"I have something in my face, thanks to you," he shouted, "that provokes laughter. I have also something in my hand that stops laughter. I am a coward and a killer of locusts, but I know how to rid myself of the reproach you have put upon me."

"Perico, what are you doing?" cried Ventura, running toward him to arrest the action. But the shot had been sent on its dreadful errand, and Ventura fell mortally wounded. Pedro heard the report and started.

"What is that?" he exclaimed, "but what would it be?" he added upon reflection. "Ventura has perhaps shot a partridge. It sounded near. I will go and see."

He hurriedly follows the path his son has taken, sees a form lying upon the ground; approaches it--God of earth and heaven! It is a wounded man! and that man is his son! The poor old man falls down beside him.

"Father," Ventura says, "I have some strength left; calm yourself and help me get to the hacienda; it is not far and let them send for a confessor, for I wish to die like a Christian."

The God of pity gives strength to the poor old man. He raises his son, who, leaning upon his shoulder walks a few steps, repressing the groans which anguish wrings from his breast.

At the hacienda, they hear a pitiful voice calling for succor; all run out and see, coming along the path, the unfortunate father supporting upon his shoulder his dying son. They meet and surround them.

"A priest! a priest!" moans the exhausted voice of Ventura.

A suitable person, mounted on the fleetest horse, leaves for the village.

"The surgeon, bring the surgeon!" calls the father.

"And the magistrate!" adds the superintendent.

In this manner passes an hour of agony and dread.

But now they hear the swift approach of horses' feet, and the messenger comes accompanied by the priest. The aid which arrives first is that of religion.

The priest enters, carrying in his bosom the sacred host. All prostrate themselves. The wretched father finds relief in tears.

They leave the priest with the dying man, and through the house, broken only by the sobs of Pedro, reigns a solemn silence.

The minister of God comes out of the room. A sweet calm has spread itself over the face of the reconciled. The surgeon enters, probes the wound, and turns silently with a sad movement of his head toward those who are standing by. Pedro awaiting, with hands convulsively clasped, the sentence of the man of science, falls to the floor, and they carry him away.

"Sir magistrate," the surgeon says, "he is not capable of making a declaration, he is dying."

These words rouse Ventura. With that energy which is natural to him, he opens his eyes and says distinctly: "Ask, for I can still answer."

The scribe prepares his materials and the magistrate asks:

"What has been the cause of your death?"

"I myself," distinctly replied Ventura.

"Who shot you?"

"One whom I have forgiven."

"You then forgive your murderer?"

"Before God and man."

These were his last words.

The priest presses his hand and says, "Let us recite the creed." All kneel, and the guardian angel embraces as a sister, even before hearing the divine sentence, the parting soul of him who died forgiving his murderer.

CHAPTER XV.

The women were together in Anna's parlor, and although not one of them, except Rita, knew of the events of the night before, they sat in oppressive silence, for even Maria was wanting in her accustomed loquacity.

"I don't know why," she said at last, "nor what is the matter with me, but my heart to-day feels as though it could not stay in its place."

"It is the same with me," said Elvira, "I cannot breathe freely. I feel as if a stone lay on my heart. Perhaps it is the air. Is it going to rain, Aunt Maria?"

"My poor child," thought Anna, "the remedy comes too late. Earth is calling her body and heaven her soul."

"Well, I feel just as usual," said Rita, who was in reality the one that could hardly sit still for uneasiness.

Angela had made her a rag baby, which she was rocking in a hollow tile by way of cradle, and the painful silence which followed these few words was only broken by the gentle voice of the little girl as she sung, in the sweet and monotonous nursery melody to which some mothers lend such simple enchantment, and such infinite tenderness, these words:

The childish song was interrupted by a heavy solemn stroke of the church bell. Its vibration died away in the air slowly and gradually, as if mounting to other regions.

"His Majesty!" said all, rising to their feet.

Anna prayed aloud for the one who was about to receive the last sacraments.

"For whom can it be?" said Maria. "I do not know of any one that is dangerously sick in the place."

Rita looked out of the window and asked of a woman that was passing, who was the sick person?

"I do not know," she answered, "but it is some one out of the village."

Another woman cried as she approached, "Mercy! it is a murder, for the magistrate and the surgeon have followed the priest as fast as they could!"

"God help him!" they all exclaimed, with that profound and terrible emotion which is excited by those awful words, a murder!

"And who can it be?" asked Rita.

"No one knows," answered the woman.

Then the bell tolled for the passing soul; solemn stroke; stroke of awe; voice of the church, which announces to men that a brother is striving in weariness, anguish, and dismay, and is going to appear before the dread tribunal--momentous voice, by which the church says to the restless multitude, deep in frivolous interests which it deems important, and in fleeting passions which it dreams will be eternal: Stand still a moment in respect for death, in consideration of your fellow-being who is about to disappear from the earth, as you will disappear tomorrow.

