Act III. represents the English camp: Ginckle and his Generals

discourse; the armies are engaged. In Act IV. the English are worsted in spite of their valour, which Sarsfield greatly describes. ‘View,’ says he--

‘View how the foe like an impetuous flood Breaks through the smoke, the water, and--the mud!’

It becomes exceedingly hot. Colonel Earles says--

‘In vain Jove’s lightnings issues from the sky, For death more sure from British _ensigns_ fly. Their messengers of death much blood have spilled, And full three hundred of the Irish killed.’

A description of war (Herbert):--

‘Now bloody colours wave in their pride, _And each proud hero does his beast bestride_.’

General Dorrington’s description of the fight is, if possible, still more noble:--

‘_Dor._ Haste, noble friends, and save your lives by flight, For ‘tis but madness if you stand to fight. Our cavalry the battle have forsook, And death appears in each dejected look; Nothing but dread confusion can be seen, For severed heads and trunks o’erspread the green; The fields, the vales, the hills, and vanquished plain, For five miles round are covered with the slain. Death in each quarter does the eye alarm, Here lies a leg, and there a shattered arm. There heads appear, which, cloven by mighty bangs, And severed quite, on either shoulder hangs: This is the awful scene, my Lords! Oh, fly The impending danger, for your fate is nigh!’

Which party, however, is to win--the Irish or English? Their heroism is equal, and young Godfrey especially, on the Irish side, is carrying all before him--when he is interrupted in the slaughter by _the ghost of his father_: of old Sir Edmonbury, whose monument we may see in Westminster Abbey. Sir Charles, at first, doubts about the genuineness of this venerable old apparition; and thus puts a case to the ghost:--

‘Were ghosts in heaven, in heaven they there would stay, Or if in hell, _they could not get away_.’

A clincher, certainly, as one would imagine; but the ghost jumps over the horns of the fancied dilemma, by saying that he is not at liberty to state where he comes from.

‘_Ghost._ Where visions rest, or souls imprisoned dwell, By Heaven’s command, we are forbid to tell; But in the obscure grave--where corpse decay, Moulder in dust and putrify away,-- No rest is there; for the immortal soul Takes its full flight and flutters round the pole; Sometimes I hover over the Euxine sea-- From pole to sphere, until the judgment day-- Over the Thracian Bosphorus do I float, And pass the Stygian lake in Charon’s boat, O’er Vulcan’s fiery court and sulph’rous cave, And ride like Neptune on a briny wave; List to the blowing noise of Etna’s flames, And court the shades of Amazonian dames; Then take my flight up to the gloomy moon: Thus do I wander till the day of doom. Proceed I dare not, or I would unfold A horrid tale would make your blood run cold, Chill all your nerves and sinews in a thrice, Like whispering rivulets congealed to ice.

_Sir Char._ Ere you depart me, ghost, I here demand You’d let me know your last divine command!’

The ghost says that the young man must die in the battle; that it will go ill for him if he die in the wrong cause; and, therefore, that he had best go over to the Protestants--which poor Sir Charles (not without many sighs for Jemima) consents to do. He goes off then, saying--

‘I’ll join my countrymen, and yet proclaim Nassau’s great title to the _crimson plain_.’

In Act V., that desertion turns the fate of the day. Sarsfield enters with his sword drawn, and acknowledges his fate. ‘Aughrim,’ exclaims Lord Lucan,

‘Aughrim is now no more, St. Ruth is dead, And all his guards are from the battle fled. As he rode down the hill he met his fall, _And died a victim to a cannon ball_.’

And he bids the Frenchman’s body to

‘----lie like Pompey in his gore, Whose hero’s blood encircles the Egyptian shore.’

‘Four hundred Irish prisoners we have got,’ exclaims an English General, ‘and seven thousand lyeth on the spot.’ In fact, they are entirely discomfited, and retreat off the stage altogether; while, in the moment of victory, poor Sir Charles Godfrey enters, wounded to death, according to the old gentleman’s prophecy. He is racked by bitter remorse; he tells his love of his treachery, and declares ‘no crocodile was ever more unjust.’ His agony increases, the ‘optic nerves grow dim and lose their sight, and all his veins are now exhausted quite;’ and he dies in the arms of his Jemima, who stabs herself in the usual way.

