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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

       NUMBER 39.       SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 1841.       VOLUME I.

[Illustration: THOMOND BRIDGE AND THE CASTLE OF LIMERICK.]

There is scarcely in all Ireland a scene which has so many exciting
associations connected with it as that which we have chosen as the
pictorial subject for the present number of our Journal. The bridge is
indeed a new one; but it is erected on the site of that most ancient one
which was the scene of so many a hard-fought battle for all that men
hold dear; and the castle--ruined and time-worn, it is true--is the same
fortress which served in turn the race by whom it was erected, and, as if
partaking of the change which our soil is said to make in the feelings
of all those who settle on it, became the last and most impregnable
stronghold of those it was designed to subdue.

But some of the events connected with this scene--and these events, too,
the most important--though honourable to the manly character of all
concerned in them, and such as all the members of the great family of
the British empire may now feel a pride in--are still associated with
remembrances which to many are of a saddening cast, and which require to
be softened by distance or time before they can be distinctly awakened
without giving pain--like our country’s music, of which even some of the
most exhilarating movements have strange tones of sorrow blended with
them, which to many temperaments are too touching if strongly accented.
And we do not therefore regret that in the short notice of Limerick
Bridge and Castle which we have to present to our readers, neither our
plan nor our space will permit us to give any sketch of their history but
such as may be read by all, if not with pleasure, at least without pain.

The Castle and Bridge of Limerick owe their origin to the first
Anglo-Norman settlers in Ireland, and were erected to secure their
possessions and facilitate the extension of them. It is probable,
however, if not certain, that the site of the castle had been previously
occupied by a stronghold of the Ostmen or Danes who settled in Limerick
in the ninth century, and with whom, if they were not its founders, its
authentic history as a city at least begins; for the earlier historical
notices connected with it relate only to its church or churches.

These churches, with whatever town may have been connected with them,
were plundered by the Danes as early as the year 812; and there is every
reason to believe that they fortified the island in the Shannon, or
what is now called the English town, with walls and towers very shortly
afterwards, as our annalists record the predatory devastations of the
Danes of Limerick in Connaught and Meath as early as the year 843, as
well as at various years subsequent. They were, however, at length
conquered, but not removed, by the victorious arms of Brian Boru, and
afterwards Limerick appears in history only as an Irish city, though its
inhabitants were chiefly of Danish descent. It was here that Turlogh
O’Brien, king of Munster, received in 1064 the homage of Donlevy, king of
Ulidia; and his son and successor, Murtogh O’Brien, having given Cashel,
the ancient metropolis of Munster, to the church, made Limerick his chief
residence and the capital of the province, from which time it continued
to be the seat of the kings of Thomond or North Munster, who were hence
called kings of Limerick until its final conquest by the English in the
commencement of the thirteenth century.

But though thus relieved from the terrors of foreign aggression, Limerick
was not secured from the equally sanguinary attacks of the Irish
themselves; and our annalists record the burning of the city by Dermod
Mac Murrogh in 1014, the very year after the death of Brian, and again
in 1088 by Donnell Mac Loughlin, king of Aileach, or the Northern Hy
Niall. It was besieged in 1157 by Murtogh, the son of Niall Mac Loughlin,
at the head of the forces of the North and of Leinster, when the Danish
inhabitants were forced to renounce the authority of Turlogh O’Brien, and
to banish him east of the Shannon; and though he was soon after restored
to a moiety of his principality, he was obliged in 1160 to give hostages
to Roderic O’Conor, to escape his vengeance.

Thus weakened and harassed by the intestine divisions which so fearfully
increased in Ireland after the successful and splendid usurpation of the
supreme monarchy by their ancestor Brian Boru, it should not be wondered
at if the kings of Limerick had made but a feeble resistance to the
enthusiastic and disciplined bravery of the Anglo-Norman adventurers,
or that their city should have been easily won and as easily kept by
these bold warriors; and yet it was not till after many towns of greater
importance, if not strength, had been taken by them and securely held,
that Limerick ceased to acknowledge its ancient lords as masters. Its
king, Donnell O’Brien, was indeed one of the first of the Irish princes,
who, forsaking the Irish monarch after the arrival of Strongbow, leagued
himself with the English in support of Mac Murrogh, whose daughter, the
half sister of the Earl’s wife, he had married; and as a reward for his
defection, the king of Limerick claimed the assistance of Strongbow in
attacking the king of Ossory. The result of this request is so honourable
to the character of one of the Norman chiefs, and is so graphically
sketched by Maurice Regan, the king of Leinster’s secretary, that we are
tempted to relate it in his own words, as translated by Sir George Carew.

“The Erle was no sooner come to the city (Waterford) but a messenger
from O’Brien, kyng of Limerick, repaired unto him from his master,
praying hym with all his forces to march into Ossery against Donald,
that common enemie. The cause of friendship between the Erle and O’Brien
was, that O’Brien had married one of the daughters of Dermond, kyng of
Leinster, and half sister to the Erle’s wife. Unto the message the Erle
made answeare, that he would satisfie O’Brien’s request, and they met at
Ydough, and being joined, their forces were two thousand strong. Donald,
fearinge the approach of his enemies, sent to the Erle to desire hym that
he mought have a safe guard to come unto him, and then he doubted not
but to gyve hym satisfaction. The request was graunted, and Maurice de
Prindergast was sent for hym; but he, for the more securitie, obtained
the words of the Erle and O’Brien, and the othes of all the chieftains
of the army, that the kyng of Ossery shuld come and return in safetie;
which done, he went to Donald, and within fewe hours he brought hym to
the campe in the presence of all the army. The Erle and O’Brien chardged
him with divers treasons and practices which he had attempted against
his lord the kyng of Leinster, deceased; and O’Brien, and all the
captens, disallowinge of his excuses, councelled the Erle to hang him,
and O’Brien, without delay, commanded his men to harrasse and spoile
Donald’s countrie, which willingly they performed. Maurice de Prindergast
misliking these proceedings, and seeinge the danger the king of Ossery
was in, presently mounted on his horse, commaunded his companie to do
the like, and said, ‘My lords, what do you mean to do?’ and turning to
the captens, he tould them ‘that they dishonoured themselves, and that
they had falsified their faitths unto hym,’ and sware by the cross of his
sword that no man there that day shoulde dare lay handes on the kyng of
Ossory; whereupon the Erle having sense of his honour, calling to mynde
how far it was ingaged, delivered Donald unto Maurice, commaunding him
to see him safely conveyed unto his men. Upon the way in their retorn
they encountered O’Brien’s men, laden with the spoiles of Ossery.
Prindergast chardged them, slaying nine or ten of those free booters;
and having brought Donald to his men, lodged with him that night in the
woods, and the next morning returned to the Erle.”

