Part 2

“Why, to be sure it is them that I mean,” answered Ironbones.

“Well,” said the Bodach, “I certainly must get my coat skirts again; and so I will run back for them if you consent to stop here eating blackberries until I return.”

“What nonsense you talk!” cried Ironbones. “I tell you I am decidedly resolved not to loiter on the race; and my fixed determination is not to eat any blackberries.”

“Then move on before me,” said the Bodach, upon which Ironbones pushed onward, while the Bodach retraced his steps to the different spots where the skirts of his coat were lying, and having found them and tacked them to the body of the coat, he resumed his route and again overtook Ironbones, whom he thus addressed: “It is needful and necessary that I should acquaint you of one thing, O Ironbones, and that is, that you must run at a faster rate than you have hitherto used, and keep pace with me on the rest of the course, or else there is much likelihood and considerable probability that the victory will go against you, because I will not again have to go back either for my coat-skirts or anything else;” and having given his companion this warning, he set off once more in his usual manner, nor did he stop until he reached the side of a hill, within ten miles of Bineadar, where he again fell a-plucking blackberries, and ate an extraordinary number of them. When he could eat no more, his jaws being tired and his stomach stuffed, he took off his great coat, and handling his needle and thread, he sewed it into the form of a capacious sack, which he filled with blackberries; this he slung over his shoulders, and then off he scampered for Bineadar, greatly refreshed, and with the speed of a young buck.

In the meantime Finn and his troops were awaiting in great doubt and dread the result of the race, though, without knowing who the Bodach was, they had a certain degree of confidence in him; and there was a champion of the Fenians on the top of the Hill of Howth, who had been sent thither by Finn, and had been there from an early hour of the morning to see which of the competitors would make his appearance first in view. When this man saw the Bodach coming over the nearest eminence, with his heavy burden on his back, he thought that to a certainty it was Ironbones whom he beheld, and fled back quite terrified to Finn and the troops, telling them Ironbones was coming up, carrying the Bodach dead over his shoulders. This news at first depressed Finn and the troops; but Finn by and bye exclaimed, “I will give a suit of armour and arms to the man who brings me better news than that!” whereupon one of the heroes went forth, and he had not proceeded far when he espied the Bodach advancing towards the outposts of the troops, and knowing him at a glance, he flew back to Finn and announced to him the glad tidings.

Finn thereupon went joyfully out to meet the Bodach, who speedily came up and threw down his burden, crying out aloud, “I have good and famous news for all of you; but,” added he, “my hunger is great, and my desire for food pressing; and I cannot tell you what has occurred until I have eaten a very large quantity of oatmeal and blackberries. Now, as for the latter, that is, the blackberries, I have got them myself in this big sack, but the oatmeal I expect to be provided for me by you; and I hope that you will lose no time in getting it, and laying it before me, for I am weak for the want of nutriment, and my corporeal powers are beginning to be exhausted.” Upon hearing this Finn replied that his request should be at once attended to, and in a little space of time, accordingly, there was spread under the Bodach a cloth of great length and breadth, with a vast heap of oatmeal in the middle of it, into which the Bodach emptied out all the blackberries in his bag; and having stirred the entire mess about for some time with a long pole, he commenced eating and swallowing with much vigour and determination.

He had not been long occupied in this way before he descried Ironbones coming towards the troops with his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes flaming like red coals in his head, and ready to commence slaughtering all before him because he had been vanquished in the contest. But he was not fated to put his designs into execution, for when the Bodach saw what wickedness he had in his mind, he took up a handful of the oatmeal and blackberries, and dashing it towards Ironbones with an unerring aim, it struck him so violently on the face that it sent his head spinning through the air half a mile from his body, which fell to the ground and there remained writhing in all the agonies of its recent separation, until the Bodach had concluded his meal. The Bodach then rose up and went in quest of the head, which after a little searching about he found; and casting it from his hands with an unerring aim, he sent it bowling along the ground all the half mile back again, until coming to the body it stopped and fastened itself on as well as ever, the only difference being that the face was now turned completely round to the back of the neck, while the back of the head was in front.