And so every one being disposed of, the drums and trumpets give a great peal, the audience huzzas, and the curtain falls on Ginckle and his friends exclaiming--

‘May all the gods th’ auspicious evening bless, Who crowns Great Britain’s _arrums_ with success!’

And questioning the prosody, what Englishman will not join in the sentiment?

In the interlude the band (the pipe) performs a favourite air. Jack the waiter and candle-snuffer looks to see that all is ready: and after the dire business of the tragedy, comes in to sprinkle the stage with water (and perhaps a little whisky in it). Thus all things being arranged, the audience takes its seat again, and the afterpiece begins.

* * * * *

Two of the little yellow volumes purchased at Ennis are entitled _The Irish and the Hibernian Tales_. The former are modern, and the latter of an ancient sort; and so great is the superiority of the old stories over the new, in fancy, dramatic interest, and humour, that one can’t help fancying Hibernia must have been a very superior country to Ireland.

These Hibernian novels, too, are evidently intended for the Hedge-School universities. They have the old tricks and some of the old plots that one has read in many popular legends of almost all countries, European and Eastern: successful cunning is the great virtue applauded; and the heroes pass through a thousand wild extravagant dangers, such as could only have been invented when art was young and faith was large. And as the honest old author of the tales says, ‘they are suited to the meanest as well as the highest capacity, tending both to improve the fancy and enrich the mind,’ let us conclude the night’s entertainment by reading one or two of them, and reposing after the doleful tragedy which has been represented. The ‘Black Thief’ is worthy of the _Arabian Nights_, I think,--as wild and odd as an Eastern tale.

It begins, as usual, with a king and a queen who lived once on a time in the south of Ireland, and had three sons: but the queen being on her death-bed, and fancying her husband might marry again, and unwilling that her children should be under the jurisdiction of any other woman, besought his majesty to place them in a tower at her death, and keep them there safe until the young princes should come of age.

The queen dies: the king of course marries again, and the new queen, who bears a son too, hates the offspring of the former marriage, and looks about for means to destroy them.

‘At length the queen, _having got some business with the hen-wife_, went herself to her, and after a long conference passed, was taking leave of her, when the hen-wife prayed that if ever she should come back to her again she might break her neck. The queen, greatly incensed at such a daring insult from one of her meanest subjects, to make such a prayer on her, demanded immediately the reason, or she would have her put to death. “It was worth your while, madam,” says the hen-wife, “to pay me well for it, for the reason I prayed so on you concerns you much.” “What must I pay you?” asked the queen. “You must give me,” says she, “the full of a pack of wool: and I have an ancient crock which you must fill with butter; likewise a barrel which you must fill for me full of wheat.” “How much wool will it take to the pack?” says the queen. “It will take seven herds of sheep,” said she, “and their increase for seven years.” “How much butter will it take to fill your crock?” “Seven dairies,” said she, “and the increase for seven years.” “And how much will it take to fill the barrel you have?” says the queen. “It will take the increase of seven barrels of wheat for seven years.” “That is a great quantity,” says the queen, “but the reason must be extraordinary, and before I want it, I will give you all you demand.”’

The hen-wife acquaints the queen with the existence of the three sons, and giving her majesty an enchanted pack of cards, bids her to get the young men to play with her with these cards, and on their losing, to inflict upon them such a task as must infallibly end in their ruin. All young princes are set upon such tasks, and it is a sort of opening of the pantomime, before the tricks and activity begin. The queen went home, and ‘got speaking’ to the king ‘in regard of his children, and _she broke it off_ to him in a very polite and engaging manner, so that he could see no muster or design in it.’ The king agreed to bring his sons to court, and at night, when the royal party ‘began to sport, and play at all kinds of diversions,’ the queen cunningly challenged the three princes to play cards. They lose, and she sends them in consequence to bring her back the Knight of the Glen’s wild steed of bells.