They remained plunged in silence, but nevertheless deeply moved, as happens sometimes with the sea, when its surface is calm, but its bosom heaves with those deep interior waves which sailors call a ground-swell.

And not they alone. The whole village was in consternation, for death by the hand of violence always appalls, since the curse which God pronounced upon Cain continues, and will continue, in undiminished solemnity throughout all generations.

"How long the time is!" said Maria, at length. "It seems as if the day stood still."

"And as if the sun were nailed in the sky," added Elvira. "Suspense is so painful. Perhaps robbers have done it."

"It may have been unintentional," answered Maria.

"Mamma Anna, who has killed a man, and what made him do it?" asked the little Angela.

"Who can tell," replied Anna, "what is the cause, or whose the daring hand that has anticipated that of God in extinguishing a torch which he lighted."

At that instant they heard a distant rumor. People moved by curiosity are running through the street, and confused exclamations of astonishment and pity reach their ears.

"What is it?" asked Rita, approaching the window.

"They are bringing the dead man this way," was the answer.

Elvira felt herself irresistibly impelled to look out.

"Come away, Elvira," said her mother, "you know that you cannot bear the sight of a corpse."

Elvira did not hear her, for the crowd, that drawn by curiosity, sympathy, or friendship, had surrounded the body and its attendants, was coming near. Anna and Maria, also placed themselves at the grating. The corpse approached, lying across a horse and covered with a sheet. An old man follows it, supported by two persons. His head is bowed upon his breast. They look at him--merciful God! it is Pedro! and they utter a simultaneous cry.

Pedro hears it, lifts his head and sees Rita. Despair and indignation give him strength. He frees himself violently from the arms that sustain him, and precipitates himself toward the horse, exclaiming: "Look at your work, heartless woman! Perico killed him." Saying this, he lifts the sheet and exposes the body of Ventura, pale, bloody, and with a deep wound in the breast.

From the Dublin University Magazine.

IRISH FOLK BOOKS OF THE LAST CENTURY.

In the eighteenth century Ireland did not possess the boon of Commissioners to prepare useful and interesting school books. However, as the mass of the peasantry wished to give their children the only education they could command, namely, that afforded by the hedge schools, and as young and old liked reading stories and popular histories, or at least hearing them read, some Dublin, Cork, and Limerick printers assumed the duties neglected by senators, and published "Primers," "Reading-made-easie's," "Child's-new-play-thing," and the widely diffused "Universal Spelling Book" of the magisterial Daniel Fenning, for mere educational purposes. These were "adorned with cuts," but the transition from stage to stage was too abrupt, and the concluding portions of the early books were as difficult as that of the "Universal Spelling Book" itself, which the author, in order to render it less practically useful, had encumbered with a dry and difficult grammar placed in the centre of the volume.

Two Dublin publishers, Pat. Wogan, of Merchants' quay, and William Jones, 75 Thomas street, were the educational and miscellaneous Alduses of the day, and considered themselves as lights burning in a dark place for the literary guidance of their countrymen and countrywomen, of the shop-keeping, farmer, and peasant classes. In the frontispiece of some editions of the spelling-book grew the tree of knowledge, laden with fruit, each marked with some letter, and ardent climbers plucking away. Beneath was placed this inscription:

That portion of the work containing "spells" and explanations was thoroughly studied by the pupils. The long class was arranged in line in the evening, every one contributed a brass pin, and the boy or girl found best in the lesson, and most successful at the hard "spells" given him or her by the others, and most adroit in defeating them at the same exercise, got all the pins except two, the portion of the second in rank, (the queen,) and one, the perquisite of the third, (the prince. )

Every neighborhood was searched carefully for any stray copies of Entick's or Sheridan's small square dictionaries, (pronounced Dixhenry's by the eager students,) for hard spells and difficult explanations to aid them in their evening tournaments.

The grave Mr. Fenning was censuruble for admitting into some editions the following jest (probably imported from Joe Miller) among his edifying fables and narratives:

"A gay young fellow once asked a parson for a guinea, but was stiffly refused. 'Then,' said he, give me at least a crown.' 'I will not give thee a farthing,' answered the clergyman. 'Well, father,' said the rake, 'let me have your blessing at all events.' 'Oh I yes: kneel down, my son, and receive it with humility.' 'Nay,' said the other, 'I will not accept it, for were it worth a farthing you would not have offered it.'"

We cannot, however, quit the school-books without mention of the really valuable treatise on arithmetic, composed by Elias Vorster, a Dutchman naturalized in Cork, and subsequently improved by John Gough, of Meath street, one of the society of Friends. "Book-keeping by Double Entry," written by Dowling and Jackson, was so judiciously arranged that it is still looked on as a standard work.