The Bodach having accomplished this feat much to his satisfaction, now grasped Ironbones firmly by the middle, threw him to the ground, tied him hand and foot so that he could not stir, and addressed him in these words: “O Ironbones, justice has overtaken you: the sentence your own vain mind had passed on others is about to be pronounced against yourself; and all the liberty that I feel disposed to leave you is the liberty of choosing what kind of death you think it most agreeable to die of. What a silly notion you did get into your noddle, surely, when you fancied that you, single-handed, could make yourself master of the crown, sovereignty, and tributes of Ireland, even though there had been nobody to thwart your arrogant designs but myself! But take comfort and be consoled, for it shall never be said of the Fians of Ireland that they took mortal vengeance on a single foe without any warriors to back him; and if you be a person to whom life is a desirable possession, I am willing to allow you to live, on condition that you will solemnly swear by the sun and moon that you will send the chief tributes of Thessaly every year to Finn Mac Coole here in Ireland.”

With many wry faces did Ironbones at length agree to take this oath; upon which the Bodach loosed his shackles and gave him liberty to stand up; then having conducted him towards the sea-shore, he made him go into the ship, to which, after turning its prow from the shore, he administered a kick in the stern, which sent it seven miles over the waters at once. And such was the manner in which Ironbones executed his vain-glorious project, and in this way it was that he was sent off from the shores of Ireland, without victory, honour, or glory, and deprived of the power of ever again boasting himself to be the first man on the earth in battle or combat.

But on the return of the Bodach to the troops, the sun and the wind lighted up one side of his face and his head in such a way that Finn and the Fians at once recognised him as Manannan Mac Lir, the Tutelary Fairy of Cruachan, who had come to afford them his assistance in their exigency. They welcomed him accordingly with all the honour that was due to him, and feasted him sumptuously for a year and a day. And these are the adventures of the Bodach an Chota-Lachtna.

THE BARGAIN.

“What have you there, husband?” said Mrs Courtland to her thrifty and careful spouse, as the latter paused in the open door to give some directions to a couple of porters who had just set something upon the pavement in front of the house.

“Just wait a moment, and I’ll tell you. Here, Henry! John! bring it in here,” and the two porters entered with a beautiful sofa, nearly new.

“Why, that _is_ a beauty, husband! How kind you are!”

“It’s second-hand, you perceive; but it’s hardly soiled--no one would know the difference.”

“It’s just as good as new. What did you give for it?”

“That’s the best part of it. It is a splendid bargain. It didn’t cost a cent less than a hundred dollars. Now, what do you think I got it for?” “Sixty dollars?”

“Guess again.” “Fifty?”

“Guess again.” “Forty-five?”

“No. Try again.”

“But what _did_ you give for it, dear?” “Why, only twenty dollars!”

“Well, now, that is a bargain.”

“Ain’t it, though? It takes me to get things cheap,” continued the prudent Mr Courtland, chuckling with delight.

“Why, how in the world did it go off so low?” “I managed that. It ain’t every one that understands how to do these things.”

“But how did you manage it, dear? I should like to know.”

“Why, you see, there were a great many other things there, and among the rest some dirty carpets. Before the sale I pulled over these carpets and threw them upon the sofa; a good deal of dust fell from them, and made the sofa look fifty per cent. worse than it really was. When the sale commenced, there happened to be but few persons there, and I asked the auctioneer to sell the sofa first, as I wanted to go, and would bid for it if it were sold then. Few persons bid freely at the opening of a sale.

‘What’s bid for this splendid sofa?’ he began.

‘I’ll give you fifteen dollars for it,’ said I; ‘it’s not worth more than that, for it’s dreadfully abused.’