On their road (as wandering young princes, Indian or Irish, always do) they meet with the Black Thief of Sloan, who tells them what they must do. But they are caught in the attempt, and brought ‘into that dismal part of the palace where the Knight kept a furnace always boiling, in which he threw all offenders that ever came in his way, which in a few minutes would entirely consume them. “Audacious villains!” says the Knight of the Glen, “how dare you attempt so bold an action as to steal my steed? See now the reward of your folly: for your greater punishment, I will not boil you all together, but one after the other, so that he that survives may witness the dire afflictions of his unfortunate companions.” So saying, he ordered his servants to stir up the fire. “We will boil the eldest-looking of these young men first,” says he, “and so on to the last, which will be this _old champion_ with the black cap. He seems to be the captain, and looks as if he had come through many toils.”--I was as near death once as this prince is yet,” says the Black Thief, “and escaped: and so will he too.” “No, you never were,” said the Knight, “for he is within two or three minutes of his latter end.” “But,” says the Black Thief, “I was within one moment of my death, and I am here yet.” “How was that?” says the Knight. “I would be glad to hear it, for it seems to be impossible.” “If you think, Sir Knight,” says the Black Thief, “that the danger I was in surpassed that of this young man, will you pardon him his crime?” “I will,” says the Knight, “so go on with your story.”

‘“I was, sir,” says he, “a very wild boy in my youth, and came through many distresses; once in particular, as I was on my rambling, I was benighted, and could find no lodging. At length I came to an old kiln, and being much fatigued, I went up and lay on the ribs. I had not been long there, when I saw three witches coming in with three bags of gold. Each put their bags of gold under their heads, as if to sleep. I heard the one say to the other, that if the Black Thief came on them while they slept, he would not leave them a penny. I found by their discourse that everybody had got my name into their mouth, though I kept silent as death during their discourse. At length they fell fast asleep, and then I stole softly down, and seeing some turf _convenient_, I placed one under each of their heads, and off I went with their gold, as fast as I could.

‘“I had not gone far,” continued the Thief of Sloan, “until I saw a greyhound, a hare, and a hawk in pursuit of me, and began to think it must be the witches that had taken that metamorphose, in order that I might not escape them unseen either by land or water. Seeing they did not appear in any formidable shape, I was more than once resolved to attack them, thinking that with my broadsword I could easily destroy them. But considering again that it was perhaps still in their power to become so, I gave over the attempt, and climbed with difficulty up a tree, bringing my sword in my hand, and all the gold along with me. However, when they came to the tree they found what I had done, and, making further use of their hellish art, one of them was changed into a smith’s anvil, and another into a piece of iron, of which the third one soon made a hatchet. Having the hatchet made, she fell to cutting down the tree, and in course of an hour it began to shake with me.”’

This is very good and original. The ‘boiling’ is in the first fee-faw-fum style, and the old allusion to ‘the old champion in the black cap’ has the real Ogresque humour. Nor is that simple contrivance of the honest witches without its charm; for if, instead of wasting their time, the one in turning herself into an anvil, the other into a piece of iron, and so hammering out a hatchet at considerable labour and expense--if either of them had turned herself into a hatchet at once, they might have chopped down the Black Thief before cock-crow, when they were obliged to fly off, and leave him in possession of the bags of gold.

The eldest prince is ransomed by the Knight of the Glen, in consequence of this story; and the second prince escapes on account of the merit of a second story; but the great story of all is of course reserved for the youngest prince.