For the part which Donnell O’Brien thus acted, he had to defend himself
from the merited vengeance of the Irish monarch; and though he was for
a time able to ward it off by the assistance of Robert Fitzstephen, he
deemed it prudent, on the death of Mac Murrogh in 1171, to return to
his allegiance to Roderic, and give him hostages for his fidelity. On
the arrival of King Henry II. in Ireland, however, in 1172, he again
submitted to the authority of the English monarch, to whom he came upon
the banks of the river near Cashel, swore fealty, and became tributary.

But these oaths were not long held sacred by Donnell. The return of the
king to England was soon followed by a general outburst of the Irish
princes against the unjust encroachments of the adventurers, and Donnell
O’Brien, once more taking possession of Limerick, led his troops,
which were strengthened by the battalions of West Connaught, into the
strongholds of the English in Kilkenny, who hastily retreated before
them into Waterford, and left the country a prey to their devastations.
To punish these daring aggressions of Donnell, Earl Strongbow, in the
following year, as stated in the Annals of Inisfallen, collecting a large
body of the English from the various parts of Ireland, marched into the
heart of O’Brien’s territory, where he was met and encountered by him
at Thurles, and defeated with a loss of four knights and seven hundred
men. Strongbow, returning to Waterford, found the gates closed against
him; the people, hearing of his defeat, having seized on the garrison in
his absence, and put them to the sword. After a month’s sojourn on the
little island, as it is called, in the mouth of the river at Waterford.
Strongbow returned to Dublin, and summoning a council of the chiefs, it
was determined to carry on the war with the king of Limerick with the
greatest vigour. The success which they experienced might, however, have
been of a different kind, if they had not been joined on this occasion
by the king of Ossory, who had been already so grievously treated by
O’Brien, and who was naturally rejoiced at the opportunity thus afforded
him of wreaking his revenge upon his old enemy.

“With the good likeinge,” says Maurice Regan, “of all the chieftains,
Reymond le Grosse, the Constable of Leinster, whoe was a man discreete
and valiaunt, and by his parents of good livelyhood, was designed to
be general of the army: their randevouse for the assembling of their
troops was Ossory. The kyng of Ossory joined with them, and undertook to
guide the army upon O’Brien. Nevertheless, Reymond mistrusted his faith,
whyche the kyng of Ossory perceaving, protested his integritie with suche
fervency, as it gave full satisfaction, that he would be faithfull unto
him; which Donald performid with sinceritie, in guiding the army until it
came to the cittie of Limericke, whyche was invironed with a foule and
deepe ditch with running water, not to be passed over without boats, but
at one foord onely. At the first approach the soldiers were discouraged,
and mutinied to return, supposing the citie, by reason of the water,
was impregnable. But that valiaunt knight, Meyler Fitz Henry, having
found the foord, wyth a loud voice cried, ‘St David, companions, let us
courageouslie pass this foord.’ He led the waye, and was followed but
by four horsemen, who, when they were gotten over, were assailed by the
enemie.”

The account given by Cambrensis of this affair, as translated by Sir
R. C. Hoare, is somewhat different in its details. He says that “upon
this occasion, one David Walsh clapped spurs to his horse, and, plunging
boldly into the stream, reached the opposite shore in safety, and
exclaimed loudly ‘that he had found a ford,’ yet never a man would follow
him, save one Geoffrey Judas, who, on his return with David to conduct
the army across the river, was carried away by the impetuosity of the
current, and unfortunately drowned. Meyler, however, undismayed by this
accident, and seeing the awkward manner in which his kinsman Reymond was
placed, ventured into the river, and gained the opposite bank; and whilst
he was engaged in defending himself against the citizens of Limerick, who
attacked him with stones, and threatened to kill him. Reymond, who had
hitherto been employed in the rear of his army, appeared on the river
side, and seeing the imminent danger to which his nephew Meyler was
exposed, exhorted his troops to try the passage of the Shannon; and such
was the influence of this brave leader over them, that at the risk of
their lives they followed him across the river, and having put the enemy
to flight, took quiet possession of their city.”

Having left a strong garrison in Limerick under the command of his
kinsman Milo of St David’s, Reymond returned to Leinster with the
remainder of his army. But in consequence of unfavourable representations
respecting his conduct made to the king, he was on the point of returning
to England, when intelligence reached Strongbow that Donnell O’Brien
was again in arms, and investing Limerick with a powerful army; and
that, as the garrison had nearly consumed their whole winter stock
of provisions, immediate succour was absolutely necessary. Strongbow
resolved accordingly to fly to their relief without loss of time; but the
whole army refused to march to Limerick under any leader but Reymond,
who was consequently persuaded to postpone his departure, and to take
command of the troops. He set out, accordingly, for Munster, at the
head of 80 knights, 200 cavalry, and 300 archers, to which were joined
a considerable body of Irish, as they passed through Ossory and Hy
Kinselagh, under the command of their respective princes. Donald O’Brien
was not inactive, but advanced to meet him to the pass at Cashel, which
was not only strong by nature, but rendered more difficult of access
by trees and hedges thrown across it. Meyler’s usual success, however,
attended him. Whilst Donald was animating his troops to battle, the
impatient Meyler burst forth like a whirlwind, destroyed the hedges,
opened a passage by his sword, and putting the enemies to flight, again
took possession of the city.

Shortly afterwards, a parley was held with Reymond by the king of
Limerick and Roderic O’Conor, in which the Irish princes once more swore
allegiance to King Henry and his heirs, and delivered up hostages as a
guarantee of their fidelity.

The death of Earl Strongbow, however, which followed soon after these
events, once more restored Limerick to its native prince, never again
to be wrested from him but by death. In consequence of the necessary
departure of Reymond from Ireland, it was deemed expedient, as well by
himself as by his friends, to relinquish the possession of a city so
surrounded by enemies, and which it required so large a force to defend,
and particularly as no person could be found willing to take the command
of its garrison after his departure. Making a virtue of necessity,
therefore, Reymond unwillingly conferred the command on Donnell himself,
as a liege servant of the king, who, in accepting of it, renewed his
former promises of fidelity and service by fresh oaths of allegiance. But
oaths were very lightly observed by all parties in those troubled times;
and Reymond and his followers had scarcely passed the farther end of the
bridge, than the citizens, at the instigation of Donnell, who declared
that Limerick should no longer be a nest for foreigners, broke it down,
and set fire to the city in four different quarters.

Yet it was not resigned to Donnell without another effort. In 1179, a
grant of the kingdom of Limerick, then wholly in the possession of the
Irish, having been made to Herbert Fitz-Herbert, who resigned it to
Philip de Braosa, or Bruce, the English, with their Irish allies, led by
Miles Cogan and Robert Fitzstephen, invested the city, with a view to
establish Bruce in his principality; but they were no sooner perceived
from the ramparts of the town than the garrison gave a striking proof of
their inveterate hostility by setting it on fire; and though Cogan and
Fitzstephen still offered to lead on the attack, Bruce and his followers
refused to risk their lives in a contest whose first beginnings gave so
bad an omen of success.

