Part 2

In obedience to the warning gun, the twenty-ton yachts had drawn up in line near their starting buoys. For a moment their mainsails flapped idly in the breeze as they wore gracefully round. Another gun, and up went jibs and gaff-top-sails, as they began to move in one cluster of snowy canvass. At first they seemed scarcely to stir through the water that lazily rippled around their bows; but as the breeze began to be felt, they got under weigh, and the waves were broken into foam by the dividing stem. Sally was seated in the well-cushioned stern of her father’s four-oared family gig, which was steered by that worthy individual himself; she wore a Leghorn bonnet with smart pink ribbons; and as she sat near her bluff, broad-shouldered, honest old parent, she looked as handsome a maiden as ever lent willing ear to a lover’s vows. She was now all anxiety, as the time for William’s race was near at hand. Duggin’s crew were on the course; and if one might judge from the perfect appointment of the gig, the lively strokes pulled on her, and the rapidity with which she was turned, one should seem to run no risk in betting on her certain success. The Norah Creenah--for such was her name--was painted on the outside a delicate buff, and on the inside pink. One of the best and most fortunate cockswains in the harbour steered her; and as he glanced on the powerful limbs and the muscular chests of his men, and saw the exquisite regularity with which the blades were dipped into the wave, his heart swelled with anticipated triumph. “Sally, my dear,” said old Jerry Sullivan to his daughter, “take the _ropes_ for a minute, and mind what you’re about, child.” Jerry stood up in the boat to have a peep at the preparations for the race; but hardly had he time to satisfy his curiosity, when the bow of the gig came slap against the side of a large yawl, and he was laid sprawling in the bottom from the concussion; and to mend the matter, Sally began to scream most energetically at the mischief she herself had occasioned. The truth was, she had mechanically obeyed her father’s directions, by taking the tiller-ropes, but that was all, for her thoughts were far otherwise engaged. “Back water, ye infarnal ould lubber! Do you want to stave the side of us in? Where’s yer eyes, ye ould fool?” Such were the pleasing queries which the parties in the assaulted boat levelled at the innocent Jerry. “Why don’t you look out yourselves, and be hanged to ye!” said the choleric builder, as he replied in the true Irish fashion by putting another question. After plentifully heaping the choicest epithets on each other, the belligerent parties at last separated, the victory being equally divided. “Come, boys,” said Jerry to his crew, “heave ahead, and let us see are they getting all ready for the start.” In a few moments the boat reached that part of the strand where William Collins and his companions were busily employed in rubbing black lead on the bottom of the new gig. “Well, Bill, my hearty, how’re you coming on? What do you think of her now? don’t she look handsome?” “She does, sir, look very beautiful,” answered William in reply to his master’s last remark, as he gazed with admiration on Sally. “Is the paint hard on her, Bill?” asked Jerry. “Paint! paint on her, sir!” exclaimed William, still looking at Sally. “Why, what ails you, boy? I said paint; is the paint dry?” “All right, sir; hard as a bone.” “Very good--now see are the stretchers the regular length and well lashed down.” But though he received an affirmative answer, he was not satisfied till he had convinced himself by examination that all the arrangements had been attended to by William. “I’m aisy in mind now, any how. I hope she’ll do; eh, Bill?” “Never fear, sir; we’ll do our best; and if we don’t come in first, it won’t be our own fault. Did you hear the news, sir? A gentleman--the same that was in the yard over on Friday--came up to me and said if the boat won the race, he’d give five-and-twenty guineas down on the nail.” “Bless my soul!” exclaimed old Sullivan, charmed at the offer. “But what good is a man offering of such a price when there isn’t any great chance of her winning?--oh, if I wasn’t laid up in my bed when she was building! Well, it can’t be helped now; more’s the pity!” “Well, sir, we must do our best; won’t we, boys?” said William, turning to his crew. “We’ll try, any how,” was the reply, as they raised the light gig carefully from off the stones on which she rested, and gently floated her on the water. “William, here’s the flag,” said Sally. “Ha! there’s the gun!” “’Tis the gun, sure enough. I’ll bring you the cup, Sally, I hope. Come, lads,” he continued, “take your places. There--step gently! Magrath, tread on the kelson, and don’t stand that way on the ribs!” “Run down a bit,” said Jerry, “and lave me see your trim. Give the long steady stroke, for the breeze is freshening. Now start away; and, Bill, my boy, mind you win!” Away they pulled from the strand; and as they shot quickly out, Jerry could not help exclaiming with delight, as he noticed how evenly the gig went under the stroke, and how regular was the time kept with their oars; but his former misgivings returned, as he remarked the great difficulty with which she was brought round. Duggin, in the meantime, was dashing about, attracting all eyes by the beauty of the Norah. “Clear the course!