[Pg 41]

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

THE RED MEN OF AMERICA.—First Article.

It is a melancholy truth that this most interesting portion of
the human race is rapidly disappearing from the surface of
the earth. War, its murderous effects centupled by the destructive
weapons acquired from the white man—disease
in new and terrible forms, to the treatment of which their
simple skill, and materia medica, equally simple, are wholly
incompetent—famine, the consequence of their sadly changed
habits, of the intemperance and wastefulness, substituted by
the insidious arts of the trader for the moderation and foresight
of their happier fathers—the vices, in short, and the
encroachments of civilization, all and each in its turn are blotting
out tribe after tribe from the records of humanity; and
the time is fast approaching when no Red man will remain, to
guard or to mourn over the tombs of his fathers.

The conviction of this truth is become so deeply felt, that
more than one effort has been made, and is making, to preserve
some memento of this ill-treated people. We are not
so much raising our own feeble voice in the service, as attempting[Pg 42]
a record of what others have done; but so much has been
effected, and so zealous have been the exertions made to rescue
the memory, at least, of these dying nations from oblivion, that
the space we have assigned to this notice will be taken up
long before our materials are exhausted. The accuracy of the
facts and statements we shall lay before our readers may in
every case be relied on.

Among the most devoted and persevering explorers of the
Red man’s territory, is one from whose authority, and indeed
from whose very lips, in many instances, we derive a great
portion of the circumstances we are about to describe—we
allude to the celebrated George Catlin, whose abode of seven
years among the least known of their tribes, and whose earnest
enthusiasm in the task of inquiry which formed the sole
object of his visit, together with his entire success in the pursuit,
have constituted him the very first authority of the day.
We have, besides, consulted all the writers on this now engrossing
subject, but in most cases have afterwards taken
the highly competent opinion just quoted, as to the accuracy
of their descriptions—an opinion that has always been given
with evident care and consideration.

Mr Catlin has painted with his own hand, and from the
life, no less than three hundred and ten portraits of chiefs, warriors,
and other distinguished individuals of the various
tribes (forty-eight in number) among whom he sojourned,
with two hundred landscapes and other paintings descriptive
of their country, their villages, religious ceremonies, customs,
sports, and whatever else was most characteristic of Indian life
in its primitive state; he has likewise collected numerous specimens
of dresses, some fringed and garnished with scalp-locks
from their enemies’ heads; mantles and robes, on which are
painted, in rude hieroglyphics, the battles and other prominent
events of their owners’ lives; head-dresses, formed of the
raven’s and war-eagle’s feathers, the effect of which is strikingly
warlike and imposing; spears, shields, war clubs, bows,
musical instruments, domestic utensils, belts, pouches, necklaces
of bears’ claws, mocassins, strings of wampum, tobacco
sacks; all, in short, that could in any way exemplify the
habits and customs of the people whose memory he desired to
perpetuate, have been brought together, at great cost and
some hazard to life, by this indefatigable explorer—the whole
forming a museum of surpassing interest, and which is daily
attracting the people of London to the gallery wherein it is
exhibited.

The most important of the North American tribes are the
Camanchees, inhabiting the western parts of Texas, and
numbering from 25,000 to 30,000 expert horsemen and bold
lancers, but excessively wild, and continually at war; the
Pawnee-Picts, neighbours to and in league with the Camanchees;
the Kiowas, also in alliance with the two warlike tribes
above named, whom they join alike in the battle or chase;
the Sioux, numbering no less than 40,000, and inhabiting a
vast tract on the upper waters of the Mississippi and Missouri
rivers. Next come the Pawnees, a tribe totally distinct
both in language and customs from the Pawnee-Picts, whose
hunting-grounds are a thousand miles distant from those
of the Pawnees; this wild and very warlike tribe shave the
head with the exception of the scalp-lock (which they would
hold it cowardly and most unjust to their enemy to remove),
as do the Osages, the Konzas, &c. The Pawnees lost half
their numbers by small-pox in 1823, but are still very numerous;
their seats are on the river Platte, from the Missouri to
the Rocky Mountains.

The Blackfeet, the Crows (their inveterate enemies), the
Crees, the Assinneboins, occupying the country from the
mouth of the Yellow Stone River to Lake Winnipeg, the
Ojibbeways or Chippeways, holding the southern shores of
Lake Superior, the Lake of the Woods, and the Athabasca;
the Flatheads, on the head-waters of the Columbia; and the
Cherokees, removed from Georgia to the upper waters of the
Arkansas, are also important tribes; as are the Muskogee or
Creek Indians, recently transplanted from Georgia and
Alabama to the Arkansas, seven hundred miles west of the
Mississippi.

The Seminolees are also in process of removal to the
Arkansas, as are the Enchees, once a powerful tribe, but now
merging into the above, and with them forming one people.
Most of these tribes, as well as others that we have not room
even to specify, have been reduced, by the different scourges
before alluded to, in a manner frightful to contemplate. The
Delawares, for example, have lost 10,000 by small-pox alone;
and from a large and numerous tribe, now reckon 824 souls
only! The Senecas, Oneidas and Tuskaroras, once forming
part of that great compact known as the “Six Nations,” are
now a mere name. The Kaskaskias, the Peorias, and the
Piankeshaws, have fallen victims to the practice of drinking
spirits, and to the diseases this fearful habit engenders, so that
all are now reduced to a few individuals. Some tribes are
totally extinguished;—as, for example the hospitable and
friendly Mandans, of whom even the traders themselves report
that no one of them was ever known to destroy a white man.
These afford a melancholy instance of the rapidity with which
the extermination before alluded to is effected. In the year
1834, when Mr Catlin visited these warlike and spirited, yet
kindly dwellers of the woods, their number was 2000; three
years after, they were infected by the traders with small-pox;
and this, with certain suicides committed by individuals who
could not survive the loss of all they loved, destroyed the
whole tribe, some forty excepted, who were afterwards cut off
by their enemies of a neighbouring tribe, so that at this
moment not a Mandan exists over the whole wide continent,
where, before the baleful appearance of the white man, his free
ancestors ranged so happily.