After a series of conflicts with the English in different parts of
Munster, in which he was usually the victor, Donnell O’Brien died a
natural death in 1194, and with him the line of Irish kings of Limerick
may be said to have terminated. In the following year we find the town in
the possession of the English, and though it was again taken from them
in 1198, it was recovered shortly afterwards by the renowned William de
Burgo, who formed a settlement, which from that period defied all the
power of the Irish.

This result was in a great measure owing to the natural strength of
position of the city itself; but it was not till years afterwards that
its strength was rendered such as it might be supposed was impregnable,
by the erection of the proud fortress, of the ruins of which our view
will give a tolerable idea. This castle, and the bridge, which has been
recently rebuilt, were erected by King John in 1210; and though the
former has since that period been the scene of many a national conflict,
its ruins still display a proud magnificence, and are not an unworthy
feature of the scenery on the banks of that mighty river which has so
often witnessed its trials and contributed to its defence.

                                                                       P.




EDITORIAL SQUABBLES.


There are not many things we like better than a row, a paper war between
a couple of newspaper editors; there is something so delectable in the
sincere cordiality with which they abuse each other--so amusing in the
air of surpassing wisdom and knowledge with which they contradict, and
in the easy confident superiority with which they demolish each other’s
assertions and positions. The most pleasant feature perhaps in the whole,
however--and it is one that pervades all the manifestoes of their High
Mightinesses--is the obvious conviction of each that he is demolishing,
annihilating his antagonist; while you, the cool, dispassionate, and
unconcerned reader, feel perfectly satisfied (and here lies the fun
of the thing) that this said antagonist, so far from being demolished
or annihilated, will become only more rigorous and rampant for the
castigation inflicted on him.

Another amusing enough feature of editorial controversies is the
infallibility of these worthy gentlemen. An editor is never wrong; it is
invariably his “contemporary,” who has misunderstood or misrepresented
him, either through ignorance or wilfulness. He did not say that--what
he did say was this; and if his contemporary had read his article with
ordinary attention, he would have found it so.

The editorial war being carried on in different styles according to
circumstances and the tempers of the belligerents, the hostile articles
assume various characters, amongst which are what may be called the
Demolisher or Smasher, the Contradictor (calm and confident), the Abuser,
and the Rejoinder and Settler (with cool and easy accompaniments).
Of these various styles we happen to have at this moment some pretty
tolerable specimens before us, two or three of which we shall select for
the edification of our readers. The first is from “The Meridian Sun,” and
is of the description which we would call


THE DEMOLISHER.

Our contemporary “The Northern Luminary,” as that concentration of
dullness and opacity has the effrontery to call itself, is, we see, at
his old tricks again. In the present case he is amusing himself with
nibbling and cavilling at our account of the great public political
dinner given by the inhabitants of our good town to our independent
member, Josiah Priggins of Parsley-green, Esq. Our veracious contemporary
accuses us of having omitted all notice of the hisses with which,
_he_ says, some portions of Mr Priggins’s speech were received. He
further charges us with passing over in silence certain “disgraceful
disturbances” by which, _he_ asserts, the evening was marked, and
concludes by stigmatizing the meeting as one of the lowest in character,
and most unruly in conduct, that ever brought odium on a respectable
community.

Now, can our readers guess the secret of all this spleen on the part
of “The Northern Luminary,” of which, by the way, a certain prominent
feature of that gentleman’s face is no bad type? We will tell them: he
was not invited to the dinner! And, more, let us tell _him_, had he
presented himself, he would not have been admitted!

Here, then, is the whole secret of the affair, and having mentioned
it, we have explained all, and need not say that the “hisses” and
“disgraceful disturbances” are gratuitous inventions of the enemy--in
other words, downright fabrications.

We had the honour of bring at the dinner in question, and sat the whole
evening at Mr Priggins’s left hand, and, thus situated, if there had
been hissing, we certainly must have heard it. But there was none. Not a
single hiss; and for the truth of this assertion we unhesitatingly pledge
our word of honour. So far from any part or parts of Mr Priggins’s speech
being hissed, every sentiment, almost every word that gentleman uttered,
was hailed with unanimous and unbounded applause. In fact, we never heard
a speech that gave such general satisfaction. As to the “disgraceful
disturbances,” these we leave to the party of which the Northern
Luminary is the avowed supporter.

Has he forgotten the scene that occurred at the last public dinner of his
friends at the Hog and Pigs Tavern? He may, but we have not.

       *       *       *       *       *

This statement, of course, rouses the utmost wrath of the editor of the
“Northern Luminary,” who to the Demolisher of his contemporary replies
with a red-hot


ABUSER.

It is (says the editor of “The Northern Luminary”) the nature of the
serpent to sting, of the cur to bite, and of the editor of the Meridian
Sun, save the mark!--the farthing candle--to fabricate falsehoods. This
low scurrilous scribbler, this vile reptile, who leaves his slimy track
on every subject over which he crawls, is again spitting his venom at
us, and the friends of social order. But we will put our heel on the
loathsome toad, and crush him as we would the disgusting little animal
which he so much resembles. We were not invited to Mr Priggins’s dinner!
We _were_, thou prince of liars! We _were_ invited to the dinner, but
we treated the invitation with the contempt it deserved. We knew that
_you_, the editor of the Farthing Candle, were to be there--(when did
_you_ refuse a dinner, pray?)--and on _this_ account we declined the
invitation. We would not be seen sitting in the company of a man so
utterly devoid of the feelings and principles of a gentleman, as the
person alluded to is well known to be; and this, we repeat, was the
reason why we did not honour the dinner in question with our presence.

That Priggins was hissed, and that the evening was marked by a most
disgraceful disturbance, we have most respectable and most undoubted
authority for repeating, and we repeat it accordingly. The effrontery is
indeed monstrous and unblushing that would deny facts so notorious. Let
the dastardly editor of the Farthing Candle _again_ deny those facts _if
he dare_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our next specimen is from “The Patagonian,” a paper of gigantic
dimensions. It is


THE CONTRADICTOR

(with calm and confident accompaniments).

Our contemporary “The Watch Tower” is grossly mistaken when he asserts
that Ministers were outvoted on the question of the potato monopoly.
They were _not_ outvoted. They merely abandoned the measure, as _we_
foresaw they would do from the first, and as _we_ from the first advised
them to do. Our contemporary is equally wrong in ascribing to a certain
political party an undue influence in the affairs of this city. _We_ know
for certain that the party alluded to have no such influence. The idea is
absurd.

Pray what _can_ “The Watch Tower” mean by saying that the balance of
power would not be in the least disturbed by Russia’s taking possession
of Timbuctoo. Absurd! The balance of power _would_ be disturbed, and very
seriously too, by such a proceeding. By gaining possession of Timbuctoo,
Russia would gain possession of Africa; and by gaining possession of
Africa, Russia would gain possession of Cape Coast Castle, the coast of
Guinea, and the Cape of Good Hope; and by gaining the Cape of Good Hope,
she would deprive us of the East Indies. And, pray, where would we be
then? We put the question to our contemporary with solemn earnestness,
and with calm composure wait for his reply.