‘Fifteen dollars! fifteen dollars! only fifteen dollars for this beautiful sofa!’ he went on; and a man next to me bid seventeen dollars. I let the auctioneer cry the last bid for a few minutes, until I saw he was likely to knock it down.

‘Twenty dollars!’ said I, ‘and that’s as much as I’ll go for it.’

The other bidder was deceived by this as to the real value of the sofa, for it did look dreadfully disfigured by the dust and dirt, and consequently the sofa was knocked off to me.”

“That was admirably done, indeed!” said Mrs Courtland, with a bland smile of satisfaction at having obtained the elegant piece of furniture at so cheap a rate. “And it’s so near a match, too, for the sofa in our front parlour.”

This scene occurred at the residence of a merchant in this city, who was beginning to count his fifty thousands. Let us look at the other side of the picture.

On the day previous to this sale, a widow lady with one daughter, a beautiful and interesting girl about seventeen, were seated on a sofa in a neatly furnished parlour in Hudson-street. The mother held in her hand a small piece of paper, on which her eyes were intently fixed; but it could readily be perceived that she saw not the characters that were written upon it.

“What is to be done, ma?” at length asked the daughter.

“Indeed, my child, I cannot tell. The bill is fifty dollars, and has been due, you know, for several days. I haven’t got five dollars, and your bill for teaching the Miss Leonards cannot be presented for two weeks, and then it will not amount to this sum.”

“Can’t we sell something more, ma?” suggested the daughter.

“We have sold all our plate and jewellery, and now I’m sure I don’t know what we can dispose of, unless it be something that we really want.”

“What do you say to selling the sofa, ma?”

“Well, I don’t know, Florence. It don’t seem right to part with it. But perhaps we can do without it.”

“It will readily bring fifty dollars, I suppose.”

“Certainly. It is of the best wood and workmanship, and cost one hundred and forty dollars. Your father bought it a short time before he died, and that is less than two years past you know.”

“I should think it would bring nearly a hundred dollars,” said Florence, who knew nothing of auction sacrifices; “and that would give us enough, besides paying the quarter’s rent, to keep us comfortably until some of my bills come due.”

That afternoon the sofa was sent, and on the next afternoon Florence went to the auctioneer’s to receive the money for it.

“Have you sold that sofa yet, sir?” asked the timid girl, in a low, hesitating voice.

“What sofa, miss?” asked the clerk, looking steadily in her face with a bold stare.

“The sofa sent by Mrs ----, sir.”

“When was it to have been sold?”

“Yesterday, sir.”

“Oh, we haven’t got the bill made out yet. You can call the day after to-morrow, and we’ll settle it for you.”

“Can’t you settle it to-day, sir? We want the money particularly.”

Without replying to the timid girl’s request, the clerk commenced throwing over the leaves of a large account-book, and in a few minutes had taken off the bill of the sofa.

“Here it is--eighteen dollars and sixty cents. See if it’s right, and then sign this receipt.”

“Ain’t you mistaken, sir? It was a beautiful sofa, and cost one hundred and forty dollars.”

“That’s all it brought, miss, I assure you. Furniture sells very badly now.”

Florence rolled up the bills that were given her, and returned home with a heavy heart.

“It only brought eighteen dollars and sixty cents, ma,” she said, throwing the notes into her mother’s lap, and bursting into tears.

“Heaven only knows, then, what we shall do,” said the widow, clasping her hands together, and looking upwards.

* * * * *

There are always two parties in the case of bargains--the gainer and the loser; and while the one is delighted with the advantage he has obtained, he thinks nothing of the necessities which have forced the other party to accept the highest offer. But few buyers of bargains think or care about taking this view of the subject.--_From the New York Mirror._

SONNET--THE DEPARTURE OF LOVE.