--clear the course--pull out of the way!” So bawled the racing steward, as by entreaty or by threat he succeeded in clearing a space sufficient for the rival boats. “Take your places!” again shouted he. Oh! how Sally’s heart beat as she saw the gigs drawn up opposite the quay where the fashionables were assembled, and on which was placed a small signal-battery. She leaned against her father for support, as she observed the crews gently “backing water” to keep on a line till the word was given. “Which side will you take?” asked the cockswain of the Sally. “All the same, my hearty; stay where you are,” answered Duggin with a voice as if confident of success. “Ready!” shouted the steward. All oars were thrown forward, as the men bent ready for the first dash. “Fire!” Scarce had the gun boomed over the water when the blades were dipped together. “Pull, boys, pull!” cried the cockswain of the Norah. “Heave away, my lads, heave! now for the start!” cried the other. After about five strokes the buff shot right ahead, clearing completely the bow of her sable rival. A sneer of bitter triumph might be seen on Duggin’s lip as he darted past his hated opponent. In a very few minutes more, however, the buff ceased to gain, as the black, under the powerful and steady stroke of her crew, began to more gallantly through the water. As they came alongside the ruined barracks below the town of Cove, the Sally had come up to the Norah, and for a short distance they went stem and stem together. From that point they had to shoot over towards a large buoy, round which they must turn. The cockswains now urged on their men, who answered by a cheer, as the wave foamed under their strokes. Duggin’s crew pulled with desperate vigour in order to gain the turn, but the black continued the same even regular pull that was evidently telling well. “Look now, father; is the white flag first? is it ahead, father?” asked Sally. “No, child; the Norah is---- No! she is not! Bravo, Bill! there they go for the buoy! That’s it. More power to you, Bill! Don’t they walk out of the saucy buff!” It was true for Jerry; the black boat was now fairly six lengths ahead, and was gaining more at every stroke. They reached the buoy; and now began the difficulty. “Back water, larboard side; pull--pull on the starboard,” said the cockswain. “Magrath, heave! Brien, that’s the go!” shouted William, as he backed with all his might. “Hurra for the honour of Passage! Pull, my lads, pull!--rattle into ’em. Hurra!” bawled the Norah’s helmsman, with a voice hoarse from exertion. Before the Sally could be well got under weigh after the turn, the Norah had darted round the buoy, and was in a moment three lengths beyond her. “Oh, heavens, they’re beat!” said Jerry, as he sank back on the cushion in utter despair. “Don’t say that, father! Look again!” entreated Sally. “There!” cried the old man, as he ventured another glance, “she’s clane out of her again! Bravo, Bill! Give it to her! There she clips, the beauty! I always said there wasn’t your equal except myself at building a gig! Now, boys,” continued he, addressing his own crew, “pull a rattling touch over, and we’ll give them such a cheer! Heave, my lads--that’s it; bend your lazy backs!” The course was about two or three miles in length from the buoy to the old convict-hulk, round whose dark mass the boats must pull before they made for the quay from which they had started, and which was also the winning-place. The struggle up along the bank was indeed a beautiful sight, as from time to time the chances seemed to vary in favour of each, and as the crews appeared to gain new vigour from the cheering that came from the numerous boats which met them on the course. Gallantly did the long stroke tell on the Sally, as she shot far out of the rakish buff. She was dashing on in noble style for the convict-ship, when, smash! away went the bowman’s oar! All was in confusion. On came the Norah! At that very moment Jerry Sullivan arrived; and seeing the terrible disaster, he caught at the oar next his hand, and flung it within reach of the bowman. “You have it now, my boys. Now, Bill, pull, my darling fellow, hurrah!” shouted Jerry, as the crew gave back the cheer, and the Sally bounded after the lively Norah. Thirty strokes more, and the Sally was stem and stem with her well-manned rival. They passed the man-of-war, and the sailors who crowded the side of the noble vessel gave them a cheer. Before them rose the hull of the old convict-ship, and now the struggle was, who should round her first. Still was the same quick stroke pulled on the buff, and still did the other crew continue to keep the same powerful one on the black. The stern of the hulk was neared; the Sally was five boats ahead, but the Norah dashed on gallantly in her wake. “Pull, boys, pull!” was the word in both boats. “Back water hard! Pull on the bow! Hurra! Back her well! Hurra!” shouted both cockswains. The Sally had not well rounded the bow of the convict-ship, when the Norah had turned, as if on a pivot, and again was stem and stem with her opponent. Now, indeed, was the true time for testing the capabilities both of the men and the boats, for a breeze was blowing from the west, and as the tide was making fast out of the harbour, there was a swell as both met in opposition. Shouts now greeted the gigs as they dashed on to the winning-place. Again did old Jerry meet them, and cheer aloud! Duggin literally foamed at the mouth, as he plied his oar with the energy of desperation, while William shouted to his crew to pull; and pull they did. In spite of all the exertions of Duggin, the Norah dropped back, as the Sally bounded on to the goal. Duggin cursed and raved, but all to no purpose; for the high-pointed bow of his gig caught the wind, and she had not the same power of keeping her way as the other, owing to her want of keel. “Stand by with the match!” cried the steward. “There they come; the black boat is long ahead! Fire!” No sooner had the loud report followed the quick flash, than the oars were tossed on high, and the Sally rode triumphant! Loud were the shouts that rang from land and sea, as the victors dropped their blades into the wave, and shot into the landing-place to receive their well-earned prize. Who can describe the pride and joy of the old man, or the deep rapture of his daughter, as they saw the steward present the silver cup to William, flushed as he was from the exertion and triumph of the moment! As it would be quite impossible to do justice to their feelings, the attempt must be modestly refrained from.