This is bad, but a still more melancholy element of decay is
the habit of drinking spirituous liquors, which is daily gaining
ground among these hapless Americans; this produces an
amount of crime and suffering that, even in our own country,
could find no parallel; not only is the excitable nature of
the Red man stirred to actual madness by these atrocious
poisons; but because, unlike his brother of civilized countries,
he depends on his own unassisted physical powers for the most
immediate and pressing wants of life—no grazier or butcher,
no miller or baker, has he to provide for a time against improvidence
on his part; from no accommodating “shop” can his
wife gain credit for the moment—his family starves at once if
his own resources are destroyed; and an eloquent writer of the
day has well remarked, that “it is dreadful to reflect on the
situation of a poor Indian hunter, when he finds, he knows not
why, that his limbs are daily failing him in the chase, that his
arrow ceases to go straight to the mark, and that his nerves
tremble before the wild animals it was but lately his pride to
encounter.” We have been furnished by intelligent eye-witnesses
with fearful instances of wrong and outrage committed
by the unhappy Indians on each other while under the influence
of the poison which we Christians—ah, woe for the profanation!—have
bestowed on our Red brothers; but our limits
do not permit their insertion.

We call the native American, “Indian,” in compliance
with established custom; but there is no propriety in the
term as applied to these people, who call themselves “Red
men,” and nothing else. They are for the most part of robust
make and of fair average size, except the Esquimaux
inhabitants of the extreme north, who are dwarfish, and
the Abipones, natives of the southern extremity of this
vast continent, who are of great height; they have prominent
features, high cheek-bones, and small deeply set black
eyes; their complexion is a cinnamon colour, varying in its
shades, and esteemed handsome among themselves in proportion
as it is dark, but with a clear, warm, coppery hue, which
last they esteem an evidence of the divine favour, for they
believe that the Great Spirit loved his Red children better than
their white brethren, and so breathed a more vivid life into
their veins; a distinction of which the visible sign is the glowing
complexion we have alluded to.

The meaner vices are held in especial contempt among the
yet uncontaminated Indians: slanderers, cowards, liars, misers,
and debtors who refuse to pay when the means are in their
power, are shunned as persons in whose society no respectable
man should be seen. On the subject of debt, in particular,
Indian notions differ widely from ours. Should his debtor be
unable to meet his engagements in consequence of illness or
want of success in the chase, he scrupulously conceals the
inconvenience this may occasion, and is careful never to name
debt in the defaulter’s presence.

But, on the other hand, should the inability of the debtor
proceed from indolence or intemperance, or should he be indisposed
to pay when his means permit, he is then characterised
as a “bad man”—his friends gradually abandon him, he
becomes an object of public contempt, and nothing could after
this induce his creditor to accept from him even his just demand.
He is no longer permitted to pay; he has forfeited the
privilege of the upright man, and must remain in the contempt
into which he has sunk; but such instances, it will be
readily supposed, are extremely rare.

[Pg 43]

Cowardice is not punished by loss of reputation alone in
some tribes; as, among the Kansas, if the coward be found
incorrigible, he is destroyed. Te-pa-gee was a young warrior
of this tribe, who had been more than once charged with
this fatal defect. He returned on a certain occasion with his
brethren from an expedition that had been eminently successful,
but in which he had himself behaved disgracefully. The
whole tribe, except those who had lost relations, were engaged
the next day in the usual rejoicings; but Te-pa-gee, conscious
that cold looks were upon him, had withdrawn from the public
ceremonials, and seated himself sullenly on the trunk of a tree
by the river side. Shortly after, the dances of the squaws and
children having led them into his neighbourhood, the great mass
of the tribe were again around him, when E-gron-ga-see, one of
their wisest men and bravest warriors, came forth from the
festive group, and the sports being suspended, he declared to
the offender, in a voice audible to all, that his cowardice had
forfeited his life. Te-pa-gee instantly bared his breast, and
the avenger, drawing his knife from beneath his robe, plunged
it deep into the culprit’s bosom. Another warrior of equal
authority then addressed the people, expatiating on the necessity
of punishing such crimes as that committed by Te-pa-gee,
who had meanwhile died before them almost without a groan.
This fact is related by an eye-witness, who does not, however,
tell us whether the unhappy man’s constancy in death did not
go far to convince his judges that his fault was rather a defect
of nerve than the absence of power to endure.

It is the custom of Indians at war with each other to imitate
the cries of various animals of the chase, for the purpose
of luring unwary hunters into an ambush. Three young warriors
of the Ottawas being thus decoyed into a wood, two of
them were shot and scalped; the third ran for his life, without
discharging his piece, setting up the yell of defeat as he ran.
The men of his tribe were alarmed, and went instantly in pursuit
of the enemy, whom they could not overtake; but on their
return, they fell in with a hunting party of the same tribe,
whom they fell upon by surprise and scalped. The usual rejoicings
of the women and children took place on their return;
they were seated under the shade of broad trees to smoke with
the old men, and Shembagah, the one who had escaped by
running, went towards them with looks congratulating their
success; but no one deigned him a look, or a word of notice,
and he had scarcely got among them before all rose and left,
the place. This punishment was too great for him to bear;
he left his people without saying a word or taking leave of any
one, and was never more heard of, while the relater of this
anecdote remained with the tribe.

A girl of the Ottawas being taken prisoner by a party of
the Kansas, was adopted into the family of a Kansas chief,
and soon afterwards betrothed to his son, a youth named
Moi-bee-she-ga, or the Sharp Knife. A few days before the
espousals were to be solemnised, it happened that a party of
the Mahaws came and fell upon the horses of the Kansas,
which were grazing in a neighbouring prairie, and which they
succeeded in carrying off; they were detected in the act by some
Kansas women who were gathering wood, and the warriors
being apprised, set off in pursuit. The old chief, now laden
with many snows, was unable to accompany his warriors,
whom Moi-bee-she-ga ought to have headed, but this last
chose to remain with his bride. This so enraged his father,
that he seized the arms which the recreant son shrank from
using, and destroyed them before his face, declaring that Moi-bee-she-ga
had become a squaw, and needed no arms. The
Ottawa girl, equally shocked by the dereliction of her lover, to
whom she had been warmly attached, refused to fulfil her engagement
of marriage; and the delinquent, abandoned on all
hands, was driven in disgrace from his people, and joined a
party of the wandering Pawnees.

The Indian is scrupulously exact in the performance of his
engagements, and this the traders know so well, that they feel
no apprehension, when, having delivered their goods to their
Indian customer, they see him plunge into his trackless wilderness
with his purchase, and disappear amid wilds into which
no civilized foot could follow him. They know that his first
care will be to secure the game whose skin is to assist in the
redemption of his promise; and at the stipulated moment he
is again seen to emerge from the forest, unconscious even that
what we should call an unusual degree of confidence has been
reposed in him, and guided only by his own pure and simple
conviction, that a promise once given is a sacred thing, and to
be redeemed at whatever cost.