Really, our friend “The Watch Tower” is but a so-so hand at politics. He
positively should be more cautious how he speaks of matters with which he
is unacquainted. The consequence of an opposite conduct is a series of
the most ridiculous blunders.

       *       *       *       *       *

“The Watch Tower” is not to be contradicted and brow-beat in this way
with impunity. He gives in return


A REJOINDER (with cool and easy settler).

In reply to certain captious remarks that appeared in yesterday’s
Patagonian on our leading article of the 15th instant, we beg to say, for
the information of the editor of that paper, that we did _not_ say that
Ministers were outvoted on the potato question. What we did say was, that
Ministers _would_ have been outvoted on that question had they brought it
to issue. Strange that our contemporary _will_ not read us aright.

Again, in ascribing a certain influence to a certain party, we guarded
our expressions by the word “conditionally,” which, however, our
contemporary, with his usual candour, has chosen to overlook, and thus
entirely altered our meaning. Our contemporary concludes his tirade by
asking us what we mean by saying “that the balance of power would not
be in the least disturbed by Russia’s taking possession of Timbuctoo.”
Now, what will our readers think when we tell them that we made no such
assertion? What we said was, that the balance of power would not be
disturbed by Russia’s _occupying_ Timbuctoo, not possessing it, which
difference of expression makes, we apprehend, a material difference
in meaning. We supposed Russia occupying Timbuctoo as a friend, not
possessing it as an enemy; and in this view of the case we repeat
that the balance of power would in no ways be affected. We grant our
contemporary’s conclusions, but deny his premises.

With regard to our contemporary’s sneer at our political knowledge, we
would reply by calling his attention to his own blundering articles--(see
his incomprehensible article on the corn-laws, his interminable article
on the poor-rates, his unintelligible article on free trade and the
Kamschatka loan, &c. &c. &c.) The editor of the Patagonian may rest
assured that he has much to learn in the science of politics, and much,
too, that we could teach him, although it is no business of ours to
enlighten his ignorance.

                                                                       C.




SLIGHTED LOVE, FROM THE SPANISH, BY M.


    “--And this is poor Anselmo’s grave!
      Ah, Juan! say of what he died--
    For he was young, was young and brave,
      Yet gentle as the cooing dove.”--
    “He died, alas!”--and Juan sighed,--
      “_He died, he died of slighted love_.”

    “--Poor youth!--And, Juan!--spake he aught
      Of what he felt, before he died?”--
    “--He said that all his pains were nought
      Save one--of which he would not speak--
      Alas! we had not far to seek
    For that:--it was the one dark thought
      Wherewith in vain his spirit strove--
      _He died, he died of slighted love_.”

    “--And when Death hovered nearer still,
      What said he of his mournful fate?”
    “--That death was not so sharp an ill--
      That Life, o’erdarkened by Despair,
    Was bitterer far than Death to bear;
      That rest awaits us in the tomb,
    Where Anguish sleeps with Love and Hate.
    Thus much he spake--and some were there
      Who wept aloud his early doom;
    But others knelt in silent prayer,--
    And when they said that such as he
      Were flowers that GOD took up to bloom
    In Heaven, he smiled so thankfully!
      And raised his failing eyes above--
    _He died, he died of slighted love_.”

    “--And--Shepherd!--when the heavenly spark
      Was flickering in its lamp of clay,
    Before the glassy eye grew dark,
    What said he more? or said he aught?”--
    “--But this--‘The pilgrim goes his way:--
    Farewell the beauty of the moon!
    Farewell the glory of the noon!
    The home of rest my heart hath sought
      So long in vain will soon be mine--
    Soon will that heart, all quelled and cold,
      Lie low aneath the trodden mould,
    Which brings it Peace,--a welcome boon!
      Yet Love, ah, Love is still divine,
    And surely Goodness never dies!’--
    He said no more--we closed his eyes--
      We laid him in the grassy grove--
      _He died, he died of slighted love_.”

                                          --_Dublin University Magazine._




ROOSHKULUM, OR THE WISE SIMPLETON, A LEGEND OF CLARE.

BY J. G. M’TEAGUE.


Corney Neylan, our village schoolmaster, when any question of arithmetic
may be proposed to him which he is in no humour to answer, and would
rather turn off by a joke, has been frequently known to reply to it by
asking _another_ question, like this:--

“Now, boys, ye’re striving to puzzle me; and I’ll engage none of ye can
answer something that I’ll ask ye, now.”

“What is it, Corney? Let’s hear it!”

“How many grains of oatenmale are contained in one given square foot of
stirabout?”

This is, in its turn, a poser; but probably the number of schemes,
tricks, and contrivances, in an Irish cranium, might be found as hard to
be enumerated as the grains of meal in the aforesaid foot of stirabout!

Thus, while around the blazing turf fire, on a winter’s evening, the
story, the pipe, and the joke, take their rounds by turn, you will
invariably discover that that tale always gains a double share of
applause which may contain a relation of some clever successful scheme
or trick, or the “sayings and doings” of some remarkably clever fellow,
albeit perhaps a great rogue; in fact, such stories as these are suited
to the conceptions and tastes of a shrewd and ready-witted people.

But without tiring my reader with any more “shanachus,” for so we term
“palaver” in Clare, let me endeavour to present him with one of these
very stories, which, if it boasteth not of much interest, may perhaps
amuse him by its originality. Honour to that man, whomsoever he may be,
who first rescued these curious legends from oblivion, and found in our
Irish Penny Journal an excellent repository for their safer preservation!

The reader must not be surprised if my story contains a slight dash of
the marvellous, probably bordering on the hyperbolical; but this, which
I verily believe is but a kind of ornament, something superadded by the
genius of the narrators, as it has descended, must be taken as it is
meant, and will in most instances be found capable of _translation_, as
it were, into language easily and naturally to be explained.

A very long time ago, then, somewhere in the western part of the province
of Munster, lived, in a small and wretched cabin, a poor widow, named
Moireen Mera. She had three sons, two of whom were fine young men; but
the third--and of him we shall soon hear a good deal--though strong and
active, was of a lazy disposition, which resulted, as his mother at
least always thought, not so much from any fault of his own, as from his
natural foolishness of character; in fact, she really considered him as
of that class called in Ireland “naturals.” But before we say anything of
the third son, let us trace the histories of his two elder brothers.

Now, the first, whose name was Mihal More, or Michael Big Fellow, either
that he considered the small spot of land which his mother held quite
unable to support the family, or was actuated by some desire to improve
his condition away from home, never let his mother rest one moment until
she had consented to his starting, in order that he might, as he said,
should he fall in with a good master, return, and perhaps make her
comfortable for the remainder of her days.

To this plan, after much hesitation, Moireen Mera at length agreed, and
the day was fixed by Mihal for starting. “And, mother,” said he, “though
you have but little left, and it is wrong to deprive you of it, if you
_would_ but bake me a fine cake of wheaten bread, and if you _could_ but
spare me one of the hens--ah! that would be too much to ask!--against the
long road; could you, mother?”

