Part 2

The cat now began to make desperate efforts to escape from the bag, whilst Larry redoubled his exertions to detain him. His attention, however, was soon arrested by the cry of hounds, and on looking westward, he perceived, rapidly approaching over the morass, a big black man mounted on a black horse, and accompanied by a numerous pack of black dogs.

“Ochone,” thought Larry, “now I am coached of all ever happened me. Here is the chap’s black friends coming to rescue him, and they won’t leave a toothful a-piece in my carcass.”

“Let me go, Larry,” said the cat, “let me go, and I’ll show you where there’s a cart-load of gold buried in the ground.” But Larry remained silent, and meantime the horseman and hounds came up.

“Good morrow and good luck, Larry Roche,” said the black equestrian, with a grim smile.

“Good morrow, kindly, your worship,” said Larry.

“Is that a fox you have in the bag, Larry?”

“No, in troth,” said Larry, “though I believe he is not much honester than a fox.”

“I must see what it is, any how,” said the sable horseman, with a gesticulation which convinced Larry at once that he was the fellow whom he had seen before.

So Larry opened the bag, and out jumped Puss, and away with him over the bog like a flash of lightning. The wild huntsman hallooed his dogs, and the pursuit commenced, but the cat was soon surrounded and torn to pieces.

“Now,” said the horseman, “I must bid you farewell;” and off he went; and then Larry returned home with the happy tidings, and the squire’s guinea was spent in the purchase of sundry bottles of “Tom Corcoran’s” best potteen; but we must do Larry the justice to say that his agreement with the old man was punctually performed, and the back window stopped as effectually as mud and stones could do it.

A few nights after, Larry was aroused from his sleep by the merry tones of bagpipes at his fire-side, and getting up, he perceived the kitchen illuminated with a bright, reddish glare, whilst on the hob-stone he saw, snugly seated, the ever remembered little old man playing a set of bagpipes, to the delightful tones of which hundreds of little fellows with red caps and red small-clothes were capering about the floor.

“God bless the man and the work,” said Larry, “and warm work yez have ov it this hour ov the night.”

The little fellow hereupon set up a shout, and rushing to the door, flew through it, one of them striking poor Larry a box on the right eye, which blinded it.

“Goodnight, Misthur Larry,” said the piper; “and how is your four bones? and how is the good woman that owns you?”

“Och, no fear at all ov the woman,” replied Larry; “and as for my bones, they are well enough; but, faith, my right eye, I believe, is in whey in my head.”

“Well, it will teach you how to speak to your betters in future,” said the little piper; “never mintion the holy name again, when talking to the ‘good people.’

“But, Larry, listen: I’ll now tell you why I wanted you to stop up your back window.

“You must know that this cabin of yours stands on the middle of a fairy pass. We often come this way in our wanderings through the air in cold nights, and often we wished to warm ourselves at your fire-side; but as there was a window in the back of your cabin, we had not power to stop, but were compelled to pursue our journey. Now that the window is stopped, we can come in and remain as long as we wish, and resume our journey through the door by which we enter. We pass this way almost every night, and you need never feel in the least apprehensive of injury so long as you let us pursue our pastimes undisturbed.”

“I’ll be bound me or mine shall never annoy one of yez,” said Larry.

“That’s a good fellow, Larry,” said the little chap; “and now take those pipes and play us a tune.”

“Och, the devil a chanter I ever fingered,” said Larry, “since I was christened.”

“No matter,” said the little fellow; “I’ll go bail you’ll play out of the soot.”

Larry “yoked” on the pipes, and lilted up in darling style a merry tune, whilst the old chap was ready to split with laughing.

“What’s the name of that tchune?” said Larry.

“_Caith-na-brogueen_,” replied the fairy piper; “a tune I composed in memory of your escape from the cat; a tune that will soon become a favourite all over Munster.”

Larry handed back the pipes; the little man placed them in a red bag, and, bidding his host “good night,” dashed up the chimney.

The next night, and almost every following night, the din of fairy revels might be heard at Larry Roche’s fire-side, and Larry himself was their constant companion in their midnight frolics. He soon became the best performer on the bagpipes in the south of Ireland, and after some time surrendered his cabin to the sole occupation of the “good people,” and wandered with his family through all the Munster counties, and was welcome and kindly treated wherever he came. After some time, the cabin from neglect fell, and offered no further impediment to the fairy host in their midnight wanderings, whilst Larry followed a life of pleasure and peace, far from the scene of his former perils and privations.