The gig was immediately purchased for twenty-five guineas, and orders were given to Jerry for the building of two more on an exactly similar plan. As for Duggin, he was so subdued in spirit by the loss of his reputation as a crack oarsman, that he never after that day was known to try his fortune on the course, and neither visited Ring to woo Miss Sullivan, nor to make good his threat on the body of the victorious William. It has been since whispered among the gossips of the village that old Jerry Sullivan, though much surprised at hearing of the mutual love of William and Sally, finally gave his blessing and consent to their union. Need it be told that the well-won silver cup was ever looked on as an honoured vessel, and that Sally prized it nearly as much as William himself did?

J. F. M.

A RIDE WITH DEATH.

I saw him pass by, while the east-wind blew, And the vernal blooms from the branches flew; Lo! there he speeds, that old skeleton-man, With his frame all bleached, all withered and wan; His eye-balls are gone, and his cheek-bones bare, And he rides a pale horse through the cold humid air!

Now he resteth himself ’neath an old dry tree, Where the moss hath grown for a century: He feeds his steed with grass that grew rank On the field where warriors in battle sank; Bedabbled with blood, it thick grew, and strong, And to Death’s pale horse doth of right belong!

Gone is the beauty from violet blue, For the look of Death hath pierced it through; And the crocus that bloomed near the old dry tree, Hath faded away, such a sight to see; And the grass where he sat, that was bright and green, Turned pale as the blades where a stone hath been.

Ha! ha! old pilgrim! may I go with thee, Thy doings fearful and strange to see? He nodded his head; not a word said Death, For he had little need to waste his breath: A man of short speech, he speaks in his brow; He looks what he means, when he says “Come thou!”