The same followers longo intervallo of Stephens and Elzevir published, besides prayer and other devout books, a series of stories and histories, and literary treatises such as they were, printed with worn type, on bad grey paper, cheaply bound in sheep-skin, and sold by the peddlers through the country at a tester (6-1/2d.) each. Of history, voyages, etc., the peddler's basket was provided with "Hugh Reilly's History of Ireland," "Adventures of Sir Francis Drake," "The Battle of Aughrim," and "Siege of Londonderry," (the two latter being dramas,) "Life and Adventures of James Freney the Robber," "The Irish Rogues and Rapparees," "The Trojan Wars," and "Troy's Destruction," "The Life of Baron Trenck," and "The Nine Worthies--Three Jews, Three Heathens, and Three Christians."

The fictional department embraced, chiefly in an abridged state, "The Arabian Nights," "The History of Don Quixote," "Gulliver's Travels," "Esop's Fables," "Adventures of Robinson Crusoe," "Robin Hood's Garland," "The Seven Champions of Christendom," "The History of Valentine and Orson," "The Seven Wise Masters and Mistresses of Rome," "Royal Fairy Tales," etc., etc.

In the department of the Belles Lettres may be classed, "Lord Chesterfield's Letters to his Son," "The Academy of Compliments," "The Fashionable Letter Writer," "Hocus Pocus, or the Whole Art of Legerdemain," "Joe Miller's Jest Book," etc.

The list would not be complete without mention of the books of ballads. These were sold in sheets, each forming 8 pages, 18mo, and adorned with cuts, never germain to the ballads they illustrated. Some of these sheets contained only one production, the "Yarmouth Tragedy," or some early English ballad sadly disfigured. One related how a "servant-man" was accused by an envious liveried brother, of being a confirmed card-player. On being examined he obtained a complete victory over the informer, convincing his master that what he, the master, called cards, was to him a prayer-book, a catechism, a calendar, and what not. The different numbers reminded him of the six days of the creation, the seven churches of Asia, the ten commandments, the twelve Apostles, etc. The {681} king recalled to him the duty he owed that supreme magistrate, the ace of hearts, the love due to God and our neighbor. "How, is it," said the master, "that you have always passed over the knave in your reckoning?" "Ah! I wished to speak no ill of that crooked disciple that went to backbite me to your honor." The reader anticipates the victory of the ingenious rogue.

The purchasers of these sheets sewed them as well as they could in a book form, but they were so thumbed and abused, that it is at this date nearly impossible to procure one of those repertories of song printed toward the close of the last or the beginning of the present century.

Of all these works that we delight in most at present, (it was not so when we were young,) is the unmatched "Academy of Compliments," which was the favorite of boys and girls just beginning to think of marriage, or its charming preliminary, courtship. Very feelingly did the writer in his preface insist on the necessity of eloquence. "Even quick and attractive wit," as he thoughtfully observed, "is often foiled for want of words, and makes a man or woman seem a statute or one dumb." He candidly acknowledges that several treatises like his have been published, "but he assures the courteous reader that none have arrived to the perfection of this, for good language and diversion."

This is the receipt for accosting a lady, and entering into conversation; with her:

"I believe Nature brought you forth to be a scourge to lovers, for she hath been so prodigal of her favor toward you, that it renders you as admirable as you are amiable."

Another form:

"Your presence is so dear to me, your conversation so honest, and your humour so pleasing, that I could desire to be with you perpetually."

The author directs a slight departure from this form, in case the gentleman has never seen the lady before, and yet has fallen passionately in love with her.

"If you accuse me of temerity, you must lay your own beauty in fault, with which I am so taken, that my heart is ravished from me, and wholly subjected to you."

Decent people would scarcely thank us for troubling them with many of the "witty questions and answers for the improvement of conversation." A few must be quoted, however, with discreet selection.

"Q. What said the tiler to the man when he fell through the rafters of his house?

"A. Well done, faith; I like such an assistant as thou art, who can go through his work so quickly.

"Q. What said the tailor's boy to the gentleman who, on his presenting his bill, said tartly, he was not running away?

"A. If you are not, sir, I am sorry to say my master is.

"Q. Why is a soldier said to be of such great antiquity?

"A. Because he keeps up the old fashions when the first bed was upon the bare ground."

THE BATTLE OF AUGHRIM.

It may appear strange that "The Battle of Aughrim," written by an adherent to the Hanoverian succession, should so long have continued a popular volume among the Roman Catholic peasantry. This has, perhaps, been due to the respectful style in which the author treated the officers of Irish extraction. All his contempt and dislike were levelled at St. Ruth, the French General, and his masters, English James and French Louis. Though the style of the rhymed play is turgid enough, there are in it occasional passages of considerable vigor and beauty, and a brisk movement in the conduct of the piece; and sentimental youth have an opportunity of shedding a tear over the ill starred love of Godfrey and Jemima. It was scarcely fair of the author to represent St. Ruth as a stabber in cold blood, but hear the moving periods he makes Sarsfield utter:

Those Irishmen, who, like ourselves, have read and enjoyed this drama in early boyhood, before the birth of the critical faculty, will find it out of their power to divest themselves of early impressions when endeavoring to form a just estimate of its merits. We vainly strive to forget the image of a comely and intelligent country housewife, spiritedly reciting the interview of the Irish and English officers after the day was decided, and bravely holding out the tongs at the point where Sarsfield presents his weapon. Talmash, Mackay, and Sir Charles Godfrey confront the Irish chiefs, Dorrington, O'Neil, and Sarsfield, and Talmash courteously addresses them.