“Why not, Michael? I could never refuse you any thing; and you will want
the cake and the hen badly enough. And, Mihal, _a vick asthore!_ if you
_should_ ever meet _one of the good people_, or any thing you may think
_isn’t right_, pass it by, and say not a word.”

It was evening when he began his expedition, nor did he stop on the
road till daylight returned, when he found himself in the centre of a
wood, and very faint and hungry. Seeing a convenient-looking rock near a
place where he thought it most probable he should find water, he seated
himself, with the intention of satisfying his hunger and thirst.

He had not been many moments engaged in eating some of his bread, and had
just commenced an attack on the hen, by taking off one of her wings, when
there came up to him a poor greyhound, which looked the very picture of
starvation. Greyhounds are proverbially thin, but this was thinner than
the thinnest, and, it was easy to see, had doubtlessly left at home a
numerous young family.

Mihal More was so very intent on eating that he heeded not the imploring
look of the poor greyhound, and it was not till, wonderful to say, she
addressed him in _intelligible Irish_, that he deigned to notice her. But
when the first word came from her mouth, he was sure she must be one of
those against any communication with whom his mother had so emphatically
warned him, and accordingly determined to apply her maxim strictly to the
occurrence.

“You are a traveller, I see,” said the greyhound, “and were doubtless
weary and fainting with hunger when you took your seat here. I am the
mother of a numerous and helpless family, who are even now clamorous
for subsistence; this I am unable to afford them, unless I am myself
supported. _You_ have now the means. Afford it to me, then, if only in
the shape of a few of the hen’s small bones; I will be for ever grateful,
and may perhaps be the means of serving you in turn when you may most
want and least expect it.”

But Mihal continued sedulously picking the bones, and when he had
finished, he put them all back into his wallet, still resolving to have
nothing whatever to do with this fairy, represented, as he imagined, by
the greyhound.

“Well!” said she, piteously, “since you give _me_ nothing, follow me. You
are perhaps in search of service; my master, who knows not my faculty of
speech, lives near; _he_ may assist you. And see,” continued she, as he
followed, “behold that well. Had you relieved me, it was in my power to
have changed its contents, which are of _blood_, to the finest virgin
honey; but the honey is beneath the blood, neither can it now be changed!
However, try your fortune, and if you are a reasonably sensible fellow, I
may yet relent, and be reconciled to you.”

Mihal still answered not a word, but followed the greyhound, until she
came to the gate of a comfortable farmer’s residence. She entered the
door, and Mihal saw her occupy her place at the side of the fire, and
that she was quickly besieged by a number of clamorous postulants, whose
wants she seemed but poorly adequate to supply.

At a glance he perceived that the house contained a master and a
mistress; but an old lady in the chimney corner, having by her a pair of
crutches, made him quail, by the sinister expression of her countenance.
Still, nothing daunted, he asked the master of the house at once for
employment.

“Plenty of employment have I, friend, and good wages,” answered he, “but
I am a man of a thousand: and I may also say, not one man of a thousand
will stop with me in this house.”

“And may I ask the reason of this, sir?” said Mihal, taking off his hat
respectfully.

“I will answer you immediately; but first follow me into my garden.
There,” said he, pointing to a heap of bones which lay bleaching on the
ground, “_they_ are the bones of those unfortunate persons who have
followed in my service; if now, therefore, you should so wish, you have
my full permission to depart unhurt: if you will brave them, hear now the
terms on which I must be served.”

“Sir,” answered Mihal, “you surprise me. I have travelled far, have no
money, neither any more to eat; say, therefore, your terms; and if I can
at all reconcile myself to them, I am prepared to stop here.”

“You must understand, then,” said the farmer, “that I hold my lands by a
very unusual tenure. This is not my fault. However, you will find _me_ an
indulgent master to _you_, at all events; for, in fact, you may chance
to be my master as much as I yours, or perhaps more; for _these_ are the
terms:--

“If _I_, at any time, first find fault with any one thing _you_ may
say or do, _you_ are to be solemnly bound to take this (pointing to an
immense and sharp axe) and forthwith, without a word, strike _me_ till
_I_ shall be dead: but should _you_, at any one time, first find fault
with one of _my_ words or actions, _I_ must be equally bound to do the
very same dreadful thing to _yourself_. Blame _me_ not, therefore, should
_you_ find fault with _me_, for it will be my destiny, nay, my duty, to
do as I have described; and, on the contrary, if it happen _otherwise_, I
must be ready to submit to my fate. Consider, and reply.”

“O, my master!” said Mihal More, “I have but the alternative of
starvation; I am in a strangely wild country, without a friend. I _must_
die, if I proceed, and nothing more dreadful than death can happen to
me here. I therefore throw myself on your compassion, and agree to your
terms.”

They then returned to the house, and Mihal felt somewhat refreshed,
even by the smell alone of the savoury viands which the mistress was
then preparing for the afternoon’s repast; the greyhound, too, cast
occasionally wistful glances towards the operations going forward.

At length the dinner hour being all but arrived, the old lady in the
chimney-corner then opened her lips for the first time since Mihal had
come in, and expressed a wish to go out and take a walk; “for,” said she,
“I have not been out for some weeks, ever since our last servant left us.
What is your name, my man?” So he told her. “Come out, then,” said she,
“Mihal, and assist me about the garden, for I am completely cramped.”

Mihal muttered a few words about dinner, hunger, and so on, but was
interrupted by the farmer, who said, “Mihal, you _must_ attend my mother;
she has sometimes strange fancies. Besides, remember our agreement. _Do
you find fault with me?_”

“O, by no means, sir,” said Mihal, frightened; “I must do my business, I
suppose.”

The dinner was actually laid out on the plates to every one when Mihal
and the old lady walked out. No sooner had they done so, than the
greyhound, before she could be prevented, pounced on his dinner, and
devoured it in a moment!

The old lady thought proper to walk for some hours in the garden; and now
was Mihal very hungry, for he had tasted nothing since he had finished
the hen early that morning; he almost began to wish that he had relieved
the greyhound.

When they came in at last, the supper was being prepared. Mihal was now
quite certain that his wants would be attended to; but how woefully
was he doomed to be disappointed! For, no sooner had they entered the
house than the accursed old lady seized a large cake of wheaten bread,
which was baking on the embers, and, hastily spreading on it a coat of
butter, directed Mihal to attend her again into the garden! He could say
nothing, for his master’s eyes were on him. He was completely bewildered.
In despair he went with the old lady, and as it was a lovely moonlight
night, she stopped out an unusual time, and it was very late when they
came in.

Mihal stretched himself, quite fainting, on the bed, but slept not a
wink. How I wish, now, thought he, that I had given the greyhound not
only the small bones, but even half my hen!

The next morning the family early assembled for breakfast, and again were
the cakes put down to bake over the glowing fire. _Again_ did the old
lady seize one, and command Mihal into the garden!