Lying and treachery are held in profound abhorrence; we
could relate very many facts in support of this assertion, but
will confine ourselves to the two following ones only:—A distinguished
warrior of the Assinneboins accompanied Major
Sanford to Washington in 1832, and being there, became acquainted
with the more obvious details of every-day life
among the civilized; these he described to his people on his
return, and was listened to for some time with respectful attention;
but at length the wonders he related surpassing their
powers of belief, they decided that he had been taught by
the white men to lie, and that in a manner so shameless as to
make him a dangerous example to his younger hearers; they
then, after much solemn deliberation, concluded that he was
unworthy to live, and the unhappy man was put to death accordingly;
his protestations of innocence being regarded but as
a deeper plunging into crime.

Every thing connected with the dead is held sacred, but the
mode of burial differs widely in different tribes. Some place
the body dressed and armed with bow, quiver, tomahawk, &c.,
on the ground between flat stones set edge upwards, and cover
it, first with similar stones, and afterwards with earth; others
bury at about two feet below the earth. Among the Mandans
it was customary (alas for the necessity of that “was”) to lay
their dead, well wrapped in skins, on high scaffolds, as practised
by the Parsees of Asia. After a sufficient lapse of time,
the bones were gathered, and buried with solemn ceremonies,
the skulls excepted, which were ranged in a circle within a
larger one formed of buffalo skulls, and thither the women
belonging to the family of the deceased repair to soothe the departed
with songs, to inform him how those he left behind are
faring, and to feed him with their choicest dainties, dishes of
which they leave behind at their departure.

Mourning for the dead is expressed by certain modes of
paint, and among some tribes by cutting off locks of the hair.
The sketch that accompanies this paper represents two warriors,
and a woman of the Sacs and Foxes, mourning over the
tomb of Black Hawk, the celebrated leader of the war known
as the Black Hawk War.

A party of Ottawas and the Kansas having been at war,
had met “to bury the tomahawk under the roots of the
tree of friendship, and sit under its shadow to smoke the pipe
of peace, and to hear the birds sing.” Some traders passed
through their hunting-grounds, from whom they purchased
whisky, and, heated by this, an Ottawa quarrelled with a
Kansa; but being reminded by their friends of the lately promised
peace, they desisted from all hostility, and both, with
the whole party, soon after fell asleep. The Ottawa, awaking
first, stabbed his sleeping adversary to the heart, and fled
into the forest. When the whole party aroused themselves, they
perceived by the arms of the murdered man that he had
been taken at advantage, and the brother of the offender, abhorrent
of treachery, so foreign to Indian habits, at once declared
his intention of pursuing the culprit. Nothing doubting
his integrity, the aggrieved Kansas sat silently awaiting his
return, which took place two hours after; he had secured and
now delivered up the murderer, who was immediately put to
death.

[Pg 44]

Dancing.—Dancing is an amusement which has been discouraged
in our country by many of the best people, and not
without reason. Dancing is associated in their minds with
balls; and this is one of the worst forms of social pleasure.
The time consumed in preparation for a ball, the waste of
thought upon it, the extravagance of dress, the late hours, the
exhaustion of strength, the exposure of health, and the languor
of the succeeding day—these, and other evils connected
with this amusement, are strong reasons for banishing it from
the community. But dancing ought not therefore to be proscribed.
On the contrary, balls should be discouraged for
this, among other reasons, that dancing, instead of being a
rare pleasure, requiring elaborate preparation, may become
an every-day amusement, and may mix with our common
intercourse. This exercise is among the most healthful. The
body, as well as the mind, feels its gladdening influence.
No amusement seems more to have a foundation in our
nature. The animation of youth naturally overflows in harmonious
movements. The true idea of dancing entitles it to
favour. Its end is to realise perfect grace in motion; and
who does not know that a sense of the graceful is one of the
higher faculties of our nature? It is to be desired that dancing
should become too common among us to be made the
object of special preparation, as in the ball; that members of
the same family, when confined by unfavourable weather,
should recur to it for exercise and exhilaration; that branches
of the same family should enliven in this way their occasional
meetings; that it should fill up an hour in all the assemblages
for relaxation, in which the young form a part. It is to be
desired that this accomplishment should be extended to the
labouring classes of society, not only as an innocent pleasure,
but as a means of improving the manners. Why shall not
gracefulness be spread through the whole community?
From the French nation we learn that a degree of grace and
refinement of manners may pervade all classes. The philanthropist
and Christian must desire to break down the partition
walls between human beings in different conditions: and
one means of doing this is to remove the conscious awkwardness
which confinement to laborious occupations is apt to
induce. An accomplishment, giving free and graceful movement,
though a far weaker bond than intellectual or moral
culture, still does something to bring those who partake it
near each other.—Dr Channing’s Address on Temperance.

SEAL OF WILLIAM, BISHOP OF KILDARE.

The prefixed woodcut represents an impression from the seal
of one of the bishops of Kildare anterior to the Reformation,
the matrix of which is in the possession of a gentleman in
Dublin.

The device exhibits three statues standing in canopied
niches, of the florid Gothic or pointed style of architecture of
the fifteenth century. The centre figure represents the Virgin
and child, and the figures on each side appear intended to
represent the patron saints of Ireland. Patrick and Brigid.
Below the centre figure there is a smaller niche, containing a
figure of another ecclesiastic, with his hands raised, in the
attitude of prayer, and his arm supporting the pastoral staff.
This figure, it is probable, is intended to represent St Conlæth,
the first bishop of Kildare, who was cotemporary with
St Brigid, and said to have been the joint founder of that see.
On each side of this figure is a shield, one of which bears the
arms of France and England quarterly; the other, two keys
in saltire, in chief a royal crown; a device which, it is worthy
of remark, constitutes the arms anciently and still borne by
the archbishops of York, and the appearance of which in this
seal may therefore not be easy to account for. The inscription
reads as follows:—

“Sigillum Willim dei gracia Kyldarens epi,”

or, Sigillum Willelmi dei gratia Kyldarensis Episcopus (the
seal of William, by the grace of God, Bishop of Kildare).

As among the bishops of Kildare two of the name of William
occur in the fifteenth century, it may not be easy to
determine with certainty to which of them this seal should be
assigned; but there appears the greatest reason to ascribe it
to the first, who, according to Ware, having been previously
archdeacon of Kildare, was appointed to this see by the provision
of Pope Eugene IV, in 1432, and, having governed this
see fourteen years, died in April 1446.

P.

THE DESOLATION OF SCIO.
(1822.)