Sarsfield's declaration ends the animated discussion rather lamely; but what poet has maintained a uniform grandeur or dignity? The writer was a certain Robert Ashton. The play when printed was dedicated, circa 1756, to Lord Carteret, and if peasant tradition can be trusted, it was only acted once. The Jacobite and Hanoverian gentlemen in the pit drew their swords on one another, probably at the scene just quoted, and bloodshed ensued. This is not confirmed by the written annals of the time.

"The Siege of Londonderry" was, and still is bound up with "The Battle of Aughrim," but there is nothing whatever in it to recommend it to the sympathies of the populace. There is nothing but mismanagement and bad feeling on the part of the native officers from beginning to end; and if fear or disloyalty shows itself in one of the besieged, his very wife cudgels him for it.

There is something very naïve and old-fashioned in the observation inserted at the end of the list of the dramatis personae:

"Cartel agreed upon--No exchange of prisoners, but hang and quarter on both sides."

DON BELLIANIS OF GREECE; OR THE HONOR OF CHIVALRY.

The re-perusal of portions of this early favorite of ours has not been attended with much pleasure or edification. There is a sad want of style, accompanied by a complete disregard of syntax, orthography, and punctuation. The objects to be attained are so many and so useless, one adventure branches off into so many others, and there arc so many knights and giants to be overcome, and emperors so carelessly leave their empresses in the dark woods exposed to so many dangers, while they go themselves to achieve some new and futile exploit that the narrative has scarcely more continuity and consistence than a dream.

The author had ten times as many separate sets of adventures to conduct simultaneously as ever had the estimable G. P. R. James. So he was frequently obliged to suspend one series, and take up another, a mode of composition which all novelists who read this article, are advised to eschew. Leaving Don Bellianis investing the emperor of Trebizond, who stoutly disputed the possession of the fair Florisbella's hand with him, he proceeds to tell what happened at the joustings of Antioch in consequence of the happy union of Don Brianel and the peerless Aurora. Thither came {683} Peter, the knight of the Keys, from Ireland. He was son to the king of Monster, and, being anxious to seek foreign adventures, embarked at Carlingford, and performed prodigies of valor in Britain and France, and then sailed for Constantinople. Being within sight of that city, a storm forced his ship away and drove it to Sardinia, where Peter won the heart of the fair princess, Magdalena, by his success in the tournament, and his beauty of features when he removed his helmet after the exercise. The princess has a claim upon our indulgence, for as the text has it, "he looked like Mars and Venus together." The knights of those happy times being as distinguished for modesty as courage, the princess ran no risk in desiring an interview with the peerless Peter, and they vowed constancy to each other till death.

A neighboring king demanding the hand of the lady for his son, the lovers decamp, and find themselves on a strange island in a day or two. Peter having given the princess a red purse containing some jewels, she happened to let it fall by her, and it was at once picked up by a vulture, on the supposition of its being a piece of raw meat. Flying with it to a tree overhanging the river, and finding his mistake, he dropped it into the water, and there it lay on the sandy bottom in sight of the lovers.

The knight, arming himself with a long bough, and getting into the boat, would have fished up the purse, only for the circumstance of being unprovided with oars. The tide having turned, he was carried out to sea, and by the time he had got rid of his armor he was nearly out of sight of the poor princess, now left shrieking behind, who was conveyed away after a day and a night's suffering, in a ship bound for Ireland, where she took refuge in a nunnery, and in time became its superioress. This was near the palace of her lover's parents, and to match this strange coincidence by another equally strange, their cook, one day preparing a codfish for dinner, discovered within it the identical purse of jewels carried away by their son, and lost in the manner described in the distant Mediterranean. They gave him up then for lost, but he was merely searching through the world for his mistress, jousting at Antioch, killing a stray giant here or there, and rescuing from the stake at Windsor an innocent countess accused of a faux pas--all these merely to keep his hand in practice. Don Clarineo with whom he had fraternized at Antioch is also engaged on the same quest, and comes to Ireland in the course of his rambles. In that early time Owen Roe O'Neill was chief king, MacGuire, father of Peter, was king of Munster as before stated, Owen Con O'Neill and Owen MacO'Brien ruled two of the other provinces, but the territory claimed by each is not pointed out. The compiler was probably not well up in the old chronicles; he would else have given O'Brien the territory of Munster, and settled MacGuire somewhere near Loch Erin.