‘I was one day on my travels,’ says the Black Thief, ‘and I came into a large forest, where I wandered a long time, and could not get out of it. At length I came to a large castle, and fatigue obliged me to call in the same, where I found a young woman, and a child sitting on her knee, and she crying. I asked her what made her cry, and where the lord of the castle was, for I wondered greatly that I saw no stir of servants, or any person about the place. “It is well for you,” says the young woman, “that the lord of this castle is not at home at present; for he is a monstrous giant, with but one eye on his forehead, who lives on human flesh. He brought me this child,” says she--I do not know where he got it--and ordered me to make it into a pie, and I cannot help crying at the command.” I told her that if she knew of any place convenient, that I could leave the child safely, I would do it, rather than that it should be buried in the bowels of such a monster. She told of a house a distance off, where I would get a woman who would take care of it. “But what will I do in regard of the pie?” “Cut a finger off it,” said I, “and I will bring you in a young wild pig out of the forest, which you may dress as if it was the child, and put the finger in a certain place, that if the giant doubts anything about it, you may know where to turn it over at first, and when he sees it he will be fully satisfied that it is made of the child.” She agreed to the plan I proposed; and, cutting off the child’s finger, by her direction, I soon had it at the house she told me of, and brought her the little pig in the place of it. She then made ready the pie; and, after eating and drinking heartily myself, I was just taking my leave of the young woman when we observed the giant coming through the castle gates. “Lord bless me!” said she, “what will you do now? Run away and lie down among the dead bodies that he has in the room” (showing me the place); “and strip off your clothes that he may not know you from the rest if he has occasion to go that way.” I took her advice, and laid myself down among the rest, as if dead, to see how he would behave. The first thing I heard was him calling for his pie. When she set it down before him, he swore it smelt like swine’s flesh; but, knowing where to find the finger, she immediately turned it up, which fairly convinced him of the contrary. The pie only served to sharpen his appetite, and I heard him sharpen his knife, and saying he must have a collop or two, for he was not near satisfied. But what was my terror when I heard the giant groping among the bodies, and, fancying myself, cut the half of my hip off, and took it with him to be roasted. You may be certain I was in great pain; but the fear of being killed prevented me from making any complaint. However, when he had eat all, he began to drink hot liquors in great abundance, so that in a short time he could not hold up his head, but threw himself on a large creel he had made for the purpose, and fell fast asleep. _Whenever_ I heard him snoring, bad as I was, I went up and caused the woman to bind my wound with an handkerchief; and taking the giant’s spit, I reddened it in the fire, and ran it through the eye, but was not able to kill him. However, I left the spit sticking in his head, and took to my heels; but I soon found he was in pursuit of me, although blind; and, having an enchanted ring, he threw it at me, and it fell on my big toe and remained fastened to it. The giant then called to the ring, where it was, and to my great surprise it made him answer on my foot; and he, guided by the same, made a leap at me, which I had the good luck to observe, and fortunately escaped the danger. However, I found running was of no use in saving me as long as I had the ring on my foot; so I took my sword and cut off the toe it was fastened on, and threw both into a large fish-pond that was convenient. The giant called again to the ring, which, by the power of enchantment, always made answer; but he, not knowing what I had done, imagined it was still on some part of me, and made a violent leap to seize me, when he went into the pond, over head and ears, and was drowned. “Now, Sir Knight,” says the Thief of Sloan, “you see what dangers I came through and always escaped; but, indeed, I am lame for want of my toe ever since.”’

And now remains but one question to be answered, viz. How is the Black Thief himself to come off? This difficulty is solved in a very dramatic way, and with a sudden turn in the narrative that is very wild and curious.

‘My lord and master,’ says an old woman that was listening all the time, ‘that story is but too true, as I well know, _for I am the very woman that was in the giant’s castle, and you, my lord, the child that I was to make into a pie_, and this is the very man that saved your life, which you may know by the want of your finger that was taken off, as you have heard, to deceive the giant.’

That fantastical way of bearing testimony to the previous tale, by producing an old woman who says the tale is not only true, but she was the very old woman who lived in the giant’s castle, is almost a stroke of genius. It is fine to think that the simple chronicler found it necessary to have a proof for his story, and he was no doubt perfectly contented with the proof found.

‘The Knight of the Glen, greatly surprised at what he had heard the old woman tell, and knowing he wanted his finger from his childhood, began to understand that the story was true enough. “And is this my dear deliverer?” says he. “O brave fellow, I not only pardon you all, but I will keep you with myself while you live; where you shall feast like princes, and have every attendance that I have myself.” They all returned thanks on their knees, and the Black Thief told him the reason they attempted to steal the steed of Bells, and the necessity they were under in going home. “Well,” says the Knight of the Glen, “if that’s the case, I bestow you my steed rather than this brave fellow should die; so you may go when you please; only remember to call and see me betimes, that we may know each other well.” They promised they would, and with great joy they set off for the King their father’s palace, and the Black Thief along with them. The wicked Queen was standing all this time on the tower, and, hearing the bells ringing at a great distance off, knew very well it was the Princes coming home, and the steed with them, and through spite and vexation precipitated herself from the tower, and was shattered to pieces. The three Princes lived happy and well during their father’s reign, always keeping the Black Thief along with them; but how they did after the old King’s death is not known.’

Then we come upon a story that exists in many a European language, of the man cheating Death; then to the history of the Apprentice Thief, who of course cheated his masters; which, too, is an old tale, and may have been told very likely among those Phœnicians who were the fathers of the Hibernians for whom these tales were devised. A very curious tale is there, concerning Manus O’Malaghan and the fairies:--‘In the parish of Ahoghill lived Manus O’Malaghan. _As he was searching for a calf that had strayed_, he heard many people talking. Drawing near, he distinctly heard them repeating, one after the other, “Get me a horse, get me a horse”; and “Get me a horse too,” says Manus. Manus was instantly mounted on a steed surrounded with a vast crowd, who galloped off, taking poor Manus with them. In a short time they suddenly stopped in a large wide street, asking Manus if he knew where he was? “Faith,” says he, “I do not.” “You are _in Spain_,” said they.’