The cat, of course, was never seen after; but the peasantry of the neighbourhood say that the screams of the infernal fiend, mingled with the deep howlings of hell-hounds and the savage yellings of the sable hunter, may be distinctly heard in horrid chorus amongst the fens and morasses of the broad Moin-more.’

Thus ended the strange tale of Maurice O’Sullivan, who in addition to the unanimous applause of the company present, was treated to another flowing tumbler of the barley bree, which he tossed off to the health of those who, to use his own words, were “good people” in earnest--not fays or fairies, however, but the hospitable folks of Glen-Mac-Tir; adding at the same time that he was resolved to gratify the lovers of legendary lore with another of his wild Munster tales on the following night.

J. K.

ITINERANT GOLDSMITHS OF INDIA AND SUMATRA.

In the production of beautiful specimens of mechanical art, much more depends upon the natural taste and ingenuity of the workman than upon the completeness and perfection of his tools. To those who are not much acquainted with the mechanical arts, this may sound somewhat like a self-evident proposition; yet it is far, very far indeed, from being considered such by European mechanics in general, and by our own in particular. So commonly is the blame of clumsy workmanship laid upon the badness or the want of tools, that an anecdote is related of a man, who, upon being spoken to by a friend for having committed numerous grammatical errors in a letter which he had just written, cursed his pen, and asked his friend how he could be so excessively unreasonable as to expect him or any man to write good English with such a wretched implement!

To such a degree of excellence has the manufacture of mechanical tools and instruments arrived in these countries, that a British mechanic would be utterly astonished could he but behold the process of manufacturing various articles in the East; such for example as the shawls of Persia and Cashmere, the carvings in wood and ivory of China, the extraction of metal from the ore in the same country, by which malleable iron is produced fit for immediate use, and of the finest quality, by a single process; and, not to tire by enumeration, the productions of the itinerant goldsmiths of India and the island of Sumatra. These last excel in filagree work, for which they are celebrated, far exceeding even the Chinese in its extraordinary delicacy; yet their tools are ruder than those of the Indian goldsmith of the continent.

When a Sumatran goldsmith is engaged to manufacture some piece of gold or silver work, he first asks for any little piece of thin iron--a bit of an iron hoop will answer his purpose--and with this he makes an instrument for drawing his wire. The head of an old hammer stuck in a block of wood serves for an anvil; and for a pair of compasses he is contented with two old nails tied together at the heads. If he has a crucible, good; if not, a piece of a broken rice-pot or a china tea-cup answers his purpose. His furnace is an old broken _quallee_ or iron pot, and his bellows a joint of bamboo, through which he blows with his mouth. If the work be heavy, and the quantity of metal to be melted considerable, three or four sit round the furnace, each with his bamboo, and blow together. It is only at Padang, where the manufacture is carried on extensively, that the Chinese bellows has been introduced. The art of wire-drawing not having been considerably improved upon since the time of Tubalcain, the Sumatran method differs little from the European.

When drawn sufficiently fine, the wire is flattened by beating it upon the anvil, and when flattened, it is twisted by rubbing it upon a block of wood with a flat stick. Having twisted it, the goldsmith again flattens it upon the anvil, and it is then a flat wire with serrated or indented edges, suitable for forming leaves or portions of flowers; these he makes by turning down the end of the wire with a rude pincers, and then cutting it off; this process is repeated until he has a sufficient number prepared for his work. The pattern he has drawn on a piece of paper or card, to the size and shape of which the intended piece of workmanship must correspond. If the work is to be formed upon a plate of gold, he cuts the plate to the shape of his pattern, and proceeds to dispose the various bits of foliage, assorted according to size, and adjusts wire of various thickness for the stems, tendrils, &c., fastening them temporarily together, and upon the plate, with the sago berry, called _boca sago_, which they reduce to a pulp by grinding upon a rough stone; and a young cocoa nut, about the size of a walnut, forms the ointment-box for this gelatinous preparation. When the work has been all placed in order, the operator prepares his solder, which consists of gold filings and borax mingled with water; this he strews upon the plate and applies to the several points of contact of the finer portions of his work; and then, exposing the whole to the action of the fire, in a few moments the soldering is completed. But if it is open work, he lays out the foliage and other parts upon a card or thin bit of soft wood, and attaches them together, as before described, with the pulp of the sago berry, applies the solder to the points of junction, and puts his work into the fire as before; the card or wood burns away, the solder unites the parts, and the work is completed; but if the piece be very large, the soldering is done at several times. When the work is finished as to the manufacturing part, it is cleansed and brightened by boiling it in water with common salt and alum, or lime juice; and when the goldsmith wishes to give it a fine purple colour, he boils it in water with sulphur. The beautiful little balls with which the Sumatran filagree work is sometimes ornamented, are very simply made. The maker merely drills a small hole in a piece of charcoal, into which he puts some grains of gold dust, and upon exposing it to the fire, it runs into a perfect ball.