Be that as it may, the reigning king of Ulster refusing his fair daughter to the prince of Connaught, was minded to bestow her on the terrible giant Fluerston, whose inhospitable abode was in the mountains of Carlingford. The father of the rejected prince determined to resist this "family compact," sent out knights and squires to impress every knight errant they met into his service. Being rather more earnest than polite on meeting with Don Clarineo, he slew about a score of them, and after he succeeded in learning their business with him he was inclined to slay another score for their stupidity in not being more explicit at the beginning, whereas he would have devoted ten lives if he had them to the cause of prince versus giant.

Having easily massacred the Carlingford ogre, he began to bestir himself in his quest for the lost princess, and so quitted the Connaught court which according to our author was held at that era in Dublin, and his {684} loyalty was suitably rewarded in discovering his own true love.

It was originally written in Spanish, and part translated into French by Claude de Beuil, and published by Du Bray, Paris, 1625 in an 8vo.

THE NEW HISTORY OF THE TROJAN WARRIORS AND TROY'S DESTRUCTION.

The compiler of this Burton did not share in Homer's excusable prejudices in favor of his countrymen; he was a Trojan to the backbone. This might be excused in compliment to the noble and patriotic Hector, but he disturbs commonly received notions of family relationship among the ancients, a thing not to be pardoned.

After proposing the true histories of Hercules, Theseus, the destruction of Ilion, and other equally authentic facts, he proceeds to relate--

"How Brute, King of the Trojans, arrived in Britain, and conquered Albion and his giants, building a new Troy where London now stands, in memory of which the effigies of two giants in Guildhall were set up, with many other remarkable and very famous passages, to revive antiquity out of the dust, and give those that shall peruse this elaborate work, a true knowledge of what passed in ancient times, so that they may be able readily to discourse of things that had been obliterated from the memories of most people, and gain a certainty of the famous deeds of the renowned worthies or the world."

Our truthful historian then relates with many corrections of the legendary accounts of the lying Greeks, the histories of Hercules, Theseus, Orpheus, Jason, and the other Ante-Trojan heroes; and either through mere whim, or better information, tells us that Proserpine at the time she was snatched away to hell, was the bride of the enamored Orpheus, and the wicked King Pluto putting armor on his equally wicked followers--the giant Cerberus and others--and festal garments over the armor, carried her away despite the resistance of the bridal party. Orpheus obtained her, as mentioned by the fabulists, but looking back, Cerberus, who was close behind arrested her progress, and the unfortunate husband returned to upper air half-dead. Thereupon Theseus and Pirithous tried the adventure, but the giant Cerberus slew the last named, and would have slain Theseus, but Hercules closely following, gave the giant such a knock of his club as left him lying in a swoon for some hours. Advancing to the throne of the black tyrant, he administered another crushing blow on his helm, and leaving him for dead, conducted the trembling but delighted Proserpine to her mother and husband in the pleasant vales of Sicily, and "if they didn't live happy that we may!" As for the traitor Cerberus, he was presented to Hippodamia, the disconsolate widow of the murdered Pirithous, who found a melancholy satisfaction in putting him to death after first subjecting him to well-deserved tortures.

In the rest of the history of Hercules our compiler does not think it necessary to depart from the statements of the early writers. He gives him indeed as second wife, Joel, daughter of King Pricus, neither of whose names we recollect.

Our authority being keenly alive to the injustice done by Homer to the Trojans, corrects his statements on sundry occasions. Well disposed as we are to rectify prejudices, he has not convinced us that the knights on both sides, mounted, armed in plate, and setting their strong spears in rest, charged each other in full career in the manner of Cranstoun and William of Deloraine. These are his words:

"Hector and Achilles advanced in the front of either army, and ran at each other with great fury with their spears, giving such a shock as made the earth to tremble, with which Achilles was thrown from his horse; whereupon the noble Hector scorning to kill a dismounted man, passed on, making lanes through the enemy's troops, and paving his way with dead bodies, so that in a fearful manner they fled before him.

{685}

"By this time Achilles being remounted by his Myrmidons, a second time encountered the victorious Hector, who notwithstanding his utmost efforts, again bore him to the earth, and went on making a dreadful havoc as before."

It is probable that this account of the death of Hector will prove the least digestible of his emendations to the admirers of the early Greek poets. The version here given appears to depend on the sole authority of our compiler, and we do not feel here at liberty to interpose in the literary quarrel sure to arise on the publication of this article:

"Hector, having taken prisoner Menesteus, Duke of Athens, who had on a curious silver armor, he was conveying him out of the battle when thinking himself secure, and being overheated with action, he threw his shield behind him, and left his bosom bare.

"Achilles, spying this opportunity, ran with all his might his spear at the breast of the hero, which piercing his armor, entered his undaunted heart, and he fell down dead to the earth. And this not satisfying the ungenerous Greek, he fastened his dead body to the tail of his horse, and dragged him three times round the city of Troy in revenge for the many foils and disgraces he had received of him."