Patriotism.—Patriotism, or love of country, is a sentiment
which pervades almost every human breast, and induces each
individual to prefer the land of his birth, not because it is better
than another country, but merely because it is his country.
This sentiment may be illustrated by a variety of anecdotes.
Many of the Swiss, on account of the poverty of their country,
are induced to seek military service in foreign lands.
Yet, in their voluntary exile, so strong is their affection for
their native hills, that whole regiments have been said to be
on the point of desertion, in consequence of the vivid recollections
excited by one of their national songs. A French
writer informs us that a native of one of the Asiatic isles,
amid the splendours of Paris, beholding a banana-tree in the
Garden of Plants, bathed it with tears, and seemed for a
moment to be transported to his own land. The Ethiopian
imagines that God made his sands and deserts, while angels
only were employed in forming the rest of the world. The
Maltese, insulated on a rock, distinguished their island by the
appellation of “The Flower of the World.” The Javanese
have such an affection for the place of their nativity, that no
advantages can induce them, particularly the agricultural
tribes, to quit the tombs of their fathers. The Norwegians,
proud of their barren summits, inscribe upon their rix-dollars,
“Spirit, loyalty, valour, and whatever is honourable, let the
world learn among the rocks of Norway.” The Esquimaux
are no less attached to their frigid zone, esteeming the luxuries
of blubber-oil for food, and an ice cabin for a habitation,
above all the refinements of other countries.—Fireside Education,
by S. G. Goodrich.

If a man be gracious and civil to a stranger, it shows he is
a citizen of the world, and that his heart is no island cut off
from other lands, but a continent that joins them.

[Pg 45]

THE SOD PARTY.

PART II.

In those days the favourite resort for parties of pleasure was
the rocky shore of Howth, facing Killiney, and our party had
selected a spot which was well known to two or three of them.
It was a little hollow in the rocks, where the mould had
collected, and was covered with a smooth close sod. Its
form resembled a horse shoe, the open being to the sea; and
the rock descended at that side perpendicularly six or seven
feet to the water. There was just room enough for the party
to seat themselves comfortably, so that every one could enjoy
the seaward view. It was a considerable distance from the
place where the vehicles should stop; indeed, the hill intervened
and should be crossed, so that it was no trifling matter
to carry a large basket or hamper to it.

O’Gorman resolved not to encumber himself with any thing
that might divide his attention with his charming partner; and,
accordingly, when they had pulled up, calling to the driver of
the jarvey, “Here, Murphy,” said he, “you’ll take charge of
the basket that’s slung under the gig, and follow the rest when
they’re ready.”

“Oh, to be sure, sir, sartinly,” was the reply, and away
went Bob to show the scenery to Miss Kate, from various
points quite unknown to her before, leaving the remainder of
the party to settle matters as they pleased.

Murphy’s assistance was required by the servants who were
unlading the carriages first; and each gentleman, taking a
basket or bundle, and even the ladies charging themselves
with some light articles, they set forward, leaving two or
three heavy hampers to the servants’ charge.

All having at length departed, except Mr O’Donnell’s servant,
who had been left in charge of the vehicles, and Murphy,
who was to take the gig basket, the latter proceeded to unstrap
it. As he shook it in opening the buckles, some broken
glass fell upon the road.

“Oh! miallia murther! what’s this? My sowl to glory,
if half the bottom isn’t out ov the bashket. Och hone, oh!
Masther Bob, bud you are the raal clip. By gannies, he’s
dhruv till he’s dhruv the knives and forks clane through; the
dickens a one there’s left; an’ as for the glasses, be my
sowl he’d be a handy fellow that ud put one together. Oh!
marcy sa’ me! here’s a purty mess. Musha! what’s best to
be done, at all at all?”

“Take it to them any how,” answered his companion, “and
show it to them.”

“Arrah, what’s the use of hawkin’ it over the mountain?
Can’t I jist go an’ tell what’s happened?”

“Take care you wouldn’t have to come back for it,” said
the other, “an’ have two journies instead of one. Maybe they
wouldn’t b’lieve you, thinkin’ it was only a thrick that that
limb o’ th’ ould boy put you up to.”

The prospect of a second journey, on such a hot day, not
being particularly agreeable, Murphy took up the shattered
basket and proceeded.

Having yet two hours to spare, the party resolved to consume
them by sauntering about until the hour appointed for
dinner, which being come, and all having assembled at one
point, near the Bailey, they proceeded together to the chosen
spot, where they found Murphy awaiting them with a most
rueful countenance. He had been vainly trying to invent some
plausible excuse for his patron, as he dreaded that all the
blame would be thrown upon Bob’s hard driving at setting out.

“The bottom’s fell out o’ the blaggard rotten ould bashket,
ma’am, an’ the knives an’ forks has fell an the road.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr Sharpe (who did not seem to be either so
astonished or angry as one might have expected), “give them
a rub in a napkin; a little dust won’t do them any harm.”

“Why, thin, the sorra a one o’ them there is to rub,” said
Murphy, “barrin’ this one crukked ould fork.”

Despite his loss, Mr Sharpe could not refrain from laughing
when Murphy held up an article, which had certainly been
packed for a joke, it was so distorted, one prong being tolerably
straight, but the other sticking out as if it was going to
march. However, collecting himself, he asked sternly, “Do
you mean to tell me that all the knives and forks were lost
upon the road?” “Jist so, sir,” was the reply.

“The glass; is it safe?”

“Bruck, sir—all in smithereens; sorra as much ov id together
as ud show what the patthern was.”

“And the spoons,” roared Mr Sharpe, as if the thought
had only just struck him.

“Spoons! sir. Oh, be my sowl you’d betther look for thim
yourself; here’s the bashket.”

“This is a costly party to me,” said Mr Sharpe, “but it
can’t be helped now; so don’t let my loss cause any diminution
of your pleasure or enjoyment.”

Every one looked with perfect admiration at Mr Sharpe,
surprised at his magnanimity, and Mrs Harvey thought that
she must have altogether mistaken his character hitherto; but
she would not have thought so, had she known that he had
purposely procured a rotten basket, with the bottom partially
broken, in which he had packed a quantity of broken glass,
and in which he (of course) had not packed either spoons,
knives, or forks, except the very one which Murphy had held
up; and it was to prevent examination or inquiry that he had
been so voluble upon his arrival in the morning. But had his
loss been, as the company supposed, real instead of fictitious,
he must have been gratified, nay delighted, at the dismay
which gradually spread itself over almost every countenance,
at the prospect of having to eat a dinner without knives, forks,
or spoons, and to drink without glasses, or even cups.