Here we have again the wild mixture of the positive and the fanciful. The chronicler is careful to tell us why Manus went out searching for a calf, and this positiveness prodigiously increases the reader’s wonder at the subsequent events. And the question and answer of the mysterious horsemen is fine: ‘Don’t you know where you are? _In Spain._’ A vague solution, such as one has of occurrences in dreams sometimes.

The history of Robin the Blacksmith is full of these strange flights of poetry. He is followed about ‘by a little boy in a green jacket,’ who performs the most wondrous feats of the blacksmith’s art, as follows:--

‘Robin was asked to do something, who wisely shifted it, saying he would be very sorry not to give the honour of the first trick to his lordship’s smith; at which he was called forth to the bellows. When the fire was well kindled, to the great surprise of all present he blew a great shower of wheat out of the fire, which fell through all the shop. They then demanded of Robin to try what he could do. “Pho!” said Robin, as if he thought nothing of what was done. “Come,” said he to the boy, “I think I showed you something like that.” The boy goes then to the bellows and blew out a great flock of pigeons, who soon devoured all the grain, and then disappeared.

‘The Dublin smith, sorely vexed that such a boy as him should outdo him, goes a second time to the bellows, and blew a fine trout out of the hearth, who jumped into a little river that was running by the shop door, and was seen no more at that time.

‘Robin then said to the boy, “Come, you must bring us yon trout back again, to let the gentlemen see we can do something.” Away the boy goes, and blew a large otter out of the hearth, who immediately leaped into the river, and in a short time returned with it in his mouth, and then disappeared. All present allowed that it was a folly to attempt a competition any further.’

The boy in the green jacket was one ‘of a kind of small beings called Fairies’; and not a little does it add to the charm of these wild tales to feel, as one reads them, that the writer must have believed in his heart a great deal of what he told. You see the tremor, as it were, and a wild look of the eyes, as the story-teller sits in his nook, and recites, and peers wistfully round, lest the beings he talks of be really at hand.

Let us give a couple of the little tales entire. They are not so fanciful as those before mentioned, but of the comic sort, and suited to the first kind of capacity mentioned by the author in his preface.

Donald and his Neighbors

‘Hudden and Dudden, and Donald O’Neary, were near neighbours in the barony of Ballinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two former, envying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his bullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured, that, going back in the world, he might be induced to sell his lands, which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock killed, immediately skinned it, and throwing his skin over his shoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it, to dispose of it to the best advantage. Going along the road a magpie flew on the top of the hide, and began picking it, chattering all the time. This bird had been taught to speak and imitate the human voice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying, put round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his greatcoat, and so went on to the town. Having sold the hide, he went into an inn to take a dram; and, following the landlady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze, which caused it to chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. “What is that I hear?” said she to Donald: “I think it is talk, and yet I do not understand.” “Indeed,” said Donald, “it is a bird I have that tells me everything, and I always carry it with me to know when there is any danger. Faith,” says he, “it says you have far better liquor than you are giving me.” “That is strange,” said she, going to another cask of better quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. “I will,” said Donald, “if I get enough for it.” “I will fill your hat with silver if you leave it with me.” Donald was glad to hear the news, and, taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not been long home when he met with Hudden and Dudden. “Ha!” said he, “you thought you did me a bad turn, but you could not have done me a better; for, look here, what I have got for the hide,” showing them the hatful of silver. “You never saw such a demand for hides in your life as there is at present.” Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their bullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their hides. On coming to the place they went through all the merchants, but could only get a trifle for them. At last they had to take what they could get, and came home in a great rage, and vowing revenge on poor Donald. He had a pretty good guess how matters would turn out; and his bed being under the kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or perhaps kill him when asleep; and on that account, when he was going to bed, he left his old mother in his bed, and lay down in her place, which was in the other side of the house; and, taking the old woman for Donald, choked her in the bed; but he making some noise, they had to retreat, and leave the money behind them, which grieved them very much. However, by daybreak, Donald got his mother on his back, and carried her to town. Stopping at a well, he fixed his mother, with her staff, as if she was stooping for a drink, and then went into a public-house convenient, and called for a dram. “I wish,” said he to a woman that stood near him, “you would tell my mother to come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard in hearing; if she does not observe you, give her a little shake, and tell her that I want her.” The woman called her several times, but she seemed to take no notice: at length she went to her and shook her by the arm; but when she let her go again, she tumbled on her head into the well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in great fear and surprise at the accident, told Donald what had happened. “O, mercy,” said he, “what is this?” He ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you would imagine that he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other hand, was far worse than Donald; for his grief was only feigned, but she imagined herself to be the cause of the old woman’s death. The inhabitants of the town, hearing what had happened, agreed to make Donald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened in their place; and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than he got for the magpie. They buried Donald’s mother; and as soon as he saw Hudden and Dudden, he showed them the last purse of money he had got. “You thought to kill me last night,” said he, “but it was good for me it happened on my mother, for I got all that purse for her, to make gunpowder.”

