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THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

THE RED MEN OF AMERICA.—First Article.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEAL OF WILLIAM, BISHOP OF KILDARE.

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

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

“Sigillum Willim dei gracia Kyldarens epi,”

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

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

P.

THE DESOLATION OF SCIO.
(1822.)

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

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

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THE SOD PARTY.

PART II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The glass; is it safe?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naisi.

STREET TACTICS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C.

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

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

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

EELS.

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

ANECDOTE OF SHERIDAN.

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

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

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

“Does he canter well?” said Sheridan.

“Beautifully,” replied Holloway.

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

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

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

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

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