Chapter 2

In the immediate vicinity of the pretty little town of Kells stands one of those peculiar high round towers, the origin of which has so long puzzled the brains of antiquaries. It is invariably pointed out to the curious, as a fit subject for their contemplation, and may, in fact, be looked upon as the great local lion of the place. It appears almost inaccessible. But there is a story extant, and told in very choice Irish, how two small dare-devil urchins did succeed in reaching its lofty summit; and this is the way the legend was done into English by one Barney Riley, the narrator, to whom I am indebted for its knowledge:--

"You see Masther Robert, sir,--though its murduring high, and almost entirely quite aqual in stapeness to the ould ancient Tower of Babel, yet, sir, there is them living now as have been at the top of that same; be the same token I knew both o' the spalpeens myself. It's grown up they are now; but whin they wint daws'-nesting to the top there, the little blackguards weren't above knee-high, if so much."

"But how did they arrive at the summit?"

"That's the wonder of it! but sure nobody knows but themselves; but the scamps managed somehow or other to insart themselves in through one of them small loopholes--whin little Danny Carroll gave Tom Sheeney a leg up and a back, and Tom Sheeney hauled little Danny up after him by the scruff o' the neck; and so they wint squeedging and scrummaging on till, by dad, they was up at the tip-top in something less than no time; and the trouble was all they had a chance o' gettin for their pains; for, by the hokey, the daws' nest they had been bruising their shins, breaking their necks, and tearing their frieze breeches to tatters to reach, was on the outside o' the building, and about as hard to get at as truth, or marcy from a thafe of a tythe proctor.

"'Hubbabboo,' says little Danny; 'we are on the wrong side now, as Pat Murphy's carroty wig was whin it came through his hat; what will we do, at all, at all?'

"'Divil a know I know. It would make a parson swear after takin' tythe. Do you hear the vagabones? Oh, then musha, bad luck to your cawings; its impedence, and nothing but it, to be shouting out in defiance of us, you dirty bastes. Danny, lad, you're but a little thrifle of a gossoon; couldn't you squeedge yourself through one o' them holes?'

"'What will I stand--or, for the matter o' that, as I'm by no manes particular,--sit upon, whin I git out--that is, if I can?'

"'Look here, lad, hear a dacent word--it will be just the dandy thing for yes entirely; go to it with a will, and make yourself as small as a little cock elven, and thin we'll have our revenge upon them aggravation thaves.' How the puck he done it nobody knows; but by dad there was his little, ragged, red poll, followed by the whole of his small body, seen coming out o' that trap-loop there, that doesn't look much bigger than a button-hole--and thin sitting astride the ould bit of rotten timbers, and laffing like mad, was the tiny Masther Danny, robbing the nests, and shouting with joy as he pulled bird after bird from their nate little feather-beds. 'This is elegant,' says he; 'here's lashins of 'em.'

"'How many have you,' says Tom Sheeney.

"'Seven big uns--full fledged, wid feathers as black as the priest's breeches on a Good Friday's fast.'

"'Seven is it?'

"'It is.'

"'Well, then, hand them in.'

"'By no manes.'

"'Why not?'

"'Seein they're as well wid me as you.

"'Give me my half then--that's your'--

"'Aisy wid you; who's had the trouble and the chance of breaking his good-looking neck but me, Mr. Tim Sheeney.'

"'Devil a care I care; I'll have four, or I'll know why.'

"'That you'll soon do: I won't give 'em you.'

"'Aint I holding the wood?'

"'By coorse you are; but aint I sitting outside upon it, and by the same token unseating my best breeches.'

"'I bid you take care; give me four.'

"'Ha, ha! what a buck your granny was, Mistet Tim Sheeney; it's three you'll have, or none.'

"'Then by the puck I'll let you go.'

"'I defy you to do it, you murdering robber.'

"'Do you! by dad; once more, give me four.'

"'To blazes wid you; three or none.'

"'Then there you go!'

"And, worse luck, sure enough he did, and that at the devil's own pace.

"At this moment I turned my eyes in horror to the Tower, and the height was awful."

