half full of tar.

In one minute the bacon and cabbage had vanished down his own throat, and in another the tar was beginning to hiss slightly in the skillet on the fire. Just then, said Brian to Molly, “Don’t you think, Molly, agrah, but the cabbage is near bein’ warm enough?”

“I think it ought to be now, Brian,” said Molly, “will I get a spoon for you?”

“O, no—wasn’t fingers made before forks.”

So out he came, and walking straight up to the fire, sat down on his heels, and flopped down his hand into the now nearly boiling tar, but quickly drew it up, all covered with the horrid stuff, and was hardly able to bear the pain.

“O, the divil carry it away for a skillet! O, Monum un ustha, but my fingers are all destroyed! Oh! oh!—I put down the wrong skillet! Well, I’ll not bawl out, I’d waken this honest man, and all the people—and they’d only laugh at me; O, voh! what’ll I do at all?”

In his agony, he bolted out into the garden, while Mehicle slipped out of the window, shillelah in hand, and though it was dark, saw Mr. Mungavan run to the cabbages, and begin stripping off the leaves, while he rubbed them to his fingers, in his vain attempts to cool his hands, and get the tar off.

“Hallo!—who’s this!” said Mehicle, running up with the stick, “who’s this?”

“O, dear! _so you’ve caught me_,” said Brian, “who are you?”

“Ah, ha! I’ve caught you, have I? I’ll let you know who I am. Here, Mr. Mungavan! Mr. Mungavan! quick! come out! jump up! here’s a man staylin’ your cabbages! Take that, you scoundrel; how dare you come here!” And here Mehicle began whacking him as hard as he could.

“Don’t strike me!” said Brian, “don’t! _I’ll do any thing you like._ Oh! Oh! don’t! Don’t you see it’s _me_ that’s here?”

“O, I see you well enough! Come out, Mr. Mungavan!” said Mehicle, continuing to beat him.

“O, stop! and God reward you! stop! Sure _I’m Mr. Mungavan_!”

“O, thunder, and pratees, and buttermilk! Why didn’t you tell me so before! Sure I wouldn’t do such a thing if I _didn’t_ know it was you. Come in to the house. Poor man! are you _much_ hurt?”

And now, many were the explanations on both sides. When they came in, Brian set to work, and called up all that were in the house, as it was now daylight. “And,” said he, “here, in the name of all that’s good and bad, let’s have breakfast, for I’m famished, not to spake of the scaldin’ and batin’ I got; but sure it’s all accidents, and can’t be helped.”

Breakfast was prepared and finished, and Brian got, gradually however, into better humor. But when that was over, his wife called him aside, and said,

“Now, Brian, all these accidents happened through your own fault; so, by all the books in Connemara, you must take my advice to-day. Have a fine dinner, and make them ate and drink enough; and if it’s Eileen that boy wants, faith, he’s a smart young man, and we couldn’t do better. Say you’ll give her a hundred pounds, or two, if one wont satisfy him; but, for goodness sake, give that Mehicle enough to ate.”

What a truly sensible speech was this. Here was the proper view of the question. Brian Mungavan overcame himself for once, and was generous. And there was _such_ a dinner! Eileen took good care of _that_. Turkeys, geese, and all manner of delicacies, graced the board. Take the words of a contemporaneous poet:—

“Mutton, and good fat bacon Was there, like turf in creels.”

Or rather in the language of the old song:—

“There was _lashins_ of beef there, And _stammins_ of sheep there, And whiskey came pourin’ _galore_.”

And then it was, when all, including Mr. Mungavan, were in that happy state denominated _soft_, that Mehicle opened his unerring batteries, never yet known to fail.

Let us merely now wish them a happy wedding; but we somehow cannot help thinking there is in this tale a

MORAL.

Be _ever_ hospitable; but, if you invite a friend or two, _beware_, when you say “Take away;” for you know not whether some time or another you may not fall in with a Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick.