The rest of the narrative corresponds tolerably with the old accounts, but we have not heart to accompany the author through the burning of Troy, the adventures of Eneas, and those of Brutus in his descent on Britain, and his victory over Albion, Gog, and Magog. Besides, the death of the "Guardian Dog of Troy" has disturbed our equanimity, for we acknowledge as great an esteem for Hector and as strong a dislike to the ruthless Achilles, as was ever entertained by the compiler of the "New History of the Trojan Wars."

The prejudices of the romancers of the middle and later ages in favor of the Trojans were probably due to the history of the war supposed to have been written by Dares, a Phrygian priest mentioned by Homer. It is in Greek, and the work of some ingenious person of comparatively recent times. It was translated by Postel into French, and published in Paris 1553. The first edition in Greek came out at Milan in 1477. Another spurious book on the same subject in Latin, was attributed to Dictys, a follower of Idomeneus, King of Crete. The first edition of it was printed at Mayence, but without date.

THE IRISH ROGUES AND RAPPAREES.

The literary caterers for our peasantry, young and old, hare been blamed for submitting to their inspection the lives of celebrated highwaymen, tories, and "rapparees." Without undertaking their defence we cannot help pointing out a volume appropriated to gentry of the same class in the Family Library issued by John Murray, whom no one could for a moment suspect of seeking to corrupt the morals of families or individuals. We find in Burns' and Lambert's cheap popular books, another given up to these minions without an apprehension of demoralization ensuing among the poor or the young who may happen to read it. So it is probable that J. Cosgrave contemplated no harm to his generation by publishing his "Irish Rogues and Rapparees." It were to be wished that the motto selected for his work had either some attic salt or common-sense to recommend it:

The reader will please not confound the terms "tory" and "rapparee." The tories, though that generic for Irish robbers is as old as Elizabeth, are yet most familiarly known as legacies left us by the Cromwellian wars, and chiefly consisted of those rascals who, pretending to assist the parliamentary cause, plundered the mere Irish farmers, and every one of both sides who had anything worth taking. They were a detestable fraternity. The rapparees were the Irish outlaws in the Jacobite and Williamite wars, including many a scoundrel no doubt, but many also who, while they supported themselves in outlawry, at the expense of those who in their eyes were disaffected to the rightful king, yet kept their hands unstained by {686} vulgar theft or needless bloodshed. Many who at first kept to the hills and the bogs as mere outlaws, and exacted voluntary and involuntary black mail for mere support, according as the assessed folk were Jacobites or Williamites, gradually acquired a taste for the excitement and license of their exceptional life, and became bona fide plunderers, preferring (all other things being equal) to wasting the Sassenach rather than the Gael, and that was all.

Such a gentleman-outlaw was Redmond Count O'Hanlon, who flourished after the conclusion of the Cromwellian wars. Redmond was worthy of a place beside Robin Hood and Rob Roy, and has been made the hero of two stories, one by William Carleton and the other by W. Bernard M'Cabe.

We now proceed to quote a few of the exploits of those troublesome individuals of high and low degree, who disturbed their country in the end of seventeenth and first half of the eighteenth century and furnished amusement to the peasantry and their children, during the golden days of the peddlers.

The great Captain Power of the South travelled northward to meet and try the skill of Redmond, and they had a shrewd encounter with broadswords for nearly half an hour, neither gaining a decided advantage. They swore to befriend each other in all future needs, and, in consequence, Redmond rescued his brother from the soldiers when they were conducting him to execution.

Power coming into Leinster, lodged at the house of a small farmer, whom he observed to be very dejected all the evening. On inquiry he found that his landlord and the sheriff were expected to make a seizure next day for rent and arrears amounting to £60. After some further discourse, Power offered to lend him the sum on his note of hand, and the offer was gratefully accepted. Next day the farmer, after much parleying, acknowledged that he had £60 given him to keep, and that he would produce it rather than have his little property distrained, and trust to God's goodness to be enabled to put it together again. The landlord, after sufficiently abusing him, gave him a receipt in full, and, parting company with the sheriff's posse, returned home. In a lonely part of the way, he was set on by Power and robbed of the £60 and his watch and other valuables. In a day or two the robber called on the farmer, said he was going away, and the promissory note would be of no use to him. So he took it out and tore it in pieces.

How the unreflecting hearts of the fireside group glow over such quasi-generous deeds of robbers, and how little they think on the selfish and abandoned and iniquitous portions of the lives of their favorites! "Bah! they took from the rich that could afford it, and gave to the poor that wanted it. Dickens a bit o' me 'ud betray Redmond O'Hanlon or Captain Power if I got a stocken' o' goold by it."