"Poor child,--of course he was killed upon the spot?"

"There's the wonder; not a ha'porth o' harm did the vagabone take at all at all. He held on by the birds' legs like a little nagur; he was but a shimpeen of a chap, and what with the flapping of their wings and the soft place he fell upon, barring a little thrifle of stunning, and it may be a small matter of fright, he was as comfortable as any one could expect under the circumstances; but it would have done your heart good to see the little gossoon jump up, shake his feathers, and shout out at the top of his small voice, 'Tim Sheeney, you thief, you'd better have taken the three,--for d--n the daw do you get now!'" And so ends the Legend of the Round Tower.

* * * * *

IRISH INTELLIGENCE.

AWFUL STATE OF THE COUNTRY!

(_From our own Correspondent._)

We are at length enabled to inform the Public that we have, at a vast expense, completed our arrangements for the transmission of the earliest news from Ireland. We have just received the _Over-bog Mail_, which contains facts of a most interesting nature. We hasten to lay our sagacious correspondent's remarks before our readers:--

_Bally-ha-ghadera, Tuesday Night_.

PUNCH will appreciate my unwillingness to furnish him with intelligence which might in any way disturb the commercial relations between this and the sister island, more particularly at the _present crisis_, when the interests of that prosperous class, the London Baked Potatoe vendors, are so intimately connected, with the preservation of good feeling among the Tipperary growers. However, my duty to PUNCH and the public compel me to speak.--I do feel that we are on the eve of a great popular commotion. Every day's occurrences strengthen my conviction. Bally-ha-ghadera was this morning at sunrise disturbed by noises of the most appalling kind, forming a wild chorus, in which screams and bellowings seemed to vie for supremacy; indeed words cannot adequately describe this terrific disturbance. As I expected, the depraved Whig Journalist, with characteristic mental tortuosity, has asserted that the sounds proceeded from a rookery in the adjoining wood, aided by the braying of the turf-man's donkey. But an enlightened public will see through this paltry subterfuge. Rooks and donkeys! Pooh! There cannot be a doubt but that the noises were the preparatory war-whoops of this ferocious and sanguinary people. We believe the Whig editor to be the only _donkey_ in the case; that he may have been a ravin(g) at the time is also very probable.

No later than yesterday the _Cloonakilty Express_ was stopped by a _band of young men_, who savagely ill-treated our courier, a youth of tender age, having attempted to stone him to death. Our courier is ready to swear that at the time of the attack the young men were busily engaged counting a _vast store of ammunition_, consisting of _round white clay balls_ baked to the hardness of bullets, and _evidently_ intended for _shooting with_.

I have to call particular attention to the fact that a countryman was this day observed to buy a threepenny loaf, and on leaving the baker's to _tear it asunder and distribute the fragments with three confederates_!!! an act which I need not say was evidently symbolical of their desire to rend asunder the _Corn Laws_, and to divide the landed property amongst themselves. The action also appears analogous to the custom of breaking bread and swearing alliance on it, a practice still observed by the inhabitants of some remote regions of the Caucasus. I must again solemnly express my conviction that we are standing on a _slumbering_ VOLCANO; the thoughtless and unobservant may suppose not; probably because in the present tee-total state of society they see nothing of the CRATER.

* * * * *

TAKING A SIGHT AT THE FIRE.

A man bearing the very inapplicable name of _Virtue_ was brought up at Lambeth-street last week, on the charge of having stolen a telescope from the Ordnance-office in the Tower on the morning of the fire. The prisoner pleaded that, being short-sighted, he took the glass to have a sight of the fire. The magistrate, however, _saw through_ this excuse very clearly; and as it was apparent that _Virtue_ had taken a _glass_ too much on the occasion, he was fully committed.

* * * * *

JOE HUME'S FORTHCOMING WORK.

We have received the following note from an old and esteemed correspondent, who, we are rejoiced to find, has returned from a tour in Switzerland, where he has been engaged in a prodigious work connected with the statistics of that country.

_Reform Club-house_.