Spirit of wordless Love, that in the lone Bowers of the Poet’s museful soul dost weave Tissues of thought, hued like the skies of eve, Ere the last glories of the sun have shone, How soon--almost before our hearts have known The change--above the ruins of thy throne-- Whose vanished beauty we would fain retrieve With all Earth’s thrones beside--we stand and grieve! We weep not, for the world’s chill breath hath bound In chains of ice the fountains of our tears, But ever-mourning Memory thenceforth rears Her altars upon desecrated ground, And always, with a low despairful sound, Tolls the disastrous bell of all our years!

M.

THE MANUFACTURE OF CLOTH.

In the present limited and daily declining condition of the woollen manufacture in Ireland, so few individuals in the country can be acquainted with the mode of preparing the clothing of the sheep, and altering its form so as to make it suitable and fit for the clothing of man, that we deem a short account of the various processes through which it passes may be acceptable to many of our readers.

When the sheep-shearer has taken off the fleece, he ties it up in a peculiar knot, which is not opened again until the wool-sorter takes it in hands. It is his business to open it, and having spread the fleece upon a table, and cast his eye over it, he separates it into the number of sorts required, the wool being of different degrees of fineness upon different parts of the animal. The coarse qualities of fleeces, from which low descriptions of cloths, kerseys, blankets, and friezes are made, are seldom divided into more than three sorts, the finer into four or five, and the finest Saxony into seven, eight, and sometimes nine. With the latter we have little to do in this country, there being but _one_ factory (that of Messrs Willans) where it is worked; and we shall therefore merely follow the progress of a piece of ordinary coarse cloth, there being but little difference between it and the finest in the general detail: indeed very little at all, except in the additional care and expense.

The sorted wool having been carefully examined by women, and freed from straws and motes, is taken to the scouring department attached to the dye-house, where it is immersed in a hot ley with soap, and well scoured, after which it is washed in clean water and left to drain.

It is then coloured, and either allowed to drain, or the colouring matter is wrung out, and it is again washed in water until the water runs from it unsullied. The apparatus in which it undergoes this process is called “the washing-box:” one side and the bottom being of metal perforated with innumerable small holes, the water has free ingress and egress, whilst the wool is securely retained. Having been thoroughly cleansed, it is taken to the drying-loft, if the weather be fine, or to the stove if it be unfavourable, and there perfectly dried. From thence it is carried to the factory, and placed in the first machine called “the willow,” or more generally “the devil”--a machine formed of five or six cylinders of different sizes, armed with steel spikes three or four inches long: the motion of the cylinders being contrary, the spikes pass between each other, tearing the wool open if it should have clotted or got into lumps. Cheviot and Scotch wools, and wools damaged by shipwreck, must be _willowed_ before they can be even scoured, in consequence of their being always matted.

The willow, and all the machines which shall be subsequently mentioned in this paper, are driven by the water-wheel or steam-engine--in this country almost uniformly by the former. Having been thoroughly opened by the willow, the wool is spread upon a floor and oiled, about a quart of fine olive oil being the proportion to every stone weight of wool. The effect of the oil is to cause the fibres of the wool to separate more easily upon the carding-machines, and prevent the too rapid wearing of the cards.