“Gentlemen,” said Mr Harvey, “have you got penknives
with you? I have forgotten mine.”

So had every one else except Mr Sharpe. He would willingly
have kept it secret, but he knew that if he should attempt
to use it himself, it would be seen; so he made a virtue
of necessity, and lent it to Mr Harvey for the purpose of
carving the roast beef!

The dinner was now nearly arranged, and the last basket,
in which Mulholland had packed the roast beef, was opened.
The remnant of an old college gown was first dragged forth,
and Mr O’Brien’s servant, to whom the task was assigned,
looked in, tittered, looked again, and then drew forth two long
large ribs, with a piece of meat about the size of a cricket
ball attached to the ends of them. Having laid them on the
dish, he dipped again, and produced, with another titter, a
shapeless lump of meat without any bone—(he would be a
clever anatomist that could tell what part of the beast it had
been). Another dip, and with a roar of laughter he raised and
deposited on the dish four ribs, from which nearly every morsel
of meat had been cut.

“What is the meaning of this, Mr O’Gorman?” said Mrs
Harvey, who was quite disconcerted at the turn things had
taken, and was now seriously disposed to be angry.

“My dear madam,” said he, “it may look a little unsightly,
but it is all prime meat, depend upon it. It was dressed yesterday
for the College dining-hall.”

“You don’t mean, surely, to call bare bones meat, sir?”

“My dear madam,” said Bob, “you will find that there is
as much meat without bone as will compensate. Mulholland
is a very honest fellow in that respect.”

Some laughed, some were annoyed, some were disgusted;
but by degrees hunger asserted its rights, and reconciled them
a little, especially when O’Gorman pointed out how much
easier it would be to carve the small pieces with a penknife,
than if they had but one large one.

“Well,” said Mrs Harvey, “I have long indulged the hope
of having a pic-nic party so perfectly arranged that nothing
should go astray; and so far have I been from succeeding,
that I really do think there never was a more unfortunate,
irregular affair. I really do not know what to say, and I feel
quite incompetent to preside. Mr O’Gorman, as you have the
happy knack of making the best of every thing, I believe you
are the person best qualified in this company to make the
most of the matter, and we must rely on your ingenuity.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That is as much as to say, ‘Bob,
as you have treated us to broken meat, and lost the knives
and forks, you will please to carve!’ Well, nabocklish, this
isn’t a round table, like Prince Arthur’s, for it’s little more
than half round, and we have old Howth at the head, and old
Neptune at the foot of it; but, for the rest, we don’t stand
upon precedence, and therefore I need not change my place,
to preside. Mr Harvey, I’ll trouble you for the penknife—I
beg pardon—the carver—hem! and that specimen of antediluvian
cutlery, the ‘crukked ould fork.’ Thank you—shove over
the beef now. Ods marrow-bones and cleavers! what a heap!
Gentlemen, you had better turn up your cuffs as a needful
preliminary; and, perchance, an ablution may also be necessary—you
can get down to the water here, at this side.”

As soon as the party had re-assembled, after having washed
their hands, he again addressed them.

“Mr Sharpe, and Mr Harvey, will you please to drag that,
turkey asunder? Mr O’Brien, will you tear a wing off that[Pg 46]
fowl for Miss O’Donnell? Fitz, gnaw the cord off one of
those ale bottles; draw the cork with your teeth, and send
the bottle round. The corkscrew was with the knives.”

“Draw my teeth with the cork, you mean; I had rather
knock off the neck, thank you,” said Fitz, about to suit the
action to the word.

“No, no,” cried Bob, “do you forget that we must drink
out of the bottles? Do you want the ladies to cut their
pretty lips with the broken glass, you Mohawk! Though,
faith,” said he, in an under-tone, to his fair companion, “I
could almost wish such an accident to happen to some one that
I know, that I might have an opportunity of exhibiting my
courageous devotion, by sucking the wound.”

“A prize! a prize!” cried he, jumping up and running a
little distance. He returned with five or six large Malahide
oyster shells, that had been bleaching on the cliff, where they
had been thrown by some former party. Two of them were
top shells. “Here,” said he, throwing one to Sweeny, “is a
carver for that ham; make haste and put an edge on it, on the
rock. Ladies, here are primitive drinking goblets for you.
Miss O’Brien, the pleasure of a shell of wine with you.”

“I have put a very good edge on the shell,” said Sweeny,
“but I can’t cut the ham with it, it slides about so.”

“Psha! take a grip of it by the shank, can’t you? What
are you afraid of, you omedhaun? Hold it fast, and don’t let
it slide. Costello, break up that loaf and send it round.
Mr O’Donnell, will you have the goodness to hold one of these
ribs for me. Oh, faith, finger and thumb work won’t do;
you must take it in your fist, and hold it tight; now pull—bravo!
Beau Brummell would be just in his element here.
Be my sowl, as Paddy Murphy says, I think if he saw us,
he’d jump into that element there to get away.”

Mr Sharpe was now in his glory; he had, with Mr Harvey’s
assistance, torn up the turkey; and seeing that Bob had decidedly
the worst job at the table, he asked him for beef. Mr
Harvey joined in the joke, and put in also; but their man was
too able for them.

“As you are in partnership in the turkey business, in which
you have been so successful,” said he, “you had better continue
so, in the general provision line,” handing them a piece
sufficient to satisfy two, and prevent them from calling again.

“Bill” (to one of the college men), “here’s a shell for you
to cut the crust of that pie, and help it. Jem” (to another),
“Miss Kate O’Brien wishes for some of that chicken that
you are trying to dislocate, as gently as if you were afraid of
hurting it, or greasing your fingers.” “What part?” said Jem.

“A little of the soul, if you please,” said Kate, with a maliciously
demure face.

“Here it is for you. Miss Kate, soul and body;” and he
handed it to her.

No water fit for drinking could be procured, and the consequence
was, that the ale, porter, and wine, were swallowed too
abundantly by the gentlemen. Songs were called for, and
O’Gorman was in the midst of the “Groves of Blarney,” when
Costello shouted out, “A porpoise! a porpoise!”

Up jumped the whole party, and up also jumped the table-cloth,
which Mr O’Donnell and Mr Sharpe had fastened to
their coats or waistcoats.

They sat directly facing the opening to the water, with
Mrs Harvey between them; so that when, by their sudden
start up, they raised the cloth, it formed an inclined plane,
down which dishes, plates, bottles, pies, bread, and meat,
glided, not majestically, but too rapidly, into the sea. Then,
oh! what a clamour!