At finishing plain work, however, it must be confessed that the Sumatran and Indian goldsmiths fall short of the European; but if the latter excel in this, which may be considered the lowest department of the art, they are, despite their improvements and the superiority of their instruments, vastly inferior in the elegance and delicacy of the finer parts.

The Sonah Wallah (which signifies in Hindoostanee “the gold fellow”), or itinerant goldsmith of India, is far better supplied with tools and implements of his trade than the Sumatran; and being thus a step higher in the grade of civilisation, he exhibits evidences of his advance in refinement by being such a confounded rogue, that it is almost impossible for _even his European employer_ to detect him, or prevent him from pilfering some portion of the metal consigned to his ingenuity. The Sonah Wallah may be hired for half a rupee (a little over a shilling) a-day, and, like the tinkers in these countries, he brings his implements with him. These consist of a small forge, to the edge of which are attached several iron rings, which may be turned up over the charcoal to receive his crucibles; a tin tube to blow through, a pair of slight iron tongs, a pair of small pliers, a hammer, a couple of earthen saucers, and a rude anvil consisting of a piece of flint secured in a rough iron frame. The gold usually presented to him for working is the gold mohur, a coin worth about 32s. sterling; this coin he places in a crucible with a little borax, to make it fuse the more readily; and having fixed the crucible in one of the rings, and lighted the charcoal under and around it, he blows with his tin tube until the metal is melted, when he practises a trick of his trade by throwing in a small quantity of nitro-muriatic acid, which causes a sudden expansion or slight explosion, by which a portion of the metal is thrown out of the crucible into the fire, from the extinguished embers of which the rogue separates it at a convenient opportunity; and lest his employer should try to detect him by weighing the material both before and after working, he uses a copper rod for stirring the contents of the crucible, a portion of which rod melts and mingles with the gold, and so compensates for the deficiency in weight, or at least so nearly as invariably to escape detection, although it is more than probable that an instance seldom or never occurs in which they do not defraud their employers of a portion of the gold put into their hands. The fact is, that their admirable skill so completely compensates for their knavery, that few would think of questioning too closely, for, rude and simple as are their tools, they far exceed European workmen in the production of delicate and intricately formed trinkets; their small, taper, and flexible fingers more than supplying the place of the numerous varieties of implements which the mechanic of Birmingham or Sheffield finds indispensably necessary. Indian chains of gold and silver have been ever celebrated for the beauty and complication of their structure; and although the Sonah Wallah may be considered to excel particularly in this branch of his art, yet he still must be admitted to surpass, or at least equal, the European even in the manufacture of finger rings, bracelets, and armlets.

Much of the superior ingenuity of the Indian goldsmith may be attributable to the division of the people into castes or sections, by which fundamental law the same profession is carried on by the same people or family through countless generations; the Shastra, or code of Hindoo laws, forbidding the mixture of the castes, or interference with any business or profession not carried on by their progenitors.

There are four integral divisions of the people. The first caste, the Brahmins, are said by the Hindoo scriptures to have issued, at the creation, from Brahma’s mouth; and being thus the most excellent and dignified, are set apart for the priesthood and legislative departments of the state. The second, the Cshatryas, are said to have issued from Brahma’s arms, and to them is committed the executive--these consequently form the armies. The third caste, the Vaisyas, are said to have proceeded from Brahma’s thighs; they are the merchants, and consequently amongst them are to be found some of the wealthiest men of Hindostan. The fourth caste, called Soodras, being said to have issued from the feet of Brahma, are considered the most ignoble and degraded, and to them are left all mechanical arts and servile employments, as being beneath the dignity of the superior castes. Amongst the Soodras, consequently, are the goldsmiths; and as the different professions form a sort of minor castes amongst the greater ones, the same business is transferred from father to son; and all the powers of the mind being directed undistractedly to the single object, pre-eminence in that line is naturally to be expected.

N.

BARNY O’GRADY.