We paused near a maiden with rosy cheek, A lovely maiden, with blue eye meek; But her youthful bloom, how it faded away! Her heart was in heaven, she might not stay: And we looked at an infant that lay on the breast, A mother’s pride, and it sank to rest!

We stood by the cot of a widowed dame; Life’s feeble embers gave out their last flame: At the hut of a slave we stepped gently in; With pity Death looked on his frame so thin, And his face, as he watched at the old man’s bed, Said “Peacefully let him be one with the dead!”

At a palace we tarried, and there one lay On his last sad couch, at the close of day; He struggled hard, but Death’s face said “No! Duty is mine, wheresoever I go: Peasant or king, it is all the same, Mine must thou be--I have here thy name!”

We hovered around where a Christian sire Lay waiting to join the eternal choir; Peaceful and calm was his holy repose; He sank as the sun on a May-day’s close: He rose as the sun with beams tricked anew, When flowers bend with beauty, and leaves with dew.

We crossed the path of a beautiful bark, How many the corses, all stiff and stark! Down sank the vessel beneath the wild wave, No hand was near one poor soul to save! We glanced at a ship by an iceberg crushed, We gazed but a moment--then all was hushed.

We asked of a miser to yield up his gold, But he loosed not his clutch when his hands were cold. We entered a town, as it shook to and fro, An earthquake was raging in fury below; Dwellings were rocking like trees when storm-tost, Crashing and sinking--till all were lost!

We stayed our flight o’er a funeral pile, Where the Ganges roll’d swift through a deep defile; Where Brahmin priests rent with cries the air, While the victim lay burning and crackling there; And the devotees of dark Jaggernath We saw mangled and torn in its bloody path.

We paused a while where a family stood, Partaking the sacred “body and blood;” And we saw their mother unfaltering pray, When life’s mellow evening way failing away; And as she sighed out her last tremulous breath, Was ended my first wild ride with Death.

--_From the Knickerbocker._

ANCIENT SEAL OF THE ISLAND OF SAINT COLMOC.

The prefixed woodcut of an impression of an ancient monastic seal hitherto unpublished, will, we think, interest some of our readers both in Scotland and Ireland, as, though it is certainly not Irish, it is intimately connected with that bright period of our history when Ireland sent forth her crowds of learned ecclesiastics to preach the gospel and instruct the people, not only to Scotland and England, but also to Germany, France, Switzerland, Belgium, Mecklenburg, and even distant Iceland, in all which their memories are still venerated as patron saints--that period to which Spenser alludes in the lines:

“Whylome, when Ireland flourished in fame Of wealth and goodness, far above the rest Of all that bear the British island’s name.”

The matrix, which is of bronze or brass, was discovered among old brass at a foundry in London some three or four years ago, and is now in the possession of Mr Thomas, a merchant of that city, who has the largest collection of remains of this kind ever formed in the British empire.

The legend, which is in the semi-Saxon character of the twelfth century, reads--

SI . COMMUNE . DE . INSULA . SANCTI . COLMOCI: or, THE COMMON SEAL OF THE ISLAND OF SAINT COLMOC.