Above the jingling of broken bottles and plates, the crash
of dishes, and the exclamations of the gentlemen, arose the
never-failing shriek of the ladies. And then came a pause,
whilst they silently watched the last dish as it gracefully receded
from their view.

“Oh! faith,” said Mrs Harvey (surprised by her emotion
into using a gentle oath), “I think it is time to go home now.”

“Faith,” said O’Gorman, “it is time to leave the dinner-table
at all events, since the things have been removed; but
as to going home, we have so little to carry, or look after,
besides ourselves and—hic—the ladies, that I think, with all
respect to Mrs Harvey, we may—hic—take it easy. I wish
I could get a drink of water to cure this hic—hiccough; for I
am certain, Miss O’Brien, I need not assure you—indeed I
can appeal to you to bear witness—hic—that it was the want,
not the quantity of liquid, that has brought it on.”

The “want,” however, had made Bob’s eyes particularly
and unusually luminous; nor did Kate take his proposition
“to launch all the hampers and baskets, after their recent
contents, into the sea,” to be any additional proof of his self-possession;
and when, with a caper and whoop, he sent Mulholland’s
basket to the fishes, her suspicions that he was
slightly elevated became considerably strengthened.

“Mrs Harvey,” said Mr Sharpe, “you think your party
unfortunate. I have been upon a great many parties of this
kind, and I assure you I have seen far more unpleasant
affairs—(Gentlemen, here are a few bottles of wine that have
escaped the watery fate of their unhappy companions). Now,
the very last party that I was on last season, three or four of
the gentlemen quarrelled (pass the wine if you please), and
one of them, in the scrimmage, was knocked over the rocks
into the sea.”

“Mercy on us, Mr Sharpe! was he drowned?”

“Why, no, but his collar-bone was broken, and his shoulder
dislocated. But a worse accident happened in coming
home.”

“What was it?”

“Poor Singleton had come, with his wife and two nieces, in
a job carriage; the driver got drunk, and overturned the
whole concern, just where the road branches off down to the
strand; they rolled over the cliff, and fell about twenty feet;
the horses were both killed, and the whole party dreadfully
injured, barely escaping with life. Then, the quarrel after
dinner (by which Jones got his collar-bone broken) led to a
duel on the following morning, in which one of the parties,
Edwards, fell; and his antagonist, young O’Neill, got a bullet
in his knee, which has lamed and disfigured him for life.
Pass the wine, gentlemen.”

“No! no! no!” screamed Mrs Harvey, on whom the above
delectable recital had had the desired effect, and who was
worked into a desperate state of terror, “no more wine, gentlemen,
if you please. Come, ladies, we must return at once,
before evening closes in.”

Each lady being perfectly satisfied that the gentleman who
had fallen to her lot would keep sober, whatever others might
do, demurred to the early retreat; but Mrs Harvey was too
much frightened at the prospect of returning with gentlemen
and drivers drunk, not to be determined; and, accordingly,
with much growling, and the most general dissatisfaction, the
party broke up.

“I am done with pic-nics—I’ll never have any thing to say
to one again,” said the disappointed directress. “There
never was any affair more perfectly arranged, never was so
much care taken to have things regular. I never proposed to
myself such enjoyment as I expected this day.”

“My dear Mrs Harvey,” said O’Gorman, to whose countenance
the last four or five shells of wine had imparted an
air of the most profound wisdom, “my dear Mrs Harvey,
‘the whole art of happiness is contentment.’ This is the great
secret of enjoyment in this life—this is the talisman that
clothes poverty in imperial robes, and imparts to the hovel a
grandeur unknown to the halls of princes—this is the true
philosopher’s stone, for which alchymists so long have sought
in vain, that converts all it touches into gold—this is the cosmetic
that beautifies the ill-favoured wife, and the magic wand
that bestows upon the frugal board the appearance of surpassing
plenty—this is the shield of adamantine proof, on
which disappointment vainly showers its keenest darts—this
is the impregnable fortress, ensconced in which, we may
boldly bid defiance to the combined forces of sublunary ills—and
whether it be announced from the pulpit or the cliff, by
the dignified divine or the college scamp; be it soothingly
whispered in the ear of the deposed and exiled monarch, or
tendered as comfort to the discomfited authoress of a pic-nic,
it still retains, in undiminished force, its universality of application”——

Here Mr Sweeny facetiously gave him a slap on the crown
of the hat, which drove it down, and stuck it gracefully over
his eye, thereby breaking the thread of his discourse. He
then addressed the fair Catherine; but all his eloquence and
profundity were unavailing to induce her to return with him
in the gig. She would listen to nothing but the carriage,
and as room could not be made for him inside, he mounted
the box, leaving the gig to any one that pleased to have it.
Nor was it long untenanted. Frank Costello and Bill Nowlan
mounted together, and were found in it next morning fast
asleep, in the stable-lane behind Mr Sharpe’s house, the horse
having found his way home when left to his own guidance.

[Pg 47]

The remainder of the party arrived as safely, but somewhat
more regularly, in the evening of their eventful day,
and all dissatisfied except Mr O’Gorman, and

Naisi.

STREET TACTICS.

You, most respectable reader, who owe no man any thing that
you are not able and willing to pay, may know nothing of the
tactics alluded to in the title of this paper. But there
is, you may depend upon it, a pretty numerous class of the
community to whom these tactics are quite familiar, and who
practise them to a greater or lesser extent every day of their
lives.

Street tactics, let us define the term, is the art or science
of avoiding all persons on the streets, and all places in the
streets—shops, for instance—whom and which, for particular
reasons of your own, you are desirous of eschewing.

The art is thus one of deep concernment to the whole of
that numerous and respectable body known by the generic
name of “gentlemen in difficulties.” This term, however, is
one of very extensive signification, and includes various descriptions
of gentlemen as well as difficulties; but on the present
occasion we mean to confine ourselves to one particular
class—the gentlemen whose difficulties arise from their having
more creditors than crowns—the gentlemen who have
contrived to surround themselves with a large constituency of
the former, and who cannot by any means contrive to get hold
of an adequate supply of the latter—the gentlemen who are
sufficiently respectable to get into debt, but not sufficiently
wealthy to get out of it.

The reader can have no idea how difficult a matter it is for
a gentleman of this description to work his way through the
streets, so as to avoid all unpleasant encounters; how serious
a matter it is for him to move from one point of the city to
another. To him the streets are, in fact, as difficult and dangerous
to traverse as if they were strewed with heated plough-shares,
or lined with concealed pitfalls. He cannot move a
hundred yards, unless he moves warily, without encountering
somebody to whom he owes something, or passing some shop
where his name is not in the most savoury odour.