He was now completely exhausted; and, determining to expostulate with his
master when he came in, went up to him, craving some food.

“No,” said the farmer; “we never eat except at stated times, and my
mother keeps the keys.”

“Ah, sir, have pity on me!” answered Mihal; “how can I exist, or do your
business?”

“_And can you blame me?_” said the master.

Mihal, now quite losing sight of the agreement, and confused by the
question, put in so treacherous a manner, answered, “that of course he
could not but blame any person who would permit such infamous conduct.”

Here was the signal. Mihal, in his enfeebled state, was no match for
the sturdy farmer; in a moment his head was rolling on the floor by a
vigorous stroke of the fatal axe, while grins of satisfaction might
be seen playing on the countenances both of the old lady, _and her
greyhound_!

The feelings of the poor widow may be imagined, when no tidings ever
reached her of her Mihal More. But, on the expiration of a year, the
second son, Pauthrick Dhuv, or Patrick Black Fellow, so called from his
dark complexion, also prevailed on his mother to let him go in search of
his brother, and of employment.

But why should I describe again the horrid scene? Let me satisfy you by
merely saying that precisely the same occurrences also happened to poor
Pauthrick Dhuv, and that his bones were added to those of his brother,
and of the other victims behind the farmer’s garden!

But when, in the course of another year, neither Mihal nor Pauthrick
appeared, the widow’s grief was unbounded. How was she, then, astonished,
when “the fool,” as he was yet always called, although his real name was
Rooshkulum, actually volunteered to do the same! Nothing could stop him:
go he would. So the cake was baked, the hen was killed and roasted, and
Rooshkulum, “the fool,” set out on _his_ expedition. And _there_, at the
rock in the wood, was that very same greyhound; and as soon as she had
looked him in the face, he said, “Why, poor thing! I have here what I
cannot eat, and you seem badly to need it; here are these bones and some
of this cake.”

It was _then_ the greyhound addressed him. “Come with me,” said she; “lo!
here is the well, of which _your two brothers_ could not drink: behold!
here is the honey on the top, clear and pure, but the blood is far
beneath!”

When “the fool” had satisfied himself at this well, he followed the
greyhound to the farmer’s house. It _may_ be barely possible that by the
road he received from her some excellent advice.

The conversation that ensued when Rooshkulum arrived at the farmer’s, and
offered himself for his servant, was much of the same nature as I have
before detailed while relating the former part of my story. “But,” said
Rooshkulum the fool, “I will not bind myself to these terms for ever; I
might get tired of you, or you of me; so, if you please, I will agree to
stop with you for certain till we both hear the cuckoo cry when we are
together.”

To this they agreed, and went into the house. However, just before they
stepped in, the farmer asked Rooshkulum his name.

“Why,” said he, “mine is a very curious name: it is so curious
a name, indeed, that you would never learn it; and where is the
occasion of breaking your jaws every minute trying to call me
‘Pondracaleuthashochun,’ which _is_ my real name, when you may as well
call me always ‘the Boy?’”

“Well! that will do,” answered the master.

The dinner was now prepared, and laid out on the plates, and the old
tricks about to be played. Rooshkulum, as with the others, could not find
fault, for, fool as he was, he knew the consequences. As he went out with
the old lady, she too inquired his name.

“Why, really,” said he to her, “mine is a name that no one, I venture
to say, was ever called before. All my brothers and sisters died, and
my father and mother thought that perhaps an unusual queer kind of name
might have luck, so they called me ‘_Mehane_.’”

And, reader, if thou understandest not our vernacular, know that “Mehane”
signifies in English “myself.”

They spent some hours, as usual, in the garden, and Rooshkulum returned
tired and exhausted. But when he expected to get his supper, and when she
again brought him out, and ate the fine hot buttered cake before his very
eyes, it was more than flesh and blood could stand. However, he pretended
not to mind it in the least, but was very civil to the old lady, amusing
her by his silly stories. “And now, ma’am,” said he, “let’s walk a little
way down this sunny bank before we go in.”

Certain it was that the sun did happen to shine on the bank at that very
time, but it was to what were _growing_ on it that he wished to direct
her close attention; for when he came to a certain place where there was
a cavity filled by a rank growth of nettles, thistles, and thorns, he
gave his charge such a shove as sent her sprawling and kicking in the
midst of them, uttering wild shrieks, for the pain was great.

But Rooshkulum had no notion of helping her out, and ran into the house,
which was some distance away, desiring the farmer to run, for that his
mother _would_ walk there, and had fallen into a hole, from which he
could not get her out. And then the farmer ran, and cried, “O, mother,
where are you? what has happened?”

“Alas, my son! here I am down in this hole! Help me out! I am ruined,
disfigured for life!”

“And _who_ is it,” said the farmer, “that has dared to serve you thus?”

“O,” said she, “it was Mehane! _Mehane a veil Mehane!_” (Myself has
ruined myself!)

“Who?” said the farmer, as he helped her out.

“O, it was _Mehane_,” answered she; “_Mehane a veil Mehane!_”

“Well, then,” said the farmer, “I suppose it can’t be helped, as it was
yourself that did it. So here, ‘Boy!’ take her on your back, and carry
her home: it was but an accident!”

So Rooshkulum carried her off and put her to bed, she all the time
crying out. “Ah! but it was _Myself_ that ruined Myself!” till her son
thought her half cracked. She was quite unable to rise next morning; so
Rooshkulum “the fool” made an excellent and hearty breakfast, which he
took care also to share with the greyhound.

But then the old lady called her son to her bedside, and explained how
that it was “the Boy” who had done the mischief, “and I command you,”
said she, “to get rid of him, and for that purpose desire him at once to
go and make ‘cuisseh na cuissheh na guirach’ (the road of the sheeps’
feet), that you have long been intending to do, and then to send him with
the flock over the road to the land of the giant; we shall then never see
him more; and it is better to lose even a flock of sheep than have him
longer here, now that he has discovered our trick.”

The farmer called Rooshkulum to him, and taxed him with what he had done
to his mother.

“And,” said Rooshkulum, “_could you blame me_?”

“Why, no,” answered the farmer, remembering _his_ part of the agreement,
“_I don’t blame you_, but you must never do it any more. And now you must
take these (pointing to the sheep), and because the bog is soft on the
road to the ‘land of the giant,’ you must make ‘the road of the sheeps’
feet’ for them to go over, and come back when they are fat, and the giant
will support you while you are there. _Do you blame me for that?_”

“No,” said Rooshkulum, driving away the sheep.

But, contrary to all their expectations, in an hour’s time in marched
Rooshkulum, covered with bog dirt and blood. “O!” said he, “I have had
hard work since, and made a good deal of the road of the sheeps’ legs;
but, indeed, there are not half enough legs after all, and you must give
me more legs, if you would wish the road made firm.”

“And, you rascal, do you tell me you have cut off the legs of all my fine
sheep?”