Behold me safely landed at Philadelphia, with one hundred pounds in my pocket--a small sum of money; but many, from yet more trifling beginnings, have grown rich in America. Many passengers who came over in the same ship with me had not half so much. Several of them were indeed wretchedly poor. Among others there was an Irishman, who was known by the name of Barny--a contraction, I believe, for Barnaby. As to his surname, he could not undertake to spell it, but he assured me there was no better. This man, with many of his relatives, had come to England, according to their custom, during harvest time, to assist in reaping, because they gain higher wages than in their own country. Barny had heard that he should get still higher wages for labour in America, and accordingly he and his two sons, lads of eighteen and twenty, took their passage for Philadelphia. A merrier mortal I never saw. We used to hear him upon deck, continually singing or whistling his Irish tunes; and I should never have guessed that this man’s life had been a series of hardships and misfortunes.

When we were leaving the ship, I saw him, to my great surprise, crying bitterly; and upon inquiring what was the matter, he answered that it was not for himself, but for his two sons, he was grieving; because they were to be made _redemption men_; that is, they were to be bound to work, during a certain time, for the captain, or for whomsoever he pleased, till the money due for their passage should be paid. Although I was somewhat surprised at any one’s thinking of coming on board a vessel without having one farthing in his pocket, yet I could not forbear paying the money for this poor fellow. He dropped down on the deck upon both his knees, as suddenly as if he had been shot, and holding up his hands to heaven, prayed, first in Irish, and then in English, with fervent fluency, that “I and mine might never want; that I might live long to reign over him; that success might attend my honour wherever I went; and that I might enjoy for evermore all sorts of blessings and crowns of glory.” As I had an English prejudice in favour of silent gratitude, I was rather disgusted by all this eloquence; I turned away abruptly, and got into the boat which waited to carry me to shore.

* * * * *

I had now passed three years in Philadelphia, and was not a farthing the richer, but, alas, a great deal poorer. My inveterate habit of procrastination--of delaying every thing till TO-MORROW, always stood betwixt me and prosperity. I at last resolved upon leaving the land of the star-spangled banner; but when I came to reckon up my resources, I found that I could not do so, unless I disposed of my watch and my wife’s trinkets. I was not accustomed to such things, and I was ashamed to go to the pawnbroker’s, lest I should be met and recognised by some of my friends. I wrapped myself up in an old surtout, and slouched my hat over my face. As I was crossing the quay, I met a party of gentlemen walking arm in arm. I squeezed past them, but one stopped and looked after me; and though I turned down another street to escape him, he dodged me unperceived. Just as I came out of the pawnbroker’s shop, I saw him posted opposite me; I brushed by; I could with pleasure have knocked him down for his impertinence. By the time that I had reached the corner of the street, I heard a child calling after me; I stopped, and a little boy put into my hand my watch, saying, “Sir, the gentleman says you left your watch and these thingumbobs by mistake.”

“What gentleman?”

“I don’t know, but he was one that said I looked like an honest chap, and he’d trust me to run and give you the watch. He is dressed in a blue coat, and went towards the quay. That’s all I know.”

On opening the paper of trinkets, I found a card with these words:--“_Barny_--with kind thanks.”

“Barny! poor Barny! An Irishman whose passage I paid coming to America three years ago. Is it possible?”

I ran after him the way which the child directed, and was so fortunate as just to catch a glimpse of the skirt of his coat as he went into a neat, good-looking house. I walked up and down for some time, expecting him to come out again; for I could not suppose that it belonged to Barny. I asked a grocer who was leaning over his hatch-door, if he knew who lived in the next house?

“An Irish gentleman of the name of O’Grady.”

“And his Christian name?”

“Here it is in my books, sir--Barnaby O’Grady.”

I knocked at Mr O’Grady’s door, and made my way into the parlour, where I found him, his two sons, and his wife, sitting very sociably at tea. He and the two young men rose immediately, to set me a chair.

“You are welcome, kindly welcome, sir,” said he. “This is an honour I never expected, any way. Be pleased to take the seat next the fire. ’Twould be hard indeed if you should not have the best seat’s that to be had in this house, where we none of us ever should have sat, nor had seats to sit upon, but for you.”

The sons pulled off my shabby greatcoat, and took away my hat, and Mrs O’Grady made up the fire. There was something in their manner, altogether, which touched me so much that it was with difficulty I could keep myself from bursting into tears. They saw this, and Barny (for I shall never call him any thing else), as he thought that I should like better to hear of public affairs than to speak of my own, began to ask his sons if they had seen the day’s paper, and what news there were.

As soon as I could command my voice, I congratulated this family upon the happy situation in which I found them, and asked by what lucky accident they had succeeded so well.