It is, then, the manœuvring necessary to avoid those disagreeables
that constitutes street tactics, and confers on the
gentleman who practises them the character of what we would
call a street tactician.

This person, as already hinted, when he moves at all, must
move cautiously, and must consider well, before he starts, which
is his safest course; which the course in which he is least
likely to encounter an enemy in the shape of a creditor, and
which will subject him to running the gauntlet of the fewest
number of obnoxious shops. The amount of manœuvring
required to accomplish this is amazing, and the ingenuity
exhibited in it frequently very remarkable.

When on the move, the street tactician is obliged to be constantly
on the alert, to have all his eyes about him, lest an
enemy should come upon him unawares. This incessant vigilance
keeps him always wide awake, always on the look-out,
and makes him as sharp as a needle. Even while speaking to
you, his keen and restless eye is roving up and down the street
to see that no danger is approaching.

Like the training of the Indian, this incessant vigilance improves
his physical faculties wonderfully, especially his vision,
which it renders singularly acute. He can detect a creditor
at a distance at which the nearest friend, the most intimate
acquaintance of that person, could not recognise him: he
can see him approaching in a crowded street, where no other
eye but his own could possibly single him out.

Gifted with this remarkable power of vision, it is rare that
the street tactician is taken by surprise, as it affords him time
to plan and effect his escape, at both of which he is amazingly
prompt and dexterous.

As the great object with the street tactician in moving
from one point of the city to another is not the shortest but
the safest course, he is necessarily subjected to a vast deal of
traverse sailing, and thereby to enormous increases of distance,
being frequently obliged to make the circuit of half
the town to get at the next street. His way is thus most particularly
devious, and to one who should watch his motions
without knowing the principles on which he moves, would appear
altogether incomprehensible. Here he crosses a street
with a sudden dart, there he turns a corner with a slow and
stealthy step; now he walks deliberately, now as if it were
for a wager. Again he walks slowly; then comes a sudden
brush: it is to clear some dangerous spot in which an
enemy is lurking in ambuscade—the shop door of a creditor.
Now he cuts down an alley; now hesitates before he emerges
at the opposite end; now darts out of it as if he had been
fired from it, like a shell from a mortar. And thus, and thus,
and thus he finally completes his circuitous and perilous
journey. It is fatiguing and laborious work, but it must be
done if he would avoid being worried to death.

Besides that ever watchfulness, that sleepless vigilance that
distinguishes the street tactician, there is about him a degree
of presence of mind not less worthy of special notice. It is
by this ready fortitude and coolness of temper that he is enabled,
even when in what may be called the immediate presence
of an enemy, to devise and execute with promptness and decision
the most ingenious expedients for avoiding personal contact—that
enables him, when within twenty yards of the foe
(when so near that a less experienced hand, one of less steady
nerve, would inevitably fall into the clutches of his dun, and
who would at once be given up for lost by any on-looker) to
effect a retreat, and thus avoid the crave personal—in so cool
and masterly a way, that the enemy himself shall not know
that he has been shirked, but shall be deceived into a belief
that he has not been seen, and that the pretext, or pretexts,
under cover of which the street tactician has evaded him, has
or have been true and natural. This is a difficult point to
manage; but old hands ran do it admirably, and, when well
done, is a very beautiful manœuvre.

The skilful street tactician never exhibits any flurry or agitation,
however imminent his danger may be: it is only green-horns
that do this. Neither does he hurry or run away from
an enemy when he sees him. This would at once betray malice
prepense, and excite the utmost wrath of the latter, who, the
moment he got home, would put his claim into the hands of his
lawyer; a proceeding which he must by no means be provoked
into adopting.

The skilful street tactician takes care of this, then, and
studies to effect his retreats in such a way as to excite no suspicion
of design. He does, indeed, take some very sudden and
abrupt turns down streets and up lanes when he sees an
enemy approaching; but he does it with so unconscious a look,
and with such a bona fide air, that neither you nor his creditor
would for a moment suspect any thing else than that he
was just going that way at any rate. This operation requires
great command both of muscle and manner, and can be successfully
performed only by a very superior practitioner.

To the street tactician, carts, carriages, and other large
moving objects, are exceedingly useful auxiliaries as covers
from the enemy, and the dexterity and tact with which he
avails himself of their aid in effecting a “go-by,” is amazing.
By keeping the cart, carriage, or other body in a direct line
between him and the foe, he effects many wonderful, many
hair-breadth escapes. The chaise or cart is in this way, and
for this purpose, a very good thing, but the waggon of hay,
slow in its motion, and huge in its bulk, makes the best of all
protecting covers.

With a waggon of hay moving along with him, and a very
little manœuvring on his own part, the expert tactician could
traverse the whole city without the risk of a single encounter.
But his having such an accompaniment for any length of time,
is of course out of the question. He must just be content to
avail himself of it when chance throws it in his way, and be
thankful for its protection throughout the length of a street.

We have heard experienced street tacticians, men on whose
skill and judgment we would be disposed to place every
reliance, say, that it is a very absurd practice to run across
a street to avoid a shop, and to pass along on the opposite side.
Such a proceeding, they say—and there is reason and common
sense, as well as scientific knowledge, in the remark—only exposes
you more to the enemy, by passing you through a larger
space of his field of vision—by giving him, in short, a longer,
a fuller, and a fairer view of you. Far better, they say, to
walk close by his window at a smart pace, when the chances
are greatly in favour of your passing unobserved.

This way of giving a shop the “go-by” requires, indeed,
more courage, more resolution than the other, being, certainly,
rather a daring exploit; but we are satisfied, that, like
boldness of movement in the battle-field, it is, after all, the
least dangerous.

C.

[Pg 48]

DEATH OF CATHAL, THE RED-HANDED
O’CONOR.

(As recorded in the Annals of the Four Masters, translated
by Mr O’Donovan.)