DEAR PUNCH,

Knowing the interest you take in anything relating to the advancement of science, I beg to apprise you that I am about publishing a statistical work, in which I have made it perfectly clear that an immense saving in the article of ice alone might be made in England by importing that which lies waste upon Mont Blanc. I have also calculated to a fraction the number of pints of milk produced in the canton of Berne, distinguishing the quantity used in the making of cheese from that which has been consumed in the manufacture of butter--and specifying in every instance whether the milk has been yielded by cows or goats. There will be also a valuable appendix to the work, containing a correct list of all the inns on the road between Frankfort and Geneva, with a copy of the bill of fare at each, and the prices charged; together with the colour of the postilion's jacket, the age of the landlord and the weight of his wife, and the height in inches of the cook and chambermaid. To which will be added, "Ten Minutes' Advice" upon making one shilling go as far as two. If you can give me a three-halfpenny puff in your admired publication, you will confer a favour on

Your sincere friend,

JOE HUME.

* * * * *

THE ROMANCE OF A TEACUP.

SIP THE FIRST.

In England one man's mated to one woman, To spend their days in holy matrimony-- In fact, I _have_ heard from one or two men, That one wife in a house is one too many-- But, be this as it may, in China no man Who can afford it shuts himself to any Fix'd number, but is variously encumber'd With better halves, from twenty to a hundred.

These to provide for in a pleasant way, And, maybe, to avoid their chat and worry, He shuts up in a harem night and day-- With them contriving all his cares to bury-- A point of policy which, I should say, Sweetens the dose to men about to marry; For, though a wife's a charming thing enough, Yet, like all other blessings, _quantum suff_.

So to my tale: Te-pott the Multifarious Was, once upon a time, a mandarin-- In personal appearance but precarious, Being incorrigibly bald and thin-- But then so rich, through jobs and pensions various, Obtain'd by voting with the party "in," That he maintain'd, in grace and honour too, Sixty-five years, and spouses fifty-two.

Fifty-two wives! and still he went about Peering below the maiden ladies' veils-- Indeed, it _was_ said (but there hangs a doubt Of scandal on such gossip-whisper'd tales), He had a good one still to single out-- For all his wives had tongues, and _some_ had nails-- And still he hoped, though fifty-twice deferr'd, To find an angel in his fifty-third.

In China, mind, and such outlandish places, A gentleman who wishes to be wed Looks round about among the pretty faces, Nor for a moment doubts they may be had For asking; and if any of them "nay" says, He has his remedy as soon as said-- For, when the bridegrooms disapprove what they do, They teach them manners with the bastinado.

Near Te-pott's palace lived an old Chinese-- About as poor a man as could be known In lands where guardians leave them to their ease, Nor pen the poor up in bastilles of stone: He got a livelihood by picking teas; And of possessions worldly had but one-- But one--the which, the reader must be told, Was a fair daughter seventeen years old.

She was a lovely little girl, and one To charm the wits of both the high and _the_ low; And Te-pott's ancient heart was lost and won In less time than 'twould take my pen to tell how: So, as he was quite an experienced son- In-law, and, too, a very wily fellow, To make Hy-son his friend was no hard matter, I Ween, with that specific for parents--flattery.

But, when they two had settled all between Themselves, and Te-pott thought that he had caught her, He found how premature his hopes had been Without the approbation of the daughter-- Who talk'd with voice so loud and wit so keen, That he thought all his Mrs. T's had taught her; And, finding he was in the way there rather, He left her to be lectured by her father.

"Pray, what were women made for" (so she said, Though Heaven forbid I join such tender saying), "If they to be accounted are as dead, And strangled if they ever are caught straying? Tis well to give us diamonds for the head, And silken gauds for festival arraying; But where of dress or diamonds is the use If we mayn't go and show them? that's the deuce!"

The father answer'd, much as fathers do In cases of like nature here in Britain, Where fathers seldom let fortunes slip through Their fingers, when they think that they can get one; He said a many things extremely true-- Proving that girls are fine things to be quit on, And that, could she accommodate her views to it, She would find marriage very nice when used to it.