‘That very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next morning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their burthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, “Who will buy old wives for gunpowder?” so that every one laughed at them, and the boys at last clodded them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and, vowing revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit of him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast, and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river at some distance. As they were going along the highway, they raised a hare, which they saw had but three feet, and, throwing off the sack, ran after her, thinking by appearance she would be easily taken. In their absence there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the sack, wondered greatly what could be the matter. “What is the reason,” said he, “that you are singing, and you confined?” “Oh, I am going to heaven,” said Donald; “and in a short time I expect to be free from trouble.” “Oh dear,” said the drover, “what will I give you if you let me to your place?” “Indeed I do not know,” said he; “it would take a good sum.” “I have not much money,” said the drover, “but I have twenty head of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me.” “Well, well,” says Donald, “I don’t care if I should; loose the sack and I will come out.” In a moment the drover liberated him, and went into the sack himself; and Donald drove home the fine heifers and left them in his pasture.

‘Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the river, and threw him in, where he immediately sunk. They then marched home, intending to take immediate possession of Donald’s property; but how great was their surprise, when they found him safe at home before them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none before. “Donald,” said they, “what is all this? We thought you were drowned, and yet you are here before us?” “Ah!” said he, “if I had but help along with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best job ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever was seen, is there, and no one to own them; but I was not able to manage more than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might get hundreds.” They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifting up a stone, “Now,” said he, “watch this,” throwing it into the stream. “There is the very place, and go in one of you first, and if you want help, you have nothing to do but call.” Hudden jumping in, and sinking to the bottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise as those do that are drowning, attempting to speak, but could not. “What is that he is saying now?” says Dudden. “Faith,” says Donald, “he is calling for help--don’t you hear him? Stand about,” said he, running back, “till I leap in; I know how to do better than any of you.” Dudden, to have the advantage of him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with Hudden. And this was the end of Hudden and Dudden.’

The Spaeman

‘A poor man in the North of Ireland was under the necessity of selling his cow, to help to support his family. Having sold his cow, he went into an inn, and called for some liquor. Having drank pretty heartily, he fell asleep, and when he awoke he found he had been robbed of his money. Poor Roger was at a loss to know how to act; and, as is often the case, when the landlord found that his money was gone, he turned him out of doors. The night was extremely dark, and the poor man was compelled to take up his lodgings in an old uninhabited house at the end of the town.

‘Roger had not remained long here until he was surprised by the noise of three men, whom he observed making a hole, and, depositing something therein, closed it carefully up again, and then went away. The next morning, as Roger was walking towards the town, he heard that a cloth shop had been robbed to a great amount, and that a reward of thirty pounds was offered to any person who could discover the thieves. This was joyful news to Roger, who recollected what he had been witness to the night before. He accordingly went to the shop, and told the gentleman that for the reward he would recover the goods, and secure the robbers, provided he got six stout men to attend him. All which was thankfully granted him.