Strong John MacPherson is admitted among the Irish worthies by Mr. J. Cosgrave, though he was more probably a Highlandman. There was much of the milk of human kindness about strong John. If a horseman would not lend, (John merely requested a loan,) he never used the ugly words "stand and deliver," he pulled him off his horse and gave him a squeeze. If that failed, he carried him away from the highway, giving the horse his liberty, and rifled him in some quiet nook. Being set on one night by a crowd in an inn kitchen, he threw the hostess over his shoulder, and no better shield could be. Making his escape, he laid her on the ground, set his foot apparently on her body--it was only on her gown, however--and extorted twenty pieces from her friends before he released her.

Strong John was in no instance guilty of murder. He never even struck but in self-defence, and always betook himself to defence by a woman when practicable. He met the usual destiny of his tribe about 1678.

Will Peters, born among the romantic scenery of the Slieve Bloom mountains, might have lived and died a respectable man, or at least have acquired the fame of a highwayman, had it not been for two trifling impediments. His father was a receiver of stolen cattle, which, being commonly kept in a neighboring field, whose owner remained out of sight, the crime could not be brought home to him. The other mischance consisted in his staying at school only till he had mastered "Reynard the Fox." It was the opinion of Mr. J. Cosgrave that if he had got through "Don Bellianis," the "Seven Champions," and "Troy's Destruction," he would have arrived at the honors of the high-road. After a few mistakes in his cattle-stealing apprenticeship, he became acquainted with the renowned "Charley of the Horse," and thus made use of him. He was placed in durance for stealing a sorrel horse with a bald face and one white foot, and committed to Carlow jail, the horse being intrusted to the care of the jailer. Peters' pere, on hearing of the ugly mistake, revealed the family sorrow to the great Cahir, and he being fully informed of the marks, color, etc., of the beast, sent a trusty squire of his to the assize town a few days before the trial, mounted on a mare with the same marks as those above noted. The jailer's man took the horse down to the Barrow's edge every morning to drink, and the agent, making his acquaintance, invited him to take a glass at a neighboring "shebeen" the morning before the trial. While they were refreshing themselves, the squire's double mounted on the mare approached where the horse was tied outside, substituted his own beast, and rode off on the other. The refreshed man, on coming out, observed nothing changed, and rode the new-comer home to the stable.

The trial coming on, the prosecutor swore home to his property, but Mr. William Peters said he was as innocent of the theft as the lord lieutenant. "My lord," said he, "ax him, if you plase, what did I steal from him." The answer came out that was expected, "a sorrel horse, such and such marks." "It wasn't a sorrel mare you lost?" "No." "My lord, will you plase to send for the baste, and if it's a horse, let me be swung, as high as Gildheroy." The animal was sent for, the whole court burst into a roar, and Will Peters demanded compensation, but did not get it.

Being taken up again he was executed, as far as hanging for fifteen minutes could effect it. However, being at once taken away by his people, he was resuscitated. Once more he was seized and conveyed to Kilmainham, whence he escaped rather than be transported.

Being at last secured in Kilkenny for running away with a roll of tobacco from a poor huckster-woman, he was once more placed on the drop and hung.

Such were the unedifying subjects presented to the consideration of the young in Mr. J. Cosgrave's collection. He certainly had no evil in his mind when composing it, but its moral effect was at best questionable. It would be a book very ill suited for rustic fire-side reading in our day. The same may be said of the "Wars of Troy," though no indication of evil intention is apparent. We subjoin the names of those books that still continue in print. Why they should still find buyers seems strange, when such care is expended in supplying useful, pleasant, and harmless reading for the lower classes. However, any evil inherent in them is slight compared to that of some of the London halfpenny and penny journals. The following still form portions of the peddler's stock: "The Academy of Compliments," "The Arabian Nights," "The Battle of Aughrim," "Esop," "Gulliver," "O'Reilly's Ireland," "Hocus Pocus," "Irish Rogues," "James Freney," "Robin Hood's Garland," "Seven Champions," "Tales of the Fairies," "The Trojan Wars," "Valentine and Orson," and the "Seven Wise Masters and Mistresses of Rome," some of them absolutely harmless.

In the whole collection, there was not one volume racy of the Irish soil, or calculated to excite love of the country, or interest in its ancient history, or literature, or legends. The eighteenth century was certainly a dreary one in many respects. Formality, affectation, and cynicism prevailed in the manners and literature of the upper classes, and the lower classes were left to their own devices for mental improvement. It says something for the sense of modesty inherent in the Celtic character, that there were so few books of a gross or evil character among their popular literature.

Translated from the French.

ASSES, DOGS, CATS, ETC

I.

I am not a member of the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, but I deserve to be; for no one has praised the worthy efforts of these gentlemen more than I have; and no one sees with greater satisfaction, how justice sometimes gets hold of those brutal drivers who wreak their uncontrolled anger upon their poor steeds, guilty only of not being able to help themselves. And if, even, in place of their being condemned to pay a paltry fine, they were paid back in kind for the undeserved blows which these afflicted animals receive from their hands, I for one would make not the slightest objection.