A.D. 1224.—In the spring of this year, a heavy and an
awful shower of strange rain fell on a part of Connaught,
viz. Hy-Maine in Hy-Diarmada, and other places, which produced
virulent infections and diseases amongst the cattle of
these territories, as soon as they had eaten of the grass upon
which the shower had fallen. The milk of these cattle, also,
when partaken of by the inhabitants, caused various inward
diseases among them. It was but natural that these ominous
signs should appear this year in Connaught, for they were the
foreboding heralds of a very great loss and calamity, which
fell this year upon the Connacians, namely, the death of Cathal
the Red-handed, son of Torlogh More O’Conor, and King
of Connaught, who had been the chief scourge of the traitors
and enemies of Ireland; who had contributed more than any
other man to relieve the wants of the clergy, the poor, and the
indigent, and into whose heart God had infused more goodness
and greater virtues than adorned any other cotemporary
Irish prince; for, from the time of his wife’s death to the time
of his own death, he had led a chaste and virtuous life. It
was in his time, also, that tithes were first lawfully paid in Ireland.
This honourable and upright king, this discreet, pious,
just-judging warrior, died on the twenty-eighth day of summer,
on Monday precisely, in the habit of a Grey Friar, in
the monastery of Knockmoy; which monastery, together with
its site and lands, he himself had previously granted to God
and the monks; and was interred in that monastery with honour
and respect.

EELS.

Their snake-like aspect and other reptile attributes (observes
Professor Wilson, in a work recently published, entitled “The
Rod and the Gun”), no doubt tend to form and perpetuate the
prejudice which many otherwise humane-minded men cherish
towards these insidious fishes. They move on land with great
facility, and with a motion resembling that of serpents. They
have even been seen to leave fresh-water lakes during the
night in considerable numbers, apparently for the purpose of
preying on slugs and snails among the dewy herbage. They
abound in many continental rivers, and are caught in immense
numbers in those which empty themselves into the Baltic,
where they form a considerable article of trade. It is stated
that 2000 have been caught at a sweep in Jutland, and 60,000
have been taken in the Garonne by one net in a single day.
The habits of these fishes in relation to breeding, migration,
&c., are still but obscurely known. “That eels migrate
towards brackish water,” observes Mr Jesse, in his Gleanings
in Natural History, “in order to deposit their ova, I have but
little doubt, for the following reasons: From the month of
November until the end of January, provided the frost is not
very serious, eels migrate towards the sea. The Thames
fishermen are so aware of this fact, that they invariably set
their pots or baskets with their mouths up stream during
those months, while later in spring and summer they are set
down stream. The best time, however, for taking eels, is
during their passage towards the sea. The eel-traps, also,
which are set in three different streams near Hampton Court
(the contents of which at different times I have had opportunities
of examining), have invariably been supplied with eels
sufficiently large to be breeders, during the months I have
mentioned. This migratory disposition is not shown by small
eels; and it may therefore be assumed that they remain nearly
stationary till they are old enough to have spawn. I have
also ascertained that eels are taken in greater or lesser numbers
during the months of November or December, all the
way down the river to the brackish water. From thence the
young eels migrate, as soon as they are sufficiently large and
strong to encounter the several currents of the river, and
make their way to the different contributary streams. I have
also been able to trace the procession of young eels, or, as it is
here called, the eel-fair, from the neighbourhood of Blackfriars’
Bridge, as far up the river as Chertsey, although they
probably make their way as far, or farther than Oxford. So
strong, indeed, is their migratory disposition, that it is well
known few things will prevent their progress, as even at the
locks at Teddington and Hampton the young eels have been
seen to ascend the large posts of the flood-gates, in order to
make their way, when the gates have been shut longer than
usual. Those which die stick to the posts; others, which get
a little higher, meet with the same fate, until at last a sufficient
layer of them is formed to enable the rest to overcome
the difficulty of the passage. A curious instance of the means
which young eels will have recourse to, in order to perform
their migrations, is annually proved in the neighbourhood of
Bristol. Near that city there is a large pond, immediately
adjoining which is a stream; on the bank between these two
waters a large tree grows, the branches of which hang into
the pond. By means of these branches the young eels ascend
into the tree, and from thence let themselves drop into the
stream below, thus migrating to far distant waters, where
they increase in size and become useful and beneficial to man.
A friend of mine, who was a casual witness of this circumstance,
informed me that the tree appeared to be quite alive
with these little animals. The rapid and unsteady motion of
the boughs did not appear to impede their progress.”

ANECDOTE OF SHERIDAN.

Sheridan and Kelly were one day in earnest conversation
close to the gate of the path which was then open to the
public, leading across the churchyard of St Paul’s, Covent
Garden, from King street to Henrietta street, when Mr Holloway,
who was a creditor of Sheridan’s to a considerable
amount, came up to them on horseback, and accosted Sheridan
in a tone of something more like anger than sorrow, and complained
that he never could get admittance when he called,
vowing vengeance against the infernal Swiss, Monsieur François,
if he did not let him in the next time he went to Hertford
street.

Holloway was really in a passion. Sheridan knew that he
was vain of his judgment in horse-flesh, and without taking
any notice of the violence of his manner, burst into an exclamation
upon the beauty of the horse which he rode—he struck
the right chord.

“Why,” said Holloway, “I think I may say there never
was a prettier creature than this. You were speaking to me,
when I last saw you, about a horse for Mrs Sheridan; now,
this would be a treasure for a lady.”

“Does he canter well?” said Sheridan.

“Beautifully,” replied Holloway.

“If that’s the case, Holloway,” said Sheridan, “I really
should not mind stretching a point for him. Will you have
the kindness to let me see his paces?”

“To be sure,” said the lawyer; and putting himself into a
graceful attitude, he threw his nag into a canter along the
market.

The moment his back was turned, Sheridan wished Kelly
good morning, and went off through the churchyard, where
no horse could follow, into Bedford street, laughing immoderately,
as indeed did several of the standers-by. The only
person not entertained by this practical joke was Mr Holloway.—Reminiscences
of Michael Kelly.

Maid-Servants and their “Friends.”—Every master
and mistress in the United Kingdom knows what a maid-servant’s
friend is. Sometimes he is a brother, sometimes a
cousin (often a cousin), and sometimes a father, who really
wears well, and carries his age amazingly! He comes down
the area—in at the window—or through a door left ajar.
Sometimes a maid-servant, like a hare, “has many friends.”
The master of the house, after washing his hands in the back
kitchen, feels behind the door for a jack-towel, and lays hold
of a “friend’s” nose. “Friends” are shy: sometimes a footman
breaks a friend’s shins while plunging into the coal-cellar
for a shovel of nubblys. We speak feelingly, our own abode
having been once turned into a friends’ meeting-house—a fact
we became aware of through a smoky chimney; but a chimney
will smoke when there is a journeyman baker up it.—Kidd’s
Journal.

Wisdom cannot be obtained without industry and labour.
Can we hope to find gold upon the surface of the earth, when
we dig almost to the centre of it to find lead and tin, and the
baser metals!