Now, 'tis no task to talk a woman into Love, or a dance, or into dressing fine-- No task, I've heard, to talk her into sin too; But, somehow, reason don't seem in her line. And so Miss Hy-son, spite of kith and kin too, Persisting such a husband to decline-- The eager mandarin issued a warrant, And got her apprehended by her parent.

Thus the poor girl was caught, for there was no Appeal against so wealthy lover's fiat: She must e'en be a wife of his, and so She yielded him her hand demure and quiet; For ladies seldom cry unless they know There's somebody convenient to cry _at_-- And; though it is consoling, on reflection Such fierce emotions ruin the complexion.

* * * * *

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

Yesterday Paddy Green honoured that great artist William Hogarth Teniers Raphael Bunks, Esq., with a sitting for a likeness. The portrait, which will doubtless be an admirable one, is stated to be destined to adorn one of Mr. Catnach's ballads, namely, "The Monks of Old!" which Mr. P. Green, in most obliging manner, has allowed to appear.

William Paul took a walk yesterday as far as Houndsditch, in company with Jeremiah Donovan. A pair of left-off unmentionables is confidently reported to be the cause of their visit in the "far East."

The lady of Paddy Green, Esquire, on Wednesday last, with that kindness which has always distinguished her, caused to be distributed a platterful of trotter bones amongst the starving dogs of the neighbourhood.

From information exclusively our own, and for whose correctness we would stake our hump, we learn that James Burke, the honoured member of the P.R., was seen to walk home on the night of Tuesday last with three fresh herrings on a twig. After supper, he consoled himself with a pint of fourpenny ale.

Charles Mears yesterday took a ride in a Whitechapel omnibus. He alighted at Aldgate Pump, at which he took a draught of water from the ladle. He afterwards regaled on a couple of polonies and a penny loaf.

* * * * *

THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL.

Jones, the journeyman tailor who was charged before Sir Peter Laurie with being drunk and disorderly in Fleet-street, escaped the penalty of his frolic by an extraordinary whim of justice. The young schneider, it appears, sported a luxuriant crop of hair, the fashion of which not pleasing the fancy of the city Rhadamanthus, he remitted the fine on condition that the delinquent should instantly cut off the offending hairs. A barber being sent for, the operation was instantly performed; and Sir Peter, with a spirit of generosity only to be equalled by his _cutting_ humour, actually put his hand in his breeches-pocket and handed over to the official Figaro his fee of one shilling. The shorn tailor left the office protesting that Sir Peter had not treated him handsomely, as he had only consented to sacrifice his flowing locks, but that the Alderman had cabbaged his whiskers as well.

* * * * *

A CELESTIAL CON.

Why is wit like a Chinese lady's foot?--Because brevity is the _sole_ of it!

* * * * *

THE PRINCE OF WALES.--HIS FUTURE TIMES.

A private letter from Hanover states that, precisely at twelve minutes to eleven in the morning on the ninth of the present November, his Majesty King ERNEST was suddenly attacked by a violent fit of blue devils. All the court doctors were immediately summoned, and as immediately dismissed, by his Majesty, who sent for the Wizard of the North (recently appointed royal astrologer), to divine the mysterious cause of this so sudden melancholy. In a trice the mystery was solved--Queen Victoria "was happily delivered of a Prince!" His Majesty was immediately assisted to his chamber--put to bed--the curtains drawn--all the royal household ordered to wear list slippers--the one knocker to the palace was carefully tied up--and (on the departure of our courier) half a load of straw was already deposited beneath the window of the royal chamber. The sentinels on duty were prohibited from even sneezing, under pain of death, and all things in and about the palace, to use a bran new simile, were silent as the grave!

"Whilst there was only the Princess Royal there were many hopes. There was hope from severe teething--hope from measles--hope from hooping-cough--but with the addition of a Prince of Wales, the hopes of Hanover are below par." But we pause. We will no further invade the sanctity of the sorrows of a king; merely observing, that what makes his Majesty very savage, makes hundreds of thousands of Englishmen mighty glad. There are now two cradles between the Crown of England and the White Horse of Hanover.