It would be contrary to the progress and civilization of the nineteenth century, I agree, but it would not be contrary to justice, civilized or uncivilized.

However, who knows how things may turn out? Considering the miseries and sufferings of those uncomplaining creatures when they are unfortunate enough to get under the lash of the unfeeling boors who ought to be in their place, it would not surprise me over much, if it should turn out that--

That--what?

Wait a moment, I'll tell you. One day, as I happened to be out walking along a certain road, I noticed an ass tied to a post, around which, within the full length of his rope, there was not a single blade of grass to crop. The poor fellow was slabsided, and his skin scraped, and half tanned by the frequent application of bark on the living wood; evidently getting few caresses of a softer kind, but enjoying in the most complete sense of the word, "the right to work." Naturally, I stopped a moment to bid him good-day and ask after his ass-ship's health, after which I plucked a fine thistle growing within tantalizing reach of his rope, and gave it to him. He gobbled it down with great gusto.

"How do you like that, my old chap?" said I to him, mechanically.

"First rate," said he, "hand us another."

I jumped back in astonishment.

"What! you can talk, can you, my Bucephalus, and in English too? That is something new."

"Not so new as you think, my dear sir, for I will let you into a little bit of a secret. Ass as I am, and as you see me to be, I was a man in my time and a butcher by trade. I had an ass that I treated most scurvily, just as they do me now; giving him his bellyful of blows and kicks, but of very little {689} else. Poor Jack--that was his name--kept Lent all the year round, it being in the interest of my customers, as I often said to myself, to quiet the qualms of conscience when I gave him but half what he could eat. Let him stuff himself said I, and he will get fat and lazy, the meat will come late to the cook, the cook will be late with the dinner, and the hungry family will lose their temper, and I shall lose their custom, while good doses of the oil of strap will help his digestion wonderfully, and keep him lively. However, this last end was not attained, for the poor ass kicked the traces--professional term, you understand--and went to the bone-boilers before his time. When it came to my turn to tie up--again professional--and go off the cart, my soul was condemned to go into an ass's body to suffer for a certain time the punishment of retaliation. Drubbing for drubbing, kicks of hobnailed shoes for kicks of peg boots, I got what I gave, and good measure too, I assure yon. Do you see that half starved, thin-flanked old horse over there? Well, he is a companion in misery to me. In his time he was a hack-driver, and many a time in his fits of anger and drunkenness, he made an anvil of the backbone or the jaws of his horses. Only in those times, now and then, you understand, but those times happened often enough, say once an hour or so, every day. As to hay and oats, he tried to teach them, but without success, to go without those articles of luxury. When his turn came to pay up old debts, his soul was condemned to go into that sorry old carcass, in which he passes many a miserable quarter of an hour. He is a ragpicker's property now. How do you like that specimen of 'the noblest conquest that man has ever made'? As to me, Sawney, at your service, I think the end of my punishment is not far off. It was given me to understand that when a benevolent gentleman would offer me a thistle for friendship's sake, it would end, and it is to you I owe this act of kindness, my dear Mr. Miller."

"Good again, you are a wiser ass than I took you for. How do you know my name, master Sawney?"

"This way, sir. The other day I chanced to be tied to a post, near a hedge, on the other side of which, in a meadow, some folks were having a little picnic on the grass. After a while a tall lady in spectacles took out some papers and began to read for the company. She seemed to be reading, from what I could make out, in some magazine or other. I soon understood that the subject was asses, and then of course I cocked up my ears to their full height. It was true, it was about us, abused and misunderstood beasts that we are. The articles read by the tall lady were so full of kindness, and contained such flattering remarks upon our species, that it almost brought the tears to my eyes. The name signed to those articles was Jeremiah Miller. Oh! said I to myself, that is a man whom one could call a man. There is one at least who understands us and loves us; I promise myself that if I ever have the good fortune to meet him I will give him--in lieu of anything better--my blessing. You see that when you spoke to me just now so kindly, I said to myself, I wonder if this be not Mr. Jeremiah Miller, and then I called you by that name, and I see that I have just hit it."

"But"--my reader will say "of course you don't tell this story for a true one! You would never have the face to ask us to believe that this brayer actually spoke to you?"

And, pray, why not? But, after all it is possible I fell asleep on a mossy bank, in a meadow, near where an ass was tied, and that I dreamed what I have told you. But dreams with the eyes shut are not always so very unlike the dreams we sometimes have when our eyes are open. As for myself, whenever I see a poor beast of burden brutally maltreated by another beast, who strikes and kicks as if he {690} meant murder, I allow my fancy to be tickled with a vision of this latter brute obliged to creep into the skin of a horse or ass, and take his turn at being unjustly whipped, without having any attention paid to his bray or his neigh of expostulation or defence. You see that I am in every respect worthy of figuring among the members of the society for the prevention, etc., etc., but--