[1] The invariable salutation, in the West of Ireland, on approaching one who is at work.

[2] Old stingy fellow.

* * * * *

SONNET.

My wandering feet have trod those paths to-day, Where I so late with thee in joyance went, And gladly thitherward my steps I bent, Turning me from the dust and din away, And tracing with a quiet joy each spot Hallowed by some remembrance dear to me, A smile, a tone that cannot be forgot— Places whose every charm was won from thee; And therefore do I love that grassy way, And every spot which thou hast wandered o’er, And as a miser counts his secret store When darkness has obscured the light of day, So in thy absence, which is my heart’s night, Thy treasured words and smiles tell I with deep delight.

* * * * *

THE STOLEN CHILD.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

“There’s a glory over the face of Youth— And Age as fair a light displays, When beautiful Love and spotless Truth Have guided all her ways!

“But Sin is a hideous thing to see, His eyes are dulled before his prime, And each year leaveth the mark of three, For he hurries the hand of Time!”

Thus spake the awaiting Angel Death, By a way-side beggar-crone, Who wrestled with the reluctant breath On a pillow of broken stone!

’Twas a fearful sight to see her gasp, And clutch the air in her sinewy palms As if forcing from a miser’s grasp The miserable alms!

But a sight to bring the tear-drops down Was the little maiden pale and thin Who stood by her side in a tattered gown Which let the sharp air in!

Hatless and shoeless she stood in the rain, And shivered like autumn’s leaf, Trembling with very hunger and pain, And weeping with fear, not grief!

“What ails you, mother?” the maiden cried, “What makes you tremble and stare? Why do you look so angry-eyed As you strike the empty air?

“I fear you mother! Your angry brow! Your wild and piercing eye! Oh, do not, do not hurt me now, There is no one to see me cry!

“Oh, mother, why do you beat me so? And why do we walk all day, And rest at night, if it rain or snow, In cold, wet beds of hay?

“Oh, why do the village children play And seem so very glad? And why are they dressed so clean and gay While I am so meanly clad?

“Do not their parents beat them too, To make them moan and cry? Or are their mothers weaker than you, And the children stronger than I?

“I’ve seen the parents kiss and hold Their little ones on the knee! I, mother, am well nigh ten years old, You never did so with me!

“Why am not I as pretty and good As the little girls in the town? Are mine the meaner flesh and blood Because I am burnt so brown?

“And why do they go with happy looks Up where the chapel stands, Some with their little shining books And flowers in their hands?

“Oh, mother, I wish you would take me there! For often as we go by Their voices come through the happy air As if from the open sky!

“Oh, mother, I wish I could join the strain, And learn their beautiful words; I am sure they do not sing for pain No more than the little birds!

“You know how once we followed them out To the forest green and gay; How they danced and sang a song about The beautiful flowers of May!

“Oh, they seemed like a band of angels, free From hunger, pain and strife; As a lady once told me I should be If I lived on honest life!

“Then I wondered if we were to die that night, If we should be angels fair! But, mother, what makes your cheeks so white, Why, why do you shiver and stare?

“Oh, mother, mother! you have often said You’d kill me yet in some lonely place If I did not steal—and did not shed More tear-streams down my face!

“And when in the prison cell we lay, Because you took the purse, I remember how I heard you say A very dreadful curse!

“How then you threatened to take my life Because I lied not more! And I remember still the knife You said you had used before!

“I fear you, mother! more and more! You groan and give such fearful starts, Ah, spare me now! and at every door I’ll cry till I break all hearts!

“But, mother, see, arise, arise! A carriage comes up the vale; They cannot, I’m sure, refuse our cries, Now that you look so pale!”

Thus spake the maid—and the carriage came, And she stood as with hunger wild; While suddenly burst from the coach a dame Crying “_my child! my child!_”

The crone half rose from her dying place, With her mouth and eyes all wide! And she knew the injured mother’s face, Then fell on her own and died!