“Every one, sir; did you not desire me? _Do you blame me?_”

“O dear no! by no means! Only take care, and don’t do it any more.”

They went on tolerably for a few days, for they were afraid of
Rooshkulum, and let him alone, till one morning the farmer told him he
was going to a wedding that night, and that he might go with him.

“Well,” said Rooshkulum, “what is a wedding? what will they do there?”

“Why,” answered the farmer, “a wedding is a fine place, where there is a
good supper, and two people are joined together as man and wife.”

“O, is that it? I should like much to see what they’ll do.”

“Well, then, you must promise me to do what I’ll tell you with the horses
when we are going.”

“Why, what shall I do?”

“O, only when we are going, _don’t take your eyes from the horses_ till
we get there; then have your _two eyes_ on my plate, and _an eye_ on
every other person’s plate; and _then_ you’ll see what they’ll do.”

Rooshkulum said nothing. They went to the wedding; but when they sat down
to supper, all were surprised to find a round thing on their plates,
covered with blood, and not looking very tempting. But the farmer soon
guessed the sad truth, and calling Rooshkulum aside, he sternly asked him
what he had done.

“_Can you blame me?_” answered the provoking Rooshkulum; “did you not
desire me not to take the eyes from the horses till I got here, and to
put them on the plates, and two on your own plate, and that I would see
what they would do then?”

“_O, don’t imagine I blame you_,” said the farmer; “but I meant your own
eyes all the time; and, mind me, _don’t do it any more_!”

They were all by this time heartily sick of Rooshkulum, especially
the old lady, who had never left her bed; and one morning, feeling
something better, she called the farmer to her bedside, and addressed
him thus:--“You know, my son, that your agreement with that rascal will
terminate when you both shall hear the cuckoo. Now, in my youth I could
imitate the cuckoo so well that I have had them flying round me. Put me
up, therefore, in the big holly bush; take him along with you to cut a
tree near; I will then cry ‘cuckoo!’ ‘cuckoo!’ and the agreement will be
broken!” said she, chuckling to herself.

This seemed a capital idea; so the farmer lifted his mother out of bed,
and put her up into the holly bush, calling Rooshkulum to bring the
big axe, for that he intended to fell a tree. Rooshkulum did as he was
desired, and commenced cutting down a certain tree, which the farmer
pointed out. And not long had he been thus engaged when the old lady in
the holly bush cried out “cuckoo!” “cuckoo!” “Hah! what’s that?” said the
farmer; “that sounds like the cuckoo!”

“O, that cannot be,” said Rooshkulum, “for this is winter!”

But now the cuckoo was heard, beyond a doubt.

“Well,” said Rooshkulum, “before I’ve done with you, I’ll go and see this
cuckoo.”

“Why, you stupid fool!” said the farmer, “no man ever saw the cuckoo.”

“Never mind!” said Rooshkulum, “it can be no harm to look. Wouldn’t you
think, now, that the cuckoo was speaking out of the holly bush?”

“O, not at all!--perhaps she is five miles away. Come away at once and
give up your place. Did not we both hear her?”

“Stop!” said Rooshkulum; “stay back! don’t make a noise! There! did not
you see something moving? Ay! THAT must be the cuckoo!”

So saying, he hurled the axe up into the holly bush with his whole force,
cutting away the branches, scattering the leaves and berries, and with
one blow severing the head from the shoulders of the farmer’s mother!

“O!” said the farmer, “my poor old mother! O! what have you done, you
villain! You have murdered my mother!”

“And,” said Rooshkulum (seemingly surprised), “_I suppose you BLAME me
for this, do you?_”

And _now_ was the farmer taken by surprise, and in the heat of his
passion answered, “How dare you, you black-hearted villain, ask me such a
question? Of course I do! Have you not murdered my mother? Alas! my poor
old mother.”

“O, very well!” said Rooshkulum, as the farmer continued looking at
his mother, and lamenting, “perhaps you also remember our own little
agreement. I have but too good reason to think that you and your accursed
old mother, by your schemes, caused the death of my two fine brothers.
But now for the fulfilment of my share of the bargain!”

In a moment the axe descended on his head; and Rooshkulum, _the wise
simpleton_, having now got rid of his enemies, took possession of all
the farmer’s property, returned home for his mother, and lived free from
care or further sorrow for the remainder of his happy life; but he never
forgot the services of the greyhound, and never allowed her to want.

And here let us conclude our legend, by observing, by way of moral, “Be
ever charitable to the distressed, whether of the brute or human kind,
for you know not but that they also may belong to the ranks of ‘the good
people!’”




AGRICULTURAL EDUCATION FOR THE WORKING CLASSES.


That agricultural improvement is extending with very rapid strides in
many parts of Ireland, is evident to all who have had an opportunity of
observing the country; the best proof of which is, perhaps, that our
agricultural exports have been greatly increased for some years past,
whilst during the same period the population has been augmented to a
degree unprecedented in any of the _old_ countries of the world. That our
exporting food to such an extent is a proof of the wealth or happiness of
those who produce it, may well admit of doubt, otherwise the miserable
serfs of Russia, Poland, and other corn-growing countries, would be
entitled to rank higher in the scale of happiness than the English
farmers, who are not able to raise sufficient food for their own country!
But notwithstanding the pleasing proofs of improvements in farming
which meet the eye of the tourist in various parts of the country, and
particularly in the north, he will in too many places find it difficult
to imagine anything worse either in the farms, the habitations, the
cattle, or the implements, even should he extend the retrospect to a
period ever so remote.

Agricultural schools, with even a single acre of land attached, and
worked by the elder boys on a system of rotation adapted to the ground
and to the district in which it happened to be situated, would soon
effect a wonderful reformation in the farming of the country. That such
would be the happy result, is self-evident; and we are strengthened in
our conviction by having witnessed in very many instances the good effect
of the agricultural education imparted at Templemoyle, in the county of
Londonderry. Entertaining these views, we need hardly say how much we
were gratified by a visit to one of these schools a short time since,
situated in a remote and secluded part of the county of Donegal. Here,
on the estate of Sir Charles Styles, Bart., and under the direction of
his efficient agent, whose anxiety and exertions towards bettering the
condition of the poor of this county are well known and appreciated, we
found a small piece of ground being laid out into five divisions, as an
example of the five-course rotation suited to that part of the country;
in the school-room were suspended tables, exhibiting at one view, plain,
practical instructions as to the season for performing the different work
on the farm; the quantity and best kind of seeds to be sown; and, in one
word, the _modus operandi_, according to the most improved practice; and
the proficiency of many of the boys, not only in agriculture, but in
levelling and surveying, was most creditable. We cannot, perhaps, better
second the exertions of Captain Kennedy and other philanthropists engaged
in the regeneration of their country, than by bringing under the notice
of the public an instance of the successful working of the system we have
here advocated.