The locality of this seal has been hitherto referred to the celebrated Irish monastery of Iona, or Hy-Columbkille, and such we ourselves deemed it when the impression was first sent to us. But on maturer reflection we are now disposed to consider this conclusion erroneous, and that the seal should with greater probability be referred to the monastery of Inch-Colm, a small island in the Frith of Forth, lying between Edinburgh and Inverkeithing, and which was anciently called Emonia, or Y-mona, _i. e._ the Island of Mona. On this island the Scottish King Alexander I., in gratitude for his escape from a violent storm, by which he was driven on the island in 1123, founded a monastery dedicated to its patron saint, and of which there are still considerable remains. It was plundered by the English in the reign of Edward III., who, as it is said, suffered shipwreck for their sacrilege; and if we might hazard a conjecture, it would be, that the seal may have been carried into England at that time. But be this as it may, the seal perfectly agrees in style with similar remains of the twelfth century, and we have little doubt, that this is its true locality, as the name in the legend will not with correctness or propriety apply to any other known to exist. For, in the first place, the monastery of Iona, the only other religious house to which it could be referred, is invariably called Insula Columbæ, or I-Columbkille, in all ancient documents, and it would be against all probability that it should bear a different appellation on its seal. In the second place, the name of the patron saint of Iona is never written COLMOC, which is an Irish diminutive form of the name COLUM, and which, as in the Latin, means a dove. But this name COLMOC was applied by the ancient Irish and Scotch indifferently to persons bearing the name of COLMAN, both being but synonymous and convertible diminutives of the name _Colum_--and hence it would follow that this seal must have belonged to some monastery which was dedicated not to St Columb, but to St Colman or Colmoc. It may however be objected that the island called Inch-Colm was dedicated to the celebrated apostle of Scotland, St Columbkille; and it is true that Colgan, on the authority of Fordun, does place it among the list of his foundations. But Fordun is a weak authority to rely on in such matters; and from the greater contiguity of this island to Lindesfarn, of which the Irish St Colman was the third bishop, it would seem more rational to attribute the origin of its name to him than to the saint of Iona. In either case, however, the seal is one of great interest to Scottish topography and Irish history.

P.

STREET CIGAR-SMOKERS.

Reader, are you given to cigar-smoking? The reason we put the question is, that we should not like to offend you by any thing you might find in our pages indicating a contempt on our part for this silly, and, as we think, vulgar practice. If you be, then, pass over this short article, or as our old Irish schoolmaster used to tell us when we came to a passage which we could not construe, nor he neither, “skip and go on.” But we feel tolerably certain you are not a smoker, or at least a cigar-smoker or exhibiting-street-performer, for we are satisfied that among the lovers of this now fashionable amusement we can count but few as supporters of our little work, or of any other of a mental or literary character--that renowned periodical called Paddy Kelly’s Budget, if it be still in existence, excepted. It is the practice of unidea’d men with unidea’d faces, who puff, not whistle--as the latter is no longer a fashionable amusement--as they go, for want of thought, and as they think to make them look manly and genteel! Well, heaven help their little wit! You think, reader, perhaps, as we ourselves were till lately foolish enough to suppose, that there must be a pleasure in this practice on its own account, like that which madmen feel in being insane. But no such thing. We have discovered that it is anything but an agreeable pastime, and that it is indulged in solely from the love of distinction, which is one of the peculiar characteristics of the human race, and which is so strong in these cigar-smokers, that they actually, in the spirit of martyrs, surrender both their minds, such as they are, and their bodies also, to its influence. Such a desire is not only natural to us, but praiseworthy: it is only the choice of means of gratifying it that is unworthy and even contemptible. It will bear no comparison in point of intellectuality with that of the fashionable dandies of our youthful days, who used to promenade the streets and public places, playing quizzes, that is, flat circular pieces of boxwood suspended on a string by a kind of pulley, and which they kept in a sort of perpetual motion with one or both hands, and sometimes even (great performers) with their mouths; their arms see-sawing up and down, and their heads shaking like those of the Chinese mandarins in the tea shops. This, though perhaps a little grotesque, was a comical mode of attracting notice and obtaining distinction. It was a healthy folly too, and required some human intellect to practise it adroitly. A monkey or a dog, both of whom we have seen expert smokers, could not, we are persuaded, be taught this; it would be beyond their intelligence; and it had a touch of the odd, the gay, and the ridiculous about it, that seemed to harmonize naturally with our national character--and we are not ashamed to confess it, we were ourselves great quizzers in our youth. But the cigar-smoking folly--it is a dull, lifeless, stupid, silent, moping mania, wholly unbecoming an Irishman, and inconsistent with the spirit, life, and animation that should be characteristic of youth. Old as we are, we think of taking to quizzing again, but we shall never fall into such a solemn absurdity as smoking for applause. It would not suit our temperament.

But we have said that we had made the discovery that the practice of cigar-smoking is any thing but a pleasant one in itself, and that it is indulged in solely from ambitious motives, and an amiable love of applause. Yes, reader, and we shall induct you into our knowledge of the matter, by a true and faithful narrative of the incident which enabled us to ascertain the fact.