We have a Prince of Wales! Whilst, however, England is throwing up its million caps in rapture at the advent, let it not be forgotten to whom we owe the royal baby. In the clamourousness of our joy the fact would have escaped us, had we not received a letter from Colonel SIBTHORP, who assures us that we owe a Prince of Wales entirely to the present cabinet; had the Whigs remained in office, the infant would inevitably have been a girl.

For our own part--but we confess we are sometimes apt to look too soberly at things--we think her Majesty (may all good angels make her caudle!) is, inadvertently no doubt, treated in a questionable spirit of compliment by these uproarious rejoicings at the sex of the illustrious little boy, who has cast, if possible, a new dignity upon Lord Mayor's day, and made the very giants of Guildhall shoot up an inch taller at the compliment he has paid them of visiting the world on the ninth of November. In our playful enthusiasm, we have--that is, the public _We_--declared we must have a Prince of Wales--we should be dreadfully in the dumps if the child were not a Prince--the Queen must have a Prince--a bouncing Prince--and nothing but a Prince. Now might not an ill-natured Philosopher (but all philosophers are ill-natured) interpret these yearnings for masculine royalty as something like pensive regrets that the throne should ever be filled by the feminine sex? For own part we are perfectly satisfied that the Queen (may she live to see the Prince of Wales wrinkled and white-headed!) is a Queen, and think VICTORIA THE FIRST sounds quite as musically--has in it as full a note of promise--as if the regal name had run--GEORGE THE FIFTH! We think there is a positive want of gallantry at this unequivocally shouted preference of a Prince of Wales. Nevertheless, we are happy to say, the pretty, good-tempered Princess Royal (she is _not_ blind, as the Tories once averred; but then the Whigs were _in_) still laughs and chirrups as if nothing had happened. Nay, as a proof of the happy nature of the infant (we beg to say that the fact is copyright, as we purchased it of the reporter of _The Observer_), whilst, on the ninth instant, the chimes of St. Martin's were sounding merrily for the birth of the Prince, the Princess magnanimously shook her coral-bells in welcome of her dispossessing brother!

Independently of the sensation made in the City by the new glory that has fallen upon the ninth of November (it is said that Sir PETER LAURIE has been so rapt by the auspicious coincidence, that he has done nothing since but talk and think of "the Prince of Wales"--that on Wednesday last he rebuked an infant beggar with, "I've nothing for you, _Prince of Wales_")--independently of the lustre flung upon the new Lord Mayor and the Lord Mayor just out--who will, it is said, both be caudle-cup baronets, the occasion has given birth to much deep philosophy on the part of our contemporaries--so deep, that there is no getting to the end of it, and has also revived much black-letter learning connected with the birth of every Prince of Wales, from the first to the last--and, therefore, certainly not least--new-comer.

An hour or so after George the Fourth was born, we are told that the waggons containing the treasure of the _Hermione_, a Spanish galleon, captured off St. Vincent by three English frigates, entered St. James's street, escorted by cavalry and infantry, with trumpets sounding, the enemy's flags waving over the waggons, and the whole surrounded by an immense multitude of spectators. Now here, to the vulgar mind, was a happy augury of the future golden reign of the Royal baby. He comes upon the earth amid a shower of gold! The melodious chink of doubloons and pieces of eight echo his first infant wailings! What a theme for the gipsies of the press--the fortune-tellers of the time! At the present hour that baby sleeps the last sleep in St. George's chapel; and we have his public and his social history before us. What does experience--the experience bought and paid for by hard, hard cash--_now_ read in the "waggons of treasure," groaning musically to the rocking-cradle of the callow infant? Simply, the babe of Queen Charlotte would be a very expensive babe indeed; and that the wealth of a Spanish galleon was all insufficient for the youngling's future wants.

We have been favoured, among a series of pictures, with the following of George the Fourth, exhibited in his babyhood. We are told that "all persons _of fashion_ were admitted to see the Prince, under the following restrictions, viz.--that in passing through the apartment _they stepped with the greatest caution_, and did not offer to touch his Royal Highness. For the greater security in this respect, a part of the apartment was latticed off _in the Chinese manner_, to prevent curious persons from approaching too nearly."