The undrained fenceless farm, with its many-angled small fields and
crooked ridges, exhausted to the last degree by successive corn crops, is
still but too general; and the habitations, notwithstanding the marked
improvement in their appearance in many places, in many others accord
but too faithfully with the melancholy picture that has been drawn of
them by so many observers--“walls decayed, roofs bent and sunken, thatch
tattered, no windows, no chimneys; the turf-smoke rolling slowly from the
doors, or seeking its way through the chinks and crevices innumerable
with which these hovels abound. The appearance of the inmates corresponds
with that of the miserable tenements--ill clad, squalid, haggard,
listless and idle, in every countenance discontent strongly marked,
and in some an expression akin to despair.” Such is the description
given by Mr Weld in his Statistical Survey of Roscommon, taken in 1831.
One epithet in that accurate description requires to be qualified to
those who have not seen the interesting and highly valuable work from
which it is taken. The poor of Elphin were “idle,” not of choice, but
because the employment which offered itself in the wastes and sites for
manufactories with which he describes the country to abound, were not
rendered available; and throughout the country, wherever idleness and
its concomitant misery are observable, there also it will be found that
these evils are traceable to a want of sympathy and exertion on the
part of the owners of the soil; for abundantly remunerating employment
abounds in every part of the country. We cannot resist, even at the
risk of extending this paper beyond the limits which we had at first
proposed to ourselves, the temptation to bring forward an instance of
that industry which we have never seen wanting when the inducement or
even the possibility of exercising it with effect was present, afforded
too by these same “idle” people of Elphin, as recorded in the same
work. “Girls,” observes Mr Weld, “amongst whom some were really pretty
and delicate, and of an age and frame of body seemingly but ill-suited
to the task, sought a precarious and hard-earned livelihood in hawking
turf about the town in cleaves, which they had carried on their backs
from the bog, distant about two miles. The ordinary weight of one of
these cleaves was three stones, or forty-two pounds, sometimes more. The
price _asked_ for two cleaves was only 3½d, but as demands of this kind
ordinarily exceed the selling price, 1½d might probably be set down as
the utmost price of a single cleave; from this was to be deducted the
price of the turf at the bog, the small surplus being all the gains for
bearing this heavy burden, mostly up hill, and afterwards hawking it from
house to house.” The cattle in the demesnes of the gentry and on dairy
farms have in like manner been greatly improved within a few years, but
amongst the small farmers the description of stock is in many places bad
in the extreme; improvement in this branch of economy cannot take place,
however, except as the consequence of an improved system of farming.
As a powerful means of extending a knowledge of improved husbandry,
if properly exercised, we have regarded since their establishment the
National Schools of Ireland.

A cotemporary says, “The agriculture of Bavaria has experienced a great
improvement in consequence of the system of national education which
has been adopted, and by the teaching of agriculture and gardening both
by books and examples in the schools. One of the first consequences
was an improved rotation of crops. Almost the whole of the details of
agricultural improvement in Bavaria have originated with M. Hazzi, an
agricultural writer, and editor of an agricultural journal in Munich.
The activity and patriotic benevolence of this gentleman are beyond
all praise. It was chiefly through his exertions that a piece of ground
was added to every parochial school in Bavaria, to be cultivated by the
scholars in their leisure hours, under the direction of the master.
In these schools, Hazzi’s Catechism of Gardening, of Agriculture, of
Domestic Economy and Cookery, of Forest Culture, of Orchard Culture,
and others, all small duodecimo volumes with woodcuts, sold at about
fourpence each, are taught to all the boys; and those of Gardening, the
Management of Silk Worms, and Domestic Economy, to the girls. Since these
schools have come into action, an entirely new generation of cultivators
has arisen; and the consequence is, that agriculture in Bavaria, and
especially what may be called cottage agriculture and economy, is, as far
as we are able to judge, carried to a higher degree of perfection than
it is any where else in the central states of Germany; at all events, we
can affirm that we never saw finer crops of drilled Swedish and common
turnips, or finer surfaces of young clover, than we observed along the
road sides in October and November 1828. The fences also were generally
in perfect order, and a degree of neatness appeared about the cottages
which is far from common either in France or Germany. These remarks are
not the results of observations made, as is frequently the case, from
the cabriolet of a public diligence, but from deliberate inspection. The
result of the whole of the information procured, and of the observations
made, is, that we think the inhabitants of Bavaria promise soon to be, if
they are not already, among the happiest people in Germany.”

                                                                       M.

       *       *       *       *       *

CIRCASSIAN WOMEN.--We observed two women looking out of a balcony, and
earnestly beckoning to us. We entered the house, and saw two Russian
grenadiers, who by a mistake of their corporal had taken their quarters
here, and whose presence was the cause of the inquietude manifested by
the two ladies, who, with an old man, were the only inhabitants of the
house. Whilst the soldiers were explaining these things to us, they
appeared at the top of the stairs, and again renewed their invitation
by violent gesticulations. On a nearer approach, we guessed by their
age that they were mother and daughter. The former, who still preserved
much of the freshness and beauty of youth, wore very wide trousers, a
short tunic, and a veil, which fell in graceful folds on her back; while
round her neck she had some valuable jewels, though badly mounted. With
respect to the daughter, who was scarcely fifteen years of age, she was
so extraordinarily beautiful, that both my companion and myself remained
awhile motionless, and struck with admiration. Never in my life have I
seen a more perfect form. Her dress consisted of a short white tunic,
almost transparent, fastened only at the throat by a clasp. A veil,
negligently thrown over one shoulder, permitted part of her beautiful
ebony tresses to be seen. Her trousers were of an extremely fine tissue,
and her socks of the most delicate workmanship. The old man received us
in a room adjoining the staircase; he was seated on the carpet, smoking a
small pipe, according to the custom of the inhabitants of the Caucasus,
who cultivate tobacco. He made repeated signs to us to sit down, that
is to say, in the Asiatic manner--a posture extremely inconvenient for
those who like ourselves wore long and tight trousers, whilst the two
beautiful women on their side earnestly seconded his request. We complied
with it, though it was the first time that either of us made the essay.
The ladies, having left the room for a moment, returned with a salver
of dried fruits, and a beverage made with sugar and milk; but I was so
much engaged in admiring their personal attractions, that I paid but
little attention to their presents. It appeared to me an inconceivable
caprice of nature to have produced such prodigies of perfection amidst
such a rude and barbarous people, who value their women less than their
stirrups. My companion, who like myself was obliged to accept of their
refreshments, remarked to me, whilst the old man was conversing with
them, what celebrity a woman so transcendantly beautiful as the daughter
was, would acquire in any of the capitals of Europe, had she but received
the benefits of a suitable education.--_New Monthly Magazine._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Printed and published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at
    the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane,
    College Green, Dublin.--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley,
    Paternoster Row, London; SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street,
    Manchester; C. DAVIES, North John Street, Liverpool; SLOCOMBE &
    SIMMS, Leeds; JOHN MENZIES, Prince’s Street, Edinburgh; & DAVID
    ROBERTSON, Trongate, Glasgow.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No.
39, March 27, 1841, by Various

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