The next machine that takes up the work is called “the teazer:” it has a greater number of cylinders than the willow, with shorter teeth, about an inch in length, and hooked, and some of the cylinders have coarse wire cards. Having passed twice or thrice through the teazer, the wool is transferred to that part of the mill called, by way of pre-eminence, “the machine-room,” where the great scribbling machines, or, as they are styled, “scribblers,” are placed. These machines have a great number of cylinders of different sizes covered with wire cards of various degrees of fineness, so arranged that they take the wool from one another, separating the fibres, and transferring it until it has passed quite over every cylinder, and is carded out at the farther end of the machine (sixteen or eighteen feet from where it was put in) in a thin flake like gauze. Having been run through two or three scribblers of various fineness, it is passed to the carding machine, or “carder,” which resembles the “scribbler,” but is smaller, and instead of the wool falling out at the end in a flake, it is caught by a fluted cylinder of wood, which, revolving in a semi-cylindrical box, divides and converts it into separate soft rolls, about the thickness of ordinary sash rope; and these are thrown out upon a sheet of canvass stretched horizontally upon rollers, which from its slowly moving, so as to prevent one roll from falling upon another, is called “the creeper.” The rolls are taken to “the billy,” a sort of preliminary spinning-machine, sometimes worked by the water-wheel, but (as yet, especially in Ireland) more generally by a man called a “slubber,” who is enabled by it to form from fifty to one hundred threads at a time, children being employed to stick the ends of the rolls together, which is done by lapping a small portion of the tip of one on the other which lies on the “billy-sheet,” and then giving them a slight rub. The soft thick thread which the slubber forms is made up in conical rolls or “cops,” and is taken to the spinning-machine, “the mule,” which has now quite superseded the spinning-jenny, which in its day superseded the spinning-wheel. The wheel could spin only one thread at a time: the jenny was first made to spin thirty, then forty, then fifty, sixty, seventy, and eighty threads at once, by a man’s hand. By the “mule,” worked by water, a man can now spin from five hundred to one thousand threads of woollen yarn, and of cotton two or three thousand, at once.

The thread for the warp is taken from the mule to the “warping-mill,” where it is prepared according to the number of threads for the breadth of the cloth, the length arranged, and being tied up in a peculiar kind of ball, it is called a “warp,” and is taken to the sizing shop, where it is dipped in melted size; and having been opened, perfectly saturated, and wrung out gently, it is carried to the field, or stove, to be dried. The weaver then fixes it in the loom, and procures the “weft” thread, which is spun differently from the warp, and is wound upon wooden bobbins; having wetted these in water, he fixes one in his shuttle, and the threads of the warp being lifted alternately, and the shuttle shot between them, the beam of the loom strikes each thread home, and in due time the piece is woven. A good weaver with a sound warp can weave in a hand-loom from six to nine yards of cloth in a day, but with the new power-loom he can weave twenty.

The cloth when taken out of the loom is examined by the overseer, and having been passed and dried, is taken to the “scouring-machine,” where it is submitted to the action of a strong ley, with fullers’-earth, &c., and worked by the rollers of the machine until both the oil and size have been extracted; it is then washed clean with water, taken out, and dried. It is next transferred to the tuck-mill, where it is spread out, a large quantity of melted soap poured upon it, and being rolled up in a peculiar manner, it is placed in “the stock,” where two huge hammers made of oak, weighing from two to three cwt. each, called “stock-feet,” being raised by a wheel and then let go, fall upon it alternately, until the soap has been forced through every part of it, and the cloth has narrowed, or, to speak technically, “milled in,” a half yard or three quarters, and shortened a fourth or fifth of its length, when it is pronounced to be “milled.” It is then again placed in the “washing-machine,” washed clean, and transferred to the “gig-mill.” The “gig” is a machine having a large cylinder in which teasles, a vegetable production somewhat resembling thistle tops or burs, are set, and the wet cloth being dragged by a set of rollers against the hooked spikes of the teasles, whilst the cylinder in which they are set goes rapidly round in a contrary direction, a portion of the short fibres of the wool have one of their ends disengaged and exhibited upon the surface of the cloth, forming what is called the pile or face: this process is called “raising.” When the piece has been sufficiently raised, it is taken to the “tenter field,” and stretched on frames called “tenters,” by means of hooks, to the proper length and breadth, and it remains thus until thoroughly dried, when it is carried to the “shearing loft,” where immense shears or machines called “knives” are passed over the surface, cutting all the wool on the face to an equal length. One of the improved knives can do as much work as twenty hand-shearers did formerly. Having received what is technically called a “cut” or two, it is returned to the gig mill to be “struck,” that is, “raised,” or submitted to the action of the gig in a dry state, and it then goes back again to the shear loft, and receives three or four more cuts on the face. It is then passed to the “burlers,” women who pick out all motes that have accidentally clung to or become embodied in the cloth, with steel pincers having very sharp points called “burling irons.”