‘At night Roger and his men concealed themselves in the old house, and in a short time after the robbers came to the spot for the purpose of removing their booty; but they were instantly seized and carried into the town, prisoners, with the goods. Roger received the reward and returned home, well satisfied with his good luck. Not many days after, it was noised over the country that this robbery was discovered by the help of one of the best Spaemen to be found, insomuch that it reached the ears of a worthy gentleman of the county of Derry, who made strict inquiry to find him out. Having at length discovered his abode, he sent for Roger, and told him he was every day losing some valuable article, and, as he was famed for discovering lost things, if he could find out the same he should be handsomely rewarded. Poor Roger was put to a stand, not knowing what answer to make, as he had not the smallest knowledge of the like. But recovering himself a little, he resolved to humour the joke; and, thinking he would make a good dinner and some drink of it, told the gentleman he would try what he could do, but that he must have a room to himself for three hours, during which time he must have three bottles of strong ale and his dinner. All which the gentleman told him he should have. No sooner was it made known that the Spaeman was in the house than the servants were all in confusion, wishing to know what would be said.

‘As soon as Roger had taken his dinner, he was shown into an elegant room, where the gentleman sent him a quart of ale by the butler. No sooner had he set down the ale than Roger said, “There comes one of them”; intimating the bargain he had made with the gentleman for the three quarts, which the butler took in a wrong light, and imagined it was himself. He went away in great confusion, and told his wife. “Poor fool,” said she, “the fear makes you think it is you he means; but I will attend in your place, and hear what he will say to me.” Accordingly she carried the second quart; but no sooner had she opened the door than Roger cried, “There comes two of them.” The woman, no less surprised than her husband, told him the Spaeman knew her too. “And what will we do?” said he; “we will be hanged.” “I will tell you what we must do,” said she: “we must send the groom the next time, and if he is known, we must offer him a good sum not to discover on us.” The butler went to William and told him the whole story, and that he must go next to see what he would say to him, telling him at the same time what to do, in case he was known also. When the hour was expired, William was sent with the third quart of ale, which, when Roger observed, he cried out, “There is the third and last of them”; at which he changed colour, and told him “that if he would not discover on them, they would show him where they were all concealed, and give him five pounds besides.” Roger, not a little surprised at the discovery he had made, told him “if he recovered the goods, he would follow them no further.”

‘By this time the gentleman called Roger to know how he had succeeded. He told him “he could find the goods, but that the thief was gone.” “I will be well satisfied,” said he, “with the goods, for some of them are very valuable.” “Let the butler come along with me, and the whole shall be recovered.” He accordingly conducted Roger to the back of the stables, where the articles were concealed--such as silver cups, spoons, bowls, knives, forks, and a variety of other articles of great value.

‘When the supposed Spaeman brought back the stolen goods, the gentleman was so highly pleased with Roger, that he insisted on his remaining with him always, as he supposed he would be perfectly safe as long as he was about his house. Roger gladly embraced the offer, and in a few days took possession of a piece of land, which the gentleman had given to him in consideration of his great abilities.

‘Some time after this, the gentleman was relating to a large company the discovery Roger had made, and that he could tell anything. One of the gentlemen said he would dress a dish of meat, and bet for fifty pounds that he could not tell what was in it, and he would allow him to taste it. The bet being taken and the dish dressed, the gentleman sent for Roger, and told the bet that was depending on him. Poor Roger did not know what to do; at last he consented to the trial. The dish being produced, he tasted it, but could not tell what it was. At last, seeing he was fairly beat, he said, “Gentlemen, it is folly to talk: the fox may run awhile, but he is caught at last”--allowing with himself that he was found out. The gentleman that had made the bet then confessed that it was a fox he had dressed in the dish; at which they all shouted out in favour of the Spaeman--particularly his master, who had more confidence in him than ever.

‘Roger then went home, and so famous did he become, that no one dared take anything but what belonged to them, fearing that the Spaeman would discover on them.’

* * * * *

And so we shut up the Hedge-School Library, and close the Galway Nights’ Entertainments. They are not quite so genteel as Almack’s, to be sure; but many a lady who has her opera-box in London has listened to a piper in Ireland.

_Apropos_ of pipers: here is a young one that I caught and copied to-day. He was paddling in the mud, shining in the sun careless of his rays, and playing his little tin-music as happy as Mr. Cooke with his oboe.

Perhaps the above verses and tales are not unlike my little Galway musician. They are grotesque and rugged; but they are pretty and innocent-hearted too; and as such, polite persons may deign to look at them for once in a way. While we have Signor Costa in a white neckcloth, ordering opera-bands to play for us the music of Donizetti, which is not only sublime but genteel; of course such poor little operatives as he who plays the wind-instrument yonder, cannot expect to be heard often; but is not this Galway? and how far is Galway from the Haymarket?